NationStates Jolt Archive

[Text in red is critical to story plot. Rest is simply side story.]

Somewhere East of Fort Kamivestock, Ural Line - 3:02 AM

"Bloody fuckin' cold...", grumbled the Legionaire as he rubbed his two double gloved hands together, blowing semi-warm air into them from his frozen mouth. "Damn Commander Yostok is gonna freeze my balls off if he doesn't send those damned relief units soon... why the hell hasn't the patrol come in yet?!", barked Corporal Mornstein, shaking ice sickles out of his long brown hair. "Too damn cold is why, chaps probably ducked into a cave or somthin'... hell, theres six feet of snow out there, they probably died.", replied a middle aged Private, attempting to light a ciggerette in the bone chilling wind. The poorly rolled tobacco stick was torn from his mouth and swept away into the night sky, leaving the soldier cursing in all foul manner of languages. The twelve by twelve fox hole, covered by a tarp set a foot above ground level was not exactly immune to the elements, as snow built up along the edges and piled inside. "Rico! Keep workin' ya mut! The snow's buildin' up in here!", shouted Mornstein, laughing as he pulled his large water-proof overcoat on tighter. Private Rico stood outside, frozen half to death, attempting to scrape the piles of snow building up atop of the tarp... an effort in futility as his boots continuously froze to the ground. The five men were the outermost outpost off of the Ural Line, with the exception of those company slave camps to the east. Some eighty miles out, they were the frontier, the closest base being Fort Kamivestok nine miles back west.

There was one thing to be said about the east... all that technology the rest of the world bragged on, all of that shit that really meant... shit... here, all that mattered was the gun in your hand and the guy next to ya. Satellite Imagery had no use... infared? Could not see through the sub zero ice clouds constantly dumping snow unto the tundra. RADAR? Reflected and deflected by the thousands of pounds of snow being laid down by the minute. LADAR? The same problem... only worse. Tanks were useless, as the gasoline froze in the lines, and the treads froze solid at the first moment of pausation. Even artillery shells froze in the barrels of their guns if not taken care of properly. In the east... you truly lived in the wilderness.

Mornstein finished a ciggerette before deciding the young hispanic private had done his share of work... after all, he had been out there for over an hour. "Alright Rico, come on back in... we'll give Kline a chance to cool off out there...", the Corporal laughed yet again, nearly choking on his own smoke. "Rico? Come on kid I said you're done!", he shouted again, getting no answer. "God damnit Rico I said-", as the Corporal stuck his head up to look for him, the tarp above caved in, over a ton of snow... frost biting, bone chilling snow caved in from above, burying the four men inside. Curses and shouts ensued as the men stood up, shaking themselves free of their would be tombs. Looking around, Rico was not to be seen. "God damn you spic sunofabitch! Where are you! Ill hang you myself if I ever see your damned wetback ass again! Deserter bastard! Son of a who-", Mornstein stopped dead, locking his iced over eyes onto the same thing the other three were staring at. It was Rico. Only Rico was naked... no... was skinned. He hung from a tree not twenty feet away, without a scalp, or skin at all. One word flashed in the Corporals mind before a bullet caught him right below the nose. Mongols.

Fort Kamivestock - 4:11 AM

Psshst... phssstshht... crackle... crack, pshhssttht...Come in.... psshhhht... this is... psshhht, zero over... overwhelmed.... psshhhttt... (guns heard firing in the back ground, men yelling as automatic fire dies off, and pistol shots ring loud)... psshhhtt... thousands of... crackle... over... cannot hold... psshshht... large force... inboud at... 09'er... shhppttht... over... request immidiate-

The transmission went dead. After this first transmission from one of the scout outposts, signal checks were sent to the various other in the area. Three responded out of fourty... those three lost contact within nine minutes. The fort was tossed into a frenzy, all two thousand soldiers stationed there immidiately rushing to their positions. Behind concrete walls, frozen logs, sand bag walls and icy dirt. Towers mounted with .50 cal's and spot lights were on full alert as the bases only tanks were wheeled into tank emplacements infront of mortar crews. Sirens rang out, men shouted and red lights flashed as imminent death approached from the East... the horde had reappeared... the Eastern Horde... terror incarnate.

It began just as it had a thousand years before... with a single flaming arrow soaring through the icy snow, planting itself in the tundra. Moments later, gun shots rang out. Shots of all calibre and size, from all gun and barrel. AK-47's and C-1 Assault Rifles alike poured lead into the air... the dark night air that permitted no sight. All there was to do was fire into the snowy darkness and hope the bullets found their mark. The Mongol battle cry could be heard... a loud screech that struck fear even into the veteran soldiers of the Ural Line. But they held as the roar of the Kraken's dumped 140mm Shells into the distance, followed by the merciless onslought of 88mm Fragmentation shells. All in futility, as before long, the enemy made himself known. Mongols, some dressed in fur, others in white suites of hell itself emerged from all sides, rushing the forts lines with sheer numbers. Here in this waste hand to hand combat was mans last refuge... and was actually quite practical. As you could not see your enemy until he was within seven feet of you, it was pheasible to go to battle with not but a sword.

The carnage that ensued was horrid. Explosions from the primative Mongol grenades created gaps in the lines, allowing the Asian Horde to attack with all manner of hand held devices. Whether they be daggers or swords, or spiked chains, screams... yells... cries for help could be heard as the concept of modern warfare was thrown to hell. Red blood froze in mid air as it fell from the bodies of men...

Nation Wide

The base fell within two hours. The Ural Line was put on full alert, and prepared for the largest artillery strike in Coalitionist History. Conscription was reinstated and divisions were repositioned. Marshal Law was put in effect nation wide. They were coming...

[In order to understand what is going on, you may have to read some of this (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=511921). I encourage anyone interested to join, in any capacity you would like. Whether you want to RP a Coalitionist Soldier or an Eastern Invader, that is fine. A squadron of your own men, or a mercenary group, all good. Only one rule... keep the RP good.]

I'd join but Im leaving for "Land of No Computers" on January the 1st.

