NationStates Jolt Archive


In the Emperor's Name. (MT Intro)

Chronosia
15-02-2007, 01:42
OOC: OK, so this is part of my MT intro post. I don't want people posting in it just yet, so I'll set up a seperate OOC thread for Opinions, Ideas, Tips, and possible sign up. It's here. http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=518126

IC:

“Though he is long gone from our meagre world, from the confines of Holy Terra, the Emperor has not forgotten us. He watches over his servants always, even here on this distant world. We are but a fraction of those who offer praise to the skies above, and bless the wisdom of His Name.”
-High Ecclesiarch Matthias Eldenberg.

Remembrance…
The Temple of the Emperor Ascendant.
Primaris, Capital of the Chronosian Empire.

The crowd had gathered in the great Temple of the Emperor Ascendant, its white walls aglow with the early morning sunlight, sparkling off the dark mahogany of the benches. Many were sat, gazing up at the great golden aquila that adorned the wall before the altar, carved of a rich white marble from the Kronos Mountains. Behind the Imperial Preacher, who had just roused the early morning crowd into a roaring recital of ‘His Light upon his Humble Servants’, a statue rose. It was carved of solid gold and the same pure white stone, the Emperor Ascendant, the Emperor Triumphant. A blade was held aloft in his hand, rubies glittering down its edge. Carved into the base of the statuary, the Emperor at the liberation of the Citadel Primaris, was a single inscription.

The blood of Martyrs is the seed of the Imperium. From their sacrifice shall our hopes be born anew.

The hymnal faded from the air as the Preacher gestured for the crowd to sit, glancing at each eager face. They had risen early that they could attend the service, the heady scent of incense upon the wind as he moved to a dusty tome, ready to speak, hoping his words would offer some comfort.

“The Emperor protects”

“And Chronosia lives.” They echoed his words with the correct response, each hopeful that the sentiment that had sustained their entire lives would not falter before the odds stacked against them, odds none truly wished to consider.

“It is his light that shines upon us as we rise, as we attend to our lives. No job is too small as to escape his notice. Whether you supply our armed forces from within the Officio Munitorum, or rend through the bureaucracy that keeps our lives intact within the Administratum, you are blessed by him. You are worthy in his eyes. The Emperor asks only that you do what you can.” He sighed softly, as though wearied. “For though we are far from the northern lines, we can still feel the icy sting of war. The Archenemy of all mankind has arisen within our own nation, within our own people. Blood has turned on blood, a treachery not even his beneficent self can forgive!”

He felt himself stirring now, his blood no longer waxing cold and sluggish as though touched with morning frost, it boiled within his veins, like fire, laced with adrenaline. By the Emperor he felt as though he could face down the Traitors and the Heretics!

“Let us remember those who give their lives in His Name. let us remember those who fight even now that we might remain free! Let us remember each sacrifice and each death, and what it grants us. Continued freedom from the scourge of the Archenemy! The Emperor protects!”

The Emperor protects…
The Imperial Frontlines,
31km north of Canhearth Town

“Down!” The cry echoed over the howl of artillery shells as Colonel Erich Vanmar ducked low, splattered by mud and detritus from the detonation of the super-heavy gun shells that were pounding at Imperial lines. He watched other soldiers of the line, the 17th Canhearth Rifles, squatting down beneath the stone-reinforced trench. Each was slick with grey-brown mud, hammered into their hair, drummed into skin and uniform, coating them like a second skin. The front could do that to a man, especially once the bastards kept up with the fire. It had been days now, barely a break in the enemy assault, purely artillery. As though they wanted to wear down the Imperial defenders before they descended upon them.

Like all the poor sods caught in the opening volleys of the war.

Vanmar checked his weapon, the Chronosian Mk.III Solid Shell Conventional, gently ensuring that it was on full-auto, well loaded, not jamming. He held it close to the chest of his dirtied black flak and fatigues, closing his eyes. He had never asked for this, never expected the never-ending deadlock of a siege war. He’d heard about the northern defences, but never expected to be directly engaged. He wasn’t true Guard yet, merely Regional Defence shunted into the Rifles, given rank on the basis of his past deeds.

Nothing compared to this. To the war. To the enemy… The regional operations he’d been involved in, peacekeeping and suppression of secessionists had been nothing compared to what was in the North. The people had changed. Some whispered of a taint, a taint that could turn even the most stalwart servant of the God-Emperor into a debased fiend. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that…

But by the Throne, he could believe that something wasn’t right. Not with artillery that seemed to echo on for frakking weeks…

“Everyone OK?” He tried to keep the doubt from his voice, crouched low in this stinking trench, the enemy guns always on their backs, the enemy…Wait a second. He raised his head. The guns had stopped firing, the air was ringing with the aftershock, sure, but the guns themselves had silenced. Tired, perhaps? Or….God-Emperor no! They couldn’t be readying for a-

Bullets thundered past his head as he ducked down, taking the face from another unprepared soldier, a burst of blood staining the already filthy trench-wall behind him. He saw the body fall, twitching, the wound that had practically detonated his head still smoking. Blood and brain splattered the wall and the back of his shattered helmet lay among the fragments of his skull. Erich bit back the retching he could almost feel building in his throat, spinning up to fire into the mist. Figures moved there, amongst the smoke from the shellfire that had only just ended. Bastards must have moved in….Knowing when they’d be ready. They were smart, like animals.

They’d die like dogs!

He felt the gun kick in his hands, thundering with righteous fury. He had made sure that it, at least, was well maintained, the gleaming silver aquila on its side speaking of his devotion to the God-Emperor through the medium of combat. He went low again, ejecting the empty clip and hammering a new one into place. He turned as he saw the vox operator trying to raise Regional HQ.

“Canhearth, this is the 17th Rifles! Canhearth do you register! We have heavy incoming! The enemy is upon us! The enemy is upon us! We request immediate assistance. Repeat, Canhearth Command, this is the 15th Rifles….”

He could just see them, taunting him, moving through the smoke-mist like ghosts, ghosts clad in red. Some wore black. Some wore a combination of the two, their uniforms stained and died with blood. Some wore symbols upon it, sigils that burned at his eyes, painted onto their uniforms or etched into their flesh. Some wore pendants that blazed like the signs, or skulls, the bones of the faithful about their necks, slotted into spikes on their armour, or ringing their belts.

Bastards. Fiends. Monsters. Traitors to all that it was to be human. He snarled with purest rage as he opened fire, the Coventional shuddering as he let loose another burst of full auto. All around him, others were doing the same. Men he had come to know, brothers-in-arms , shoulder to shoulder against Mankind’s Archenemy.

“Sir! I can’t raise Canhearth! I can’t bloody raise them…Enemies playing merry-hell with the vox. We need to move. We need to retreat. We need-“ A bullet tore through the vox operators skull, not an enemy round but the machined and engraved pistol round of an Imperial Commissar.

“I think not!” Came his booming voice. “Stand and deliver, men! All guns to the fore! The Emperor protects! He is with you! The brave soldiers of his Empire, of his Imperium! Not with cowards! Not with traitors no better than the enemy we face! Guns to the front!”

Erich gritted his teeth, sending another rattling volley of fire towards the enemy. They were drawing nearer, he could see them, hear them…They were laughing, singing! This was a game to them! He heard their inhuman oaths, their blasphemous cants and he shuddered, grasping with the silver aquila that hung from his neck. “The Emperor protects…” He whispered, over and over, a mantra to soothe him as he fought on.

He watched any enemy buckle and fall under the fire of one of his fellows, Major Breven, Antonio Breven. He turned to congratulate him, only to watch him collapse, blood gouting from the ruins of his upper torso. Erich cursed under his breath, ducking back into cover. The ground was shaking now, as though something else had emerged to replaced the hellish recoil of the great enemy guns. He glanced up, towards their own lines. He heard the thunder of cannons. The hammering of Conqueror Guns. The Chronosian Pattern Leman Russ battle-tanks were moving up the support roads that led towards the front, avoiding the heavily entrenched Imperial forces as the guns gave forth another gout of fire. The stink of fyceline and prometheum was all about them now through the chorus and the cacophony of bloody war.

“I’d advise we pull back! The vox is shot anyway! But if we retreat down the line we can link up with forces in Canhearth! High Command needs to know about this, frakk knows how it’s going along the line!” Erich yelled, the Commissar turning to regard him with those cold eyes, like the eyes of a shark.

“You would advise us to derelict our duty to the Empire?” He smirked. “You would have us betray our oaths? To the God-Emperor? To the Regent-Militant?”

