NationStates Jolt Archive

Part of Angermanland's RP (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=504455).

Infantry - Veteran Line Infantry (3) - 3pts
Infantry - Veteran Line Infantry (3), Light Infantry (1) - 4pts
Infantry - Guard Line Infantry (12), Grenadiers (1) - 13pts
Cavalry - Line Cavalry (3), Heavy Cavalry (1), Carbines (2), Superior Mounts (1) - 7pts
Artillery - Line Artillery (2), 6pdr (1), Horse Artillery (1) - 4pts
Artillery - Line Artillery (2), 12pdr (4) - 6pts
Navy - Frigates (4), Small Navy (-12) - -8pts
Infrastructure - Ammunition Factories (5), Advanced Mercantile Shipyards (5) - 10pts
Resources - Surplus Food (2), Some Coal (2), Abundant Iron (5), Gunpowder (3), Plenty Silver (4), Sufficient Water (0) - 16pts

60 Points

A fair infrastructure and sufficient resources, mostly dedicated towards aggressively seeking more resources.

Pride of the army is the infantry, though no rifles. Heavy Cavalry only, armed with straight-bladed swords and carbines. Artillery carry 12-pounders, capable of causing considerable distress to enemy troops and fortifications alike, with 6-pounder galloper guns for fast flanking and general buggery.

Conventional Long Form: The Ansurian Empire
Conventional Short Form: The Empire, Ansuria
Government Type: Libertarian Populist Dictatorship
Capital: Ior'ic, North Ior'icshyr (Formerly the city of Apollo.)
Head of State: Mandalore the Liberator - AKA Mandalore the Bastard, formerly Robert Turnell Mallix. (Upon election to ruler, the former name is discarded and the name of Mandalore adopted. This is done in honour of an ancient Mandalorian ruler - the first man to unite the native clans, who is remembered as "Te Sol'yc Mand'alor" - Mandalore the First.)
Population: Approx. 2,300,000
Ethnicities: White Mandalorian 97.7%, White Osteian 0.3%, Other 2%
Languages: Mando'a (Mandalorian), Osteian.
Religion: The Ansurian (Mandalorian) religion is a largely private affair. There are no priests, and wedding ceremonies consist solely of the man and woman exchanging private vows with each other.
Standing army: Approx. 59,560 men (2.6%)

The Army is divided into Divisons of infantry and logisticsmen, with one brigade of cavalry and one large regiment of artillery.

Household Division - Mandalore the Liberator
4 Battalions - 1st Regiment of Foot The Grenadier Guards
3 Battalions - 2nd Regiment of Foot The Ior'icshyr Guards
3 Battalions - 3th Regiment of Foot The Wor'ic Guards

First Division - Maj. General Andrew Janos Stark
2 Battalions - 6th Regiment of Foot The North Ior'icshyr
2 Battalions - 8th Regiment of Foot The Dera'shyr Fusiliers
2 Battalions - 10th Regiment of Foot The South Ior'icshyr
2 Battalions - 15th Regiment of Foot The Not'amshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 18th Regiment of Foot The Imperial Li'oshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 20th Regiment of Foot The West Ior'icshyr Regiment

Second Division - Maj. General William Ehart
2 Battalions - 7th Regiment of Foot The East Ru'lushyr
2 Battalions - 9th Regiment of Foot The Ly'eshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 11th Regiment of Foot The North Wor'icshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 12th Regiment of Foot The South Mi'lunshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 16th Regiment of Foot The Camo'brishyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 19th Regiment of Foot The No'folshyr Fusiliers

Light Division - Maj. General Malcolm Reumar
2 Battalions - 4th Regiment of Foot The Wor'icshyr Regiment
2 Battalions - 5th Regiment of Foot The Imperial Regiment of Fusiliers
2 Battalions - 13th Regiment of Foot The Ru'lushyr Light Infantry
2 Battalions - 14th Regiment of Foot The Dera'shyr Foresters
2 Battalions - 17th Regiment of Foot The Mi'lunshyr Light Infantry
2 Battalions - 21st Regiment of Foot The Cle'alunshyr Regiment

The Heavy Brigade - Brigadier Joseph Humble
1 Regiment - 1st Dragoons The Ior'icshyr Mounted Guards
1 Regiment - 2nd Dragoons The Imperial Dragoon Guards
1 Regiment - 3th Dragoons The Not'amshyr Heavy Dragoons
1 Regiment - 4th Dragoons The Ly'eshyr Dragoon Volunteers
1 Regiment - 5th Dragoons The Dera'shyr Dragoons
1 Regiment - 6th Dragoons The Camo'brishyr Dragoon Guards