I am wondering if my nation should be put on alert. Seeing as I am your southern neighbor and the controller of Belerus, The Ukraine, and Moldava.

[I wouldn't involve you unless you asked to be... of course you're free to do anything you want, be it ignore the situation, or get involved, its up to you.]

OOC: Although I won't be getting involved, militarily, yet, I will supply you with needed supplies. Food Stuffs, Ammo, Oil, Gasoline, Scrap Metal, ect, ect. Consider them on loan.

IC:

"Your Majesty." The Minister of Defense said. The King of the Republics looked up from his reading, Moby Dick if you must know, and looked at the Minister with a look of boredom. It was well known that the King didn't like to read for pleasure, and he only did so when he was extremely bored. In truth, he hoped that the Minister had something for him to do. The world had been to quiet in this part of it.

"Yes, what is it?" He asked to the Minister. The Minister pushed his glasses farther up on his nose and gave the folder a quick look over before speaking again.

"It would seem our neighbor to the North are having troubles with what they call, Slant Eyed Devils. Our reports say they are Mongols, my Leige." The Minister said. The King looked extremely surprised at this. Mongols had come from the east almost one thousand years ago and ravaged both Kroando's and Granate's land. This could be bad for Granate if the northerner's could hold them off, although he had a feeling they would. The King also didn't want to commit Granatian Troops to fight an enemy they know nothing about in terrain they have no business fighting in. The only other course of action was to provide the northerner's with supplies.

"Call the Ministers of Trade and Industry. I want them to begin sending Food and other military supplies north. They may need it. If they refuse the stuff, well.... we'll let them fight on there own then." The King said with a great conviction not known of him for quite some time.

"Yes, your majesty." The Minister said and hurried off to do his work. The King looked out his window at the fresh snow that had just fallen. It was going to be a long and cold winter. He could feel it.

tag of interest.

I'd like to join this on Kroandro's side. I'm a new nation in a region of older and more powerful nations. Perhaps I could send a SpecOps force of infiltrators and snipers who could get behind enemy lines and take out individual Horde leaders.

[Im going to write up a bio on the Mongol Horde tomarrow... clear things up. The Horde has no clear leadership, nor any solid lines... they're more like nomads. Anyways, appreciate the intrest, will continue tomarrow.]

The Mongol Horde

The Mongols may not be mongols at all... they are probably a mix a several central asian cultures swept together by the mongol invasion a thousand years back, in which, the Mongols are actually now a small percentage of the population. They inhabit what the Kroandanites call, 'The Vast Waste', or that mass of land to the north/east of Kroando. It is rich in natural resources, except there is one problem. No, not the Mongols... the weather. The temperature is typically -45F, rising, but mainly falling quite drastically and randomly. There are scores of mining camps throughout the waste, inhabited by slave miner corporations, but there is not much else. Foriegn entities do not try to settle it, for once they did... nature would simply force them out. The Vast Waste is estimated to be about nine times the size of RL asia, stretching east tens of thousands of miles... yet another reason none travel to this horrid place.

The Horde consists of scores of tribes, thousands of nomadic peoples that roam the waste, raiding traders or hunting to live. Needless to say they are some of the toughest people in existance. The Horde has next to no unity, a fact that remains oblivious to the outside world, as in Moscow, the Lord Protector of Kroando has put a hundred million dollars on the head of the 'Great Eastern Khan'. There are probably around twenty five billion people inhabiting the Waste, spread this over this great distance. They are armed, trading and stealing weapons and ammunition, riding on horses and occasionally snowmobiles. Tradition... no religion has it that once every thousand years the heads of the tribes are to meet at some shrine further east, to discuss the future. It is said that this is where they decide how to orchestrate 'The Invasion'.

Ural Line 2:14 PM, Next Day

"I here they castrate their prisoners.", chipped in young Private Marcus Hedgewood, a fresh recruit out of Moscow. "Ya, well thats not all they do!", shouted a middle aged Lieutenant, listening in on the conversation of the unit as they polished their rifles. "They skin ya... but they dont just peel off your skin... no they have a method... they have a way they go about it, a way that means to keep ya alive as long as possible. So that when they get down to your toe nails... you're still alive and kick'n. Clear things up for ya then boys?", grinned the officer at the petrified grunts... both due to the cold and the image lodged in their brains.

The Ural Line was just that. A long, solid defensive line set along the Ural Mountains, consisting of tunnels, trenches, pill boxes and bunkers as far as the eye could see. Gun emplacements, SAM Sites, long lines of sub-surface trenches, reinforced not only by the mountain, but steel and concrete too. It was though to be unbreakable.

The snow fell at a rapid pace, blinding those that looked into it for too long. But it was not what was seen... it was what you heard. Over the roaring winds, the crushing snow... the sound of a Mongol horn was shot out. The soldiers moved to their positions, hundreds of thousands along the entire line as the message was relayed, and then it began. The Coalitionists began unloading the arsenal upon the invisible enemy as artillery pieces of every calibre fired off. Thousands, tens of thousands of 240mm Guns shot off in unison with their 155mm Counter parts dumping high explosives into the waste. Rockets and missiles screeched through the air without the least bit of guidance, simply moving to destroy the foriegn threat. For what seemed like hours this continued until even the snow stopped falling, and the troops could behold what lie before them. There was no snow on the ground, just wet dirt (which quickly froze)... and mangled corpses. Scores of bodies and blood soaked ground. Napalm burned in the distance as the last of shells found their marks. The men could not help but grin at their victory.

Another horn was sounded, and a split second before the snow began to fall again, the men could see, for a second... the horde. An endless sea of men, trudging through the snow, seemingly driven by hell itself. The grins dropped, and rifles were leveled, as visibility died off yet again. The artillery barrage resumed, but not nearly as intense as before. "Why? More! Send more!", was the cry of the infantryman in the trench... there were millions before them... fire damnit! But the barrage they wanted never came... ammunition stores were low, and to make things worse, the barrels of the guns were freezing shells in place. It was only a matter of time before the explosions reversed, as Mongol Forward Forces began firing grenades from short distances as the foremost trench lines. Small arms fire intensified, and they were met in turn. Machine guns and pistols, grenades and mortars, the exchange was endless as the horde advanced.

