NationStates Jolt Archive

The golden sun beat down on the decks of the steamer Indefatigable, attracting countless seagulls to the warm thermals that drifted from the gaudily painted ship. Expedition Leader Walter Tul, XO of the exploratory branch of the Einhauser General Commodities Corporation stood grinning, waves breaking over the bow as the four large paddlewheels beat the waves beneath them, plowing a wake through the churning sea. After four months at sea, they were nearing their objective.

A lean, tall man with a thick mustache and spectacled eyes, Walter Tul had been promoted to Executive Officer of New Resource Exploitation two years ago to the day. Almost a third of his time since the promotion had been spent in the hold of one ship or another, so land was always a welcome prospect. Forward elements of the EGC Corporate fleet had made shore yesterday and sent a fast ship to spread the word. Behind Tul, through the cloying black smoke that puffed up from the smokestacks, a flotilla of corporate vessels had increased power to the paddles and shoveled more coal on the fires. The crews were as tired of being at sea as Tul was.

A particularly large wave crested and broke on the gleaming metal of the bow, cascading pure ocean water onto the ropes and equipment stored there. Finding the grooves in the deck plating no longer provided enough traction against his polished black suede shoes, Tul turned and strode back towards the cabin house. Crewmen heaved on cables as thick as a man’s arm, performing a function that he could not even try to understand but was no doubt vitally important. Stepping over a crate of ammunition and ducking under a swinging pipe, Tul turned into a small alcove that led into the bridge. Standing behind the helmsman was his second in command, Admiral Ulysses Sherman, redolent in gilt epaulets and crisp greatcoat. When news had reached the fleet of impending land the crew of every ship in the flotilla had donned their best finery, thankful for a chance to break up the monotony of the voyage.

“Hail, Ulysses.” The admiral turned, a smile bisecting his neatly trimmed beard.

“Hail, Walter.” Sherman returned the greeting and made room for his friend. “Not much longer now.” Tul nodded and grinned.

“It will be excellent to get off of this barge for a while,” he chuckled. Sherman bristled momentarily at the insult to his ship, but then relaxed and laughed himself.

“Yes, honestly it will. But listen, Walter, I want to go over something with you.” He gestured for Tul to open trimmed oaken door behind him. Obliging, the two stepped into the command and control cabin. Papers were strewn all over, intermingled with brass instruments and nameless charts, all tended by eager-faced tacticians and corporate officers. One of them was leaning over a large graph of the local seas, arguing with a junior crewmember over what appeared to be coffee stains. The argument abruptly ended when Tul and Sherman entered, the rating scurrying off after a brief salute and the officer snapping to attention. His skin was a pasty white, the result of too much time below decks, accented by a shock of hair as black as tar and slick as oil. His uniform was strewn in parts behind him, having been shed in favor of a light frock that allowed for easier access to the harder to reach ends of the map.

“At ease, Mr. Hennings.” Tul stepped past the relaxing man and gazed down at the map. Sherman moved up next to him.

“Look here,” he said, pointing to the right side of the map. A brief glance at the overlaid compass rose told Tul, who was as much a mariner as the admiral was a ballerina, that he was gesturing to the west. “This is where we have come from. Now,” he traced a line across the chart to a pewter figurine in the shape of a ship, “we are here. As you can see, we are very close to shore.” Sure enough, a blotch of brown had been splashed across the eastern edge of the map. It was covered in small icons and figures, placed and tended by the other men in the room. “We have marked down here the probable locations of the known kingdoms in the area, the names and languages of which we have a…” he paused, searching to the right words, “a grasp. The main targets of ours are here,” he indicated a blue-shaded peninsula, a yellow blotch to the north, and an orange oblong, “each of them have direct access to our goal.” Tul nodded.

“So the desert is here, then?” The central area of the landmass was shaded orangish brown, which was pretty self-explanatory he had to admit. Sherman nodded. “Well then, we know what to do. I want one entourage sent to each of the important regions. The rest of the fleet should form up off shore.” He scratched his chin. “Try and find a nice place to let the men have shore leave.” Sitting upright, Tul motioned for Sherman to come closer, out of earshot of the rest of men.

“Ulysses, get the automatons prepared.” The admiral nodded assent and set about his work.

The Wadi* was full of life this day, surrounded by the great black tents of the Insh 'Al Ikwan Asleen clan.

Abdur Razhid sat under one of the large fabric awnings of his father's tent**.

He sat upon a full pillow of brightly colored silks and upon his lap a table of fine light colored wood with a bottom so not to disabuse the legs of the user.

Beside him a stacks of papers each weighted down with a different colored polished stone. His ink well fastened in the table his quill flowing furiously.

Beside him a small device clicked and ticked away every so often he would observe a movement of its mechanism and then set dial and position weights.
It was it would seem a strange moving abacus of sorts.

"Abdur, be done with this triviality and tend to Seglawi***." a deep voice boomed across the sand, it held strong timber and resonance to shake a man's knees.

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* Wadi- Ikwan word for Oasis.
** In the heat of the day Ikwan tents are designed to have all the walls folded out to allow free flowing air.
*** Seglawi is the Ikwan word for both a powerful desert horse, bred by Ikwan, and steam based fast moving "sleds" which move across the dunes.
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"Insh 'Mek, I will tend to them as you breath it father. I did not delay for disrespect's sake but I ..."

"Do not test my patience in the heat of the day Abdur, I am not concerned with your studious nature so long as it does not interfere with practicalities of day to day life. Do not question those things which I speak so."

Abdur rose silently and moved out from under the shade of the tent.
He was old enough to have moustache beneath his chin and cleanly shaved head*.

Yet his father did make him jump like has still but a boy.

None of the other men in the camp in ear shot would laugh however, because Abdur's father could make them jump as well, and the one's who wouldnt jump were already man enough to not laugh at much anyway.

Abdur made his way to a large group of large tents on the edge of the Wadi, held with in were the Seglawi, not the grey horse which rode so smoothly in battle and stepped silently in the desert sands...but very much like them.

These were metal, iron, steel and tin, draped in fine cloths...but never silks...
Abdur began his checks of the steeds.

A raid would be soon, and the Seglawi would cover the Raiders.


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* Insh 'Al Ikwan men have grooming styles which denote many things including when one is considered a man, a common theme in all clans is a shaved head, facial hair differs from tribe to tribe...the Ikwan know immediately by apprence who they are dealing with and often outsiders who are experienced with Ikwan can tell what tribe a man is from and his status by his general appearance.

The large airborne body broke through the swirling masses of smoke. One could hardly look back at this particular valley, which nature had blessed with massive reserves of coal, and therefore condemned it to death under the machines of men. On the sides of the taller mountains little figures could be seen working, some human, some not.

But the goings in the mining valley were of little concern to those aboard the Royal zeppelin. Guglielmo Andrea Inigo Pisani di Christoforo VII, the Grand Duke of Cotencia, sat in the excessively lavish stateroom of the ship. He and his advisers were meeting here, not because of the comfortable accommodations, but because there were no windows, and the scenery was not particularly beautiful at the moment.

Guglielmo stroked his beard, his magnificent white beard, which was coupled with his mustache, one could hardly see the opening for the mouth in between them. These in turn were joined by the sideburns to an equally majestic head of hair, the envy of all men in the Duchy. The hair was long and thick, yet flowed smoothly and lightly, in a splendorous tone of white brighter than light itself, to all observers, this was clearly a masterpiece of God's work on earth. But this beard was not without its record, indeed, such a beard had singlehandedly impressed the Lord of Siegala and his courts to cede his rich agricultural lands to the Duchy. The rest of his body seemed humble by comparison, yet it was powerful. Observers would initially note that he moved slowly and almost clumsily, of course, one also had to take into account the weight of the numerous gold and silver medals which adorned his chest, a weight which could not be borne by most of the population of the Duchy. And all this, he did even though he was old, the marks of time were already showing in the skin upon his face, with larger wrinkles accumulating in bigger numbers. His voice, however, did not show the years, and was equally as powerful as it had been in its youth, and his voice, its power already familiar to those around him, spoke.

"I have heard... rumors... of an unknown fleet reaching the shores of these lands"

The military adviser which always accompanied him was quick to respond. "Yes sire, sources say that they are a company of some sort, but there has been little contact with them otherwise, they posses a considerable fleet."

The political adviser was quick to chip in his opinion on the matter: "And considering that strength, I believe that we must send some sort of diplomatic delegation to them, if anything, to find out who they are and what they want."

The Grand Duke found this suggestion to be the wisest, "Yes, quite, that seems to be the most sensible course to take at this moment. Send someone dignified who knows what he's doing."

"Yes Your Majesty."

"What else is on the agenda for the day?"

"We shall arrive at the marshaling ground shortly after noon, you shall have a luncheon with the generals there. Then you may inspect the newest batch of gyrocopters. Afterwards you are to speak with the minister of Agriculture about the current state of the farms and possible additions of automatons to maximize output. That should take up your afternoon. Then you return to the palace in the evening to dine."

"Very well" Guglielmo took out his lavish golden pocket watch, adorned with diamonds, and whilst looking at it, said "we should have cleared the smoke by now, if noone objects I would like to go to the sitting room and observe the scenery."

OOC: I know I'm not formally accepted yet, call me an anticipatory bastard if you will :). On the other hand, I thought I'd tap something out for the moment. Feel free to ignore me if I don't make the cut.

Off the Coast of Anglesey, HM Sloop Beagle

The HMS Beagle was not a fine ship. She boasted none of the broadsides of her larger brethren, and her motive power came from a single screw driven by a small steam engine. She was low and ugly in the water, lacking even the grace and majesty of the old sailing ships that had come before. There was nothing elegant about her, despite the now almost vestigial masts and rigging that adorned her deck. The sails were furled and sheeted up, and she cruised under the sole motive power of her engine. Black smoke poured from an awkward central funnel, marring her already ungraceful lines. She lacked even the turrets that characterized the deadly monitors, boasting only a few six inch rifled cannon. Perfect for stopping an unarmoured raider or seeing off some adventurous wreckers, but useless against anything else. So when one of the Beagle's foretopmen hailed the quarterdeck with: "smoke, fine off the starboard bow!" there was little thought of clearing for action, just in case. Instead, the young captain-- really a Lieutenant Commander but afforded the courtesy by dint of his command--ordered more coal to the boilers and made for the mainmast himself, telescope in tow.

Lieutenant Commander Robert Killick was the son of a printer, and had joined the navy to stave off family debts. He hadn't expected to like it much, always having avoided the docks and their disreputable characters as a boy. He was surprised, then, to discover as a midshipman that the ordered life of a naval officer suited him. He understood the rules aboard ship, knew when to salute a superior and when to give orders. He discovered, much to his surprise, that he was popular with the men for being 'a proper officer', and 'kind, but won't brook no insubordination'. So as he scurried up the rigging to join the rest of Beagle's lookout, he was given a sort of easy respect by the experienced hands in the crow's nest. Clinging to the safety line with one hand-- Killick was no great fan of the topmast, but he'd been there often enough before--he shook his telescope open with the other and trained it on the clear blotch of smoke on the western horizon.