Imperial Regiment of Artillery
8 Batteries - 12pdr Foot Artillery
3 Batteries - 6pdr Horse Artillery

Imperial Logistics Division
11 Battalions - Imperial Army Ordnance, Transport and Supply Regiment
3 Battalions - Imperial Pioneer Regiment
1 Regiment - Imperial Army Postal and Courier Service

Infantry - Infantryman, 21st Regiment of Foot (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/LineInfantryman.jpg) Light Infantryman, 8th Regiment of Foot (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/LightInfantryman.jpg) Officer, 8th Regiment of Foot (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/LightInfantryOfficer.jpg)

46 Battalions (39,744 Men and Officers, 864 per Battalion. 1 Battalion = 1 Lieutenant-Colonel, 1 Major, 8 Captains, 24 Lieutenants (1st and 2nd), 72 Sergeants and 758 Men in eight companies.) - Consisting mostly of the poorer classes, commanded by ruthless career officers and those few rankers who prove their ability to lead, Ansurian infantry are ill-mannered, thieves, drunkards, rapists and murderers almost to a man. Flogging is a common punishment for major infractions and they are paid a pittance from which any issued kit they lose is meticulously recorded and deducted. For all this, though, they are hard fighters and well-trained. The Ansurian army drills with live ammunition to harden new recruits, favours a line of three ranks and divides its battalions into six companies of regulars, one Grenadier Company, and one Light Company.

Cavalry - Trooper, 3rd Ior'icshyr Mounted Guards (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/HeavyCavalryman.jpg)

(6 Regiments, 5,184 Troopers) Heavy Dragoons - Ansurian cavalry consists of the more middling tier of Ansurian society, officered by professional soldiers. They has a reputation for reliability and discipline, though like all cavalrymen are occasionally subject to overconfidence. Dragoons carry a carbine and a heavy, straight-bladed sword. Ansurian cavalry wear the distinctive Mandalorian 'T' mask, which offers considerable protection for the head against bladed weapons.

Artillery - Gunner, Imperial Regiment of Artillery (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/Artilleryman.jpg) Master Engineer, Imperial Regiment of Artillery (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Clan%20Ansu/ArmyEngineer.jpg)

(1,672 Men and Officers crewing 64 12pdrs and 24 6pdrs) [19 men per gun in the field, 152 men per battery. Excludes guns mounted in fortresses or aboard ships.] - Consisting of a number of ageing Osteian 12pdrs alongside 6pdr horse artillery, Ansurian artillery has power and speed. Their crews are trained to good standard, and the guns are well-served and efficient.

Standing navy:

Frigates (20-32 guns): 61

Political Relations:

Republic of Incognitia: Cordial
Kingdom of Angermanland: Neutral
Imperial Caladonnian Republic: Neutral
Osteian "Empire": Hostile
Kingdom of Frozopia: At War

Apollo, North Ior'icshyr
Capital of the Osteian Empire

Snow fell lightly on the assembled crowd. Sparkling flakes tumbled from clouds of purest white to be crushed into muddy slush in the roads, running grey-brown with dirt, waste and straw. The city of Apollo was the capital of the Osteian Empire, where the wealthy Osteian minority lived lives of opulence, theatre and culture, while the Ansurian commons lived and died in mud, shit and poverty. Nearly six thousand men stood in the ten thousand-strong gathering, many carrying weapons. Illegal as it was to own a pistol or musket, the Ansu no longer took heed of Osteian law, and they made the rich nervous.

They stood on the pavements and the streets. They clung to statues and pillars, freezing fingers gripping tightly against the icy railings surrounding the Imperial Palace, and the monuments to the few intellectuals and numerous butchers Osteia had produced. Soldiers, wearing Imperial red uniforms and the tall, black bearskins of Osteian Grenadiers stood among the citizens with their muskets grounded, their posts empty. Most of them were Ansurian by descent, and joined the army only out of poverty.

At the centre of the square, standing on a monument to an ancient battle in which the Osteians had commanded and the Ansurians had died, was a man. He wore a grey, army-issue greatcoat and rough black trousers. He spoke, and the people listened.

"...in satin robes, on pillows of silk braided with gold and paid for with blood, he sits. This lord of the rich, this squanderer among squanderers, who lounges in golden chairs and eats from golden plates with golden forks while his fellows tax our nothings. He and his, these gilded fools, who build their houses from marble and seek to rob us of our poverty.