Before long sections of the line were overrun, with sword bearing Mongols butchering soldiers as they attempted to reload their weapons. "God damnit! Get that friggin' .50 Cal firing!", roared Colonel Matchkin firing off a couple slugs into the chest of a charging Mongol. "Its... its frozen sir!", replied the Corporal, teeth chattering. "Then piss on it!", shot back the officer as an explosion rang out overhead, sending bits of concrete into his eyes. Another explosion sent the roof caving in, bringing snow and rock with it. As the Colonel shook his hair clean of the snow, he saw only a steel blade swinging down at him... a white steel blade crushing his colar bone, stopping about an inch above his heart... nearly severing his left arm from the colar bone over. A loud yell was heard, followed by two pistol shots as the Mongol fell. Another bullet caught him in the hip... and another in the shoulder as he blindly fired into the snow. A 'beader grenade', a small primative grenade lit with a match filled with small metal beads, blew behind him, filling his backside and legs with these miniscule shards of metal. He nearly fell to his knees, clutching a frozen metal bar sticking out of the side of a bunker... his vision was fading, blood dripped from his busted bottom lip, only to freeze before it broke lose. As another bullet slammed into his ribcage, his left arm, the one nerely cut off earlier, the one holding him up, broke loose. Frozen completely to the metal bar, his body fell into the fridgid snow below him as his limbs went numb. The last sound he ever heard was that of a .50 Calibre machine gun firing off... despite the fact that his arm was frozen above him, clutching a bunker, he died with a smile on his face.

The line shifted back and forth as the shells burst overhead, showering charging Mongols with hod shrapenal... but it seemed to all be done to no avail. The horde never stopped, never stagnated, never paused as all sorts of weapons fired back and forth... it was only a matter of time. The first trench had been overrun, and now the savages were attempting to usurp the second line using the connecting trenches... barricades were set, but it was only a matter of time...

Coalitionist Response to Granate

Our most beloved friends to the south. We appreciate this gesture of goodwill now during our time of need. I guarantee you the situation will be taken care of shortly.

~Lord Protector,
Victor Fortinbraz

[I RP as if I import large amounts of food from you, what with you having highly fertile land and me ice, so this makes sense.]

Balstock, 49 Miles East of the Ural Line

The city of Balstock was a cold, dark, silent place. The residents spoke little, seemingly scarred from occurances a millenia ago. School was out of the question as children were needed to work, be it at home or at the local iron mine. Life was not easy, as a matter of fact, it was down right difficult. Work started at six, and ended at death, which was often around the age of fifty. Slaves made up a good deal of the populace, traders and merchants another large portion. But now a new contigency had arrived. Soldiers. Some four thousand soldiers now occupied the city of twenty thousand... soldiers that had obviously seen hell. These men were scarred, bloodied men, whom literally dragged themselves into the town.

The Balstockian Populace was never known for it's hospitality, being victim to not only sporadic raiding and racketeering practices, but tribute to Moscow. For all the tax they paid to the Coalition, they recieved no noticable product... fueling their hatred. So it was no suprise when the Coalitionist Soldiers were welcomed by the Militia of Balstock, all nine thousand of them had taken up posts around the city, several hundred following 'Mayor Valon' to speak with the approaching Coalitionists. The approaching army looked as if it had just crawled it's way out of a meat grinder, as less than 3/4 of the men possessed four limbs... even fewer had 10 fingers and 10 toes... and not one was without a cut, scar or gash. Logisitical support troops did not exist any longer... if they had, they were now infantry.

"What is your business here General!? Speak now! Be it known you are not welcome.", shouted Valon, chest stuck out, anger in his eyes. Behind him were scores of men wielding AK-47's, hunting rifles, shot guns, pistols, molotov cocktails, even cross bows and bows were displayed. Colonel Hartok walked forward, a gash trailing from his forhead to chin, going right through his left eye. Dried blood stained his uniform and his frozen hair as he began to speak. "My name is Colonel Hartok... these men are the 17th Expeditionary Force-", Hartok was cut off my the Mayor, who retorted with disbelief. "The 17th is twenty five thousand... and no lowly Colonel would be permitted to lead it.", grunted the Politician. "There were 25... now there are four, and we request shelter in Balstock. We were beaten at the valley to the East... Mongols... thousands of them. They are on our trail, a day, maybe two behind.", coughed the officer as he spit up a bit of blood. "My men require food and water... many of them are in need of medical care.", he concluded, staring right into the eyes of the hard Balstockian. "You say... the Mongols? They are... coming this way?", questioned Valon, a bit of fear in his eyes. "Yes... over two hundred thousand. Possibly more now." Valon's once confident appearance dropped. "Well... what, what do we do now?" Hartok stared back at the man. Both knew the area was surrounded... there was only one thing to do.

The city was fortified, houses boarded up, concrete slabs overturned to form barricades in the streets. Roof tops were used as sniper posts, with primative shelters set up. The snow that never stopped falling only left the city above ground due to the horrendous wind, which let nothing settle. The battle worn Coalitionists merged with the militia, redistributing ammunition in order to strengthen both. The few working 88mm Mortars were kept warm in order to prevent the barrels from cracking. Trenches were rare, only made with explosive charges, as there was no way a shovel could break the tundra. The few ancient artillery guns the Balstockians possessed were boarded up inside the city, covering key intersections as, they were near worthless in an indirect fire capacity. IED's were set up surrounding the city, along with the few anti-personel mines in the possession of the Coalitionists. They knew they had no option. The Horde would kill or enslave everyone in the city... the former being the preferable punishment.

And it began with the sound of a rifle cracking to the west. Though none are sure what happened, it can be assumed that the sniper was taken out soon after. The dark figures emerged from the wilderness, accompanied by hails of gunfire and crack shots from rifles. The snow intensified, blinding both sides as the advance began... the first several hours of combat saw more ammunition lost than life, as the lines grew closer.

