Muhsal
09-05-2007, 06:10
A History of Violence
“If you're going through hell
Keep on going, Don't slow down
If you're scared, don't show it
You might get out
'fore the devil even knows you're there”
- Rodney Atkins, ‘If You’re Going through Hell’
122BC – Magnus Armorous,
Barbarians … savages … monsters …
That was what they had called them for centuries, since the days the red banner of Rome had set foot upon the landmass they now called Magnus Armorous. That was, of coarse, not its name – but rather a name given by foreigners whom believed themselves so glorious, so better, that they could not simply call the land by its native name. They had to ‘civilize’ it. Bundesland Mühsal was its name, the name given to it by its people – us. For centuries we hunted upon this land, we cultivated its fields; we drove its war machines. Good times that was, until the ‘civilized’ people of the east came driving us from our hunting grounds, our farms, and defeating our greatest warriors and warlords. Now, everything is cold and everything hard, in these mountains which we once gazed upon with admirable – we now gaze upon their cold grey stone with contempt and bitterness. Never before have a peopled suffered such as we have. Though all of that is about to change, forever …
Echbel inched forward threw the dark forests that covered the lands at the base of the mountains. For days the army had been marching, no food, no water – nothing but the cold air and the wet trees and the muddy ground to accompany and accommodate them. Though no man complained, all up and down the ranks there was nothing but the sounds of armor shuffling, of weapons gazing across bushes and trees and the occasional cough. Most armies would sing songs of past victories, they had none, of glorious heroes, all dead, of traitors righteously slain, impossible for they were fat and rich these days – silence, and the chill of a long awaited revenge were tunes all their own and gave more hope than one would imagine. The wilderness spoke to him as he walked threw it – centuries of oppression were about to end, it told him, and he would be apart of it, apart of a rebirth.
The wilderness was in fact right! A few miles into the forest, a clearing and the area lit up with campfires … legionnaires sang songs, their last hopefully, and they laughed about home and friends and intolerable mother in law’s, Echbel would see that those mother-in-laws would never be bothered again. All up and down the line the great battle axes of various war chiefs rose into the air and with a mighty roar the final days of Roman oppression began. Echbel did not waste down, he dashed out of the wilderness and towards the nearest campfire, the first soldier he came upon didn’t even have his weapon out, he was simply standing there, shocked and dumbfounded at what was racing towards him. Echbel felt not sympathy, no hesitation, as he brought his axe down upon the man’s head, cracking it and sending him to the ground with a great thump. The fallen man’s comrade attempted to slay Echbel with his short sword, only to miss and be fallen by an arrow from behind. Echbel’s pace did not slow as he rushed deeper into the Roman camp, slaying any soldier who got between him in and his adjective – the ocean. After slaying a Roman who attempted to scramble out of his cloth bed, Echbel noticed a small battle going on, the legionnaires had formed up around a particular tent, they were unlike their red caped counterparts, for their capes were purple and signified they were the general’s bodyguard. Behind them an older man shouted orders at them, demanding they not only defend him, but push the enemy back. Echbel gripped his axe and steadied his nerve, he did not have to do this, but honor demanded it, and once he took his first step, pride would not permit him to turn around. Dashing threw the blazing tents, set on fire by his brethren, he came upon the enemy line in a hurry and lowered his shoulder, and his great mass smashed threw the bodyguards, and exposed the general himself. With a mighty swing of his axe, the bloodied weapon soaked itself once more into the warm blood of his people’s sworn enemies. The general’s eye said it all – how could this have come to pass?
His bravery had cost him dearly and he felt the cold metal of Roman blades sink deep into his back as he grabbed the back of the general’s head and brought it close to his own, “This is real!” he exclaimed, managing the most fearsome look of his life, his eyes burning with hate. Time seemed to stay still as the two men’s eyes stayed locked, finally the general fell backward and Echbel did not have enough strength to hold himself up either, he fell back into the arms of one of his comrades – whom rested him upon the ground before returning to finish off the general’s last remaining guards. As the last remnants of his life left him, he could only feel honor and pride.