"I speak of Charles the Third," claimed the speaker, his voice rising. "Who is barely lord of his own house. Charles, a lesser man than any here, who speaks for us without consent, taxes us without reason, and rules us without thought! This royal spastic! This obese monarch! He and all his men, his cronies, sycophants and crawling, thieving arse-lickers! The foreign king, who does not speak the language of his own subjects!

"We are as a conquered people, unable to voice our own will for obstruction by the landowners and merchants, the politicians who serve none but themselves and pass no law save their own wage increases while we must beg for scraps from their opulence! Down with kings and their kin, I say!"

The speaker faced the Imperial Palace now, his eyes seeking out the highest windows where the Osteian royals resided. "Damn you, sir!" he yelled, "Damn you and damn your flag! Damn your laws and damn your taxes and your useless bloody self!"

His hand disappeared into the folds of his greatcoat, emerging with a pistol which he brandished in front of the crowd, whose disgruntled mumbling had turned to screaming defiance.

"This is my pistol!" he shouted, "with it I defend my home, hearth, family and my nation!"

He cocked and levelled the weapon at the face of Imperial Palace, aiming nearly ten feet above the building for distance, and pulled the trigger. The gun discharged in a cacophony of noise and smoke, firing its leaden payload towards the uncaring, white-painted walls. Chips flew as the bullet ripped a fragment of plaster from the wall of the palace, and for a moment the crowd stood in shocked silence. Unrest had been building for years, but this was the moment when it was do or die.

A tall Grenadier Sergeant stepped forward, his back to the crowd and his men following him. He raised his musket high above his head, bayonet fixed, and opened his mouth in a battle-cry echoed by a score of Grenadiers. The tiny unit of men charged at the gates of the gates leading to the palace quadrangle, and a rush of civilians followed in their wake. Men clambered over the high fences, the Grenadiers still leading, and leapt to the paved ground. From the main entrance of the palace, a group of Osteian officers of infantry and cavalry emerged, pistols drawn. They marched down the palace steps, and several yelled orders to the Grenadiers.

No man faltered in his step, and the flash and smoke of powder was their reply. Fifteen men fell as the Grenadiers fired on their Osteian officers, smashing their staggered line into bloody ruin, and the shattered survivors fell to the stabbing of bayonets and clubbing of muskets as the Grenadiers advanced into the palace.

Being present in Osteia, as he thought, to negotiate, Mr. Glenister was shocked at the level of unrest.

Nonetheless, he and his party would hang on through this, to deal with whatever side came out on top.
For now they kept their heads down, hunkering down in the palace to await a result.

"Forward!" yelled the Sergeant, hauling his men bodily into the Imperial Palace. Clustering in twos and threes, the Ansurian soldiers rampaged through the lower floors of the palace, stealing, scavenging and destroying what they could not take. Screams erupted from within as the servant quarters were breached, and the maids - from respectable Osteian families - were seized.

The Sergeant grabbed young boy from the fray as the tide of civilians reached the main entrance, and gave him instructions.

"Listen to me, lad!" he said. "Listen!
"Get to the Guards barracks as fast as you can, and spread the word that we're in the palace! Go, lad! GO!"

The scabby child, his face and arms covered with dust and his skin blue with the cold, nodded his open-mouthed head, and sprinted back to the main gates which had since been opened by the crowd. Billeted barely three hundred yards away, the Grenadier Guards were supposedly the King's personal bodyguard. That some of their number had actually led the attack on the palace did not say much for the regiment's opinion of him, and the Sergeant knew that the attack must be reinforced.

He turned to enter the palace, ducking below the doorway as the crackle of muskets sounded from inside.

---

He was barely five and a half feet tall, and nearly as wide. His Imperial Majesty, King Charles the Third of the Osteian Empire was not an imposing figure, especially not so as he cowered behind the last few Osteian soldiers in his employ. Ten officers, pistols and sabres drawn, faced a line of Grenadiers. Twenty paces from each other, the opposing forces both stood ready, though inactive, as though a silent agreement had been passed. The King wailed demands that the officers fire, but they knew they would be comitting suicide. His sour-faced wife and two daughters stood with him, their distaste obvious.

From behind the line of Grenadiers, the tall Sergeant stepped forward, his musket uncocked. He walked slowly to the middle ground between the two lines, and opened his mouth to speak.

"In the name of the Ansurian People," he stated. "King Charles the Third of Osteia is under arrest, and will be given into the custody of the First Battalion, First Regiment, the Grenadier Guards. Surrender, and you may keep your swords."