It revealed little, at first. He fiddled with the dials, a new feature on these tunable models, and as his ship drew closer he began to discern shapes. Masts, but great iron things they were. Big turrets on big hulls. These were capable ships, Killick had no doubt. Their hulls were battered but clean, it seemed. Products of a long voyage under experienced hands. And transports, too. This wasn't a war fleet, there were far too many unarmed or underarmed ships. No, it was something else. Not a big convoy, either. Something undeniably foreign. He returned the telescope to its holder in his belt, chewing on his lip.

"What you think, sir?" The topman, a burly specimen named Jones, was looking at him with naked curiosity. "We couldn't make head nor tail of 'em." Killick smiled at the easy admission. There were captains, he knew, who would punish their lookouts for not knowing at least something about the fleet that Beagle had spotted, and their crews would have felt compelled to invent some sight that would give an affiliation to those ships. Killick's wasn't one of them. Jones knew he'd receive no flogging or extra watches for his ignorance, because he knew Killick would never order something like that. Was he too lax? Sometimes. On the other hand, the familial feeling aboard Beagle had paid its dividends in boarding actions, where his men fought like devils to protect their friends and their young, gentle captain from harm.

"Haven't a clue, Mr. Jones," Killick said with a quiet laugh. "Perhaps it's someone from the west!" His remark was greeted with more laughter-- everyone knew that the west was an empty sea, full of lucrative cod banks but little else. Not from the west, surely! "In any case," Killick continued with a touch of seriousness, "we need to inform the fleet." He swung out onto the rigging with practised ease and ignored the sense of rising, clawing terror that he always felt crawling down the lines of his ship. She wouldn't hurt him, Killick told himself. He only wished it were true. Far too many good men had fallen from Beagle's rigging on a rough day, but this was a calm morning and there were no swells to rock his ship. Even so, Killick was glad when he was firmly planted back on the deck, in the shadow of the funnel that belched its black, acrid smoke into the sea air.

"Master, come six points port and set a course for Barham," he shouted over the clanking of the infernal engine and the rushing, hissing sea. Barham was the Royal Navy's main fleet base, in which were moored the great battleships and seagoing monitors of the Home Fleet. They were at least the equal of the ships Killick had seen, but he knew he hadn't seen them all. And his was the largest navy in all the world, so far as he knew. Where had these ships come from, anyway?

Barham Harbour, The Admiralty Fleet Office

Lord Admiral Basil Bennington-Carver pursed his lips in thought. The sighting by the young commander had unsettled him. His duty, as First Sea Lord, was to ensure that the Royal Navy firstly maintained its superiority. Any other duties, of promotion or of procurement, were to be in service of this goal. He had a whole staff of admirals to accomplish these ends, men and women whose duties were to manage things like the Office of Procurement, Office of Strategic Deployments, and the like. Bennington-Carver sat on the top of this ungainly hill, trying to make sure that his navy was superior to all others.

And he had, up until now. Oh, Royal Navy officers might prove better than these interlopers, but their fleet was at least equal to the entire home fleet-- and they looked like an expeditionary force! Who in hellfire could build such an armada, he wondered. And why hadn't anyone heard of them until now? Further overflights by naval gyropter hadn't been able to determine anything about their identity, but the reports all suggested one thing. These ships were strange, and there were far too many of them for comfort. Anglish naval power was already under threat from the Orboran Confederacy, it simply wouldn't do to have another, larger fleet in the area without forming some kind of relationship with them.

Yes, he'd need to speak to the Prime Minister about all of this.

The old, grey horse, Gwendydd was her name, faithfully attempted one last time to pull the cart out of the ditch. Her owner, a trader named Myrddin, was trying to help, pulling her reins and shouting encouragingly and, when thinking for the fourth time in a row that the cart just might pull loose, running back to push it the last bit. Gwendydd rolled her eyes at him.
Myrddin, a man who was quite proud of his reputation as an optimist, a reputation someone less enthusiastic might call infamy, was himself close to giving up. He had learnt that that horse’s eye rolling meant that he was being foolish. But he was an optimistic man, and he did not like to think of himself as one who took advice from a horse, so he cheered himself up with the thought that some other traveller, perhaps a trader like himself, would come and help him out. Gwendydd turned her head and looked at him, an expression of genuine sympathy on her face.

“Come on, Gwendydd; we cannot be the only ones on this road!” he told her. They were not alone of course. It did take an hour – though Gwendydd counted two – until they saw someone coming down the road.
“Good man, will you help a combrogi?” he asked the stranger. The stranger, a trader judging by his clothing and the wares in his cart, answered simply that he would and asked what had happened.
“The road, it collapsed under me” said Myrddin, pointing to the place where his cart had broken through the cobblestone and slid down into the muddy ditch.
“The roads have been in a sorry state since that storm a fortnight ago” confirmed the stranger, taking a look at Myrddin’s cart.
“Ain’t never seen a storm like that one before; it rained pitchforks and the wind was howling like a banshee” he commented further, walking around the cart and inspecting the ground.
“I believe” he said, “that should we both lift the cart, and your mare pull with all her strength, the wagon will come loose.”
With that he went round to the back of the cart, and motioned to Myrddin to help him. They took a firm hold of the rear end of the cart – Myrddin took time to rearrange some wares to that the cart would be easier to lift – and heaved. With a sucking sound the cart came free, and Gwendydd pulled it up on the road again.
“Thank you” said Myrddin, shaking the stranger’s hand.
“No need, one should always help a combrogi and a fellow trader. Pray tell, how are the roads further west?”
“Not much better I’m afraid. When you pass though the wasteland you’d better keep an eye out. The caravan I was in when travelling west was ambushed not two days’ time from the border. You’d better have wares that are worth the risk.”
“Wine and pelts, it should fetch me a good enough price. The real money is made on the way back anyway, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess. When you come to the way station ask for Owain and tell him you know Myrddin; he should set you up with a nice caravan.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.”
“So, what’s up ahead?”
“Well, them turnips you’re carrying should bring in a good price; I heard the storm ruined most of the crops out by the Dark Isle, though the farms further east were spared. It hangs on whether you arrive before or after the eastern merchants I guess. I’d be careful with any tech you might be carrying; someone’s spied a strange steam fleet up north by Lykoudras. Ain’t no man could tell me where it came from, but it made the nobles even more suspicious than before.”

And with that, some friendly advice on what wares to sell to whom and when and what roads and toll officers to avoid, the two traders parted. As they travelled down the cobblestone road once again, headed for the market of Bangor, Myrddin confided to his horse that their wares would surely bring in a good price, as he not only knew the fastest way to Bangor but also what industrialists would pay the highest price for a given piece of tech. Gwendydd rolled her eyes.

Sea salts drifted on the morning air, steadily blowing against the hulls of the corporate fleet. The map room meeting had carried on for another ten minutes before all parties broke to carry out their orders. Mr. Hennings had gone to inform the fleet of the developments, his skill in using signal flags curiously high considering he almost never left the interior of the ship while at sea. Admiral Sherman returned to his bridge while Tul sauntered belowdecks. Below the crash of the waves and the heat of the sun the Indefatigable was a different vessel, the clutter and chaos of the crates and barrels on deck being replaced with ordered efficiency, the crews working to keep the ship in peak condition. Two ratings sprinted up the stairs past Tul as he descended, forcing him to hastily press his body against the white-washed bulkhead. Clucking with disapproval, he continued on.

It was warm and loud belowdecks, heat and noise billowing off of the boilers in the rear in palpable waves. Thankfully, the very bow, Tul’s destination, was free of either effect. Stepping through the raised door and into the large room, he once again had to dodge underlings scurrying to do the admiral’s bidding. The vaulted chamber ahead of Tul was dominated by the forms of three landing craft suspended from massive cranes, rocking back and forth as the ship swayed. An army of engineers crawled over each, struggling to make them seaworthy under the supervision of red-faced officers.

“Ah, hello sir,” saluted a sweating Lieutenant Grizwald, “what brings you down here?” Tul acknowledged the salute and returned it.

“Just checking on preparations, Lieutenant. I see that you have things well under control.” The officer puffed up with pride at Tul’s compliment. Deciding that the best thing to do in this circumstance was to throw himself back to his work, Grizwald turned and yelled at a random passerby to work harder. Chuckling to himself, Tul turned to leave but literally smacked into someone behind him. Realizing his faux pas, the man blurted an apology and presented the XO with a note.

“A fleet has been spotted to the east, sir.” Tul nodded for the man to continue, but he didn’t.

“What markings do they bear?” he signed. The younger man hesitated and shrugged.

“Unknown, sir.” Intelligence had been spotty about this part of the world, little news traveling the many months across the rough ocean. The only reason this small splinterfleet of corporate sea power had been dispatched at all was scattered reports of large quantities of guano could be procured. Given the general lack of knowledge of the area it was hardly surprising that a nation or four could have been missed. Behind the pair of men the first landing craft began to lower towards the carved-out floor, ready to exit from the mothership as soon as the room was flooded.

“Very well. Dispatch a few ships to intercept and catalog their disposition.”

“Very good, sir,” nodded the rating. Land drew ever closer, and with it the potential payoff of this voyage grew greater.

The sands of the desert shifted through the horizon as the small border town of Engelsgradd, as the light of the sun on its rise started to brighten the town for another day. Blanqui square, honoring the president of the Paris Commune council Louis Auguste Blanqui with his statue, was starting to become somewhat crowded as the inhabitants moved towards several locations of the town linked by this central square to start another day where each would produce according to their capabilities to everyone according to their needs. Carriages and pedestrians passed through its paved stone streets regularly while one time or another a steam car could be seen. To the south, east, west and north of the square several houses stretched while in the far east industries and workshops expelled their noxious fumes far away from residential areas, maintaining its economy active and machineries in good maintenance conditions. To the north, closer to the inner territories of Soviet Steam, farms were actively being worked on to keep the population well-fed with every possible thing that could be grown on those shifty soils with available steam powered irrigation systems. Olive oil being a quite popular collective cultivation. A few meters North of the square, at the terrace in the third store of the City Assembly, the local engineering genius and selected city commissar Andrei Saratov, in his dark brown frock coat, with a Steam Communes symbol pinned at its upper left, contemplated his latest invention: the 2 meters tall anti-airship cannon, fixed to the left of the assembly. He daydreamed about his next step into proving to be competent enough to have a chance to be chosen as the next dictator after the remaining 2 years of mandate of the current one when suddenly his secretary opened the double wooden doors to the terrace and informed him:

"Comrade Saratov, the day cannot wait! There is already some important issues to settle down, you can stare all day at your works after the day is finished.", she said as she greeted him.

"Thank you Manya, I have been daydreaming more than I should lately", he complimented her as he went inside to his office, which walls and floor were built of fine pine trees and imported from woods in the main Soviet Steam territory, from where they came from in search of coal and other riches deserts were believed to hide.

"Manya, can you give me the correspondences and some paper for typing? And what type of issues are to be settled down today?", he asked as he sat in his chair and adjusted his writing ball (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e2/Writing_ball_keyboard_3.jpg) to reply to the mails, looking at the picture of his deceased father posted on the wall ahead of him.

"Comrade Saratov, here are the letters and some sheets of paper, now on the issues, I believe I should mention them separated from each other", she said.
"Are they that big this time? I don't expect such from a town like this one.", he asked, with a scowl at his face. "Tell me them while I read these letters from the national and regional governments."