1122AD – Kingdom of Mühsal
“They came to ours shores with their Bibles, their crosses, and their great holy relics. Their priests came, humbled and humiliated by their religion, their humility and meekness reeking of weakness. At first they came into our villages, our towns, even our cities and tried to show us the mercy and love of their God. They tried to build churches and show us our heathen ways. When the mercy and kindness of their God failed to impress us, they resorted to the age old tactic of fear … little did they know we were masters of it. They spoke of fire and of brimstone, of eternal damnation, which we are all bound for, they spoke of demons and monsters, which we have been called oh so many times, they spoke of lakes of fire, of rivers of blood and of a demonic overlord known as Lucifer whom would torture us forever. As if we would fear such a warlord – from their descriptions, all we could do is laugh at these creatures’ attempts to match our bloody and violent history. I can not speak for every man in our unholy kingdom, only myself, and I laugh at the notion that there are a more evil, a more bitter, and a more terrifying people their our own.
It did not take long for these seemingly polite and humble men to realize they were getting no where – it was then that they showed their true colors. They presented themselves as representatives of the ‘civilized’ world to the east, our sworn enemies. They called us ‘unwashed’, ‘uncivilized’, and ‘unclean’, they bragged about their great churches and how they were monuments of their superior ways. It did not take our people long to grow tired of their needless bragging and we showed them first hand our own shrines … and our blood rituals to our god, Rlaathat. They made quite exquisite sacrifices, and no doubt our god smiled upon us for many months following it.
Though like fleas more of them seemed to come from no where and our cities were once against subjected to their ‘civilized’ ways. Once more we slew them upon the Alter of Pain and showed them to pathway to eternal damnation – which they no doubt were shocked to find in place of their pearly gates. Some say that this was going to far, others would say that it simply wasn’t far enough … the next time the humble men of the east came, they were not nearly so humble. Only a small boy came, and he brought with him many notes in a language incomprehensible to most of our people, only a select few who had converted to their futile religion were capable of deciphering the gibberish. It said, “What hath God wrought?”, we ignored it at first as a sign of humility from an obviously weakened east. Months later, they came upon our shores with swords, and axes, and horses, and thick shields. They descended upon us in their name of their once humble and merciful God and slew up by the dozen.
What were we to think or do in the face of such hypocrisy? We fell back, fortress after fortress, city after city; as their siege weapons destroyed our mightiest citadels and their soldiers slew the best of our own. Their one weak God no longer seemed so weak, and it appeared Rlaathat had been silenced – defeated by this foreign god. All hope was lost as the unstable might of these invaders pillaged and raped our lands, over and over again. It was the burning of our capital city, Echbel, which brought us to our knees and forced even the mightiest of our warlords to bow before the fanatical invaders. All seemed lost.
Though all was not lost … it was not Rlaathat who saved us, or the foreigners God – it was us and our own ability. The culmination of thousands of years of warrior tradition manifested itself into one great leader, one glorious battle, and one astonishing victory. Our men descended upon the enemy fanatics like swarms of locusts, like the ones their so-called Apostles ate. We repaid their slaughter of our people with a slaughter of their own – their wounded were gutted, their corpses, now skeletons, still hang in the mountains of the eastern regions as a testament to all whom would seek to impose themselves upon us. Their prisoners were crucified, as their Savior was – to no surprise many of them cried like women when it occurred … sweet music to a vengeful man’s ears.