“Of course not! But we can’t stay here!” He panted, looking back at the advancing troops. They had stopped, or so it seemed, milling around, grunting in their foul tongue. He heard something, something like the Russ’ but…Louder. More violent. Like it had intentionally been let to run down, its engines thunder to an animal growl. He looked forward, eyes wide with fear.

The first Conqueror in line exploded in an immense gout of flame, ammunition cooking off even as its shattered frame lurched to one side, exploding again. Shrapnel studded the tank behind it, which shuddered to a stop, attempting in vain to lock onto whatever had destroyed its comrade.

Debased, glittering with incandescent runes and covered in banners that spoke of ruin beneath some foul power, its guns hammering forth against the line, came an Imperial Baneblade. Taken by the Archenemy, made terrible, made into a weapon to maim the faithful.

“We’re moving! Now!” Erich bellowed, the Commissar nodding as the men turned to file through the support trenches. Erich paused, hearing the vox finally crackle into life, dropping to his knees to wrench it from the hands of his dead Operator. “Hello?! Canhearth!? This is Vanmar, 17th Rifles, Canhearth line! Do you respond? Canhearth!”

“Blessed are the powers of Chaos, the Gods who gaze upon us as their instrument. Hallowed are the glories of the Warp, the predations of the Daemon upon us! Hallowed are the mysteries of Tzeentch, hallowed are the-“ He threw it to one side, shuddering, the accursed names and words putting a chill into his very bones as he turned to run, still able to hear the last mocking tones of the Archenemy propaganda.

“Run, whimpering servants of the Corpse God. He cannot protect you from the true faithful.

Nothing can.”
Chronosia
01-03-2007, 12:57
With the eyes of eagles,
The offices of the Regent-Militant,
The Imperial Palace, Citadel Primaris .

He sighed as he examined the tactical maps which displayed the northern lines, an overstretched section of defences which protected Chronosia as a whole from the depraved fiends of the northern Gidyun province. Few knew how the Archenemy of all life had taken root there, few cared to guess at it. All they knew was that it had erupted in rebellion, declaring itself beyond the "dominion of a glorified corpse"

The Lord Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt stands at the table and sighs once more as adepts and Tacticians move about him. He is weary with the pain of war, the burden of prosecuting this campaign against the Archenemy of Mankind. Chaos. A horror he had hoped never to face. Somewhere an Ecclesiarch burns incense to sanctify the Command Chapels of the Imperial Palace, and more accurately the Citadel Primaris.

"Tacticae, a report please."

"My Lord Regent, we have unconfirmed and sporadic reports of assaults across the line, with a major offensive smashing through to the north of Canhearth Town. We were able to establish temporary contact with one Colonel Erich Vanmar on the retreat to Canhearth. They plan to dig in there, and fortify.

I would advise sending reinforcements to Canhearth as soon as possible."

He feels himself sag, weariness seems all around him, constricting him. He drums his fingers against the map, his other hand clutching at the aquila he wears at his throat.

"Then we shall. There was another matter. I wish to make an announcement, to the people...And to the world."

"My Lord?"

"We have fought alone for far too long, we have slaved away to contain this cancer. If we are overrun, what then for this world? They shall perish in flames as we swell with heretical conceit. No...The world must be there, notified of our plight, to stamp out this taint. If not, then the Emperor's light will abandon this world."

"I will arrange it lord. When would you like to make this announcement?"

"As soon as possible."

The Emperor's Word.
Imperial Square, Primaris

The Imperial Square was the centre of Primaris more than the Imperial Palace or even the Temple of the Emperor Ascendant. It was here that the common man could hear the voice of the Regent-Militant, from vast vid-screens and vox-relays. Now, towering over the statues of the Emperor and his Saints, the screens flickered to life and the face of the Regent-Militant became clear, his black hair was cut short, his green eyes regarding each and every subject of the Emperor as though he were a brother, and now they looked onwards, beyond.

People of Chronosia, People of the world. I am Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt. Lord of Chronosia by the will of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Master of its Armies and its People. I come before you now in our most desperate hour. A canker worms its way through our proud nation. An entire province has dedicated itself to the foul forces of Chaos, and turned upon us.

We are a strong, martial people, but alone against such contagion we are only a bulwark. I ask of you, will you not aid us in our darkest hour, when the light of the Emperor himself could gutter and cut out?

That day shall not come, we shall fight these heretics till the last drop of Chronosian blood stains our hallowed soil, this lucky land to be so blessed! We are Chronosians, each of us devoted to the Emperor and his will, devoted to the his Worship and Veneration. Chronosia expects that each man shall do his part in service, that he shall stand as a bulwark against the mad and the soulless.

No matter the heresies and the predations of the heretic, each should know this.

Chronosia endures!

Chronosia resists!

His message echoed over the Chronosian homeland, over that lucky thrice-blessed soil, further afield. The defenders of Canhearth and the convoy on its way there heard it, the vox miraculously clear of static or Chaos propaganda. Some said it was a miracle, the blessing of the Emperor as the signal spread, from place to place, from town to town, and city to city.

And beyond the boundaries of Chronosia.
Chronosia
13-05-2007, 18:32
Bump!
Beta Aurigae VII
24-06-2007, 01:20
The Prime Minister's Office, Karlsruhe
Capital of Beta Aurigae

The sun shined brightly on a perfect day in Karlsruhe, capital of the nation of Beta Aurigae. The Prime Minister, Kevin Shackleford, sat in his rather comfortable brown leather chair behind his distressingly oversized oak desk and gazed out of the window in front of him. The Prime Minister was a slight man, with thinning gray hair that seemed to be getting thinner and grayer by the day. Despite his appearance however, the Minister was a battle hardened veteran of countless campaigns for his country, both military and political, and he was not to be underestimated. Many an opponent had done so and all of them became names of the defeated.

On this day however, the Minister was planning no great conquests, in fact he was just thinking about how he would enjoy a nice cup of Earl Grey tea and maybe relax and put on the much touted FC Adamstown vs. Douglas United soccer match. He was interrupted from these pleasant musings by the ringing of his phone. Straining to reach the phone which was located towards the center of his desk, he finally was able to lay a hand on it and snatch it off the receiver before he collapsed back into his chair. I really must get that moved, he thought before he answered into the phone.

The voice on the other end was a little bit agitated but it was unmistakably his Minister of War, Charles Hagleford. The Minister nodded into the phone and his expression grew very grave before he spoke again.

"You're sure Charles? Alright, I'll put in the call to Parliament and you head up here with the information for me to look over."

Standing up this time, the Minister disconnected and then dialed his secretary.

"Angela, could you put in a call to the Parliament's offices and arrange and emergency session as soon as possible. Thanks."

Hanging up the phone this time, Kevin moved towards the whiskey decanter near the door and filled two glasses with the amber liquid. He was just turning back to his desk when the door opened and in walked Hagleford with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Here's the information you wanted Kevin," Hagleford said as he took the glass the Prime Minister handed him. Dropping the files on the Minister's desk, Hagleford moved around to the other side and plopped himself into one of the chairs.

The Prime Minister walked back over to his desk and pulled the files towards him as he sat down. They sat in silence for a minute as Kevin skimmed through the reports. After he was finished, he closed the file and sat sipping on his whiskey for a minute mulling the possibilities over in his head.

"Is this all the information we have," he asked Hagleford.

"I'm afraid so sir," came the reply. "We don't know much about these people to begin with except where their country is located and that they are very large and have a powerful military. All the other information we have on them is from this Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt's speech and frankly there's nothing we can gain from that besides they are under attack and need some help. Now our analysts say that this went out on all known diplomatic channels and no one has responded."

Nodding quietly, the Prime Minister took another sip of whiskey before posing the question that he knew Charles was waiting for.

"How do you think we should respond, if we respond at all?"

"Well sir, I think that if these people need help and no one seems to want to give it to them, then we should help them out. Besides, I may not know exactly what all this is about yet but, something about what their leader said in his speech just makes me want to make sure that they don't lose."

"I was thinking along the same lines Charles. I've called for an emergency session of Parliament and I should be presenting a report along with our recommendations within the hour."