"Whether they are big or not will be up for you to decide. The first one is which I believe to be most problematic. There have been reports of organized activity of thieves in the outskirts of the town and there have been at least five thefts of collective property last night.", Manya explained, trying to keep herself calm.

He then clenched his fist "Thieves! In my town! Are they from the Soviet Steam or foreigners?"
"Witnesses say they don't look like people coming from our lands, definitively foreigners.", she explained, expecting him to have an anger management problem again
"Capitalist pigs!", he shouted as he punched his table in fury, hatred flowing from his eyes. "How is our 75th Infantry regiment?", he asked after the fury passed, returning to his typing effort.

"I believe they are not on any duty today, latest reports were of... another issue for you decide on after this one is settled", she said

He then said, assertively: "Yes, yes! I want the 75th Infantry to search, hunt and kill those bandits, they are competent folks, just inform them the suspected hideouts of them and let them deal with those bandits using whatever tactics they see more fit"

Manya then asked: "Is this all you wish about this issue resolution, comrade?"
"That should be it, now what's the next big issue of the day?", he asked, his patience apparently wearing thin.

"The 75th, they found a group of native nomads to the south and one of them also swear he spotted an unknown airship in the sky."
He, simply said, dismissing it "Those natives are of no importance, we will keep to ourselves as long as they keep to theirs. Now an airship... this means we are not the only civilized group in this location, I will request the nationals to reinforce the border, now I doubt this is the last issue."

Manya then conveniently gave him a map with some X marks on the mountains to the east.
"The 12nd Cavalry regiment found some caves over there, they might contain significant minerals. Do you want to send a scouting team?"

"Why not?", he asked, already tired of all, as the news about the criminals took much of his sense of humor for the day."Just send a scouting team there. Now Manya, can I ask you a suggestion?", he said
"Sure comrade, what?", she asked, tapping her foot

"Could you please stop informing me of things you know how to solve? I can formally give autonomy to solve certain issues if needed.", he said.
"I would be honored", she replied, smiling.
"Then now all remaining issues are for you to solve, farewell, I need to go back to my tinkering because this is getting on my nerves.", he said and quickly left.

"Wait! Comrade Saratov! What is a standard drill? I don't know!", she shouted as he went away to his workshop by steam car.

Reaching the industrial east of the town, he entered inside a small warehouse, where several spare parts, mechanical and electrical were stored among a bunch of unfinished prototypes, which included an human sized steam automaton, an arachnid automaton and an improved wireless electric transmitter.

He looked first at the arachnid as he brought some tools to tinker with it. "Those feed systems are making too much gunk", he said to himself as he disassembled its steam engine of the arachnid... "now what should I use instead?", he thought for a while.

While that, the 75th Infantry started to patrol nearby areas to those where the crimes happened, while an airship was brought, where the scout team boarded to travel towards those recently discovered caves

And thus another day ended in Engelsgradd routine...

OOC: Because this is more interesting than college apps. Also, it would really help to have an idea of Soviet's borders, because whatever he doesn't want on the northern coast is the bit I'm taking. *folds arms* Lastly... the fleet you mention. Was it supposed to be Cotencia, or me? Because he didn't specify a fleet (and indeed, has 5 river gunboats) and I only had a cutter. I assume it's the fleet that I dispatch in this post, and we skip the whole: I dispatch fleet. You see fleet. I see your fleet. Our fleets get close to each other. My fleet hails your fleet. Your fleet hails my fleet. Our fleets spend a bit of time comparing steel penis size etc.

Sallisford

The capital of Anglesey was a city born of ancient, mythic kings. Long ago, the Sallis bay upon which the city was built had been the site of a great castle. The foundations had been found decades ago during a rebuilding project on the south end, lending credence to the stories of old. But Sallisford today was a city of iron and fire, of great factories and wide, busy streets. In any given district, a pedestrian could see dozens of the strange automatons so crucial to a modern economy, could hear the ratcheting clank of a million turning gears. The city's skyline was a crowd of chimneys, rooftops and public buildings, once white marble stained now with the soot of uncountable coalfires. Busy quays, home port to almost a third of the total shipping of the known world, were crowded with men, crates and automata. Traders went to and fro, followed and guarded by the shore-guard monitors of the Royal Navy.

The First Sea Lord's message had traveled fast, borne on the wings of a clockwork messenger sparrow. It had reached Sallisford six hours ago, and landed with the last, failing mechanical strength upon the message desk of Prime Minister Sir Rodger Lynch, Lord Heathcliffe. The sparrow's breast slid open easily on greased hinges, and a secretary brought the message so contained to his lordship's office. Sparrows were used only for the most urgent post, and it was Lord Heathcliffe's standing policy to view them as quickly as was possible given his duties of state. The secretary resisted the urge to peek at it, but she noted the seal of the Admiralty's Fleet Office. Something must be afoot. She paused outside Lord Heathcliffe's offices, her hand poised to knock on his heavy wooden door. She was rather intimidated by the tall, intense man who led her country, but she mastered her hesitation and rapped three times on the door. Sparrows always carried the most urgent post.

"Come in," Heathcliffe's voice was muffled by the wood. The secretary pushed through the heavy door and saw the prime minister, bent over one of the many desks that dominated his office. On this one was laid out a plan of some sort, probably not for her eyes. She glanced at Heathcliffe nervously as she made her way to his usual desk, a great oaken thing with a green blotter, a massive array of pens, and a pile of papers to do any lawyer shame. Heathcliffe himself stood framed in the great bay window that dominated the eastern wall of his offices. He was a tall man, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a deeply lined and shadowed face that could appear fiercely reassuring or broadcast terrifying cold fury. Given a bit more substance, he might have been a handsome man. His features were best described as 'aristocratic'; an aquiline nose, a narrow, serious mouth. There was no mistaking Lord Heathcliffe for a political dilettante or a privileged scion of aristocracy, though his birth was as noble as anyone's. And he bloody terrified his secretary.

"Sparrow post, sir. The Admiralty Fleet Office." Heathcliffe nodded, not looking up from his work.

"Leave it on the desk." The secretary did, and showed herself out with relief. Once she was gone, Heathcliffe looked up from the schematic for a new seagoing battleship-- some kind of mix between the monitor and the line-of-battle ship-- and scrawled his approval in the space provided. Rumours that other navies were commissioning these ships was more than enough to demand that the Kingdom of Anglesey do the same. He crossed to the other desk, shifted some papers off of his chair, and cut the seal open with a handy penknife. He read with mounting fascination, and not a little concern. This whole business... it could alter the balance of power in the whole continent. They'd have to find out more, see who these people were. The Beagle's master had done well to abandon his patrol-- usually a cause for court-marshal-- and report it. The lad could be commended for initiative, anyway. Well, with a fleet that size it was no doubt that the other nations would have seen it, or would shortly. Best to make contact as quickly as was possible. He stood up, causing a few inconsequential papers to slide about in minor tectonic distress.

"Miss Jones!" The secretary peeked back in, and did a poor job of hiding her abject terror. "Please wind up a message sparrow, and have it ready for a letter to the First Sea Lord."

Off Barham

The Kingdom of Anglesey kept a small fleet on permanent standby, in case the dire need arose for a seagoing monitor, three battleships, and an assortment of frigates. It was a policy that Rear Admiral Valerie Harcourt approved of wholeheartedly. Harcourt, it could be said, was something of an oddity even in the Anglish navy. The slight woman in an admiral's uniform would be a strange sight in any other nation indeed, but the Anglish had always been rather more egalitarian than the rest. And after the Soviet business just to the north, they weren't about to turn away volunteers to the armed forces. Especially not volunteers that had proved their ability by shattering the fleets of instructors and later other admirals in wargames.

Even with that to consider, though, there were very few women in the armed forces compared to men, and of them Valerie Harcourt was the highest ranked. Her promotion to flag rank had set off a storm of protest within the more conservative circles of Anglesey, and it was the rare fellow indeed who didn't harbour at least some reservations about putting a woman in an admiral's frock. Could she fight? Certainly in wargames. But could she order young men to their deaths in a real fight, stand the blood and the mutilation of flying steel all around?

That was neither here nor there, though, as the Alert Squadron cruised in the littoral waters off the coast. Admiral Harcourt paced the open-air bridge of the monitor Challenger, her eyes locked on the unfamiliar fleet off the starboard bow. If anything, they had gotten closer to the shoreline in the three days since HMS Beagle had spotted them.

"Captain Morris," Harcourt said, indicating her flag captain. "Signal the fleet to form line ahead on Diana. And clear for action. Don't beat to quarters though, I'm not going to fire the first shot, but I want to be ready if they do." The captain nodded and bent to his speaking tube, relaying her orders to the divisional commanders not present on the bridge. The signals lieutenant, at a nonverbal signal from his captain, hurried out to run up the requisite flags. Harcourt turned to her chief of staff.

"Prep the pinnace and assemble my staff and a marine guard. We're going to meet these people."

The room was small, to begin with. There was aught that questioned that, and the accumulated clutter of many years' work, added to the furniture which had been there probably since the construction of the place, had shrunk the free space therein considerably, so that one had to be very agile not to knock the tenuously-stacked piles of papers over. In fact, the staff of the place had formulated special pathways around the records and manuals that were, at some point or another, I suppose, vital to some function, arcane though it might be. The room was little, and packed, yes, and also comparatively dim, when held to the rest of the place, which was the palace of His Majesty Erebos Nikephoreas, who was the present King of Lykoudras. Outside, in the hall, there were several windows which looked over the lawn of the ostentatious building, now covered in a thick sheet of fluffy white, and which shone streams of light onto the burnished oak floor and whatever happened to be in between, which was usually dust motes, lazily drifting about in the slow currents of air. Of course, the halls were bloody cold this time of year, and so the door leading to them from the room (and the other rooms, as well, as a rule) was shut soundly, so that the furnace in the palace's depths might graciously impart some amount of warmth thereto, and thus any light from the outside did not enter into the scenario. Instead, the place was lit by oil lamps, which were set upon the desks and bolted there, so that they might not fall off—a misfortunate happenstance that had happened several times in the past, before the staff had finally figured the desks were not worth more than their records, and had drilled into them with abandon. Thankfully, no one seemed to care.

In the midst of this somewhat dim, crowded space, were a number of telegraph operators and their machines, adorned with large headphones to cancel out everything but the messages that they were supposed to pay attention to. This was but one such station around the country, of course—each provincial government office had need of a telegraph staff—but this was the main hub of communications for the kingdom, and thus received messages of the highest priority. Other send-ups that could probably be best addressed if sent directly to the overseeing bureaucracy were not sent here, in defiance of the modus operandi of most governments which decreed that only the most annoyingly-complex system be used to communicate, and thus the room normally only received messages that were of personal interest to His Majesty, or regarded national security or thereabouts (the latter of which fell under the former, but it is necessary to distinguish the category of matters important to the State from matters such as a new baby girl for his nephew across the continent, or some similar happening). Fortunately, such matters requiring the attention of His Majesty for reasons of dire need, such as an impending invasion, very rarely came across the desks of the clerks, but unfortunately for those clerks today were not going to be kind to them.