We chased them all the way to their ships, and we chased them across the ocean with our own hastily constructed fleet. We would have caught them too if it were not for a lack of supplies and a vast eastern fleet blocking our advance. Though one day the pain inflicted upon us will be inflicted ten fold upon these men of the east … of this our people promise …”
- Excerpt from ‘Rlaathat’s Fall’
1822AD – Empire of Mühsal
The twelve pounder boomed as gunpowder filled the air around the cannon, officers screamed for another volley to be prepared – other cannons pounded on down the line, each sending a deadly ball of metal across the battlefield upon the heads of the oncoming enemy troops. Bron watched with glee as the cannonballs ripped threw the oncoming troops lines, though his joy was quickly circumvented as a British cannonball cut down a row of troops just a few feet from him, their screams were nothing new, nor did he not want to hear them, in fact he relied upon the suffering of those around him to give him strength – as his people had for generations. Their pain gave him the desire, the burning rage that was hatred, to drive forward and smash his enemies! These British were not real men in his eyes, they prided themselves on their civilized ways and claimed that these, plus ‘British pride’ would save them against the ‘barbarian hordes’ that constantly advanced against them. Bron could not have cared less about British pride, he’d heard it all before save the name changed, as artillery shelled Paris, it was French pride, when the Kaiser’s armies were routed en masse it was Prussian pride, when Moscow burned it was Russian pride. Each of the mightiest empires of the east had fallen in quick succession, their greatest warlord, Napoleon was fallen in battle by a Mühsalian axe, and his body was on constant display in the ruins of Paris, now called New Echbel. The pride of the east was all but gone, at this battlefield, near the city of London, their last ditch hope of survival depended on the oncoming rush of men in red coats.
Bron aimed his musket and his entire regiment let loose a volley with great thunder, and watched as soldier after soldier fell. The redcoats seemed to loose momentum and began to waver, however, to Bron’s surprise one officer among them stood tall, he seemed familiar, like a relic of battles long past. Whatever he was, he was inspiring the men around him. Once more the Union Jack was picked up from the ground and the men charged their bayonets fixed. The thunder of another volley filled the air and more redcoats fell, but they did not stop coming. The whistling sounds of incoming cannonballs caused desperate looks on both the redcoats and Bron, and both lines were hit by them. Bron, yet again, barley survived at two cannonballs landed near him, and cut down the men next to him, leaving him nearly all alone, save for a private on each of his flanks. As the redcoats closed within fifty yards, Bron saw something he’d rarely seen throughout his career as a soldier – Mühsalians falling back, as one of the privates on his flank suddenly turned around and began to run away, fear reeking from him. Bron had smelled it before but hoped it was not strong enough to overcome his fellow soldier. Now he was proven wrong at the worst time, as others took his example and it seemed the line would evaporate in the face of the enemies charge.
This he would not allow to pass unhindered. He grabbed the flag of the empire from one of the retreating troops, knocking him to the ground in the process. He thrust it forward and shouted, “For the empire! For our vengeance!”, and with that he rushed forward, his musket in one hand, and the flag of the empire in the other. Others followed, if not the whole line, and soon the black and red coated men clashed, muskets broke, flags fell, and bodies crumbled. Lives were ended, forever changed, and the fait of the World for but a moment hung still in a moment of indecision by the gods of fait. In that moment, Bron came face to face with the man whom inspired resisted, who gave hope to the hopeless. His face, while fair was clearly aged by battle and his brown hair and eyes flared with a hatred that Bron could relate to. This man had a saber drawn and attempted to cut down Bron in one quick swing, only for his saber to slam into the musket, digging deep into it. As the man tried to pull it out he had difficulty, and Bron took no time in taking advantage, quickly pulling out a knife and thrusting it deep into his opponent’s gut. The man looked in horror, and squinted in pain, and gave one final smile – a smile of a man defeated and on the verge of death, something Bron had seen so many times since he arrived here in the east. As the smile faded, so did the man’s life and he fell to the ground, motionless. The battle seemed to speed by after that, as the British lost morale, broke ranks, and fled – being chased down by men in the black coats seeking to inflict death and misery upon them for a crime none of them committed.
Bron, however, remained behind with the fallen British hero, kneeling down and checking the man’s pockets. In the left one of the trousers he found a small piece of folded paper which he pulled out and began to read. It was obviously addressed to a woman and he obviously loved her by the tone of his message. Bron could also relate to this, for back in the homeland he had a wife and three children. He wondered if this man had any kids. At the bottom he found the man’s name, and it would forever stay with him.