The Parliament Building, Karlsruhe

The two houses of Parliament had gathered in full strength to hear this announcement from the Prime Minister. Each member had received a copy of the packet already reviewed by the Prime Minister and his advisers. Now was the moment of truth, the Prime Minster stood at the podium and stared out over the impressive expanse of the audience chamber. Then, slowly but firmly he began to speak:

"As this Parliament is aware, the nation of Chronosia has fallen under attack from an unknown foe. Now although we have never had dealings with this nation in the past, it is the recommendation of both myself and my Minister of War that aid be given to the Chronosians in any form that they may require. Ladies and gentlemen I do not make my recommendation lightly, I have seen the horrors of war firsthand and I can tell you that I do not wish them upon anyone. But I am also a man of principle and a man that love's his country and the freedom it provides. To allow these beings of Chaos to rob the Chronosians of their freedom, their country, and their lives would be a travesty that I just couldn't forgive myself for. So here I stand before you a man with just his principles to guide him, asking this Parliament to do what is right by the people of Chronosia and Beta Aurigae. Allow our great nation to come to their aid and stamp this evil from the Earth. Long live the King."

"Long live the King," the members of Parliament replied back to him.

The Prime Minster retired to a small antechamber off of the main audience chamber where he waited for Parliament's decision. Several hours later, the Prime Minister was called back into the chamber to hear the decision of Parliament. As he walked in, the head of Parliament was just handing out the verdict.

"It is the decision of this Parliament, based on the information presented and the recommendation of both the Prime Minister and the Minister of War, that as of this moment we grant aid to the nation of Chronosia in any form that they may require until this conflict has been resolved."

With that pronouncement, Parliament was adjourned and a coded message was drafted and sent to Chronosia regarding the issue.

IC Secret:
To: Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt, Lord of Chronosia
From: Kevin Shackleford, Prime Minister of Beta Aurigae
Subject: Aid

We have received your call for help and have pledged our nation to help you eradicate the forces of Chaos from your land. All that we require is your acceptance of our aid upon which we will immediately send troops to aid in the defense of your homeland. We await your reply with all speed.

Kevin Shackleford
Kevin Shackleford
Prime Minister of Beta Aurigae
Beta Aurigae VII
26-06-2007, 03:42
bump
Ravea
26-06-2007, 22:43
Itaca, Ravea
Watchguard Citadel, Upper Levels

The room was small, even cramped, and the lights were unnecessarily dim. Four shadowy figures sat around a round table taking up most of the space in the room; these four individuals, known as the Knights to those who were aware of their existence, were the true power holders of Ravea, and their stronghold, on the upper levels of the massive fortress-capital of Itaca, was the stuff of legends. Here was where the armies and elite spy agency of Ravea were directly coordinated from, where the downfall of dozens of tyrants had begun.

A gruff voice cleared its throat and spoke haughtily.

"Let's get on with this, gentlemen." A female voice across the table gave a slight squeak of indignation. "And lady, sorry," the first voice said quickly. "As we're all already aware, Chronosia has issued a decree-one that asks for help. This is a rare thing; Chronosia's military strength is well-known around the world. The Knights are here to weigh the options. Thomas, if you please?"

A third figure, with a rather young voice, spoke out at the command.

"Yes, sir." A switch clicked, and a projector suddenly illuminated the room, a map of Chronosia displayed on the wall. "Chronosia is a nation with a long and illustrious military and cultural history, as we all know. There have been few instances where the Empire has ever required assistance from an outside source. Apparently, this has changed. Our intelligence is somewhat limited; we've known that Chronosia has been at war with someone or other for a while now, but never bothered to research the opponent."

"Perhaps a mistake on my part," the female voice rang out. "I didn't think I had underestimated Chronosia's military strength, but apparently I was mistaken."

"Quite all right, Carmen. I assume your forces have already begun the infiltration?"

Carmen nodded. "Our best agents have already been moved from the RRby conflict to the north and are being deployed as we speak."

"Good," said Thomas, apparently satisfied. "Now, let's look at some pros and cons to getting involved in this. Obviously, loss of life and prestige is always an obvious danger when it comes to this sort of conflict, never mind the fact that our nation hasn't even officially gone to war in over a century. Any sort of involvement could put a serious stain on our humanitarian image that we've worked so hard to achieve."

"And yet," said the final voice, this one incredibly deep, "our potential enemy is already on the verge of possibly overrunning Chronosia itself. This new opponent could pose a threat to us all if they have that sort of monstrous power."

Everyone around the table nodded in solemn agreement.

"Then what do you suggest, Commander?"

The "Commander" spoke quickly and decisively. "The Ravean army will not march until our own nation is directly threatened, as has been our creed for a hundred and thirty years. The only obvious option is to deploy the Foreign Legions."

Thomas nodded. "Yes, the mercenaries have been growing rather unsettled as of late. This would be good practice for them. How many companies should be deployed? I'd rather not risk our entire-"

"All of them," shot the Commander, cutting Thomas off. "Any enemy that can even stalemate Chronosia must be taken seriously. Which is why, in addition to the Legions, I ask that a portion of the Raven Guard themselves be deployed as well."

The rest of the Knights were quiet. To think of even considering the most elite Ravean soldiers meant they faced a deadly enemy indeed.

"Of course," continued the Commander, "The Lowland societies will be begging for action as well, and will have to be sent."

The first voice spoke out tensely. "I don't like this. We're shifting too many forces around."

"Better to stop these people in Chronosia than have them outside the walls of the Watchguard." This settled the entire conversation.

"Very well. I'll send Chronosia the message. The meeting is adjourned." The four Knights stood up, and started to leave. "Oh! One more thing!" The others turned to look at him. "What of the Chronosian Emperor?"

"What of him?" Asked Carmen, somewhat tersely.

"Ah, well, you know how Emperors get sometimes. I hear that the Chronosians think of him as more of a god than a ruler."

"Don't take that information lightly, either," Carmen replied. "I've done some research myself on the man; He's incredibly skilled at his job, and surrounds himself with people equally as capable. If he's in trouble, it likely means that most everyone else is in trouble as well."

"Geez...must be some guy, then..."

Telegram to Chronosia
To: Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt
From: Ravean Authority
Subject: Military Help

The Ravean Authority has heard and carefully considered Chronosia's plight; unfortunately, due to the fact that the Ravean army is a defensive force only, the majority of our forces will not be able to physically aid your own. Therefore, it has been decided that the Ravean Foreign Legions, along with large detachments of elite Raven Guards and Lowlander fighters will be deployed, if you will allow it. Due to the threat that our enemy poses, the mercenary forces will be paid and sponsored by Ravea itself, instead of any host nation.

Chronosia also has the entire Ravean Authority itself under its disposal, consisting of it's massive spy network and any experimental military equipment, arms, or technology you require.

We hope you accept our offer, and will deploy all forces as soon as your reply.

~From,
The Ravean Authority
Beta Aurigae VII
03-07-2007, 21:36
bump
Beta Aurigae VII
06-07-2007, 00:47
bump for Chronosia
Chronosia
06-07-2007, 02:55
Gidyun Province

Gidyun is a cursed earth. The soil itself screams out against the taint that has been forced upon it, gravel cracking and shuddering beneath the boots of those who march in single file. Some carry hammers, rusted and battered, others are without tools. The fire in their eyes has long burnt out, they are clothed only in rags, scraps of what must once have been fine clothing.

In single file, they march on.

Those once loyal, broken and branded by the Ruinous Powers, their flesh withered from starvation and tattooed with heretical script, marching towards the gates of pain. They rise from the broken plateau of the square, angels lacking faces, heroes hewn by the designs of the enemy. In place of the once glorious tableau, there lie the shattered bodies of the old, the young, the frail. A boy hangs from split wrists, nails driven through bone and into stone, his body long devoid of life. This place would be hell to any sane man, but those who march have seen worse in the time since the Enlightening. Days, weeks, months…This is how they chart their pain. Their damnation.

The warriors of the Gods stand in attendance, their armor is of burnished steel and black iron, ceremonial and practical for the defence of this rotting fastness, Citadel Sextus. They watch the unwashed vermin shuffle past, their eyes hidden within helmets that seem bolted to their very flesh, eyes little more than cruel slits, observing the unending cycle of violence.

“Move forward, filth! Deliverance awaits you!” One snarls, teeth sharpened to feral fangs, gnashing over a tattooed jaw. These are the chosen of the Master, the disciples of Blood who worship at his fell throne. The slaves do not look up, they do not dare to glance at these men-monsters. Instead they march on, even as the cruel kick drives one to his knees, sobbing and screaming.

The howls echo down the avenue of broken dreams.

They set to work, slowly and with aching joints, shattering the old symbols. They break the faces of Saints and Heroes, they shatter the holy countenance of Generals and warriors. Even the face of the Immortal Emperor is broken beneath their toil.