Reports came in for several of the operators from the western sentry posts, watching the gigantic blue expanse of the Sea with their far-seeing and outlandishly large telescopes, claiming to have spotted several ships coming in from the far west. While it was at this point hard to determine precisely where the ships were headed, most of the sentries seemed fairly sure that it was a war fleet, and someone, if not the King, was going to be on the end of the bayonet, so to speak. Quick, obvious replies from panicking desk jockeys were sent back, advising the sentries to do nothing less than they would have anyway; that is, keep watching. It was fairly apparent to both parties that that was the best course for the moment—none of the tower-keepers would have considered taking a mid-day nap when their safety could very well be at stake soon enough—but it was equally apparent that something needed to be said, to assure everyone that something was going to be done, though no one knew exactly what that was at the time.

In the midst of this frantic semi-confusion, the mob government that had sprung up in the office ground its gears into action and began inexorably seeking out targets who would be declared the bearer of the bad news to His Majesty, in all of his irascibility and in all its selfishness and concern for self-preservation. Through a mixture of gambling, bargaining, yelling and half-meant threats, a man, who was not the easiest victim of the implacable ochlocracy but was instead annoyed at having to listen to what he perceived as the blathering nonsense of the imbeciles he was forced to listen to, day in and day out, and had at last gotten fed up with their silliness, nominated himself to take the news out of the room, if only to save what bare thread remained of his sanity. Thus the man stood to announce himself, not tall but with a resonant enough voice to be noticed above the inane debate, did so, and without another thought to those he was leaving behind ventured forth into the hall and began hurrying to the His Majesty's rather extensive library, where the King was having tea with the Cotencian ambassador.

The doors of the library were a dark, rich maple, and two in number; no more and no less. They were large, but not thick, so that they were easy to open if one so desired to do so. They were carven, with tastefully simple geometric patterns cut into their surface, and attached securely to them were two brass knobs, set on plates which were flush with the surface of the panels. They were also where the man who had previously been hastening from the telegraph room into the hallway and with the goal of reaching this very spot now stood, and who happened to be facing both of the door guards that had been stationed outside of the library, attempting to explain to them just why he really and truly needed to see His Majesty, and no, he wasn't going to try and kill him (though this last portion he never said, for that was as close to signing his own death warrant as he could possibly get without outright committing some treason or another). One of the guards leaned cracked open the door, stuck his head a bit through the opening, and quickly got the attention of His Majesty. An abbreviated conversation transpired thence, which the man did not catch, but surmised the general point of. The guard returned to face the man, whereupon the door was opened a little wider so that he and the other guard who had been silent the entire time could enter into the presence of His Majesty, and the ambassador as well, though the latter was hardly on the man's mind.

"And what has the world gotten itself into now?" His Majesty King Erebos Nikephoreas inquired dryly of the man who stood now before him, and who was at that present time very much regretting his decision not to suck up his irritation with his compatriots in the telegraphy room, and thereby avoid altogether the encounter with his monarch, despite how quixotic the reasoning.

[ Will edit later to add shit in. Consider this preliminary. ]

OOC: If all will forgive me I am going to take some liberty here...RPing as a Bedouin group they tend to not acknowledge traditional borders of Nations...so rather they would acknowledge the area around a village that local troops could actually protect...but concepts of vast nations...is foreign.


So if I post something mentioning being in your nation...know it is only on the farthest fringe...unless you have otherwise stated I might be allowed to have my people RP'd as entering your nation and going deply in to graze goats and horse and camel...raids would rarely if ever be of any depth into a nation.

IC
In sight of the Soviet village of Engelsgradd the Insh Al' Ikwan Rasheed riders stopped upon the crest of a final set of dunes before the desert flattned out to flat ground leading towards the village.

The Ikwan Rasheed were plentiful in this area ...relatively, that is few if ever came near this hamlet. But int he dunes they flit about like sweat on a fat man's brow.

Imbu ibn Al' Rasheed the son of the clan chief sat upon his Ikwan steed, the fine horse of the desert dwellers were the envy of every man who knew horse and had the pleasure of laying eyes upon them.

Imbu's chestnut mount was lean and sleek and held as stone at its riders wish.

"Insh Mek' , I need four men, and the camels. " He spoke with his eyes fixed on the village.

"Imbu, you should not go. The sitters* can be hostile and unpredictable."
A large man on a white mount spoke.

"If anything were to happen to you..." he was cut off by Imbu.

"Nothing will happen, we are seeking to trade. Anaha fear not my old nanny I doubt I will face death for bringing carpets and pillows...unless the enemy of these sitters is comfort and sleep. Then perhaps I might be inviting a war once they sample the works of our women." he chuckled and then continued.

" But since you are so concerned, you will accompany me, choose your other three men."

The man named Anaha appeared indignant.

"I am no trader, no carpet salesman. I do not barter." he spat at the last of it.

This time Imbu looked back over his shoulder at the man "You are today old friend, you are today."

In short order five men on horse and five camels laden with finely woven carpets, silk pillows scented with fine oils, tobacco, earth's blood(coffee), and a few well crafted knives. road off towards the village.
There was still enough light to be seen by the villagers well before the Ikwan men would be near it.

They carried lances, with spears on their backs and swords on their hips.
But Ikwan always carried lances and swords.

-----------------
sitter is the Ikwan word for sedentary city dwellers, farmers, anyone who does not live a nomadic lifestyle.
-----------------
The Asleen Wadi where Abdur had been readying the Seglaw for an up coming raid was quiet.

Two hundred men were assembling for a raid into Prydain, a small area on the edges that hadn't seen a raid in perhaps two seasons(at least not by the Ikwan-Asleen)...they would certainly be unprepared.

As the sun set and the riders were preparing to move south a riders came barreling into the Wadi.

"I see you Insh 'Al Ikwan Asleen!" he bellowed from his rearing horse.

He then continued "I am Golga of the Insh 'Al Ikwan-Haj."

Asleen men with lances, spears, and screaming spears surrounded the man, and did not speak. Rather they drew veils across their faces, and stood all eight of them a still as stones but as dynamic as coiled serpents.

Abdur's father came walking out from his tent.

"I see you Golga Haj."

"I am Bibah Razhid Al' Asleen. Father of this clan, chief of my tribe, I am the lion of the Asleen and the king of the desert. You may drink with me."

With that statement the other men removed their veils and lowered their weapon but where their guard had seemed raised before now that seemed as they had been relaxed and only now had tension touched them. They did not follow the man to protect their chief, rather they ran off into the desert night.

"Great Bibah Asleen, I bring a message for you and for the rest of the Ikwan."

"Speak then man, and do not fear retribution for insult or injury."

"Traders of the Haj in the Northern section of the lands of Prydain report that foreigners have been seen coming from the sea."

"This is what you risked your life to tell me?'

"Great Bibah Asleen, I am the servant of my father. Borda Sin Haj and it was his wish that you know as quickly as he could make it be known to you. I can not tell you why.Only that he felt knowing foreign ships had been spotted was important."

"Good enough, your task is done."

"Insh Mek' !! Ready the bags, tomorrow we take captives as well."

The Stella di Cotencia made its way through the air in a graceful manner, especially when one considers the size of the diplomatic airship of the Cotencian Duchy. The airship, very lightly armed, but one of the most lavishly equipped in the Aeronautica, the Stella fulfilled all long-range diplomatic needs of the Duchy. The flightpath of the Stella would take her straight to the sea, over the western lands of Cotencia, over lands that were not owned by anyone save renegades, not even the nomads were reported in those areas, and finally to the sea. Once reaching the sea, they would head north, following the reports of this mysterious fleet. This was a matter considered very important by the Royal Court, and it would be equally important to meet those that came from what was internationally recognized as a vast expanse of water.

The Ambasciatore paced around the study of the airship nervously. For Gabriele Adorno had determined that this would be a difficult mission even before he'd made his way onto the airship. What if these men did not speak their language? What were their customs?

"Even the nomads, we know things about the nomads! It is not like they are completely uncivilized, but these people? Who knows?" Gabriele remarked to his assistant.

"I don't know Ambasciatore, we will have to do our best."

"But of course! But how do we approach them? How will they react to the airship? Imagine if there is no flight were they come from! All we have are reports of a fleet. Even our little river gunboat navy has gyrocopter support! What if they open fire at us out of sheer terror?"

"I do not think that they shall do such a thing, perhaps we can send a gyrocopter out first? I don't think we'll enter range quickly anyways." The assistant had a good point, surely the newcomers would not have weaponry that could reach the airship when it was high above the ocean. As per the gyrocopters, they airship only had two in its bowels, one armed for escort, and one completely unarmed for diplomatic missions.

"Yes, yes we can do that."

"Does this solve anything?"

"It certainly helps, you may go now."

And Gabriele turned around as his assistant left the room. He sat back at his desk, still nervous about the meeting, but now with a degree of comfort that he did not have before.

And on the airship went, over the land, and to what was formerly known as and endless sea.

Land was within sight now. Klaxons blared across the fleet as thirty ships ground to a halt, thick black smoke pumping out in vast clouds as the boilers demanded more power. As the flagship the Indefatigable took the lead, slewing to a traveling stop, maintaining just enough momentum to fight the current. A sliding, gnashing noise rose from the evacuated bow as the nose of the ship split open in an ugly grimace, half sliding towards the port paddlewheel and half to the starboard. Seawater had already been flooded into the space and an equally large one at the stern that served as ballast to keep the mothership upright, allowing the three large landing craft to ignite their boilers and chug out into the open sea.

The land ahead was cracked and barren but appeared to match the description of the phosphate-rich desert the Einhauser General Commodities Corporation had been given. In the space of a few moments the fleet tripled in size, the larger passenger vessels disgorging transport vessels from mammoth internal spaces. Blinding yellow sun flashing off the paint as the newly emerged force made its way to shore. Behind it, as the gaping jaws of the parents sealed themselves, another operation was underway. Having set sights on the foreign fleet to the northeast the corporate vessels had been thrown into a slight panic.

Jack Hennings was rushing through the bowels of the Indefatigable, trying to locate his assistants. Men boiled out of the hallways and up the stairs, emerging into the harsh glare of the sun to get a first glimpse of civilized society they had seen in four months. Catching sight of a familiar head of prematurely gray hair, Hennings pushed through the crowd and threw an arm around his struggling subordinate. Technically, since Hennings was not an officer the crowd of mostly non-coms didn’t have to do anything he said, but the upper echelons had recognized his multifarious talents and given him an unofficial standing as a lieutenant. Of course, since it was not official…

An unshaven marine slammed into Henning’ side, roughly barging past him and up through the doors. The ship only held a finite number of people but from the size of the crowd, and even more from the stink Henning could easily have guessed there were a few thousand onboard. The soldier in his grasp was struggling to get up on deck, but the lieutenant held firm.

“Jackson! We have a job to do!” Hennings railed against the larger man’s bulk, trying to at least deflect his mad dash. With a grunt he got away, sprinting up into the light with the last of the crowd. Sighing, Hennings turned back to the deeper parts of the ship, smoothing his black hair with one grease-covered hand. Stopping at a tube station he picked up a receiver and began to yell into it.

“Bridge this is Lieutenant Hennings. I was unable to secure any help from the boys down here. I can try myself, but…” He tailed off in mid sentence, knowing that the admiralty would never let him do it himself.