A red-coated cavalry officer, his pistol visibly shaking in his hand, sheathed his sabre and stepped forward to reply. "I am Major Christopher Wulford Jansen, ninth Baron Jansen and representative of His Imperial Majesty, King Charles the Third of Osteia. Who are you, sir?"

The tall Sergeant smiled, his hands resting on his musket's barrel as he stood half a foot taller than the Osteian. If he was trying to look friendly, it had the opposite effect.

"Sergeant Robert Turnell Mallix. Bastard."

Jansen grimaced as Mallix spoke. "And we have your... word, that I and my fellow officers will be paroled?"

"You have my word, which I dare say is as good or better than your own."

"Very well," admitted the cavalryman. "We surrender our arms."

The small group of officers grounded the flints of their pistols and sheathed their swords, muttering to each other as they did so. Sergeant Mallix assigned twelve Grenadiers to escort them out of the palace, before turning to face the King.

"Your Majesty," he said. "You have been found guilty by your subjects of insufferable crimes of apathy and foolishness, and are not fit to rule."

He readied his musket. "The sentence is death."

The sixteen-inch spike bayonet entered the fat King's chest just to the right of the sternum, gouging a bloody hole into his heart and lungs. The Sergeant twisted his weapon and removed it, allowing the King to fall to his knees, gasping for air as his lifeblood soaked his gaudy uniform. A flailing hand grasped at the Sergeant's trousers, leaving a bloody mark on the grey wool.

Mallix jerked his leg away, and the King dropped to the floor. The royal corpse gave one last shudder.

"Make ready!" ordered the Sergeant, his face pale as he retreated back behind the line of Guards.

"Present!"

The Queen and her daughters screamed and huddled as they realised what was happening. They pleaded with the big Guardsmen, screaming orders, demanding and begging mercy, but the soldiers had none to give.

"Fire!"

A score of muskets fired, their report deafening in the confines of the palace. The three women seemed to twich in the air as they were struck, falling to lie beside their King.

---

The solemn parade exited the palace, Sergeant Mallix sitting silently on the shoulders of two Grenadiers as civilians thronged the route out of the grounds. Escorted by every enlisted man and NCO of the Grenadier Guards, the red-coated men passed under the cast iron railings of the main gate. Ten thousand watched as the Sergeant was held high by four men gripping his legs. He looked at the eager faces arrayed before him, and tried to speak.

"The King is..." he mumbled. "The King is dead."

Dead? Dead? The words were carried through the crowd as the civilians whispered it to each other, the hubbub rising to a roar.

"The King is DEAD!" they yelled, as men, women and children threw their hands into the air and let the heavens know their joy.

One man, the speaker who had sparked the events of the last two hours, clambered onto the memorial at the centre of the square, and called for attention.

"Mando'ade!" he yelled, "Mando'ade, hear me!"

Hands shook shoulders as people paused in their jubilations, and the crowd faced the man. His arms were held outward for silence.

"The King is dead," he said, generating a cheer from the front of the crowd as his voice rose. "Long live, Mandalore the Liberator!"

The crowd followed his arm, as it pointed to the man who had led the attack. A leader of men, the Mandalore of the Ansu. Sergeant Mallix's face was unreadable, but tears ran freely down his face as his people cheered the name that they had given him.

"What in hell is going on man! Sounds like murder outside!"
"Yes sir, I dare say it does."
"If only the escort were closer, we could safely go and look."
"I'll go anyway."
James Holloway, aide to the Ambassador spoke up.
"Are you sure?"
In answer he poked his head out of the door. Their part of the palace was quite quiet.
At that point a scruffy lad, of maybe fourteen years, came dashing down the corridor. Holloway grabbed him as he came past.
"Right lad, you answer me a few questions, then run me a message, and you can win yourself some silver. Hows that sound?" as he eyed the scruffy, threadbare clothes of the boy, the grime-smeared face.
"Firstly, what in hell is going on out there?"

"I can answer tha' m'self, sir!" replied the bedraggled boy, a smile on his face. "It's th' King! He's dead! Killed by 'is own Guards, 'is posh wife an' all!
"They took th' bloke what dun' it, an' made 'im the Mandalore, like it were hunn'ds of years 'go!"