Arthur Wellesley …
1922AD – Socialist Republic of Mühsal
"They believed themselves so high and mighty, they did. Now look at them … shattered and defeated. Some hang, some flee, but all have been brought to their knees by us – the workers. Our will, our union, our power have brought down the greatest threat to humanity and we have done it with the greatest sacrifices. Our empire, trammeled beneath the feet of the workers, our nobility, cast out into the streets and forced to become commoners, the capitalists left years ago – good riddance to the lot of them. The military finally decided it in their best interests to support us and the officers think they will simply get away freely with their abuses of the people … this is no so, for our people are a vengeful people and our wrath unstoppable. We will teach them the meaning of fear, of unity among workers, of the futility of a union against the workers! Oh yes … we shall indeed teach them the meaning of suffering, for it shall haunt them the rest of their miserable days.
The only noble thing our good ‘Emperor’ ever did for us was refuse to allow religion to gain a foothold, for that I can thank him, but I still shall hate him. The colonies, the long oppressed masses in Europe have broken free and already their nations are rebuilding, with the workers leading many of them. Some of them have reverted to their absolute monarchies and noble hierarchies but this is only a transitional phase in which the workers are simply too dazzled by the empire’s suddenly collapse to immediately capitalize on the freedom we have given them. If they fail to feel revolutionary fervor, then we shall show it to them by means of enlightenment – be it by the book or by the bullet.
There was never a more vengeful, a more hatful, and a bitterer people than ours and now we have liberated ourselves from the only thing holding us back – ourselves and our imperial ambitions. A paradise shall be made from the ashes of the empire and our will, will be undeniable, undisputable, unstoppable.
So help me … “
- Excerpt from the journal of Premier Trebuait
[OOC: I am an experianced NS rper, so don't be shocked and congradulate me thinking I'm a noob. I've been rping here for about 3-4 years, so this should and ought to be expected of me. More to come by the way ... so don't reply yet Kraven.]
“If you're going through hell
Keep on going, Don't slow down
If you're scared, don't show it
You might get out
'fore the devil even knows you're there”
- Rodney Atkins, ‘If You’re Going through Hell’
122BC – Magnus Armorous,
Barbarians … savages … monsters …
That was what they had called them for centuries, since the days the red banner of Rome had set foot upon the landmass they now called Magnus Armorous. That was, of coarse, not its name – but rather a name given by foreigners whom believed themselves so glorious, so better, that they could not simply call the land by its native name. They had to ‘civilize’ it. Bundesland Mühsal was its name, the name given to it by its people – us. For centuries we hunted upon this land, we cultivated its fields; we drove its war machines. Good times that was, until the ‘civilized’ people of the east came driving us from our hunting grounds, our farms, and defeating our greatest warriors and warlords. Now, everything is cold and everything hard, in these mountains which we once gazed upon with admirable – we now gaze upon their cold grey stone with contempt and bitterness. Never before have a peopled suffered such as we have. Though all of that is about to change, forever …
Echbel inched forward threw the dark forests that covered the lands at the base of the mountains. For days the army had been marching, no food, no water – nothing but the cold air and the wet trees and the muddy ground to accompany and accommodate them. Though no man complained, all up and down the ranks there was nothing but the sounds of armor shuffling, of weapons gazing across bushes and trees and the occasional cough. Most armies would sing songs of past victories, they had none, of glorious heroes, all dead, of traitors righteously slain, impossible for they were fat and rich these days – silence, and the chill of a long awaited revenge were tunes all their own and gave more hope than one would imagine. The wilderness spoke to him as he walked threw it – centuries of oppression were about to end, it told him, and he would be apart of it, apart of a rebirth.