Sure enough, voices came down the tube in swift order. “Understood. We will just have to hope the visitors don’t mind serving themselves at dinner.” Outside, as the last of the landing craft made land, a small pinnace pulled up alongside the Indefatigable.

Alongside Indefatigable

"And, let go!" The Challenger's pinnace was a light, handy craft. At a word from the boatswain, each of the twelve oarsman executed a neat spin and then shipped oars, placing the little boat snugly alongside the battleship. There was a brief thud of wood on metal, and then the sailors of the boat party caught thrown ropes and lashed the two vessels together like a baby whale nestled against its mother. Harcourt nodded appreciatively at the performance of her crew before rising to stand in the gently rocking boat. A set of stairs unfolded from the ship's side at the urging of its crew, and her two marine guards, clad in the bottle green so characteristic of Anglish army and marines, marched aboard with rifles shouldered. She waited for them to assemble themselves before following, taking care not to trip over the ornamental sword of her mess dress or get caught by an errant wave.

The deck of the ship was a frightful mess. It looked like she'd caught them in the midst of unloading some sort of land party. Perhaps they were an exploration fleet? Harcourt shrugged mentally and caught the eye of her presumed greeting party. The man in the lead was a rather harried looking fellow in civilian dress, but flanked by a number of young men in what appeared to be naval uniforms. A diplomat, perhaps? Things seemed to be going well. The strangers hadn't shot her as she came aboard. Harcourt checked over her shoulder to see if her rather reduced staff had made it aboard.

Commander Upton Correll, her chief of staff, led the small band of officers. His face was weathered and competent looking, in many ways appropriate for the experienced naval officer who had been relegated to staff duties after a shot from a wrecker had taken out his knee. He walked with a permanent limp and a cane, but his mind was as keen as ever and he had a knack for administrative details that frequently got away from Harcourt.
Behind him, Lieutenant Ernestine Twisp peeked shyly at the goings on around her. Twisp was a late addition to Harcourt's staff, after the admiral had been forced to promote Lieutenant John Draper from his flag lieutenant post. Draper was now a gunnery officer on one of the battleships docked at Barham, and Twisp had proven to be a good choice. One of the few female officers in a still very male-dominated navy, she was a recent graduate of the HMS Regent, the naval academy for command-branch officers. With rather long brown hair and a face that might best be described as 'cute', she was rather popular amongst the male lieutenants on Challenger. The young lieutenant spoke fluent Orboran and Lykoudran, passable Cotencian, and even a little Prydain. If these strangers spoke any one of those-- except possibly Prydain-- they'd get on fine. And if not, Twisp would probably pick up the basics with a few days' hard study. Rounding out the party were Lake and McCarthy, the marines permanently assigned to their admiral.

She also spared a few glances at the ship. The first thing she could tell, it was massive. Anglesey had nothing even approaching this sort of tonnage, and she guessed offhand that it held nearly a thousand well-packed people and supplies to keep them happy for an extended period. Lightly armed for its size, too. What had looked like a titanic battleship from gyropter was almost certainly some kind of armed transport now that she was aboard. Still, the sheer number of people that it carried! It looked almost like someone was trying to move a small town's worth of infrastructure... and all that automation! There were automatons everywhere, carrying and shifting, hauling and idling about in search of a task. They were unsettling to Anglish eyes, but Harcourt took care not to show it. She took mental notes, counting the people that she saw and guessing at the size of the ship's cannon. A roving glance wasn't enough to tell anything for sure, but she was certain that these strangers were worth something in a fight.

Harcourt turned back to the civilian, who looked uncomfortable. She wished she hadn't worn her mess dress, the amount of braid on them would intimidate anyone. She gave her best 'comforting admiral' smile and raised her outstretched arms, palms up and muscles relaxed, in the universal gesture of peaceful intent.

"How do you do? My name is Valerie Harcourt, Rear Admiral of Anglesey. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

A metal stair clattered up from below the edge of the rail, not fazing Tul and his entourage in the least. With a resounding clamor, hooks on the ends of the boarding stairway locked into place and drew the small craft next to the Indefatigable to a steady distance, assisted by several large, rubber pads that had been hastily lowered to keep the ships from scrapping into each other. A hissing automaton walked past, brilliant brass skin etched with information about its designation, forging, serial number, purpose and rated tolerances. A thick industrial umbilical cable extended from the small of its back, thick tubing retreating into a socket in the wall. Running on compressed steam provided by the ship’s boilers, this man-machine had no need for cumbersome powerplants of its own.

Not acknowledging any of the humans or even others of its kind, the automaton carried on its work of lifting massive loads about the ship, its analytical engine brain completely oblivious to the arriving crew of the pinnace. Tul noted that the newcomers seemed to be lead by a woman, which irked him to no end. Or, at least they all came behind her. He decided it must just be courtesy to allow the woman to precede the man. She stuck out her hand and spoke something that the EGCC translators didn’t even bother to translate.

“Welcome to the Einhauser General Commodities Corporation exploration vessel Indefatigable. I am Executive Officer of New Resource Exploitation, Walter Tul.” He extended his hand past the woman to what appeared to be the ranking officer present, a man with a brutal limp. Tul had no idea if he was actually an officer or just a civilian, but Admiral Sherman had assured him that at least some of the odd ships in the other fleet could be military. Of course, with these primitive cultures one could never know.

As he pondered on these subjects, one of Lieutenant Henning’s translators attempted to translate Tul’s greeting in broken varieties of various local tongues, hoping one would stick.

***

It was strange, reflected Engine Sergeant Michael Crow, that the humidity of the sea stopped almost exactly at the shore. What bizarre weather patterns created this condition escaped his military mind at the moment, too preoccupied as it was by the offloading of supplies from the hulking landing craft. Themselves large vessels, the craft had carried a significant compliment of men and machines onto the shores of the dry, rocky landmass the fleet had sighted some days ago.

A quadrupedal automaton strode out of the belly of the nearest ship, splayed hooves clacking down the iron boarding ramp and into the soft sand. Specifically designed by the chief engineer of the fleet while in transit, the walkers had been assembled en route to carry the collapsed forms of a dozen humanoid automatons. Of course, initial reports that the fleet received indicated that the desert was mostly large sand dunes appeared to be false, eliminating the need for the carrier’s splayed feet. In fact, Crow observed, aside from the shoreline there appeared to be no sand, at least in the local area.

“Get these ships unloaded and the machines up and running. Our first priority is to secure the beachhead, then spread out and assess the local area.” Men all around Crow perked up as he issued orders, prepared to separate into their designated squads. Each group was made up of two automatons and their engineer/overseer, who was responsible for issuing new orders on the fly. Each carried a ream of thick paper and a bulky hole-puncher, designed to craft the punchcards that fitted into the brain cases of the automaton’s analytical engines. From these cards the machines would receive their instructions. “After we know a bit about our general location we need to report it back to the fleet and attempt to locate any useful supplies. You know what that means, people. If you find a cave, get ready to shimmy on down. We need any signs of bat inhabitation, guano especially, and if you happen to stumble across any coal at all give the signal.”

He gestered out to the fleet some miles off shore. “Remember, steamers weren’t built for long trips like that, and we need to recoal or we will be stuck in this barbaric spit of dust for a long time.” His men laughed and set off, many prepping the flareguns they would use to signal the location of an important resource or to call for help. They all knew that finding coal in a useable form, without having to dig it up, was so remote as to be nigh impossible. It was the job of the diplomatic corps prepping their crafts back in the main fleet to negotiate for coal with the local powers.

Indefatigable

Commander Correll was a little surprised to be presented with a hand and formally addressed by the fellow in the suit. He inclined his head and, with a deferential smile, directed the civilian greeter to Admiral Harcourt. Ever the perfect staff officer, and no stranger to political functions of all sorts, Correll managed not to bat an eyelash at the somewhat blatant faux-pas. Anyone can make a mistake. Perhaps their culture's manpower needs were so filled by automatons that they could afford to leave half of the working, fit population out of the military? It hadn't been so different in Anglesey, after all, not until the realities of being out-breeded by Orborans, Cotencians and others forced them to desegregate.

"Be made to act as you would in your home on Einhauser General Foodstuffs Corporation touring vessel Undauntable," the translator of the bunch said, after a brief spate of equally unintelligible Orboran failed to make an impression. Correll hid a smile. That was assuredly not what was meant, although one could glean a bit of information from the mess. Apparently the ship was privately owned, and by a... food company? A cruise line? Neither really made sense. Behind him, Correll heard Lieutenant Twisp fail to stifle a giggle, and he gave her an icy stare over his shoulder. She shrank back rather, before composing herself and listening to the chatter around.

These foreigners were speaking some kind of guttural language, not Romanian-inspired like the Cotencian tongue. Really, it wasn't that different from Anglish... probably shared a few ancestors, or at least a common syntax. She could learn this, although probably not quickly nor well.

"Like I said," Harcourt's voice wasn't nearly so cheerful. "Admiral Harcourt, at your service." Her hand was now firmly planted in her pocket, and not inclined to come out.

A caravan out of Prydain was coming right through the area as they always did.

The dunes of the desert would cover the sands of the horses, if they were making any, these were real Seglawi not their mechanical counter parts.

The raiders of the Asleen Ikwan were spread out, they would strike the caravan in a cresent, striking the rear driving the group forward into a second element while the main force would then assault in force.

Done properly a minimal number of injuries to the people would occur, done perfectly no one on either side should be hurt.

The Prydain had lived close to the desert and the Ikwan for some time, and it was well known to them the best way to survive a raid was to either out run it, or lay down for it. Most Prydain understood the Ikwan viewed this as forceful negotiation ...trading on an extreme scale. They had no desire to hurt anyone, but dealt swiftly with what they perceived as threats...or insults.

A single rider sat on the crest of a dune watching the caravan...he would hold any attention of someone keeping observation.

Bortain looked down on the Prydain from the dune, and tried to pick out the strong ones, the ones likely to fight.

How he held his spear would tell the 40 men on the other side of the dune what to do.

A span further down the path the caravan would take was another band of men.

Lances, spears, wind lances.

Waiting ahead were the metallic seglawi, they would cover the escape of the main force and catch any who slipped in the initial assault.

The travel was tiresome. They already covered several kilometers of the desert in search of the thieves, but no avail. The 75th Infantry was starting to give up to their needs as the thirty men almost crawled through the sands like catatonic drunkards. The captain then tried to get up as he said.

"Stop! Don't move!"
"Sir? What did you see?"
"Private Yanikov, I spotted them, just to the nortwest. Let's keep moving!", he said, as he spotted some of the current Insh Al' Ikwan nomads there, thinking they were the thieves as his weary mind was not very well. "Stay quiet! Ready your rifles, arm the bayonets, line formation, and keep your heads down". He added as the soldiers in sand colored uniforms slowly approached the nomads, to attack them by surprise. When they were at about half kilometer from the, hidden by the sands, the captain said: "Wait!", as he looked at one of the private behind that was carrying most of their water rations. "Private Saratov, you can have two water rations, distribute the others to them. We cannot fight in these conditions.