"There shoot there! I see them! Shoot!", shouted a young Balstock Militiaman as he pointed his hand out of the window towards an advancing group of Mongols. "Would you shut up!", responded the Coalitionist, whom sat in a computer chair firing the .50 Calibre Machine gun... only one leg touching the floor. Shells clattered to the cold cement ground as the flare of the gun drew the attention of the Eastern Foe. Shots immidiately thudded into the room, one catching the Private in the arm. After a brief string of curses, the gun again rang out. The room, housing eight men was a place of panic, as men searched for ammunition as the enemy closed in within thirty yards of the fortification. An explosion stopped the clutter, as the wall blew inwards, sending shards of wood and stone into the men around. Seconds later Mongol 'Beader Grenades' fell in, two of them, sending the room into agonizing pain. Charles Vegner, a Militiaman of Balstock had stuck his head up only to see bullets hit overhead, and Asians rush in through the gaping hole in the wall. A Coalitionist managed to cut them both down with a burst from his C1 Assault Rifle, but was likewise killed by Mongol bullets from further back. Before long the room was overwhelmed, pistols and rifles cracked, bayonets and swords thrust. Vegner, beads from a grenade still lodged in his leg, attempted to run out the door, but was tackled by a Mongol, straight into a bookshelf. As the Asian raised a serated dagger to plunge into the teen's chest, like a guardian angel a coalitionist sent three 9mm rounds into the savage's back. As Charles leaned forward, a smile on his face, he was up just long enough to see the soldier beheaded by a large enemy soldier. Terrified, he knew not what to do, but grabbed the serrated dagger and ran out of the back door, leaving the screaming inhabitants to meet their fate.

But it would not be so easy, as two Mongols, firing AK-47 rounds, followed after. As he stumbled into the street, the sound of rifle fire caught his ears, laying low the two Asians. Pistol in hand he noticed scores of Mongols entering the street through alley ways and adjacent buildings, drawing machine gun fire from all around, in addition to rifle and pistol shots. "Kid! Get over here! Move! Hurry!", shouted a Kroandan Lieutenant as he fired his side arm at the Mongols behind him. Thinking not for a second, Vegner ran forward, jumping over the barricade of tires and cement blocks, mixed in with various pieces of furniture. The men here fired into at the charging Mongols as those before had, however a single RPG changed that. The blast threw back three men, including the Lieutenant as Mongols ran into the street, firing on defenders wherever they hid. Mortar shells crashed down, attempting to slow the stream... but with no effect. Charles looked on in horror as a Mongol plunged his bayonet into the neck of a crawling comrade, screaming as he did so. Lieutenant Grangir, standing up, face bloodied, gritted his teeth as his pistol resumed function, firing three rounds into that same Mongol. To everyones suprise, the Mongol, at least six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds, did not fall, but fired the last two AK rounds from his rifle into Grangir's stomach. Stumbling back, he withdrew a large machete from a strap on his leg, and with a yell, charged forward. The Mongol responded, swinging his curved sword down at the officer. The swords clashed, sending sparks into the air. Again he swung, countered by the white, ethnic Russian. Taking both swords low, he smacked the Mongol in the knee, forced the asian low. However this Mongol seemed to be in some sort of blood lust, and swung upward, slashing the Lieutenant from the thigh to chest with his sword. Falling back the Russian let out a groan, the gash at least an inch deep. The Mongol, using his only good leg, propped himself up, and swung down at the Coalitionists head. Rolling out of the way, sparks flew up, and a kick to the Invaders mangled knee broke the leg in two. Screams flew as the Mongol fell ontop of the Lieutenant, biting the Russians nose clean off. A switchblade then found its way into the side of the Mongol as the officer shouted in fury, sending blood into the eyes of the asian. Again and again he stabbed, seemingly in vain as the Mongol pounded his fist into the Kroandan's face. On this thrust of the knife, he dragged it up, slicing the Mongols side in a disgusting fasion. Taking advantage of the Mongols pause, due to the writhing pain being suffered, Grangir took hold of a piece of stone, and slammed it into the Mongol's face... again... and again... and again. Dragging himself to his feet, he spit frozen blood onto the savages body. Charles looked the bloodied Lieutenant in the eye, as a second later he was cut down by a hail of gun fire... Vegner stood up, running, running as fast as he could away from the slaughter.

OOC: Mind if I RP as a barbaric nation that only uses masses of men with muskets to combat the horde?

[I cant believe they would have survived in the Waste if they are only armed with muskets. And the only people in the waste are various Horde tribes and mining corporations. You could RP as a small-medium sized tribe being paid off by a corporation/the government using primative weapons, but muskets may be getting a bit too primative.]

Balstock, 49 Miles East of the Ural Line

"Hold the line! Do not retreat! Do not fall back!", Colonel Harker shouted out as he directed his C1 Assault rifle out of a window, spitting lead into the snowy air. "Do not show mercy, for you shall recieve none.", continued the Commander as he changed a clip, bullets thudding into the brick wall infront of him, few even breaking through to wizz by his head. "Do not fear death, for your enemy has no fear.", the officer continued, cocking the gun and resuming his relentless barrage, hitting an alternate trigger, sending a grenade whizzing below. "Do not hesitate... ever.", he concluded, glancing at 'Mayor Valon' as he fired off crack shots with his revolvers. Mongol Raiders had taken up residence all along the opposing street, now using the former defences of the defenders against them. However this was not what worried the men. It was the screams.

Captured soldiers were hung from windows skinned... some still with the misfortune of breathing. The fire fight intensified... as if that were possible, with the addition of the 90mm Guns possessed by the Balstock Militia. These Direct Fire Artillery Pieces did their best to slow the advance, as did the various units throughout the city holding out.