The wilderness was in fact right! A few miles into the forest, a clearing and the area lit up with campfires … legionnaires sang songs, their last hopefully, and they laughed about home and friends and intolerable mother in law’s, Echbel would see that those mother-in-laws would never be bothered again. All up and down the line the great battle axes of various war chiefs rose into the air and with a mighty roar the final days of Roman oppression began. Echbel did not waste down, he dashed out of the wilderness and towards the nearest campfire, the first soldier he came upon didn’t even have his weapon out, he was simply standing there, shocked and dumbfounded at what was racing towards him. Echbel felt not sympathy, no hesitation, as he brought his axe down upon the man’s head, cracking it and sending him to the ground with a great thump. The fallen man’s comrade attempted to slay Echbel with his short sword, only to miss and be fallen by an arrow from behind. Echbel’s pace did not slow as he rushed deeper into the Roman camp, slaying any soldier who got between him in and his adjective – the ocean. After slaying a Roman who attempted to scramble out of his cloth bed, Echbel noticed a small battle going on, the legionnaires had formed up around a particular tent, they were unlike their red caped counterparts, for their capes were purple and signified they were the general’s bodyguard. Behind them an older man shouted orders at them, demanding they not only defend him, but push the enemy back. Echbel gripped his axe and steadied his nerve, he did not have to do this, but honor demanded it, and once he took his first step, pride would not permit him to turn around. Dashing threw the blazing tents, set on fire by his brethren, he came upon the enemy line in a hurry and lowered his shoulder, and his great mass smashed threw the bodyguards, and exposed the general himself. With a mighty swing of his axe, the bloodied weapon soaked itself once more into the warm blood of his people’s sworn enemies. The general’s eye said it all – how could this have come to pass?
His bravery had cost him dearly and he felt the cold metal of Roman blades sink deep into his back as he grabbed the back of the general’s head and brought it close to his own, “This is real!” he exclaimed, managing the most fearsome look of his life, his eyes burning with hate. Time seemed to stay still as the two men’s eyes stayed locked, finally the general fell backward and Echbel did not have enough strength to hold himself up either, he fell back into the arms of one of his comrades – whom rested him upon the ground before returning to finish off the general’s last remaining guards. As the last remnants of his life left him, he could only feel honor and pride.
1122AD – Kingdom of Mühsal
“They came to ours shores with their Bibles, their crosses, and their great holy relics. Their priests came, humbled and humiliated by their religion, their humility and meekness reeking of weakness. At first they came into our villages, our towns, even our cities and tried to show us the mercy and love of their God. They tried to build churches and show us our heathen ways. When the mercy and kindness of their God failed to impress us, they resorted to the age old tactic of fear … little did they know we were masters of it. They spoke of fire and of brimstone, of eternal damnation, which we are all bound for, they spoke of demons and monsters, which we have been called oh so many times, they spoke of lakes of fire, of rivers of blood and of a demonic overlord known as Lucifer whom would torture us forever. As if we would fear such a warlord – from their descriptions, all we could do is laugh at these creatures’ attempts to match our bloody and violent history. I can not speak for every man in our unholy kingdom, only myself, and I laugh at the notion that there are a more evil, a more bitter, and a more terrifying people their our own.
It did not take long for these seemingly polite and humble men to realize they were getting no where – it was then that they showed their true colors. They presented themselves as representatives of the ‘civilized’ world to the east, our sworn enemies. They called us ‘unwashed’, ‘uncivilized’, and ‘unclean’, they bragged about their great churches and how they were monuments of their superior ways. It did not take our people long to grow tired of their needless bragging and we showed them first hand our own shrines … and our blood rituals to our god, Rlaathat. They made quite exquisite sacrifices, and no doubt our god smiled upon us for many months following it.
Though like fleas more of them seemed to come from no where and our cities were once against subjected to their ‘civilized’ ways. Once more we slew them upon the Alter of Pain and showed them to pathway to eternal damnation – which they no doubt were shocked to find in place of their pearly gates. Some say that this was going to far, others would say that it simply wasn’t far enough … the next time the humble men of the east came, they were not nearly so humble. Only a small boy came, and he brought with him many notes in a language incomprehensible to most of our people, only a select few who had converted to their futile religion were capable of deciphering the gibberish. It said, “What hath God wrought?”, we ignored it at first as a sign of humility from an obviously weakened east. Months later, they came upon our shores with swords, and axes, and horses, and thick shields. They descended upon us in their name of their once humble and merciful God and slew up by the dozen.