"Ah, I see."
By sleight of hand, Holloway produced a silver coin known to Incognitians as a consilar; and worth about a day's wages to a skilled labourer.
"Now, put that somewhere safe, won't you, and listen close.
In a moment I'm going to give you a note. All I want you to do is take it to my men, in the Guards Barracks. Know where that is?"
The boy nodded.
"You'll be able to find them, all in green. The Osteian Guards, after all, wear red.
So, I give you the note. You go to the barracks, find the men in green, and give them the note. You take any note they give you, come back, and I give you more money.
Understood?"
While the boy pondered that, he turned back into the room, grabbed pen and paper, and scrawled a quick message to the Captain of their escort.
Captain Moll
We are safe in the Palace, for now. We hear the King is dead, killed by the Mobbe. Report your situation. Bring your men here if possible.
Holloway
p.s. I will pay the boy on his return.
He then folded the paper, snatched a candle, and sealed the note with his signet ring; he turned back to the boy, and offered it to him.
"So, the note. Will you take it?"

The coin was pocketed almost instantly, and the boy was obviously enthralled by the prospect of a second.

"Fer a silver? I'll do jus' tha', sir!" he exclaimed, snatching the note and sprinting into the palace's hallways.

---

The sound of musketry had not diminished within the palace, and the Grenadiers stormed from room to room as they ransacked the palace. Heavy footfalls sounded, becoming louder with every thumping boot on the thick carpets, and raised voices could be heard from directly outside the Inconitian emissary's suite.

A quick rhythm of steps sounded, and the lower panel of the door was stoven in with a sharp crack.

"Not like that, you fackin' prat!" yelled a muffled voice, "Kick it next to th' bloody lock!"

A second kick impacted with implacable force on the door, breaking the frame and slamming it inwards. Red-coated Guardsmen piled through, their muskets raised and bayonets fixed.

OOC: No worries, just some interaction. They're looking for Osteians and loot.

Glenister was useless in a situation like this; he was cowering in the corner. The rest had formed up in front of him, apart from one.

Holloway, rather braver than Glenister, stood a little way in front. A man with some military experience, he was able to shout over the excitement.
"STOP THERE!"
Expecting silence to follow, he continued.
"We represent Terror Incognitia. I would suggest, whatever the situation outside, that you gentlemen tread very carefully. Any harm to us will see revenge, and then some."

The Guardsmen held their fire, some looking unnerved by the reaction of the room's occupants. They mumbled to each other as a towering Corporal shouldered his way forward.

"Muskets down, you bloody goons," he ordered, shoving men and weapons aside as came. "'pologies, sir. Din't know this werra dipl'matic area."

"Bugger off, you sods," he ordered his men, pointing into the hallway before turning back to Hollway and extending a large, greasy hand. "Corporal Nathan Pritchett, sir. At'chore service."

---

"'s from th' bloke a' th' palace, sir," said the boy, handing over the letter to Captain Moll. "He said t'look fer the blokes in green, an' yer in green, so yer th' blokes. If'n yer gon' back t' th' palace, I'm comin', 'cos they said I'd get a coin fer it."

"Thank you Corporal."
Holloway took the proffered hand, and shook it.
"Now, I understand that things are very uncertain at the moment. If you could leave some of your men, to prevent any further...misunderstandings...that would be appreciated.
We have already sent word to our escort, down at the barracks, and expect them to arrive soon."

###

Captain Moll took a moment to read the note, then turned to the boy. A curious lad, but he'd carried the message honestly enough.
Reaching a decision, he fished in his own pouch and threw the boy a coin.
"Tell you what lad, we'll go up to the palace, you go your own way. It's not safe up there for young man like you."
Turning back, he bellowed
"SERGEANT! Get the men moving! NOW!"
Already prepared to move, having noticed the sounds of battle in the city, they left the barracks moments later in good order; thirty men in a rough formation, heading straight for the palace. Muskets cradled in their arms, bayonets unfixed, but loose on their belts. Their packs on their backs, in case they had to leave in a hurry.

"'course I will, sir," replied the big man. "You havin' all that dipl'mattic stuff that y'get. I'd probbly get it in th' neck iff'n I din't, y'know?"

The Corporal made an attempt at doffing his cap, made almost comical by the size of the bearskin he was wearing. After securing the decorative fur on his shaved head, he wandered back into the hallway and accosted a pair of Grenadiers.

"Gore and Devitt," he said, gripping the struggling unfortunates by their collars and holding them tightly. "I should've bloody known it'd be you buggers I'd find 'bout here. What'choo think yore doin', lootin' all this kit?"

"We's on'ee doin' it 'cos all th' othez are, Pritch!" protested Devitt, his skinny arm attempting to dislodge the Corporal's meaty limb. "Fukkin' saw you nickin' an' all!"

"Woss'at you lil' arse-tit?" demanded Pritchett, "Me, an honour'ble soljer in th' service of 'is glorious country, lootin'!? I should reckon not, filf, an' for such fackin' cheek I'll 'ave you two standin' 'ere guardin' this 'ere door 'till I get back an' tell you to bloody stop!"