They all drank the water, refreshing themselves after a long trip, and then continued to sneak until being at about 400 meters. The captain then gestured to the soldiers as they aimed their weapons. With an arm swing the 15 lined soldiers fired their rifles against the natives, while the other 15 behind prepared to fire.

OOC: I assume this attack is against the Rasheed heading into the village.

IC:

Imbu and his party had spotted the men moving across the desert...

"Imbu we are being flanked."
Anaha looked troubled and his mount reflected his tension.

"Anaha, they more then likely headed back to the village, I mean we lay in between them and it. So logic would dictate they need to come to us."

"Imbu, Insh' Mek ! Send a set of men to at least determine their intentions. It could be a foreign group coming to attack the village and take us as locals and put us under their guns."

"Someone crossed our desert, on foot...to attack this village? I mean, this village. We are looking at the same village? Anaha the heat is surely effecting you."

Imbu produced a Hawk-Eye*

He saw men distributing water, rifles, foot men.

"Anaha, look how close they are...please do you really if they were mounting an attack they would stop for a sit and drink? We will wait and ride into the village with them, that way it will be safer...the villagers will be less likely to attack if we are with some of their own."

Anaha spat at the sand from his mount.

As the mucus hit the earth the whistling rounds flew by the men, red mist sprayed from the chest of two of the riders knocking one off his mount, Anaha and another were hit in the shoulders.

The crack of the gun fire followed quickly behind the hits.

"Blood and fire, I told you stupid boy. Ride Imbu, go!"

The large man on the white seglawi made two or three quick click noises and twisted in the saddle and with his knees turned the horse about with his now only good arm he raised his lance and let out whooping cry.

Imbu had left his horse was tossing the fallen man on to his mount and with a few clicks and whistle the horses of the injured men rode off into the desert.

Imbu then leapt back upon his mount with three quick clicks he raised his lance and let loose the same whooping cry.

Over the dunes about 100yards back the prince's guard heard the gun shots and the cries of Imbu and Anaha.

Nearly one-hundred men mounted horse and camel with lances and rifles they responded to the cries of their prince in reciprocal fashion. They were at least 5 seconds behind Imbu and perhaps seven behind Anaha.

Anaha brought his mount to bearing and bore his horse down upon the firing men.

It is said many wars were started by an accident in History...

As the massive cavalry advanced against the small infantry regiment of 30 riflemen, captain Alecsandri finally noticed the huge mistake they done, but as now it was already too late for diplomacy, he ordered his men with a shout in a strong vocal tone, in Russian:

"Kneel, take cover behind the dunes and wait my command! Aim at their mounted riflemen!"

While the first 15 ones who fired were pulling the levers of their rifles behind the cover of the dunes to fire another round, all of the 15 soldiers ready to fire knelt and each aimed, or tried to aim, at one of the firearms-wielding horsemen of the Insh Al Ikwan as these horsemen were about to become close enough to fire against them and their small range advantage was to be lost. Roughly at the point where the horsemen were at their most effective fire range, at about 350 meters, the captain raised his sabre and slashed it forward against the wind, shouting:

"Fire!"

The 15 riflemen shot against the incoming cavalry, hoping they were to hit most or all of those horsemen armed with guns, while maybe they would soon have to wish for luck and improvise their bayonets as short length spears against the approaching cavalry.

OOC:

IC:

Who had taken the lead now crashed right in among these foreigners.

He jabbed his long lance at the first man he reached and didnt not both with a second, instead he leapt from his saddle drawing his saif and engaging another in close quarters.

His mount now riderless reared up in the way it had been trained, a Seglawi war horse eager to trample a man, now began mucking about trampling at the men who were helpless on their knees.

Seconds.

Imbu on his mount came barreling into the line of men in the dunes repeating Anaha's actions he struck out from horse back with his lance but only once.

Imbu armed with four short spears(tall as a man) rather then the saif quickly put them to work saving the last to fight with hand to hand.

The two men would break the lines...seconds.



In precious seconds they would be engulfed.

Imbu's horse trampled and whinnied and reared up against the strange scented men. It protecting its master just as Anaha's mount sought to protect him, and as Anaha sought to protect Imbu.

The Rasheed body guard of Prince Imbu flooded over the dune they had been behind...this was considered sensible by Imbu so as not to be seen as attempting to intimidate the village...had he followed protocol the guard would have been all around him. Imbu was never much for raiding and always an advocate of diplomacy, now he would likely not inherit his father's position.



They broke ninety men became three groups of thirty as they rode, then each group of thirty became three groups of ten. Some fanned out wide while others rode hard straight for the prince's mountless stead.

The crescent maneuver of the Ikwan cavalry.

OOC:

IC:

Who had taken the lead now crashed right in among these foreigners.

He jabbed his long lance at the first man he reached and didnt not both with a second, instead he leapt from his saddle drawing his saif and engaging another in close quarters.

His mount now riderless reared up in the way it had been trained, a Seglawi war horse eager to trample a man, now began mucking about trampling at the men who were helpless on their knees.

Seconds.

Imbu on his mount came barreling into the line of men in the dunes repeating Anaha's actions he struck out from horse back with his lance but only once.

Imbu armed with four short spears(tall as a man) rather then the saif quickly put them to work saving the last to fight with hand to hand.

The two men would break the lines...seconds.



In precious seconds they would be engulfed.

Imbu's horse trampled and whinnied and reared up against the strange scented men. It protecting its master just as Anaha's mount sought to protect him, and as Anaha sought to protect Imbu.

The Rasheed body guard of Prince Imbu flooded over the dune they had been behind...this was considered sensible by Imbu so as not to be seen as attempting to intimidate the village...had he followed protocol the guard would have been all around him. Imbu was never much for raiding and always an advocate of diplomacy, now he would likely not inherit his father's position.



They broke ninety men became three groups of thirty as they rode, then each group of thirty became three groups of ten. Some fanned out wide while others rode hard straight for the prince's mountless stead.

The crescent maneuver of the Ikwan cavalry.

(OOC: I hope I'm not going too bad with tactics, all I know is from the Strategy Games I played.)

The odds were completely against them...

It was too late for Private Yanikov, as although a quite good sharpshooter, he wasn't a good melee fighter and did not manage to dodge the strike. The spear transfixed through his heart it broke the chain that held a small locket he had kept inside his uniform. The locket had the photograph of his son and of his deceased wife Anastasia, which died during an "anti-subversive" raze done by the Okhranka of the now overthrown Russian Monarchy against his home town of Sartoff in the Great Revolutionary War, 5 years ago. And now he had joined her in oblivion or afterlife, leaving his family behind...

Captain Alecsandri was right next at him as the nomad was to engage him with a saif, he quickly shouted "Phalanx spread!" before parrying with his sabre the first slash strike against him and attempting a failed riposte, as the massed strike force advanced against them. He continued dueling with the native, both riposting, counter-riposting, parrying, dodging and blocking each of their strikes as the forces moved on to a new formation.

The other soldiers knew exactly what he meant as they ran away from the incoming rider-less horses and slowly positioned themselves behind the tallest existing dunes nearby as an attempt to gain a tactical advantage, into 4 standing groups of 6-man double line formations, and one group with the 4 most skilled at melee men in the middle, with the 2 strongest at the front and the 2 others behind. Each of those groups had a distance of more or less 15 meters between them and were in an overall ( formation which covered both their left and right flanks against the attackers. Then those from behind lowered their bayonets above those from the front like small improvised spears in different angles as they aimed them against the cavalry going up the dunes towards them from several directions at their front, almost at melee range to strike them. As they already have loaded another round into the chamber of their guns with their levers, the 27 men fired their guns at almost point-blank against different of the closest targets from each of the enemy forces' groups before engaging into a bloody melee battle they would fight... to death.

Captain Alecsandri was alone, fighting bravely and honorably against the other nomad, rather than cowering behind the lines of his soldiers as spears started to fly from the hands of Imbu, like those from a mounted javelineer. Although the fast getaway of the soldiers through a new formations led most of those spears to miss, one of them stroke straight against private Saratov leg as he was about to be in formation to attack. He then was thrusted down against the sands and with his last strength pointed his rifle against the incoming cavalry, firing with the best aim he could get at such limited amount of time against the closest ones together with the other 5 men of his group, which was the first at left from the 5 separated formations.

As their captain engaged into melee alone against the one armed with a saif, the nomads quickly noticed the forces of Soviet Steam had a fanatical fervor during battle and were not willing to retreat, but instead to bravely fight to death, no matter the fact it was all a mistake in the first place.

The long one on one combat Alecsandri was engaged into had to end soon, and aware of it he stroke a decisive but somewhat risky riposte against the nomad as he parried another thrust of his saif towards his head as he retreated, and riposted it with a short slash roughly coming from upper right to lower right against the nomad, as the sickle, gears and hammer emblem of his uniform was brightened by the sunlight.

The hatchway to the lower decks swung open to admit a cook in pressed white uniform, silver tray in one hand and a pot of boiling water in the other. The diplomatic party from the foreign nation, called “Anglesey” if the translators were doing their job well enough, was seated in the overstuffed chairs of Admiral Sherman’s living quarters. Not knowing the tastes of the foreigners the chef had brewed up a blend of tea made from the soft leaves of a plant from the Eucalyptus genus that grew like a weed back in Einhauser proper. He personally felt it tasted bland and uninteresting, but he dared not offend anyone with the sweet, fruity teas he usually served to the officers.

Placing the platter on the flag-draped alabaster plinth that served as the focal piece and table of the room, the cook silently poured the green-tinted tea from the engraved pot into dainty crystal cups, trusting that the visitors would know enough to use the gilt tea sifters he had placed out to steep the bags if the concoction was too light for their palette. His job finished, he respectfully withdrew to the serving corridor, already thinking about what to make and how best to prepare it for tonight’s celebratory feast. Perhaps braised lamb chops with a dry cranberry sauce? What about a hand-rubbed salt and pepper pork roast with maple-glazed potatoes? The choices were endless.

Back inside the stateroom the two parties were sitting in a tense yet very polite calm, neither side brave enough to talk first. Walter Tul let out a poorly concealed sigh of relief when the klaxons on the outside of the ship began to ring, reverberating the hull with their rhythmic pounding. “Gentlemen,” said Tul as he rose from his chair, “If you’ll excuse us for a moment, there seems to be something of an emergency.” He did an abrupt turn and left the room with the admiral on his heels, oblivious to the fact that not a word of what he just said was comprehensible to his guests.

***

Up on deck things were even more chaotic than usual. As the officers stepped out of the darkness of the lower decks and into the waning sunshine, half a dozen high caliber cannon were being aimed at a black splotch some distance above the horizon. “An airship, sir,” a nearby rating quipped in response to the obvious looks on the men’s faces. “We have no idea what its intentions are as of yet. Navigation reports noticing it shortly before they sounded the alarm.”

“Very good,” Tul nodded, “dismissed.” The rating snapped a salute and went back to work loading shells into a long-ranged rifle. Of course the man would say that the alarm had been rung promptly. If anything less had happened the lookouts would be disciplined. More than likely the alarm had not been sounded for some time after the ship was spotted, if Tul knew his subordinates like the thought he did.