What were we to think or do in the face of such hypocrisy? We fell back, fortress after fortress, city after city; as their siege weapons destroyed our mightiest citadels and their soldiers slew the best of our own. Their one weak God no longer seemed so weak, and it appeared Rlaathat had been silenced – defeated by this foreign god. All hope was lost as the unstable might of these invaders pillaged and raped our lands, over and over again. It was the burning of our capital city, Echbel, which brought us to our knees and forced even the mightiest of our warlords to bow before the fanatical invaders. All seemed lost.
Though all was not lost … it was not Rlaathat who saved us, or the foreigners God – it was us and our own ability. The culmination of thousands of years of warrior tradition manifested itself into one great leader, one glorious battle, and one astonishing victory. Our men descended upon the enemy fanatics like swarms of locusts, like the ones their so-called Apostles ate. We repaid their slaughter of our people with a slaughter of their own – their wounded were gutted, their corpses, now skeletons, still hang in the mountains of the eastern regions as a testament to all whom would seek to impose themselves upon us. Their prisoners were crucified, as their Savior was – to no surprise many of them cried like women when it occurred … sweet music to a vengeful man’s ears.
We chased them all the way to their ships, and we chased them across the ocean with our own hastily constructed fleet. We would have caught them too if it were not for a lack of supplies and a vast eastern fleet blocking our advance. Though one day the pain inflicted upon us will be inflicted ten fold upon these men of the east … of this our people promise …”
- Excerpt from ‘Rlaathat’s Fall’
1822AD – Empire of Mühsal
The twelve pounder boomed as gunpowder filled the air around the cannon, officers screamed for another volley to be prepared – other cannons pounded on down the line, each sending a deadly ball of metal across the battlefield upon the heads of the oncoming enemy troops. Bron watched with glee as the cannonballs ripped threw the oncoming troops lines, though his joy was quickly circumvented as a British cannonball cut down a row of troops just a few feet from him, their screams were nothing new, nor did he not want to hear them, in fact he relied upon the suffering of those around him to give him strength – as his people had for generations. Their pain gave him the desire, the burning rage that was hatred, to drive forward and smash his enemies! These British were not real men in his eyes, they prided themselves on their civilized ways and claimed that these, plus ‘British pride’ would save them against the ‘barbarian hordes’ that constantly advanced against them. Bron could not have cared less about British pride, he’d heard it all before save the name changed, as artillery shelled Paris, it was French pride, when the Kaiser’s armies were routed en masse it was Prussian pride, when Moscow burned it was Russian pride. Each of the mightiest empires of the east had fallen in quick succession, their greatest warlord, Napoleon was fallen in battle by a Mühsalian axe, and his body was on constant display in the ruins of Paris, now called New Echbel. The pride of the east was all but gone, at this battlefield, near the city of London, their last ditch hope of survival depended on the oncoming rush of men in red coats.
Bron aimed his musket and his entire regiment let loose a volley with great thunder, and watched as soldier after soldier fell. The redcoats seemed to loose momentum and began to waver, however, to Bron’s surprise one officer among them stood tall, he seemed familiar, like a relic of battles long past. Whatever he was, he was inspiring the men around him. Once more the Union Jack was picked up from the ground and the men charged their bayonets fixed. The thunder of another volley filled the air and more redcoats fell, but they did not stop coming. The whistling sounds of incoming cannonballs caused desperate looks on both the redcoats and Bron, and both lines were hit by them. Bron, yet again, barley survived at two cannonballs landed near him, and cut down the men next to him, leaving him nearly all alone, save for a private on each of his flanks. As the redcoats closed within fifty yards, Bron saw something he’d rarely seen throughout his career as a soldier – Mühsalians falling back, as one of the privates on his flank suddenly turned around and began to run away, fear reeking from him. Bron had smelled it before but hoped it was not strong enough to overcome his fellow soldier. Now he was proven wrong at the worst time, as others took his example and it seemed the line would evaporate in the face of the enemies charge.