"But...!" started Gore.

"No fackin' buts from you, Gore. You'll bloody stan' there iff'n I tell yez, 'till I get back from Securin' Them Imperial Valubabbles what is 'round 'ere somewhere."

---

The plaza was filled with celebrating men and women. Drinking, dancing and singing as they talked with soldiers and revelled in their new leader. Moll and his men threaded through the crowds, unchallenged by the Grenadiers, who were far more interested in pillaging the Imperial Palace down to the floorboards.

With two men stood outside, which should forestall any further trouble, Holloway kept an eye out for the approach of their men, while the others packed up everything they needed to take. Once the situation calmed down, another envoy could be sent to the new government; for now they were endangering themselves needlessly.
###

As Moll's men reached the palace, he was shocked at how much devastation had been wrought in so short a time. He was now somewhat concerned for the fate of Glenister and the others, and so he left ten men with all the packs at the palace entrance, and took the remaining twenty at a run to the apartments they had been given.
Seeing two men on guard outside assuaged his fear for their lives, but...what if they were under guard, not permitted to leave?
He stopped his men just short, faced them outwards, and called in
"Mr Glenister? Mr Holloway? Are you well?"
"Ah! Captain Moll."
Holloway popped through the doorway.
"Quite well thank you. We need to make shift for home, however."
"Yessir. The men are ready to go."
"Well, the rest of us are also, just about. You men!"
He turned to Gore and Devitt.
"Once we leave, your corporal will want you to stay on duty here, I expect. However, there are valuables in this room, that are not ours, and which we will leave when we depart. A good year's pay for each of you, I expect."
(a tacit bribe, to make sure they didn't interpret their duty as to keep the Incognitians there).
"Right, well, Captain Moll, we are ready. Come, gentlemen!"
The small party filed out to join their escort. Forming up with soldiers in front and to the rear, they tramped out to the ten at the entrance, to begin the march home.

King William was disgusted. The shock and anger was clear on his face as the 'Agent' told him the news. The 'Agent' was an ex-officer of the Frozopian army, and now a spy who had spent his retirement feeding the king information about his northern neighbour Osteia. All he knew were rumours and drunken soldiers talk, but it was enough to construct the story:

A horde of barbaric commoners had had overrun King Charles's Palace. The last loyal men to the king put up a valiant resistance, but were overrun. The gentlemen had finally tried to surrender, for alas they had fought well but they no longer had the stomach to continue fighting when they stood no chance of survival and so many of their comrades had died already. With parole granted and their weapons taken from them, the barbarians had executed them.

The King was in tears at the death of his cousin. All in the room were awed at his bravery, his refusal to surrender, and his last words, a plee to let his family live and that only a king had the wisdom to rule the lands of Britain. Having killed 5 of the barbarians, he was finally shoved to the ground and brutally hacked to death. His family was raped and then equally hacked to death. His body was dragged through the capital by a riderless horse, the mob hooting and laughing at his fate.

The story was quite long and tedious, but it had the desired effect on the king who was always one to believe in the divinity of kings and the importance of order. The Frozopians would march.

"We shall put one of the line of kings on the throne." The king began, as the old spy finally finished speaking.

"King Charles niece married a cousin of mine, Prince Richard. He has legitimate claims to the throne, and he could make a abled king. We cannot let this kind of barbarism remain unpunished: Today gentlemen we show the rest of Britain that the royal line must remain undisputed."

The King saw no reason to send a declaration of war. He was dealing with a mob, not a nation or a birthing democracy.

20,000 soldiers would march. It was a large force, and it would take time to gather but the troops were ready and waiting, all eager to put down this upstart, this fraud that called itself a democracy. It would be a hard fight, but the soldiers marching were some of the best of Britain.

Leading the army would be General Derfel, a middle aged veteran. He was a good leader, he was respected by his troops and a good friend of the king. He alone saw through the piousness of the kings speach: today was a step to expanding Frozopia's power. The Frozopians could strengthen their grip of southern Britain and maintain morally correct in the kings mind. It was right that a King should rule the country, but it was also right that Frozopia gained something from it.....

a short while later, the Angerman ambasidor, one Lord Fredrich, advisor to the king on matters forigen, sent to seccure Osteia as a friend, or at least not an enemy, arrived at the border with his escort, in the form of a ten dragoons, who's red coats were not as tidy as they should be due to hard riding. for that matter, neither the ambasidor nor his escourt were exactly in the best condition, though still recognizably important people. at about the same time, the ambasidors to Frozopia was ariving in that nation's capital, and the Incognitian ambasidor and his escort, now sans Angerman cavalry, had reached their own border.

ooc: ok, i needed more than "the angerman ambasidor arived" so this is a note on all my ambasidors :)

OOC: Post read, Froz. I'll wait until the actual invasion begins before I reply.