"Pssst... signal Redi.", grunted a local Balstock Police Officer to a pair of teens in the back of the room. Shhhhttt... Redi... pppssshhhttt... fire... psssshhhhttt... fire...Moments later the door of a small apartment building swung open, a 90mm gun displayed, and blasted a frag round into the center of an approaching force of Mongols. Within seconds Machine Guns rattled off and Molotov Cocktails fell from the sky as flames consumed the invaders below. However the Horde was not known for their cowardice. Those ambushed did their damnedest to fight back, hurling explosives at windows even as their bodies were riddled with bullets. Some, apperantly pre-rigged, simply ran towards enemy positions and burst into flames, covering any near them in the same fate. But it was the snipers that caused the problems, as they were only really vulnerable to the snipers of the Coalition... which were scarce. Barricades fell and burned in the futile effort to stave off the attackers.

Charles Vegner had stumbled into a machine gun nest about a block from the last stand point... before the nest lay countless bodies... not all of the enemy. "Who the feck' are you!?", shouted the fat Coalitionist Soldier as he spit out a bit of chewing tobacco as he squeezed the trigger on his M60. "Ch-Ch-Charles... V-Vegner... sir.", replied the Balstockian, clutching his old bolt action rifle. "You got bullets for that BB Gun?", continued the rather bad smelling man, still pouring lead into the street. "Y-Ya-Yes Sir!", he continued, teeth chattering. "Then shoot ya dumb fuck! Shoot before yer' dead!", he spat out, referring to the numerous bodies of Militiamen and Soldiers scattered about the nest. "I beat the last wave off with my base ball bat-", Charles looked to a bloodied Louisville Slugger laying next to him. "Dont think ill have the same luck next time.", he continued as a Mongol nearly reached the sand bag wall. Vegner fired his weapon, breaking off ice sickles from the bottom, the kick sending him to his ass. "Ha! C'mon lightweight, im almost out of ammo... we aint gonna last here much longer.", the Sergeant stood up, still firing his light machine gun, and began to walk backwards. Vegner fired the last shot in his clip and began attempting to reload, before a bullet caught him in the thumb. His screams were met by the Coalitionist grabbing his collar, literally dragging him through the snow, still firing sporadic shots into the snow. He must have blacked out, for when he awoke, he was inside the town hall... known to the troops as 'the last stand'. Civilians were huddled in the basement of the complex... but it was only a matter of time.

"Im out! I need another belt! Another belt damnit!", shouted the fat Sergeant that had saved him earlier. "You! You're awake! Bout' damned time too... go get me a belt!", called out the man as he withdrew two 9mm Pistols and began cracking off rounds through the window he was stationed at. "Hurry!" As Vegner began to run, he looked back to see an explosion blow down half the wall, sending the room into dissaray. The Sergeant, as he stood, was caught by a bullet in the chest, and another in the gut... forcing him down. Charles shot the first Mongol that entered in the hip, and turned to run before he saw the damage he had caused. Rushing up the stairs, he passed several wounded men, few with any legs, simply sitting their holding pistols. When he reached the top, he realized they were still fighting, as the first few Mongols that entered were cut down. The third story of the building was the end. As he looked around he saw no solution, no safety... he saw what he had seen for the last several hours. Men trying to stay alive.

Harker, now fighting with a bullet in his leg, barked out some orders to a couple Militiamen, whom immidiately ran down the stairs... most likely to their doom. "Sir! They've breached the lower right!", shouted a soldier, blood dripping from his nose, and a gash above his eye. Harker, a look of rage in his eyes, responded with no words but movement. Taking his personal body guard, they marched down the stairs, rage in them, and began to fight. First using their guns, every last round fired. Then their side arms... and finally, whatever they could grab. Harker was shot in the rib cage twice, as he fell dead, a Mongol neck in his hands... before long, they had reached the top, where Valon and his men remained. The thugs that were Valon's guard spewed lead at the stairwell, along with their political boss as Asian Invaders overwhelmed the area, firing back with equal intensity. Charles Vegner surrendered to Mongol raiders shortly after he witnessed Valon killed in a hail of gunfire. Vegner lived for eighteen hours in the deadly cold before his genital wounds bled him out... he lived fourteen of those hours without skin.

At Balstock, 84,000 Mongols were laid low by 9,000 Militia and 4,000 bloodied Soldiers... the word 'Balstock' took on a new meaning. It was the Kroandan version of, 'The Alamo'.

OOC: Yea, that's what I thought. I'm just looking for some damned musket battling. How about a small-sized tribe of Conglees, a nomadic people much like the Horde, except they have their tribes underground. They would be equipped with Kar98k's, probable a few .50 cals, and an 88mm cannon. Not much to fight with but it's about cunning.

Also like to add if they suicidally charge like that all the time, then they're probable not going to live much longer.

[Well, its pretty much immpossible to live underground in the Waste, as the ground is frozen solid, and any vegitation is as well... but nomadic people could exist. On the surface.

As to 'suicidally charging', they are not... they are assaulting. Not all assaults are charges.]

"Fucking move that 88mm up on the fucking ridge!" Commodore Xavier P. Solis barked to the twenty or so men under his command. They were the last of the Conglee, the last of the 'cavemen'. They had been retented out by a neighboring mining facility to protect a rich from a horde attack. The rest of his men were outfitted with Kar98k's and .50 cals. His combat contingent was to hold out against a possible attack of thousands, he would retreat. After all he would still have his money.

"Sir, we got the eighty-eight positioned on the ridge and it's got the valley right in its sights." The young private coughed from the cold, "Since the valley is so deep most of the snow comes filletering down so our visabily is much higher than usually and our .50 cal teams will blow them away."

The Commodore grinned, an un-holy, minacly grin. "Get all the men with Kar98k's, give them shuvels and tell them to make a ditch about two meters wide, then put spikes dripped with snake venom on the tips of them." His grin grew only wider. "Then move up the .50 cals and have them about a meter back from the 'death zone' and about .1 meters infront of them I want a trench dug with all our with Kar98k's."

"Aye, sir." The private complied.

"Wait, does the eighty-eight still have a few dozen meters sight in front of the 'death zone'?"

"Aye, sir"

"Then so be it."

The attack would begin soon, all knew, but when was the mystery.