This he would not allow to pass unhindered. He grabbed the flag of the empire from one of the retreating troops, knocking him to the ground in the process. He thrust it forward and shouted, “For the empire! For our vengeance!”, and with that he rushed forward, his musket in one hand, and the flag of the empire in the other. Others followed, if not the whole line, and soon the black and red coated men clashed, muskets broke, flags fell, and bodies crumbled. Lives were ended, forever changed, and the fait of the World for but a moment hung still in a moment of indecision by the gods of fait. In that moment, Bron came face to face with the man whom inspired resisted, who gave hope to the hopeless. His face, while fair was clearly aged by battle and his brown hair and eyes flared with a hatred that Bron could relate to. This man had a saber drawn and attempted to cut down Bron in one quick swing, only for his saber to slam into the musket, digging deep into it. As the man tried to pull it out he had difficulty, and Bron took no time in taking advantage, quickly pulling out a knife and thrusting it deep into his opponent’s gut. The man looked in horror, and squinted in pain, and gave one final smile – a smile of a man defeated and on the verge of death, something Bron had seen so many times since he arrived here in the east. As the smile faded, so did the man’s life and he fell to the ground, motionless. The battle seemed to speed by after that, as the British lost morale, broke ranks, and fled – being chased down by men in the black coats seeking to inflict death and misery upon them for a crime none of them committed.
Bron, however, remained behind with the fallen British hero, kneeling down and checking the man’s pockets. In the left one of the trousers he found a small piece of folded paper which he pulled out and began to read. It was obviously addressed to a woman and he obviously loved her by the tone of his message. Bron could also relate to this, for back in the homeland he had a wife and three children. He wondered if this man had any kids. At the bottom he found the man’s name, and it would forever stay with him.
Arthur Wellesley …
1922AD – Socialist Republic of Mühsal
"They believed themselves so high and mighty, they did. Now look at them … shattered and defeated. Some hang, some flee, but all have been brought to their knees by us – the workers. Our will, our union, our power have brought down the greatest threat to humanity and we have done it with the greatest sacrifices. Our empire, trammeled beneath the feet of the workers, our nobility, cast out into the streets and forced to become commoners, the capitalists left years ago – good riddance to the lot of them. The military finally decided it in their best interests to support us and the officers think they will simply get away freely with their abuses of the people … this is no so, for our people are a vengeful people and our wrath unstoppable. We will teach them the meaning of fear, of unity among workers, of the futility of a union against the workers! Oh yes … we shall indeed teach them the meaning of suffering, for it shall haunt them the rest of their miserable days.
The only noble thing our good ‘Emperor’ ever did for us was refuse to allow religion to gain a foothold, for that I can thank him, but I still shall hate him. The colonies, the long oppressed masses in Europe have broken free and already their nations are rebuilding, with the workers leading many of them. Some of them have reverted to their absolute monarchies and noble hierarchies but this is only a transitional phase in which the workers are simply too dazzled by the empire’s suddenly collapse to immediately capitalize on the freedom we have given them. If they fail to feel revolutionary fervor, then we shall show it to them by means of enlightenment – be it by the book or by the bullet.
There was never a more vengeful, a more hatful, and a bitterer people than ours and now we have liberated ourselves from the only thing holding us back – ourselves and our imperial ambitions. A paradise shall be made from the ashes of the empire and our will, will be undeniable, undisputable, unstoppable.
So help me … “
- Excerpt from the journal of Premier Trebuait
[OOC: I am an experianced NS rper, so don't be shocked and congradulate me thinking I'm a noob. I've been rping here for about 3-4 years, so this should and ought to be expected of me. More to come by the way ... so don't reply yet Kraven.]