Others stand in attendance before the great Basilica, once the throbbing heart of Gidyun’s Imperial faith, now a hollow shell, a corrupt and bloated cathedral to powers whose names dare not be spoken. Banners hung from empty balconies, hewn from the skins of those who had dared to oppose the uprising. Upon the tattered and dried flesh were burnt the markings of Chaos itself, sigils so ruinous that merely gazing upon them could burn minds clean.

He stood, unmoving and unwavering before the spectacle of violence that marred the centre of the once proud building, the altar caked with the fresh and dried blood of countless sacrifices. He could taste the power inherent in every death, know the glory that was offered forth with every loyalist life they snuffed out.

He turned, his armour intricately woven from dark metal, faces writhing and twisted into the metal. Flesh hung in ragged bands, blood oozing from every seam and crack, a hissing blood mist that seemed to haunt him like an aura. If any were blessed of the Dark Gods, it was he. If any could lead Chronosia into its destiny, its dark future, it was him.

“My Lord.” A supplicant bowed before him, its robes stained and dyed with the blood of countless. He regarded it coldly, emotionless green eyes sweeping over its form, his hand tightening around the sword at his side.

“What would you offer me, worm?”

“My Lord, the Loyalists call for aid, they would seek outside intervention against your majesty.”

“They call to the world…The pitiful fools who would dare call themselves human! The greatest of all Mankind, and they cower and they scream at the darkness in fear! Let them cling to their corpse god! Let them burn in their false temples! Shatter them! I want them burned to cinders. Rally forth all divisions. The lines are broken, are they not?”

“We have attained-“

“Then push on!” He snarls, eyes alight with purpose, with fell intent. He glowers down at the cowering slave thing, watching as it scuttles. He unsheathes his blade and brings it down upon a cowering devotee, again and again, his mind clouded and addled with the supreme urge to kill.

And when he is done, turning the blade towards him and letting his tongue flicker across the stained metal, he turns back towards the altar, falling to his knees in supplication.

“My Lords, I shall deliver you this trifling nation…And with it, I shall deliver you the world…”


The Imperial Palace, Citadel Primaris

Alexus knelt before a shrine to the Emperor, shirtless. His muscular torso was aglow with sweat as he took the flail in his hand, closing his eyes as he offered up prayer and penance. He winced, feeling the sting as the barbed ends ripped across his bare skin.

This was his punishment, his dire reward for failing in the service of the Emperor, who reigns forever beyond the stars. He had allowed the dominion of his servants to fall into laxity and heresy. Now, his flesh torn beneath the ministrations of his faith, beneath the purging of his own sin, he moved to his feet, examining the wounds in his mirror. He turned lightly, gazing up at the golden statue of the Emperor that dominated his private shrine, bowing his head as his hands entwined across his chest, forming the sign of the Aquila.

“The Emperor protects.”

He dressed swiftly, his ornamental armour gleaming over his underclothes, adorned in gold and other fineries, a great golden aquila upon the breastplate.

”Status report!” His voice boomed as he entered the main Tacticae hall, startling those gathered, interrupting the near frantic whisperings.

“Lord Regent-Militant, we have had contact! Outside forces wish to aid us in our offensive.”

“This is confirmed?”

“Two sources, Lord. The Beta Aurigaeans and the Raveans, codified and stored.”

“Replay.”

He paused, listening intently, a hand moving up to place a finger upon his lip, solemnly tapping. “So…Our salvation comes, does it?”

“If I may be so bold, Lord, it seems as though they can aid us greatly against the Archenemy.”

“I’ll compose a reply. Have it sent, immediately.”

I greet you as the Regent-Militant of the Chronosian Imperium, acting in the stead of the Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind. I stand before you humbled that you would contribute to our struggle against an enemy that defies logic, that defies reason.

I would be honoured to meet representatives of your respective nations within my capital of Primaris. Our fate draws in, the hope of our free brethren, and all free mankind, gutters like a candle flame.

I thank you again, I thank you for your offers of aid, and accept them unconditionally. Help me, help me to bring my country back to order. To rise from this age of Strife, and forever shall the Imperium be in your debt.
Beta Aurigae VII
07-07-2007, 21:43
The Prime Minister's Office, Karlsruhe
Capital of Beta Aurigae

The word spread quickly through the upper echelons of the government that the Chronosians had accepted their offer of aid. It traveled so fast in fact that the Prime Minister knew about it before he got the official phone call. The acceptance was just a formality however, wheels had been turning for the past couple of days and the acceptance was the last snagging factor.

As soon as the Prime Minister heard the official news, he phoned down to the Minister of War and gave him the go ahead to send in the troops.

Bridge of the R.S.S. Sabertooth
Flagship of the R.A.N.

The bridge of the Sabertooth was a hive of activity, with officers and sailors alike running about double and triple checking each and every system. The fleet had been on high alert for the past couple of days as they awaited the green light from the Minister of War. Then they would set sail towards the waters nearest to Chronosia and deploy their cargo, two legions of Beta Aurigae's finest.

Grand Admiral Charles Lewis, stood calmly in the center of the maelstrom of bodies like the eye of a hurricane, seemingly at peace with everything. His ice blue eyes stared straight ahead like laser beams looking out the front window of the Sabertooth at the fleet assembled around him.

"Admiral," came a shout from the communications officer, "we've received the green light from the Minister. We're instructed to set sail immediately."

"Send out the order, all ships depart for the scheduled coordinates," he responded over the noise that continued on the bridge.

"Aye sir," the officer called back and almost instantly, the great ship gave a jolt as it began to get underway.

The Prime Minister's Office, Karlsruhe
Capital of Beta Aurigae

The Prime Minister was sitting at his desk with his bags packed and ready, waiting for his Minister of War to meet him so they could travel to Chronosia to meet with their leader. No sooner had he begun to wonder what was keeping the Minister, he arrived.

"The fleet is away Kevin and our transport and gunship escort is waiting for us."

"Excellent, I was just sending out this return communique to Chronosia to tell them to expect our arrival in about twenty hours."

IC Secret:
To: Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt, Lord of Chronosia
From: Kevin Shackleford, Prime Minister of Beta Aurigae
Subject: Our Arrival

We thank you for your expedient reply, and send this message to inform you that we have dispatch two fleets to the waters nearest your nation. The total list of forces sent will be listed in an attachment to this message. I would also like to inform you that both myself and my Minister of War are en route to your nation to discuss further appropriations of our troops in your country as this conflict escalates. You can expect our arrival in approximately twenty hours.

Kevin Shackleford
Kevin Shackleford
Prime Minister of Beta Aurigae

Attachment:
Naval Forces
(R.A.N 1st and 5th Fleets each containing the list below)
Command and Control Vessels

1 Cernunnos-class BCN
1 Admiral-class CCN
2 Siren-class AGI
2 Sea Lion-class PGC

Aircraft Carriers

1 Union-class CVBN
4 House-class CVAN
5 Hornby-class CVL(N)

Battleships

1 Europa-class BBCN
3 King Henry V-class BBGN
8 Ocean-class BBGN

Battlecruisers

2 Consort-class CBGN
9 Regent-class CAGN
10 Alderdom-class CLGN

Escorts

2 Síanach-class DDGN
27 County-class DDG (AD)
27 City-class DDG (GP)
55 Furtive-class FFH

Amphibious Warfare Craft

2 Lord-class LHD
2 Ungforth-class LPD
2 Valley-class LSD
3 Crocodile-class LCS

Submarines

3 Haenulf-class SSK
13 Chamberlain-class SSGN
23 Forthar-class SSN

Auxiliaries and Tugs

5 Lem-class AFS
5 Gabin-class AKR
7 General Marsden-class AP
7 Alyesburgh-class AS
24 Guinness-class AOEN

Infantry and Ground Forces
(The R.A.G. 73rd and 101st Legions each containing the list below)
Infantry
27,648 Troops

Heavy Armor
2,500 BA8 MBT
1,250 BA8A

Light Armor (Tracked)
125 BA21
125 BA21A
125 BA21B
125 BA21C
125 BA21D
125 BA21E
125 BA21F

Light Armor (Wheeled)
1,000 BA22
1,000 BA22A
1,000 BA22B
1,000 BA22C
1,000 BA22D

Amphibious Vehicles
1,000 BA2
1,000 BA2A
1,000 BA2B

Support Vehicles
500 BA15
500 BA15A
500 BA15B
500 BA15C

Aircraft
Approximately 3,200 assorted aircraft.
Beta Aurigae VII
11-07-2007, 03:09
bump
Thrashia
14-07-2007, 09:02
Several Miles Above Gidyun Province of Chronosia

Flight Lieutenant Micheal sat stiff in the seat of his pilots station. He sat up and moved his shoulders around in an attempt to squish out the small specks of pain he felt between his shoulder blades. After a few minutes of doing so, and failing at it, he quit and got back to checking his navigational instruments. Readings said they were on course. Micheal's copilot Johann shifted in his seat, a dream causing him to move. Flight law required both the pilot and copilot remain in their seats throughout a transit so the two of them, piloting the head plain in the flight group, were forced to take shifts of sleeping upright and uncomfortable.