OOC: Do I RP the mongols? Or just you?

[Well, its pretty much immpossible to live underground in the Waste, as the ground is frozen solid, and any vegitation is as well... but nomadic people could exist. On the surface.

As to 'suicidally charging', they are not... they are assaulting. Not all assaults are charges.]

At Balstock, 84,000 Mongols were laid low by 9,000 Militia and 4,000 bloodied Soldiers... the word 'Balstock' took on a new meaning. It was the Kroandan version of, 'The Alamo'.

That looks kind of suicidal on the mongols part.

[All large assaults on fixed positions have high attacker casualties. If it was a 'suidicidal charge', it probably would have been something like 500,000 casualties. In the Waste, charges are not all that insane... as you cannot actually see your enemy, ammunition is always scarce, and guns... freeze/malfunction regularly. Additionally, when you have an army of hundreds of millions, near billions... you can sacrifice several thousand.

You may RP as the Mongols, just no huge forces, and try to RP them realistically, they're not just your average James Bond goons.]

OOC: So what? They wouldn't charge into an enemy position with a few .50 cals and single bolt action rifles?

[They actually use tactics... as in flanking manuvers, sniper harassment... night time attacks. Small forces dont charge .50 Cal's. No one 'charges' a .50 Cal. They advance on it using military techniques such as supressing fire and distractionary movement.]

OOC: Ah, flanking is not really an option, it's a valley between a large mountain range as for suppresion the 88mm would probable scare them. And the sniper would probably only kill two of the eighteen, people usually duck when they hear 'SNIPER!'. But anyways i'm getting off for some sleep, good luck.

OOC: Ah, flanking is not really an option, it's a valley between a large mountain range as for suppresion the 88mm would probable scare them. And the sniper would probably only kill two of the eighteen, people usually duck when they hear 'SNIPER!'. But anyways i'm getting off for some sleep, good luck.

Which is exactly what the intended purpose of the siper firing, to make the other guys duck... Then advance, shoot more with another sniper, and advance again...

A chill wind was rising off the frigid waters of the eastern Baltic, spurred on by the harsh winter air awaiting it on the land nearby. Thick sleet poured down from the sky, washing the majestic towers and hulls of the Kroando fleet in a heavy gray paint. From the sea beyond, blips began to appear on radar, signaling the approach of a small flotilla from the southwest. In due course, the machines made their presence visual, emerging from the sea-born cloud like bats from a weather-made cave. Two long missile cruisers were the first to arrive, sliding from the permeable wall like serpents twisting along the water’s surface. Their weapons were ready but untargeted, flag masts proudly waving the colors of Numinox. Behind them, a whirring like a thousand dragonflies filled the sky, heralding a swarm of helicopters. Most were mid-sized, no doubt Seahawk naval craft designed for scouting and radar networking, but these hummed like warrior bees around the heavy, ungainly masses which followed behind. A trio of eight-bladed transport copters, most likely commercial M-26 Halos, rumbled into view, their hulls painted mottled blue-white like their comrades. The helicopters pressed forward, signaling for permission to land, while three heavy cargo ships appeared upon the sea, following the cruisers at their head. A number of smaller support craft made up the trailing end of the procession which, sadly, failed to be any sort of impressive sight when place alongside the home fleet waiting for them.

At the coast, the Numinox military ships pulled back and circled, radioing the Kroando naval command for directions on mooring procedures. With the cargo ships secured, smaller lifting copters took to the air, flying with sturdy confidence in spite of the crushing weather, and began to airlift crate after crate of supplies over to the mainland. Meanwhile, the Halos carried on, moving inland to where they were directed to unload their soldiers. Most of their escorts broke off and returned to the fleet, but a few remained, keeping a close watch on their charges. When they reached their appointed destination, the Halos slowed and set down, their massive bulks settling with surprising ease upon the frozen ground. The loading ramp opened and the Numinox soldiers began to descend.

They were a curious lot, almost consistently tall and lean in build. Dressed in armored winter combat gear, they still moved with surprising grace, like natural athletes, although none seemed overjoyed at the prospect of so cold an environment. Their faces were concealed behind armored breath masks and goggles, curious articles which seemed expertly shaped to resemble certain animals at their most terrifying. There were four types of visages, each corresponding to the armaments carried by the wearer. First came a small number of troops bearing the faces of birds, eagles or ravens with penetrating eyes and wicked beaks. These carried selective-fire carbines of various types, with a few P90s and FAMAS’s mixed in with some boxy firearms resembling elongated Italian Spectres. The second group resembled predatory cats, panthers or jaguars. These were armed with assorted small arms, mostly H&K UMPs with the occasional MP-5. Third were soldiers with the faces of snarling wolves, so realistic that it seemed they were truly a hunting pack who had learned to walk as men. Most of these carried H&K G36s, but a few sported British L85s with underslung grenade launchers. Perhaps a fourth of the wolves carried sniper rifles in place of these, supplementing these with PDW-pattern MP-5s. The last group were a breed apart from their comrades. With the faces of hungry bears, these troops were larger than the rest, as if enlistment in that division required a bear-like body mass as well. Broad-shouldered and solid, although no less athletic, these bear-men carried large machine-pistols, leaving their off-hands free to hold what appeared to be large riot shields. Stranger still, across their backs they carried long swords with toothed edges, like something from an archaic world.

Swinging down from the cockpit of one helicopter, a tall man smoking a thick cigar took a moment to give the soldiers an approving look. Like them, he was tall and athletic, moving with the grace of a gymnast. His features were those commonly found among Native Americans, yet his hair was a bright electric blond, like one dyed with lye, and his eyes were a penetrating blue ice. Thin lines of hair ran down from his sideburns along the underside of his chin, like the beard of a lynx, but his face was otherwise impeccably clean-shaven. Taking a puff on the cigar, he grabbed the nearest Kroandan in uniform.

“You,” he said, trying English first, “I’m Colonel Fridrik Acatcoatl.” He gestured with his thumb at the soldiers. “We’re from Numinox. Who do we talk to about killing things?”