Trudging up to the railings, Admiral Sherman lifted a long scope from the pocket of a saluting marine and pointed it towards the horizon, adjusting slowly until the entire foreign object fit into the range of his lens. It was large, Sherman could tell that much, but shadows from the sinking sun and distance both contributed to obscuring any real details.

“It’s increasing speed,” an officer sitting in the sighting seat of one of the guns noted out loud so the whole deck could hear him. Sherman could see the machine now, and it was indeed picking up speed.

“I think,” he said as he tucked the scope away, “that it’s safe to say they’ve seen us.”

***

The desert was oppressive. Even as night set in the heat was unbearable. Rivulets of sweat dripped down the brow of Michael Crowe as he trudged along in the wake of his clockwork entourage. The dying rays of the bloated sun shone off of their polished brass, creating intricate patterns around the cogs and wheels that protruded in various places. Each was the product of mastercraft brasswork, standing well over seven feet tall and armed to the proverbial teeth. The left arm was entirely composed of a 5-pounder field gun and its bulky ammunition feeds while the right was an overly large mace, replete with comically small digits that attempted to form some kind of rudimentary hand for manipulating objects. A single repeating rifle was mounted in the flat skullcase, just above the analytical engine, punchcard assembly and seemingly empty eye sockets. They were massive brutes, Crowe reflected, just the kind he liked.

Since scouting parties had confirmed that there was no sand for any visible distance the order had been given out by the Engine Overlord to split the quadrupedal pack machines between the various columns, allowing each team to bring along several times the amount of equipment they would normally have been able to. Several other engineers and their charges had been committed to Engine Sergeant Crowe’s advancing formation, bolstering his numbers to ten mechanical soldiers and five men. Advancing in a steady, precision gait, the clockwork troops strode ahead of their masters, awaiting any sign of attack. The humans behind them were considerably more jovial.

A slim man slid into step beside Michael, slapping him affectionately on his leather-clad shoulder. “So, what do you make of these orders, Michael?” asked Engine Lieutenant Dathir James. Crowe shrugged. They had been ordered to split into several waves of columns and advance in a steady line across the rocky terrain. The only explanation Crowe could think of was that they were trying to flush any ambushes that might be waiting for them out into the open. Why they would be ambushed, and by who, was entirely beyond the engine sergeant. He mentioned as much to James who nodded appreciatively. The lithe form of a light steam soldier rushed past the pair, the ammo belts for its torso-mounted gatling gun rattling in a jarring manner. Off in the distance, far to the northwest a light suddenly appeared, a lurid pink flare that arched into the sky on a tail of fire. Immediately noticing the signal the clockwork men halted and turned to their handlers, eager for instructions. Without a word the column diverted in the direction of the flare, hoping it was to notify the group of a major find and not a desperate plea for reinforcements.

Bells were ringing, people were shouting, Gabriele Adorno could hear the footsteps of the sailors running about. These were not the sounds usually associated with the Stella di Cotencia, a diplomatic airship, but rather with the military variants of the behemoths of the sky. Gabriele knew what had happened and he had done nothing yet but awake from his nap. The mysterious fleet must have been sighted, such was the only explanation for such a ruckus on board the Stella, or they were under attack. He thought the latter was unlikely as no explosions or gunfire were heard. His aide, Massimo, burst into the room, an agitated look on his face, Gabriele was certain that his assumption was correct by then.

"Signore! We have spotted the unidentified fleet! We have also managed to make out at least one ship from Anglesey."

"Anglesey?" Gabriele was on his feet immediately, already donning the jacket which lay on the chair beside him.

"Yes Signore, Anglesey." By this time they carried the conversation out to the cramped, but luxuriously adorned corridor outside the Ambasciatore's stateroom, a corridor which led to other rooms, smaller, yet just as luxurious. On one end of the corridor the heavy wooden doors to the meeting room, and on the other, a single door, a connection towards the bridge. Gabriele and his aide had already set off towards the end with the single wooden door.

"Are they meeting? Fighting?"

"They are not fighting, signore, the ships are alongside each other, they must be meeting." Said Antonio, the Captain serving as the military attache for this mission, an unusual one as he had with him a contingent of 30 marines. "Shall we launch the gyrocopter armed or unarmed?" He inquired as they nearly reached the bridge.

"Um, lightly armed, Antonio."

They had reached the door to the Bridge, which Massimo held open for his two superiors.

"Grazie" Both the Ambasciatore and the Captain both said at once.

"Launch the gyrocopter now, a small marine contingent, they are not to make contact." Gabriele ordered Antonio. "Since they are not hostile, we shall approach with the airship and I shall make personal contact with the second gyrocopter."

"Yes Ambasciatore."

Having addressed that matter, he now referred himself to the captain. "Captain, keep on heading for the fleet."

"Yes Signore."

----

Gears spun and chains went up and down, their movements setting in motion the hatch on the upper part of the airship, in order to enable one of the gyrocopters to head out of the ship. The platform held a gyrocopter, the pilots already inside and 6 marines checking their rifles and taking some supplies onto the craft.

"Raising platform! All hands on craft!" The marines scurried onto the gyrocopter, taking whatever they had not yet carried onto the craft with them. With a loud clank, the locks on the platform were released, allowing it to raise in other to avoid any accident when launching out of the ship. The craft, the rotors now clear of the hull of the airship, started up its motors. The rotors spun faster and faster, soon becoming a blur and giving the gyrocopter the power of flight. And with that power it cleared the airship, and set off towards the ships, loosing some altitude but maintaining clear of rifle range.

The town of Engelsgradd was about to see a new day as commissar Saratov passed the night without sleep, trying to find a solution to the engineering problems of his mechanical arachnid as he became dirty from all the grease of his tinkering.

A mess of clunks and gears could be seen in his workshop, which was nothing besides a refitted barn, among piles of discarded schematics and junk which accumulated in the corners of the large and spacious room. In its back the arachnid, with 1 meter of height and roughly 1 meter of diameter remained immobile, without its engine as a steam engine was not the best choice for this device. His option was the use of electricity, however the closest thing to an electric engine in Soviet Steam was the titanic electric automaton which used a steam powered generator and tesla turbines instead of a steam engine.

Copper wires would not fit with the needs of the spider and other forms of wire would simply not be available for his project, while any direct current from available capacitors would present serious troubles to put a decent enough power to weight ratio on it, and he already did all he could to reduce its weight without sacrificing its reliability and stability. It simply demanded something else... something nobody ever tried, he had to attempt to rediscover the wireless energy transmission invented by Nikola Tesla and lost in the sands of time, buried by the natural skepticism of the Party on such revolutionary invention which was claimed to be successful.

However the papers which detailed Tesla invention were claimed to be lost ages ago and the knowledge of their location lost forever with his death. It was for now something beyond his grasp as Tesla lived in the main lands of Soviet Steam, in the large city of Novana. Maybe if he managed to prove his capability to gain the control of that city, he would have a chance of locating such device, as in fact although a politician, his heart lied with engineering instead. But his struggle wasn't in vain, as he finally adjusted the motors of the arachnid legs to function based on electromagnetism rather than steam pressure and pumps while he had started to assemble the first parts of an electric engine. Now all that remained was to find a reliable power transmission system, and finding the tesla wireless electric transmitter wouldn't be an easy task at all, and no matter what, he would be alone on such quest.

-------

While Saratov struggled with his invention, the airship flied through the horizon of Soviet Steam east colonies. The head of the expedition, Sergei Ganov, was taking a small cup of tea when he swear he saw a tiny black dot in the far horizon through southwest. Although this was not enough for them to change their course towards those caves to the east, this was something which he took note of as they continued to travel. Saratov would be very interested to know they might not be the only civilized nation in such territories.

The expedition had the usual amount of rations and of electric lamps to explore the caves, and its team also had revolvers, as they were not sure on what they could find in the unknown. Chances of a flame were low as their airships were based on Helium rather than Hydrogen, which was considered a good choice on overall, while the upper part of the gasbag had some additional protection and their gondola had some steam-powered Tesla turbines to help in controlling the direction of it and boost its speed, and four 10-pounder cannons mounted in sponsons on its broadsides, besides the usual load of two gatling guns, which remained peacefully in place during the travel as Ganov surveyed the desert below them, in the hopes of locating more interesting sights to report as the afternoon was ending.

-------

There were still no reports from the 85th infantry search for the thieves den which plagued the town of Engelsgradd as time passed. The lack of reports started to worry the less than willing, but now vice-commissar Manya Stravinsky as she had a busy day doing what should be the responsibility of Saratov. She wasn't sure on what to do as she never was given the responsibility of caring for an entire town and its internal regiments before, but after pondering for a while, she had no doubts on what should be done. After typing a lengthy message in the writing ball, she immediately called an aide and said:

"Send this message to the captain of the 12th cavalry as quick as you can!"
"Yes, vice-commissar", the aid replied as he took the message to deliver to the cavalry regiment. A well balanced small group with 6 dragoons, 8 cuirassiers, 7 lancers and 5 hussars specialized in fast assault and reconnaissance.

She wondered on the fate of that infantry regiment, perhaps they underestimated those thieves and they were already dead. The truth is that all possibilities were extremely bad for her, as she would probably be held responsible should the worst happen to all those troops. She wondered why she decided to join the Party in the first place and tried to relax as her duties were finally over at almost midnight as she headed back to her home: a small but comfy house just like all others, not different in a single detail on its humble, reliable design.

OOC: Sorry for my late reply.

No Soviet Steam your tactics should be your tactics, how well they might work against a newly engaged and and never encountered threat type are part of the growth process.

This will simply bring up to date SS and ME.

IC:

Basan who was leading the front center of the guard could now see the large form of Anaha, Imbu simply wasnt that big...he was still standing.

Another of his brothers was still fighting as he could see the attackers realign themselves.

He wasnt as certain who the other man was.

As the rifle mounts reached firing range they drew there horses down to a walk and fanned out into a line. A third of the force now formed a staggered crescent around the troops...at 500m the long rifles of the Ikwan were effective...the opposition held.

Again the rifle stopped at 450m and fired a volley.

OOC:
Given the numbers if you dont mind I will RP the final moments.

If you find it to be inconsistent with what you would prefer--we can retcon to a more comfortable point.

IC:

The columns of men closing to engage in close quarters had lance,pistol, and spear or saif. DOzens of men twirled slings above their heads as they road on to the close the distance.

The closing riders with out rifles met the mark first, the Soviet Steam forces knew they could not wait to engage the rifle or they would be out numbered by melee fighters 2 to 1.

At 300m they opened fire.

It was speed that was against them, the horses of the Ikwan were far from gun shy and did not turn and run from conflict.

Anaha was a large and powerful man, and what the Soviet Steam soldier could never understand was that he wasnt fighting for country, or god or even self, but for the other man whom he had oathed to protect.

With his only good arm Anaha brute forced the Soviet Steam officer to the sand, ignoring the slash to the mid section the officer had delivered as he closed, it was only at the last moment the Officer had raised his saber to stop the urved saif from cleaving his head wide open, as he tumbled to his back his men now didnt bother with formality and great liquid roses bloomed on the chest of Anaha as half a dozen rounds ripped through him.

His saif plunged into the sand and his grip remained steadfast to it. He slumped straddling the officer. Dead, upright on his knees, eyes still wide open.