Micheal put autopilot on and reached around behind himself to where a small table tray was, a hot steaming cup of recaf sitting in one slot. He took off his gloves and let the heat seep into his numb fingers. He sighed with a small bit of content. At least there were small pleasures to enjoy. Micheal took a drink and was about to take another when the radio spoke up.

Picking up his headphones Micheal listened. The frequency was off, the words were coming in faded. "All shall hail...chaos...death to loyalis...Tzee...."

"What in the seven hells is that?" Micheal asked himself, turning his comm line a few times, trying to home in on the frequency. When he did, he wished he hadn't been so curious.

A voice was coming through the lines that made Micheal's skin crawl. From the bottom of his spin to the back of his head, a shock-driven tingle of horror made its way, causing Micheal to blanch. What was even more horrifying were the other background sounds. It was like some horror movie showing its worst gory scene over and over again. Screams, cries of pain, horror unimaginable was filtering through along with the terrible voice.

Micheal shut the radio off.

He turned and smacked Johann out of his stupor. "Hey! Johann! Wake up!" He flipped autopilot off and took control back for his station and with a quick movement changed the dial on the radio frequency, thought about it again and turned it back; he glanced over at his copilot and gave him another good smack for good measure. Johann sniffed loudly and leaned up from his fetal sleeping position.

"What is it? I was just about to kiss this girl-"

"Shut it, we've got something wrong happening."

"What?"

"Listen to this," replied Micheal. He turned the radio on and let the loud speaker for the cockpit come on. The transmission came through loud and clear. Johann was no longer sleepy. Nor did he think he would be going back to sleep any time soon. He looked with disgust and horror at the radio speaker then over at Micheal with a matching glance of disbelief.

"What the hell is that?" asked Johann.

"I don't know. But whatever it is it-" Micheal stopped mid-sentence and stared at his instruments.

"It's what?" Johann asked. When he noticed his superior's look he glanced at the instruments as well. They were all wrong. The avionics were off. The distance transponder was moving up and down in measurement. Even their elevation meter was changing at a frightening rate.

"What is going on?" demanded Micheal.

"We're all out of whack! I've got nothing on anything, even radar is fishy," Johann added, checking over his controls with an expediency born of an ever growing fear.

"We can't fly like this. We've got to land!" Micheal strapped his safety belts ever tighter and changed the frequency on his radio. "Attention Flight Group Albatross, this is 'Eagle Momma', do you copy?"

A chorus of affirmatives rang out. "My readings are off 'Eagle Momma'," said nearly every pilot in the flight group. "We can't get anything except this bull-crap on nearly every local frequency. And frankly it gives me the chills and even made my Little Jimmy shrivel and go hide between my butt cheeks," added Lieutenant Jimmy Henschel, the flight group comedian. The joke however was not appreciated.

"Flight group, all planes are to land at the nearest available landing point. Break cloud cover and come down to within eye-estimated height of 800 meters," ordered Micheal. He flipped the channel on the radio.

"Colonel Eichmann, this is Flight Leader Lieutenant Micheal, we've got a problem."

"What sort of problem," came the colonel's voice over the radio.

"We've lost the use of our navigational instruments for some reason we can't understand and we're receiving disturbing local broadcasts. I'm authorizing a emergency landing until we can get things situated."

"Do as you see fit Lieutenant. Our lives are in your hands after all," came the colonel's sardonic reply.


* * * * *

When the black camouflaged painted transport planes came down from cloud cover and into the fading evening of the local area, they saw a landscape carved from the mind of a disturbed, insane, and most likely evil-maniacal artist's mind. The land was scarred with large holes, obviously made by large calibre artillery and the land itself was barren of all life. It was like an empty expanse.

Then the flak started. Lieutenant Micheal zeroed in on what looked like a trench line and found that a large amount of anti aircraft flak was coming from it. Naturally he chose to lead the flight group in the opposite direction. As they came lower and lower the details of the terrain became more and more clear. Trench networks of unimaginable scale lay carved into the surface of the earth like the homes of an ant hive. The occasional human-looking being was seen moving along communication trenches further behind. Tanks were moving forward across the trenches as well, large bellowing beasts painted red and black, engraved with images that Micheal couldn't quite make out but was glad he couldn't. He could see that fire fights were taking place all over the trenches.

After about twenty minutes of flying over the battle zone they came to a wide area of what had once been wheat fields, or what looked like wheat fields. "Everybody hang onto their little jimmy's!"

The impact itself didn't really jar Micheal that much as it would normally. Landing gear on tarmach was always a bit of friction-laden fun. This however was an altogether new experience. The forward wheels of his landing gear hooked into the earth, broke off, and his rear wheels dug in but did not break off. This caused the plane itself to come to a halt half the distance it should have. The marks his safety belt put into his shoulders and chest would undoubtably remain visible for several days.

All around "Eagle Momma" the other planes of Flight Group Albatross came to jarring and painful landings. Two of the planes upended and came to rest on their backs. The surviving passengers scrambled out shaken, dragging any that were injured or dead.

"Colonel, we've landed," Micheal said into his radio.

"Thank you Lieutenant for the update," came Eichmann's reply. "Get to work figuring out where we are. Your instruments should be your first priority...after you check to make sure your engines can still work properly."

"Yes sir."


* * * * *


Colonel Heinrich Eichmann stepped down the armored ramp of his transport and onto the barren and dead ground around him. All around were the now crippled carcases of the Albatross Flight Group, a true Greek tragedy if anyone were in the mood the joke around. Eichmann however had other things to worry about as his adjutant Lieutenant Phelps strode up to him, his colonel's combat gear wrapped up in his arms.

"Brought your things for you sir," smiled Phelps. He set the bundle down at Eichmann's feet and proceeded to put on his own full body kevlar armor and web gear. Eichmann absentmindedly put on his gear. The silver lightning 'SV' on his shoulders next to his rank insignia shone in the fading light of the sun.

"Phelps."

"Yes sir?"

"Find out from Lieutenant Micheal where in the hell we are," ordered Eichmann. The junior man nodded and strode up the ramp way. "Oh, and Phelps." His adjutant paused and turned. "Be sure to say 'please' when you ask," added Eichmann.

With that out of the way Eichmann turned his sight to the north. He could hear even from far away the distant rumble of heavy artillery, big batteries, firing and the ever present mere treble of voices. Around him the men of the 5th Panzergrenadier Brigade, 1st Division, Waffen SV brought themselves into full combat readiness. Who knew just where they had landed.

Eichmann flipped on his throat mike, set to the units radio network. "Major Khines, do you copy?"

"I do sir," came his second-in-command's reply. "Over about 300 meters to your right with 1st Company."

"Good, is Brightly with you?"

"That tank-head has his men forming up in their platoons. From what I know from the last message I got from him we've got all our 'Boars' and APCs down intact. The good captain is in fact rolling towards me in his command tank."

"Good," smiled Eichmann. "Have him send a few of his armored jeeps out in a northernly direction to see if anyone is around."

"I got word from one of the pilots that there is a city just a few kloms to the south of us," replied Major Dieter Kines.

"I'll worry about that. Mean time have your 1st company boys and Captain Slovinka's 2nd Company men on scrounging duty. Get all our supplies set up in a depot. Enough dirt around hear that a few sandbag positions around the planes wouldn't hurt."

"As you say sir, over and out."

The major's voice went out and Eichmann looked around at his own command company that was forming up within his general area. He found Lieutenant Phelps standing by a newly raised radio tent. The young junior officer looked up at his commander. "Sir, we've confirmed out location via the world positioning and we're several hundred miles off from our own lands. We don't know the nation that we're presently in."

"What about this town that's suppose to be to the south?" inquired Eichmann.

"I sent a patrol from 2nd squad to check it out. We're also getting one of the 80' mortars up for a 'Sky Eye' shot," responded Phelps.

"Good, see it gets done. And have 2nd squad report if they find anything of interest."