May the best man win.

The blockhouse was in a good state of repair, maintained well by the professional soldiery of the Osteian army.

Not that there were many now. The mutiny of every Ansurian private soldier and NCO had weakened the Osteian army to an almost reigmental level, and the few remaining soldiers had found their way north to the Osteian home provinces.

Hundreds of Osteian officers were still on parole in the Ansurian-held provinces of the Empire, at the leisure of their tribal leader. They abided by the Rules of War as though they were gentlemen themselves, though their culture was still derided by those Osteian aristocrats and landowners forced to flee northwards.

Captain Garth Harvey-Jones was the second son of the Duke of Durham, though his elder brother, once a cavalry Major, was paroled in Apollo... no, Ior'ic, as the Ansurians now called the Empire's former capital. Mounted upon his six year-old gelding, he walked a little way further up the well-travelled northern dirt-road.

As Captain Harvey-Jones mulled over his people's recent change of fortunes, he spotted a glint of sunlight on steel in the distance. Quickly extending his telescope, an expensive piece by a well-known craftsman, he sighted along the way.

A flash of red. There were no patrols, he knew. The picture came into focus, revealing... Angermanian cavalry? The young officer stared incomprehensibly for a few seconds, before remembering his duty. He turned his horse back towards the blockhouse.

"Arise!" he yelled, ordering his men from the building. "Arise! Get your bloody coat straight, Farndale. Were you born in a barn, man!?"

"I was, sir," came the reproachful reply.

"Arise!" shouted the Captain again as the last of his thirteen men fell in across the roadway. "There are foreign soldiers on the roadway! To your stations!"

Fredrich smiled as he noticed the activity.

"alert but disorginized, it seems. it is well." then he spoke louder, so his escourt would hear properly "sabers sheithed and carbines safed and hung if you please, gentlemen. i'd rather not start my task by being shot. form up in close column, and do your best to look presentable."

jackets were straightend, the worst of the dust brushed off, weapons put away and stations taken. all was in readyness within a minute.

"right then. off we go. at the walk! march!"

and with that, the small procession continued down the road towards the blockhouse.

The Osteian soldiers prepared to recieve unknown visitors. Seven men under Sergeant Wittsen took up position on the two floors of the blockhouse, ready to provide fire if necessary. The five remaining men stood in line just ahead of the blockhouse, obstructing the roadway with bayonets and loaded muskets.

Captain Harvey-Jones led his gelding to the side of the road. Pulling out his telescope and focusing it on the approaching cavalrymen, he saw that they had formed into a column two files wide, their officer at the head and their weapons sheathed. Harvey-Jones drew his own sabre for the sake of formality, resting the curved blade against his right shoulder.

As the dragoons approached, he challenged them.

"Halt!" he ordered, "Who goes there?"

"Lord Fredrich of Angermanland, Advidsor to His Majesty, King Zebadiah of Angermanland, and current emisary and would be ambasidor for Angermanland to the Osteian Empire,"
Fredrich would have struggled not to laugh had he not been so skilled in his craft. no nation in the land was large enough to be an Empire in fact as well as name, not even if they achived hegemony,

"and his escort. and you sir? who might you be?"

"Captain Garth Harvey-Jones, son of the Duke of Durham, my Lord. You were hoping to gain an audience with the King?"

"being as that is the general point in being an ambasidor or emisary, yes. yes i was. and still am, for that matter."

The Captain's face twitched.

"I am sorry to report, my Lord, that the King is dead. Along with the Queen, their daughters and a good many of their relatives. The Osteian Empire has been reduced to the home provinces of Northumberland, Tyne and Durham, under the rule of the Duke of Durham."

He averted his eyes from Fredrich's.

"We are in a state of decline, my Lord..."

"well then, i shall speak with the Duke instead. such will surve my purpose as well. infact, it may make it somewhat easier to resolve some issues i had planned to bring up. if you would give me directions, my escourt and i shall be on our way. unless you intend to refuse to allow us to procead, of course."

"Of course not, my Lord. This road runs the length of the home counties and leads directly into Ansurian territory. If you continue along for around four hundred miles, and turn east, you will be able to find directions to the city of Durham itself."

He saluted. "I wish you a safe journey, my Lord."

"very good" Fredrich returned the salute, before giving a signal. the small cavalcade set off once more, to speak with the new ruler of a much reduced land.