To: Kroando Military Authorities
From: Col. Fridrik Acatcoatl, C.O. Numinox Expeditionary Force
Subject: Plan of Attack

It’s good to be on the ground working with you people. I hope we can do our part to keep your people from being overrun and that this will be the start of long-standing friendly relations between our two countries.

First off, let me say that while we’ll do our best to pull our weight, we don’t have the numbers to supply a full army for you. I have 300 soldiers on the ground with around 700 more who can be offloaded and ready to go in under four hours. We have 15 armored scout cars which can give some fire support with their cannons and machine guns, but otherwise we’re running on infantry. I was hoping to use the choppers for air support but unless your weather turns balmy all of a sudden they won’t be much use.

As for supplies, we’ve got 100,000 tonnes of food and vitamins for your people, mostly military ration bars, dried fruit packs and nuts. We also have another 50,000 tonnes of assorted medical supplies. My superiors say we can ship in a few more loads over the next couple of days if you need it. We’ve got some samples of combat stimulants we use, but the doctors want to see how they react to your bodies before we bring in large quantities.

Now, as for tactics we’re willing to follow your lead if that’s what you want. I’d like some more detailed intel on how the enemy fights, where their forces are concentrated, and what defenses we have to work with. Our soldiers can hold the line in places if you need but we’re generally more geared toward the offensive. Speaking of which, I’d like to see what we can do to return the initiative to your forces so you can put these “Mongols” on the reactive. I’ve got some recon teams ready to probe the wilderness to see where the enemy is and where they’re moving.

Keep me posted about what you need from us.