The 80mm mortar was set up and a special round was placed into its gaping mouth. The "Sky Eye" was a specialized mortar round that instead of high explosives, contained a camera by which a commander could see the surrounding area for a few square miles. This Eichmann did, downloading the images of the terrain and what it contained onto his portable laptop. What he found gave him much food for thought.


* * * * *

Corporal Heinz grimaced as they struggled along a muddy expanse for what seemed to pass for a road around these parts. The other nine men of his squad were equally disgusted with the mud but bore it as it was inevitable. Such terrain wasn't unknown to them, they simply hated to think of having to clean up their boots after they got back.

The light was getting just below the horizon now and so Heinz ordered night vision to be switch on. Their visored armored helmets carried night and heat detection vision, as well as shading from harsh light. The light vision allowed them to continue on with their mission even through the night had fallen.

The terrain around them was a familiar one. War had many faces and was an artist of uncalibrated imagination when it came to creating destruction upon the confines of human living. The land around them was no exception from that. Only once were they forced to skirt around a giant crater created by an artillery round.

Scout Private Johannes raised his right fist and went to a knee. The squad immediately stopped and fanned out into a defensive posture. K3 Liberator assault rifles scanned the expanse around them. Heinz opened a comm line on his helmet mike. "What is it Johannes?"

"I've got what looks like a road sign up ahead. I thought I saw movement," came the scout privates voice. "Maybe a sentry."

"Can you make out the sign with your binocs?" quirried Hienz.

"Yeah, hold on a second...I make out...something like Can hearth, or something like that. The words are almost gibberish to me sir."

"Don't worry, its useful," said Heinz. He opened a link back to command. "Command Base this is 'Bravo team', we've come upon a road sign saying Canhearth. City lights seen in the distance. Presence of possible enemy sentry sighted."

"Do not engage," came the reply order. It was Colonel Eichmann himself. "Mark your position and then return to base. Don't worry about covering tracks. If their enemy then they know we're already here."

"Yes sir. Bravo team out." The scout team back tracked the way they came through the dark and returned to the base camp that was slowly being built out of dirt and canvas bags.


* * * * *

Lieutenant Stahl looked out the view port of his 'Boar' light tank into the distance far to the north. He could in the fading light the occasional blossom of light from star shells and explosions. War. Delightful War. Stahl, just like any other member of the Waffen SV considered war to be the greatest art ever invented by men and he and his comrades had dedicated their lives to perfecting it. Each battle and war was a new opportunity to create a new master piece.

"Target!" called the gunner. "600 meters and closing."

"Hold fire," ordered Stahl. "Where in the hell are the others." Stahl had been sent out with a group of APCs and a armored jeep to scout out to the north. Thus far they had not run into anything but empty land and enough craters to make a moonscape. Until now.

"I make out moving infantry...between platoon and company-sized in strength," said the gunner, Dieter.

"Sergeant Lorranes is a klom to the east, Corporal Heydrich is just behind us by 30 yards. He's spotted the group of infantry too and is awaiting orders," said the communications specialist Wilhelm.

Stahl stared out into the distance and made out the figures coming toward them. As he waited the figures became more distinct. They seemed to be running, a few carried rifles or something of that nature, but more than a few carried nothing. For all the world it looked like a group of soldiers in full retreat. "I don't think they pose us any harm, but-" Stahl stopped as he looked past the group of mud-covered retreating soldiers to what was chasing them.

A line of red-black clothed infantry and an armored tank was coming up at high speed, pursuing the fleeing men with what seemed like glee. Stahl knew just by seeing the way they moved that this was the advance of a victorious instilled group of soldiers. They smelled blood, had tasted it, and were now to finish off their victim.

But more than that, it was their presence. It made Stahl, a hardened veteran, want to throw up a bit. The tank was covered in blood and even had a few human skulls strung across the front of its hull. Sigils of an unholy nature covered it and even the dark advancing infantry seemed to carry with them such horrid trophies. The Waffen SV were known for their ferocity, but this was simply not human. Nothing human could do such things.

"Range to enemy tank?"

"720 meters and closing," Dieter sounded off, he looked up at Stahl. "Sir?"

"It seems to me that they are the enemy here. Those poor bastards that are running could use some relief don't you belief Herr Dieter?"

"Yes sir I do," said Dieter, smiling.

"AP round, make it a hot one," ordered Stahl. He clicked on his mike. "Heydrich, deploy your squad with their AT bang sticks. We've got some baddies heading toward us, 700 yards and closing."

"What about the fleeing troops?" asked Heydrich as his APC driver dropped the rear ramp to let his men out.

"Let them pass through you."


"Target!" said Dieter.

"Fire!"

The armor piercing rounding smashed into the front of the rumbling tank and along with the rumbling roar of Stahl's tank gun came the loud clang of metal on metal as a small crater was cleaved out of the bloodied and defaced tank's armor. The accompanying infantry fell to the ground at this unexpected event.

Dieter loaded a second round within five heartbeats and aimed again. Stahl naturally gave the order to fire. The second shot had a similar effect. "Damn pig has a thick hide," commented Dieter.

Corporal Heydrich's ten men fanned out in front of Stahl's tank. Three pairs of them carried RPGs with armor piercing tips. Three fantastic lines of fire erupted and sped off and impacted upon the hull and treads of the enemy tank. The other grenadiers opened up with selective firing from their K3s.

The fleeing soldiers in their mud splattered uniforms moved to the left of Stahl and his men, happy to simply have any help even if they didn't know that it came from anyone else but their own forces. Too frightened to notice that the report of the grenadiers weapons was different than their own.

A third AP round from Stahl's tank hit the small crack between the turret and the body of the hull. With a ear splitting crack the armor was pierced and the secondary charged exploded within the tank itself. The crew must have been a bit mindless in how they carried their shells on board their tank, because a third explosion ripped across the field as the ammunition was ignited. The explosion raked shrapnel across the remaining enemy infantry.

"Into them boys," yelled Corporal Heydrich.

Following their brave commander the ten men charged forward with their K3s lowered to the hip, firing on full auto to keep any heads down. Within a few adrenaline fueled heart beats they reached the burning remains of the tank and moved meticulously down the line, killing off any survivors. One crazed enemy jumped up and stuck one grenadier with a crude bayonet in the shoulder. The mad man was paid for his troubles by having a bullet swept through his skull by another grenadier. Blood and brains painted the ground in a grotesque picture.

Heyrich brought his men back to the APC and Stahl's tank. Stahl himself now sat in the command cupola, his chest and head exposed in the turret of the tank. His crumpled tanker cap was set off to one side in a way that showed Stahl thought it was dashing.

"Good hunting Corporal."

"As always sir," grinned Heydrich.

The group of battered, fleeing soldiers who they had rescued from enemy fire stepped forward out the gloom.They approached wearily, unsure of these soldiers. They wore black uniforms but yet had fired on and destroyed the Arch Enemy. Maybe they were friendly.

Stahl stared down from his tank at one of the foremost. "Hello there! My name is Lieutenant Stahl. Who might you fine fellows be?"

"I could ask the same question," replied a battered and tired Colonel Erich Vanmar.
Thrashia
16-07-2007, 03:24
2-5 kloms North of Canhearth

With the falling of night the men of the 5th Panzer Grenadiers worked under the light of torches, bonfires, and the occasionally found flood light discovered by the engineers platoon in their equipment. During the fading hours of light that they had had after landing did not go to waste. The first and second companies had worked overtime using spade, canvas bag, and sheet metal pried from the transport planes that were deemed to damaged to be of any more use.

A network of waist-high trenches and sandbag pillboxes, added with a few dug in tanks with only their turrets exposed, formed a protective arc that covered the east, north, and west of what the men were now calling the "craptacular LZ". Anti-tank cannon from the AT company's inventory had been invested all along the line. The few heavy mortar batteries were set up to handle nearly every possible approach.

While his men worked on the defenses under the scrutiny of Major Khines, Colonel Eichmann worked over setting up communications and making sure that supplies were gathered and sorted. From the inventory they had it seemed that they had enough ammunition for all the weapons to last at least one battle and maybe a skirmish or two afterwards. Not a good position.

Captain Brightly, the 5th's tank company commander, reported that they had enough fuel to let the entire tank company to travel a distance of only 60 miles. This was furthered to 110 after the fuel from the planes was pirated by Brightly's scroungers, much to the dismay of the pilots. Lieutenant Micheal had his Luftwaffe men working around the clock to reset their navigational equipment.