Lord Fredrich and his Dragoon escort entered the gates of Durham, the seat of the last remnants of the Osteian Empire. Looming over the mills and terraces of the city was Durham Castle, residence of the Duke of Durham.

---

"...he requested he see you immediately, my Lord," said the servant, his wooden-heeled shoes clicking on the castle's stone floor. He wore a powdered white wig and a red uniform edged with gold imitation. The Dragoons had been required to wait whilst Lord Fredrich met the Duke. "His Grace has been most dour since the vicious murder of the King, and I would ask that you be sensitive of his nerves when you speak with him on the subject."

"very well." Fredrich responded "lead on."

'though given what i must propose and explaine,' he thought 'sensative might be a challange.'

Lord Fredrich was led into the library, a tall-ceilinged room with bookcases close to eight feet high, filled with leather-bound volumes. In a haze of cigar smoke sat a man in his late forties, his once-black hair now streaked iron-grey with age.

"Your Grace," announced the servant, "may I present Lord Fredrich of Angermanland, Advisor to His Majesty King Zebadiah of Angermanland."

The Duke stood, marking the book he had been reading and placing it upon a small table. He wore a long, red, silk-lined robe, which hung lightly over his thin frame.

"I am Percival Harvey-Jones, Duke of Durham and Castellan of Osteia," he said, extending a hand. "What may I do for you, my Lord?"

Fredrich shook the proffered hand, inclining his head slightly

"well, it would seem that my origional instructions are now somewhat irrelivant. fortunatly, i have been given wide discrettion in exactly what i do here, provided it advances Angermanland's interests and those of the king.

given the current situation, it has become nessicary for us to secure our southern border one way or another. the nature of the threat or threats we face, or may face if things do not go well, requires the extention of our border with Terra Incognitia. before, it would have been enough to seccure an alliance with Osteia.

now, however, we are left in an awkward position. your own teritory is not large enough to provide the balancing force required, while the rebels, who are, do not border us and thus do not seccure the border.

so, i propose this: perhaps you could swear allegiance to his majesty? you and your people would be granted full rights in the house of representatives, as all other territorys within the kingdom are, and would be under our protection. .... i'll put it bluntly. we'd be annexing this territory. it would not change a lot for most within. remove the border to the north, place it to the south, a bit more representation for the common man...

sadly, the alternative at this point is to invade you. the nature of the diplomatic situation being what it is. if that were the case the changes would be more drastic.

this annoys me, because the origional intention of this delegation was to denige accusations of plots for invasion, and to seccure an alliance. but that is no longer viable.

if things shift enough, of course, the whole issue could become irrelivant instead. but you face many threats from all directions. i would think that a peacful resolution would be in your best interests. the details of such would probibly be to your advantage, too."

"I was half-afraid that something such as this would be proposed," sighed the Duke. "Our position has become utterly untenable without the support of the commons.

"Though it grieve me dearly, my Lord, I feel I must acquiesce to the demands of Angermanland. The Empire will never be restored, I have no doubt of this, for we will never regain control of the Ansurians.

"I will swear fealty, and my people and men will follow for it is our only hope of survival, but I have one condition. It is no great burden, I assure you.

"Osteia's army has always been a source of pride to her people. Her sons have served the interests of their families and their country for a century, wearing her colours. I would ask that Osteian regiments in the service of Angermanland be permitted to wear the uniforms of their own people.

"This request being met, I see no reason not to agree to this proposal."

"save for the need to change rank insignia i can see no problem with that. though it does necessitate their remaining in segrigated units. humm.

ahh. that will work. the Osteian units will remain whole with thier own uniforms, reguardless of the origion of the people there in, while Osteian soldiers asigned to other units shall be allowed some special marking.. perhaps an insignia and a second band on the cuff. i would have to speak with the generals on that one for the specifics.

if it's any help, i am sorry things come to this, but it could be far worse.

if you would present yourself in the capital as soon as possible, oaths can be sworn and papers signed. for now, i shall remain here... or perhaps continue on and arrange a treaty of some sort with the rebels to the south."

Fredrich stopped and thought for a moment.

"no, first i must send word of this to his magesty. and to General Defron. he can move his troops south and secure the new borders, while General German can spread his forces around, and so cover the border with incognitia. i'll have them come here in person, as they would be the ones to speak to of the specifics of the uniform issue."

"I thank you sir," said the Duke, "for your understanding and your patience. My servants will escort you back to your men, and I shall prepare myself for the journey to Norcar.

"I bid you a good day, my Lord."