Lieutenant Hilde Itzulf hated the Kroandan weather. The biting winds were bad enough, but the recon officer was used to cold-weather training in the high mountains which rose above the forest basins of Numinox. Here, in this land so far from home, it was not the beating air which infuriated her, nor the bone-chilling cold which kept the warmth of rage burning within her chest. The real enemy here, was the incessant piles of thickly layered frost, a substitute for natural snow which seemed alien to this land. Not that the wind or the unnatural cold made for a pleasant environment, but the woman knew well that physical hardship was only an illusion of the body, as dangerous and persistent as it might be. Still, nature was very real, and this land was a place of sinister qualities.
Behind her, the squad of Eagle soldiers followed in a wide, staggered formation, Spectre-5 carbines held low and ready. They had been in this barren wilderness for the better part of three hours with little to show for it. Before long, they would have to return to base before the cold finally breached their thick insulation and frostbite began to set in. The environment was happily playing hell with their electronics, but at least the radios were still functioning. Reaching the top of a nearby rise, little more than a mound of frozen dirt overlooking a wide plain, Itzulf dropped to a crouch and snapped out her binoculars. The wind was picking up, drifting white ice crystals slowing descending in a parody of normal snow, but through it she picked out the shapes of her target. Filling the plain, a mass of dirty, barbaric warriors milled about like a swarm of rats.
<i>Rats,</i> she thought. <i>That’s a fitting name for them....</i>
The horde of soldiers were obviously preparing for battle, breaking down the strange domed tents which they must have used as portable hovels. Many were on foot, but more still had great shaggy horses adapted for the frigid weather, while an obvious scout group had already mounted up on snowmobiles, no doubt stolen from more civilized victims.
“Hold here,” she commanded her team through their local communications network. The other Eagles dropped low, moving into a defensive formation as several began filming the troop movements for later study. Clicking on the long-distance radio, the Lieutenant tried to message back to the main force. “Turtle-Base, this is Eagle-Three, over.” She waited for a few moments. “Turtle-Base, this is Eagle-Three, please respond....” There seemed to be a crackling noise, like a reply broken by interference. “Eagle-Base, this is Lt. Itzulf... you aren’t responding so I don’t know if this message will get to you. We’ve spotted a swarm of rats, too many to eat. Estimates look between twenty and thirty thousand. They’re on the move and getting ready to attack northwest, probably a flanking maneuver.” There was a brief crackle on the line, which Itzulf took as a hopeful sign. “Turtle-Base, can you hear me? Shall we follow?”
“--eg-tiv...” the crackle responded, barely recognizable as the Colonel. “Ret--n-oo--ase. --ep--te... --etur--t b--se.”
“Will do, Turtle-Base. Eagle-Three out.” Returning to the local comm, she signaled the Eagles to pull out. “Flap it, people, we’re heading home. Irik, map our route.”
The nine members of the recon team began to pick up, keeping a sharp eye out for movement around them. The narrow sun was moving earthward and night would be on them before long. As the group began descended the hill, Itzulf noticed that three of the snowmobiles were gone. Scanning the surrounding plains, she caught no sign of them. Making a mental note of this, she quickened her step to return to the head of the team.
They made good time, skirting the flanks of the enemy at a distance of perhaps a mile. Every once in a while, they caught sight of the Mongol army moving, much less a civilized column than a heavy mass. No wonder they were called a “horde.” More importantly, they were moving in the direction of the Numinox outpost, although it was unlikely to be their actual destination, if they even had one. The Eagles quickened their pace, easily outdistancing the Mongol forces, who weaved and ebbed like a drifting sea. The wind continued to pick up, the unwholesome native snow becoming thicker and thicker in the air. Presently, Itzulf fancied she could hear a loud rumbling noise rising from the air to their side.
“Ma’am, we’ve got snowmobiles inbound!” shouted one of the flank-holders.
“Circle,” Itzulf replied calmly. “Keep wide and low. Be ready to fire as soon as they show.”
The Eagles hustled into place, beak-masks dipped low as they raised their Spectres. The motion sensors in the masks could only do so much, but it was enough. Like three great winter wolves, the snowmobiles bounded from the cloud at a distance of only a few metres. They were long machines, probably intended for cargo transportation, and the Mongols had adapted them well. Four men road each, armed with archaic Kalashnikov assault rifles or heavy swords. Each group of three passengers held them ready, while the drivers kept their weapons slung across their backs, more like swords than guns. The Kalashnikovs fired, barking loudly in the cold air. The Eagles kept low, and though the gunmen were obviously strong, the recoil of the rifles punched the streams of automatic fire up and above the heads of their targets.
The Spectres returned fire, punching into the machines and the beasts driving them. One pilot was killed instantly, his chest breaking apart and his hands feebly releasing the vehicle to tumble off into the distance. His passengers were not so easy to destroy, leaping free and returning fire, this time with greater accuracy. Two passengers on another machine were slaughtered by the Spectre fire. Itzulf expected the survivors to continue on, moving into the distance and returning for another run. It was a predictable tactic, but would have left the Mongol riders vulnerable to the recon team’s fire. Instead, the barbarians seemed all too eager to get into melee, no doubt more comfortable with that style of warfare, and expecting targets who were unable to defend themselves at close range.
It was their mistake. As two Mongols with swords rushed in, Itzulf twisted to the side, pumping rounds into their backs. Both fell, only one rising to exchange blows with another Eagle. While the heavy sword in the barbarian’s hand left a wicked slice in the soldier’s leg, his target was more than happy to reply with a solid gun-butt to the face. Itzulf was not left free to admire the tenacity and training of her soldiers, however. As she evaded the initial attack, she sensed another Mongol approach at her side. Spinning around she bashed away the attacker’s Kalashnikov and thumbed her Spectre into his chest to force the man back. In response, the dirty fiend drew a short, curving knife and barreled forward.
Knocked off balance, Itzulf quickly found herself on the ground, her own weapon pressing against her throat. Her left hand grabbed the Mongol’s knife-arm at the wrist, struggling to keep the weapon from being plunged into her face. Meanwhile, the barbarian’s free hand pushed down on the Spectre, pressing it like a bar against the Eagle officer’s windpipe. Coughing as the Mongol’s weight pressed the air from her chest, unable to draw in more, Itzulf suddenly pulled down on the Mongol’s blade. Caught by surprise, the attacker was unable to guide the blow, and the weapon struck the hard ground, sliding away from Itzulf’s head. Gunfire and blood sprayed through the air above, but the Lieutenant was prepared to ignore it. Unable to reach her own combat knife where it lay strapped to her chest armor, Itzulf kicked upward with her right leg, freeing it and bending it at the knee to pull her foot into reach. A second dagger was secured to her boot, and she grabbed for this. On top of her, the Mongol raised his knife again, and this time Itzulf grabbed the side of the man’s face, thumb pressing without hesitation into his eye socket. The Mongol screamed in pain and shock for a moment, before the Lieutenant drew her second blade and punched it through the man’s temple.
The rush of blood, both within and upon her, Itzulf shoved the corpse to one side. The fighting spirit of her ancestors was flowing within the woman’s body and she remembered the dictates of meditation to keep it in check. Now was not the time for rage. Picking up her Spectre, the Lieutenant gave an approving nod as she watched her soldiers gun, beat and stab their attackers into bloody submission. The sounds of gunfire had done their job however, and a force of Mongols, a foot-based party of skirmishers, appeared over the lip of the plain at the very edge of vision.
“Damnit, we’re in for it...” Itzulf groaned, reloading the fifty-round magazine in her weapon. The others followed her example. “Put C4 on snowmobiles! Turn the damn things into bombs!”
Two Eagles curried to comply before rejoining their comrades in the careful withdrawn, weapons exchanging bursts of fire with the all but invisible Mongols approaching in the distance. The barbarians would flank them soon enough, and if this party failed to be victorious the whole weight of the army would likely fall upon the recon team before they could properly go to ground. Itzulf began to wish that she had some Claymore mines with her, but it was a futile thought.
Dropping into a crouch with the snowmobiles just within view, the Eagles kept up the fire into the darkness, peppering their flanks with fire as well just in case. The first line of monstrous barbarians seemed to materialize from the very snow itself, far closer than the team had anticipated. The Spectres opened fire, but soon three Eagles were back in the familiar melee.
“Detonate!” Itzulf snapped, flicking her hand from closed to open twice to signal both explosives. The hand-held transmitters clicked rapidly without response. More Mongols appeared, quickly overwhelming the front rank of Eagles. Firing from the hip, Itzulf bounded into the fray, stabbing with her knife in sharp, downward thrusts at exposed necks and faces.
Suddenly, the charges responded, the explosives in the midst of the Mongols erupting in violent fireballs as the fuel tanks were set off. The barbarian force halted for a moment, the stream of reinforcements no longer appearing from the snow. Whether they were afraid to approach, or the survivors were too far back from the team to respond immediately, was unknown. Still, the reprieve was enough.
From the snow behind the recon force, the sounds of rifle fire appeared, followed swiftly by a team of Wolf soldiers armed with scoped G36s. The Wolves circled up, shooting with a mixture of both speed and precision into the wind. The Eagles fell back gratefully, lending support fire with their larger magazines. Itzulf quickly spotted the Wolf commander and saluted.
The radio crackled to life as the Wolf officer returned the salute, and Itzulf recognized the voice of Lieutenant Anders Ocelrossa. “Itzulf, glad we got here in time.”
“Time is what we don’t have. There’s thirty thousand more half a mile away, and they’ll be here in minutes.”
More barbarians appeared out of the snow and both officers fired upon them as the conversation continued.
“We’ve got transport,” Ocelrossa replied. “Colonel got the message and sent us with some Turtles.”
As if in reply, a rapid-fire thundering appeared from behind the Wolves, the telltale whip of shells flying over the heads of the soldiers and into the distance where they detonated with the dull orange flashes of dawn. From the storm, a pair of armored scout cars, each turreted and mounted on four large wheels, rolled into view spraying autocannon and machine gun fire into the distance. Seven feet tall and wide, and almost fifteen long they were an impressive sight to the Numinox soldiers, whose tactical doctrine held little tolerance for the bulk and clutter of full-sized tanks. Between them, two armored transports rolled up, loading doors open to offer sanctuary.
“All right, people, we’re pulling out!” Itzulf motioned her troops toward the carriers. “The night’s still young and there’s plenty of killing left to do!”