Corporal Heinz and the rest of 2nd squad returned from their scouting mission to the south about an hour before full dark. Eichmann debriefed them on everything, dragging out any details about the terrain, the look of things, and the sign they saw. Even though Scout Johannes swore he saw a sentry, Eichmann believed him, he wouldn't allow a second mission sent out until morning.

"Sir?"

Eichmann looked up to see Lieutenant Phelps standing next to him holding a steaming cup of recaf. The young adjutant smiled.

"Hello Phelps, thanks for the pick-me-up," said Eichmann, taking the proffered cup and taking a deep drink. He popped an eye at the young officer and saw he was nervous.

"What is it?"

"Well sir," said Phelps. "It's a message sent from one of the northern scout parties. Lieutenant Stahl reports a small skirmish with enemy forces."

"Enemy forces!?" Eichmann jumped up out of his chair.

"Yes sir. And he says his men saved a few other friendly soldiers."

"Well where are they?" asked Eichmann.

"Coming into camp as I speak."
Weccanfeld
02-09-2007, 18:08
The sound of the thunder above. The sound of men shouting to each other over the din that prevailed. The sound of rain hammering down on the yellow coats of the men, and the wooden floor of the deck. The sound of a crane lifting something from the depths of the ocean. The sound of hundreds of crabs falling from the crate onto the deck, their rocky exteriors rattling on the deck. The sound of the Weccanfelt crab fishing fleet.

It was on one such boat where Chronosio-Weccanfelt relations were to be decided.

The deck, laden with water, reflected light from the searchlights of the bridge, turned to face the deck. Men in the aforementioned yellow jackets ran around, pulling rope and cable, trying their best to keep the boat together while at the same time bringing in the red gold. Wave after wave tossed the boat about like a juggler, showering the crew members. All save two.

The remaining men stood in the bridge, one furiously trying to get through to the nearest Weccanfelt vessel, the other holding the helm, keeping the battered boat straight. The windows, obscured though they were by the rail, served to stop the waves from entering the bridge. But each wave that hit the bow rocked the boat, each wave presented the danger of splitting the boat in two.

But as the latest wave presented itself to the helmsman, his heart sank as if the ship had already done so...

A torrent of vile tasting water rushed though the window, paying no heed to the pane of glass that separated the dry interior from the wet exterior, showering both men.

On the deck, the wave crashed onto the deck, ripping men from their feet and tossing them across the deck. One man watched in horror as he was carried to the edge of the ship, where his head met the railing.

And that was the end of him.

* * *

The storm had died down, and the boat had managed to ride it out - just. Many parts of the ship were damaged, including the radio. The ship had been carried far from its course, and the emergency fuel had been stolen by the sea. In the cabin's dining room sat the remaining crew.

The captain held a bottle of whiskey, and a cigarette in the other, which, along with others, fuelled the cloud of smoke that hung over the table where they sat. He wore a polo neck pullover, and a sad expression on his face.

The silence was broken by a man who had been searching though a filing cabinet. He turned, with a large piece of paper in one hand, and a pencil in the other.

"I've found something"

He placed the paper on the table, and rolled it out. The paper was a chart, wrinkled and dimmed with age. It had not seen use in many years.

"We're just off the coast of a large nation called Cho...Cherons...Chronosia. There's a port nearby..."

The captain wrinkled his bent nose, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and snapped "The bloody map is from 1971! And it's not a damned Weccanfelt one either! I don't know what language it is in." He quickly put it back in his mouth.

"Looks a bit like Latin to me"

All eyes turned to the crew member who said this.

"Well, it does. Maybe Chronosia speaks Latin. Anyway, I doubt it has changed much. I read about Chronosia in a book somewhere. A bit weird, but nice people all around. I think we should so to this port, here."

He pointed to a port in the north, and looked toward the captain.

"Skip?"

"Oh, all bloody right then."

He pushed himself to his feet, and stormed off to his cabin.

After a short silence, someone remarked "Old Godwin's taken Harold's death not to well, has he?"

All eyes landed on him, their piecing gazes focusing on him.

"I'd better put the kettle on"

* * *

It was a couple of hours later when the port was finally visible. The captain, who had returned from sulking in his cabin, had turned up on deck to take a look at the port.

The first thing that struck him was the decoration. Banners, strange symbols, the port looked like a Satanist cult had gone through it.

"What the hell..."

"Erm, I think I read that they were quite into their religion. But, they were nice people."

"Doesn't look like it. Can I go unlock the rifle cabinet, skip?"

The captain considered that, but decided against it. But he certainly didn't like the looks of the place himself. But the fuel was needed. He could get the repairs done elsewhere.

"No. We go in, we refuel, and we head elsewhere. We'll be in and out in no time."

So as the boat pulled into the harbour, the empting diesel engine echoing round the bay, the crew stood nervous, waiting to see what would happen.
Chronosia
03-03-2008, 17:44
Vanmar sipped lightly at his steaming cup of recaf before setting it to one side, fingers closing about one of the components of his rifle. They had settled down for the night within the walls of Canhearth, the inevitable attack put off for the moment, fear tempered with hope at the coming of these new forces, strangers to be sure, but by no means the Arch Enemy of man. He had seen some confusion in their eyes when he had used that term, a mild culture shock (if such could be said of coming to learn of the Ruinous Powers). He turned to regard the leader, Stahl he had said his name was, regarding him with cold eyes, eyes that had seen far too much in the service of the Throne.

"So, you have no idea how you ended up here? Hardly the best place to set down, I can tell you that. Not with the Arch Enemy prowling about. We were stationed to the north, defending the Canhearth line, when we were overrun. Bastards came in thick and fast and we never had a gakking chance. Gave it our best, thought it was best to fall back, fortify the town..." He paused, taking another sip. "Next thing we know, you're on 'em. Thrashian you say? Never heard of the Thrashians, never really heard of much beyond our borders. Must be desperate times if there's new blood being brought in." He chuckled lightly, an almost sardonic consideration of the campaign. "You can camp up here tonight, we've food, munitions, weapons. Come light we can link up with the rest of you, maybe get a detachment towards the Capital. High Command'll want to know about you lot, an' about the progress of the enemy."

He drew a dirty sleeve across his mouth before going back to assembling his weapon. "Tell ya what though, you saved our arses. We'll get some transports ready by morning, we'll do our best to shuttle you all back, maybe even see to that transport of yours..." He placed a hand respectfully on a small book, the cover worn and dirty through many years of use. He turned from the Primer, lightly muttering the Litany of Completion.

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Before the coming of the darkness and the Enlightenment, the port had been a fine example of Chronosian power. Not only had it tended to the needs of warships, it had supported trade with other cities and played host to a blossoming fishing industry. Now the streets of Osberg lay empty, the stink of rot all about it. Symbols glimmered and flickered, etched with feral glee into the stonework of the once great buildings, burned into the soil itself with lunatic joy.

Now though, something had changed. There were men about once more, the cautious steps of mankind into the sanctums of those that should not be trifled with, powers that mere men could never come to understand. There was a whisper upon the air, as though a thousand voices raised themselves to unify with the wind. Somewhere amidst the ruin and desolation, things stirred, things that were the servants of such power, mortal and otherwise. Slowly, as the crew advanced, so to would they. There was much to be done yet. Much more to be done before Chronosia was as it should be, and the Gods had their prize...The whispering changed, the wind shifted, and instead it seemed that laughter drifted like ice down the spines of those who thought themselves worthy...

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Kevin Shackleford, people of Ravea

It is my sincerest pleasure to recieve both your authority and your warriors to Chronosia and to the liberation of our land from the blight that so afflicts it. There are many southern ports that are within easy reach of the capital. Once you arrive, we shall provide temporary lodgings for your troops and I shall recieve you at the Citadel Primaris itself, site of the great Liberation and the Unification of Chronosia.

There we can turn our talks to that of war, and to the vile threat that assails all stalwart souls who bless themselves in the Emperor's name.

May he protect those who war in his service.

Regent-Militant Alexus Myzeckt
Thrashia
03-03-2008, 19:57
5th Grenadier’s New Field Base

Lieutenant Michael sat amidst a pile of wires, metal parts, and flickering lights. For the better part of a day he’d sat working with a few other specialists on their communications equipment. It was proving to be the only real thing that was fixable. Their flight group’s planes were a lost cause. The controls and avionics were shot to hell and back due to some phenomenon caused by, well Michael didn’t really know what it was caused by, and only that it had stranded them in this god-forsaken piece of land. Short range radio communication was fine, but as far as long range went, they were isolated. A disheartening situation at best.

Connect this blue wire to this port, shift that meter down, twist those two together… the Lieutenant thought as he worked. Another Luftwaffe engineer beside him looked over at his handiwork.

“Not bad sir. If you can ‘jimmy’ that knob there a bit and we’re…ah, good,” said the engineer. He turned back to his own station and flipped a few switches. They both held their breath as a series of check lights flipped from red to green.

“Come on, come on,” whispered Michael.

The final one turned green.

“Hell yes!” shouted the engineer. Both he and the lieutenant congratulated each other. Michael put on the head set and pressed the activation button. He set the transponder to the correct coded sequence and then activated his mike.

“Home One, this is Eagle Momma, do you copy? Home One, this is Eagle Momma, do you copy?”

They waited breathlessly. Finally a fuzzy voice came through the line.

“Eagle Momma, this is Home One. We hear you loud and clear. Where the hell are you, you should have checked in hours ago.”

“Flight problems Home One. Big Bird wants to talk to the C-n-C, we’ve got problems and need help faster than two shakes of a head, over.”

“Understood Eagle Momma, C-n-C just walked in. Be a few minutes.”

Michael turned to the engineer. “Run over to the com tent and get Colonel Eichmann. Tell him the good news and to get his commanding officer ass over here fast,” said Michael, his voice excited.

* * * * * * * * * *

Colonel Eichmann was having trouble getting his mind around the report that Lieutenant Stahl had reported in a few minutes before. His erstwhile junior officer had saved a rag-tag group of local boys from what the lieutenant described as “unholy bastards who looked like demonic freaks”. The fact that these unholy bastards also had heavy armor and wielded rifles was mentioned only as an afterthought. The colonel picked up the radio again.

“Stahl, say again, where exactly are you at the moment?”

“In a small town south of our landing position called ‘Canhearth.’ Colonel Vanmar, the officer I mentioned, is saying we can stay for the night since we’re stuck here for the moment. He wants to speak with you as well. He mentioned something about making a report to his superiors about us.”

“You mean to say he’s friendly?” asked Eichmann. “No signs of animosity. I don’t want to think he’s bad, but we’re in the jungle as far as people and things go.”

“You got it straight sir. Their good people. They call themselves Chronosians, and we’re currently in Chronosia apparently right smack-dab in the middle of the biggest civil war to date.”

Great, just what he needed. “What about this ‘Arch-Enemy’ you keep talking about?” asked Eichmann.

“Seems they’re the ones trying to destroy what you could call ‘the good half’ of Chronosia. They appear to worship some dark gods or something. I’m not a religious man so I don’t know for sure. But going by what we saw and what the air-boys reported coming over our radios before we landed…we’re in a very spiritual place. Sir.”

Eichmann sighed and wiped his forehead off. “Alright Stahl. Get some sleep and see to it that you escort Colonel Vanmar here tomorrow. Captain Brightly is forming up the company and needs everyone. I’m pulling all our armour back since I don’t know how long we’re going to be here without support and we need every piece of metal. We clear?”

“Yes sir. Stahl over and out.”

The radio went silent and Eichmann put the receiver back down on its holder. Several aides and members of the brigade staff were shuffling through various field maps and typing on laptops, looking over the sky-eye images that Phelps had downloaded a few hours before. Needless to say the terrain sucked and was a veritable moonscape in other places.

It also showed the slow movement of a large body of troops a few miles to the north of their position. If what Stahl said was true, then these were the ‘unholy bastards’ that were supposedly the Arch-Enemy.

Suddenly the tent flap flew open and Specialist Franz burst in. He forgot to salute, but at that moment no-one cared. “Sir, we’ve reestablished contact with Home One!”

All but running Colonel Eichmann stepped up into the belly of one of the downed planes and came up behind the seated Lieutenant Michaels. He looked up as Eichmann approached and smiled a big one. He was quite pleased, as was Eichmann. He handed the headset over without complaint and allowed the colonel to sit down. A familiar voice came over the set.

“Eagle Momma this is Condor. You read me?” The voice asked in Thrashian Battle Speak.

“I hear you Field Marshal,” smiled Eichmann. “This is Eichmann.”

“Where the in the name of all that’s holy are you? Your Lieutenant sent me some coordinates but we don’t have any Intel on that location,” replied Field Marshal Wittman, commander of the Waffen SV and Eichmann’s direct superior.

“Country goes by the name of Chronosia sir. And we’ve apparently landed in the middle of a civil war.”

“We’ll aren’t you a lucky one Eichmann. What’s the situation look like?”

“To tell you the truth sir we’re stuck here. All our planes except for a few are shot to hell, all their instruments broken or simply dysfunctional. We’ve also engaged the troops of the ‘bad side’ of this little war too.”

A muffle curse could be heard. “You think it worth staying colonel?” asked the field marshal, suddenly very serious.

Eichmann thought about it. “I think it is worth staying sir. If nothing else we can establish friendly diplomatic ties once the mess is cleaned up. But we’re going to need some support and supplies fast.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got General Donager from Luftwaffe headquarters by the balls on some issues so he’ll pretty much land a bird anywhere I tell him to. What do you need?”

“Fuel, ammunition, medical supplies, clean water, food; all the usual things. Also any extra support in the way of troops would be welcome. I’ve only got about 2,500 bodies here. My brigade isn’t at full strength.”

“I can get you the supplies in within ten hours. Set up an LZ and send its coordinates over. I’ll make sure you get more than enough supplies. As far as reinforcement, right now all I can promise is a company of paratroopers, from the 29th Airborne Division. A 1st Lieutenant Mackey to be precise.”

“That sounds good to me sir,” said Eichmann with relief. “I’m going to be meeting a local commander tomorrow and maybe his superiors shortly after that. I’ll inform them that we plan to stick around to help.”

“You do that colonel,” replied Wittman. “I’ll talk to the Emperor about sending some regular Army boys in as well, though if possible I’ll make this entirely a Waffen SV operation. God speed then my boy. Stay tight.” Without another word the field marshal broke off the line and Eichmann sighed with even more relief. Aid was on its way.

Lieutenant Phelps, who had entered the plane a little earlier while Eichmann was in conversation, gave the colonel a small cup of tea. The colonel took it and sipped appreciatively then looked up. “Phelps. Have 2nd Battalion establish a landing zone just south of us. Mark up a few flags and get patrols running it. Also see to it that Lieutenant Zander gets his recon boys out along our flanks. Last thing I want is to get flanked and our asses chewed.”

“Yes sir.”
Weccanfeld
06-03-2008, 20:17
Whether it was the demeanour of the place or the tell-tale sounds of the sputtering engine, the crew stood half-broken, each wishing for the visit to be as swift as possible. Strange sounds seemed to float on the wind, the men not necessarily hearing, but feeling them. All were on deck, taking in the view of this harbour, of the presumably abandoned husks of cranes and fuel tanks. Beyond, the derelict town loomed, hinting toward a once great port city in which, one day, great ships may have docked.

It was a town of the sort nobody, not even the captain, had seen.

All silent save for the booming sounds of a dieing engine, the crewmen sailed on, sampling the horrific smells of the area. Even for men who had spent their life around the animal, the smell was impressive, providing yet more evidence that something – or, indeed, someone – had happened upon this port. It was good that they were fishermen – such an odour may be too much for men of other, less pungent occupations.

Spotting a building that looked reasonably refuelling station-like under its macabre decoration, the ship slowed, coming to a stop near the edge. The captain took another survey of the building, noting the machinery necessary to get the ship fueled again. He also noted the sounds, which had now turned from a broken, hardly audible mumble to a faint whisper. With the gangplank down and the boat secured to the dock, the captain took his first steps down the stairway. His mind was suddenly filled with a renewed bombardment, causing him to stop, as if he had been hit by a strong gust of wind.

“Captain?” Whispered one of the crewmen.

Turning slowly toward the man with a face that looked like it had aged ten years in the past ten minutes, he quietly replied “I’ve changed my mind. Get the guns. Now”

A nervous wait later, two of the sailors emerged, carrying between them two shotguns, three submachine guns and seven rifles. The men chose their weapon, some them at least half a century old, some a full one, and all of them useless in the hands of the sailors who carried them. All but one was taken – the crew looked solemnly upon it, remembering their lost comrade.

Assigning a couple of men to keep watch, the skipper and a party of seven men made landfall, walking at brisk pace toward the refuelling station. The plan – steal a full tank of diesel, and leave quickly. What could possibly go wrong?

The answer, unfortunately for Captain Eadweard Fisceresunu and his crew, was plenty.