The younger smaller man now merely rushed the line of soldiers who again took him down swiftly.

The officer could see now what exactly had caused his men distress, the Nomads riflemen were engaging from outside the effective range of the Soviet Steam rifle.

He could see the noose was tightening as the ring was closing around them.

He had to think quickly.

"Hold your fire, You and you here, you there, go now. Everyone squat down.

Do as I do."

He reduced his size to the firing like cowering child...or that is what it would look like. the loose formation he had made seemed alien to the young men, foolish even but his fevered mind was seeking a way to win. Luckily eveni nthe face of what they believed was a suicidal order the Soviet Steam men didnt break ranks.

When the Nomad riflemen were now 300m and the Cavlary now at point blank range he quickly ordered his men to begin firing on arcs creating a wedge of fire, he placed to two men in the rear them himself and grabbed their collars to walk them backwards his wedge would concentrate its firing to break the encirclement.

The high pitched whistle of rounds now filled the air...

and in a moment they were all on the ground.

----
Basan road hard and watch Anaha take down the dog he ws fighting then be cut down by theman's fellows and the other as well.

It was Imbu.

He tasted vomit in his mouth.

The men broke their strange formation, which would have made them easy pickings for the closing crescent.

they funneled all of their effort against a single small gap but by then it was too late.

the Ikwan rifles did not fire as fast as these men's weapons but they wholly more accurate and better ranged.

They were cut down.

Many of the Ikwan guards had themselves been injured or killed.

In the aftermath

"Basan, should cut the throats of he ones still alive."

The older man, regarded the statement.

He looked among the bodies of dead and injured, Soviet Steam(not a name he knew personally) and Ikwan.

He looked at Imbu's body.

"No, do not kill the injured. No these devils do not deserve such a death. I have a better idea. Bring me the camels."

In short ordert he pack animals had been brought to him.

"Bring me the healthiest of the sitters."

A young faced man was brought before Basan.

Basan was not scholarly and did know the language of these people, but he knew the language of the Prydain. That would have to do.

He spoke
"Spiteful child, a curse upon you and yours. My Prince brings goods of trade and gifts to your pathetic dog people and you pay him with death and blood.

You are now in debt to the desert, these things he has brought are tainted with the death of your kind.--In Ikwan he yells to his men--The Rule ofthe Fifth does not apply here. Take nothing, and leave what Imbu had brought.--In Prydain: So you will ride back with my Princes gifts to your people. You /this time he poked the man's chest/ will mark my face in your mind, and heal your self well...because the next time i see you I will kill you.
--In Ikwan: Mark the living so all Ikwan will know the Rasheed have enemies here.

With that he removed his knife and carved his personal mark in the right cheek of the boy.

The Soviet Steam wounded were strapped to the camels, the boy was fastened up as well. The camels would follow the lead and the boy was shown how to steer the animal...one did not need to share language for such a simply lesson.

The Ikwan bodies were fastened to horses, 30 men dead or wounded...the Soviet Steam had given as good as they had gotten.

The Soviet Steam dead were lined up and neatly placed in a row, their faces covered.


Basan lingered and watched Imbu's caravan move closer to the village.

Bastards he thought.

if Imbu had listened to the advice of the rest fo them he would not be dead, and the coming trouble for the Rasheed would not be so nearly as grave...no heir to tribe, damn it.

If the Rasheed tribe splintered the desert could be racked with war before this season returned...

Damned sitters.

”Do you wish for another cup of chá, master Gwynfryn?” said the man, motioning towards the clockwork manservant. The machine man, dressed in black tie, with a white dress shirt, silken bowtie and a waistcoat, held a tray with an exquisitely decorated tea pot of finest porcelain and a similarly decorated jar of silver. The clockwork within squeaked ever so faintly as the machine servant bowed slightly, offering master Gwynfryn another cup of tea.
“Yes please, master Gam” answered Gwynfryn. The machine servant bowed again, and poured him a cup, very precisely measured, of steaming hot tea. Gwynfryn pointed towards the silver jar, containing milk, while turning towards Gam.
“Lykoudras?” Gwynfryn said, meaning the mechanical man.
“The Orboran Confederacy actually. I just had him delivered. Took me a month to secure him for my use” explained Gam. Orboran tech was highly sought after by the Priteni industrialists, and so ‘securing’ a ware in Orboran usually included outbidding the less enthusiastic rivals, then hiring gunmen to ward of the more stubborn ones.
“Indeed. I don’t really do business there. Not any longer at least; the competition was a bit too fierce for my tastes” said Gwynfryn, while sipping his tea. Gwynfryn considered himself to be a moderately rich man – the sweet spot where you have enough money to have others work for you, but not rich enough to feel bad about it – and, as all rich industrialists should, a good knower of tea. He dabbled in the tea import – it was in fact so he had first got a business up and running on his own – before turning to tech trade. He could tell excellent chá from good chá, he could tell the region the leaves were picked in and with some luck the specific plantation in that region; and he could tell that this chá, of which his host had offered him two full cups, was hellishly expensive.
A common form of bragging amongst industrialists, and one which Gwynfryn too had practiced, was to show off ones wealth and possessions in a definite and controlled fashion, without ever acknowledging that this was being done. Chá, mechanical men and various steam-powered gadgets could be used, and they could prove very effective in swaying a hesitant or easily persuaded customer. Gwynfryn was not easily persuaded though, and his host knew this; he was simply showing off.
Taking the final sip of the hellishly expensive tea, Gwynfryn said that although he did not like rushing into matters and that it was very rude of him to rush his host in this way, he had come to discuss a very specific matter and he felt that now was the time to do so.
“Ah yes, of course. I am sorry for taking your time” excused Gam, while Gwynfryn assured him that he had not taking an undue amount of his time.
“Butler, bring the object for master Gwynfryn” ordered Gam the machine servant. The mechanical servant bowed again, its internal gear work squeaking. Its underbody rotated with yet more puffs of steam and mechanical noise and it left the room to go and fetch whatever mechanical contraption it was that Gwynfryn wanted.
“Have you heard about Llywelyn Glyn’s new pet project? He is trying to use a steam pump, a common steam pump, to pump water out of the river and to special plantations in the desert. I’ve heard he’s got a permit already.”
The automaton returned carrying a small steam powered apparatus, most likely an engine of some sort. It looked questioningly at Gam, or at least the small mechanical movements of its bronze face were meant to resemble an inquisitive man-face.
Alas, an automaton is not a man; it does not think, it does not feel and it is not even aware of its own existence. It is but a complex, inanimate piece of machinery, which relies on a very finite amount of liquid which is transformed into gaseous form to exert pressure upon the cylinders that control action and movement. Equipped with crude voice recognition equipment, enabling it to react to a small set of pre-programmed nouns and verbs that are stored on wax rolls, it can perform but the simplest tasks of menial labour.
Gam ignored the machine’s pseudo-questioning look, instead turning to Gwynfryn.
“I trust you remember the agreed-upon price” he told him. Gwynfryn simply nodded and handed Gam a small piece of paper. The paper transferred to its owner the right to own and use a steam powered vehicle, a horseless carriage it might be called, in Prydain. These horseless carriages were rare and expensive to maintain, and therefore all the more prestigious.
Gam took the piece of paper, folded it twice and put it in his pocket. It was a good deal for him, a steam engine for a carriage. Steam engines were plentiful, even the ones like this one, while a carriage was much rarer. All of this was relative of course; the only reason Gwynfryn had come to him to buy an engine was that his own merchants and thugs in Orboran – for he did trade there, no matter what he said – were under attack and therefore unable to secure any steam engines. Of course Gwynfryn continued to wage this cutthroat dark alley guerre de course by hiring even more merchants with the money he made on the tea trade. Gam preferred wine and ale – it was a much larger market and the volume more than made up for the drop in individual price. It was thus a matter of who could make enough money elsewhere to wear down his competitors in Orboran, or whatever foreign country it happened to be.
Gwynfryn had been down on his luck and had recently lost an entire shipment of tech – a sizeable investment – to “desert raiders”. This in itself would not have been so bad – expensive sure, but not irreparably – but Gwynfryn had also lost his supplier of these engines to the very same “raiders”. Gwynfryn was thus lacking not only a month’s shipment of steam engines but his source too, and this was what had forced him to come to Gam and sell his own car for one. This was of course not his long term solution, but rather the measure taken to calm down the angry buyers who had paid in advance. Gwynfryn was already taking measures to gain a tea monopoly, thus gaining the financial base needed to reinvest in Oroboran. Gam was aware of all this, it was after all his “raiders”.
“Did you hear about those steam ship by the way, master Gam?”
“Yes, awful business all that. The court has been even more nervous around tech than before. Do you believe that just yesterday, I was made to wait in line with the commoners when asking for a petition? Outrageous, I say!”
Having the industrialists being treated with even more suspicion was only on of the effects of the sighting of the strange fleet; industrialists and would-be industrialists were more interested in foreign tech than ever, and government actions against the trade were harsher than before – and when the demand increases while the supply decreases, traders get filthy rich. Or dead.


“Raiders!” someone shouted, pointing to the robed figure on the dune. The caravan sprung alive; the traders hurrying to their carts, sergeants barking orders, the thumping sound of boots as soldiers rushed to their positions. Merchants and traders of Prydain had lived in symbiosis with the raiders for centuries now, and it was a well-established custom to treat attacks as mere trading by force – don’t resist and you’ll live to be robbed another day. Fair trade. But from time to time, there was this one shipment that you had to get through. This was one of them.
“Form up!” cried the commander of the band of mercenaries that had been hired to protect the cargo. The mercenaries formed the ox-carts into a rough circle around the two important-looking carts. Merchants, those that had not had the sense to take cover at least, were forcibly dragged from their carts and into the middle of the circle.
Just as gunmen were required to “secure” a ware for purchase, they were also required to make sure the ware actually made it to the buyer. And while shipments from Prydain where generally less guarded, some were more important than others and therefore more guarded. Even if the goods carried were of less than essential value, it would be bad image management of a trader to have caravan after caravan raided, and customer after customer disappointed. Image management, in the cutthroat world of tech trading, was vital. And so, these were not the usual ragtag of semi-shanghaied drunkards armed to their pathetic set of rotting teeth with rusted swords and crossbows, but actual mercenaries with modern weaponry.
“Show yourselves!” the same commander shouted to the unseen, but one, raiders. It is the true measure of every warrior, the knowledge of when and when not to fight. At least, that was what every mercenary tried to convince his employer of when trying to explain just why he gave away half the cargo instead of duking it out with a few ragheads. There is no greater selling trick known to mercenary captains than the ability to turn defeat into tactical retreat and even the smallest skirmish into an unwinnable battle. Of course, it is considered a sign of poor sportsmanship, even dishonesty, amongst mercenaries to overuse this trick. There exists a fine line between cowardice and dishonesty on one side, and the ability to fight only when one has the upper hand on the other, and this line established to pecking order in the world of mercenaries; if one was to go around and offer his services for sale and flee in the face of danger one would be despised by even the lowliest soldier of fortune, and likewise one would be the laughing stock of the world if one was so stubborn to fight each and every time. Moderation is the key.

A gout of hot steam and oil erupted from a nozzle in the back of the soldier. Wiping sweat from his brow with a filthy hand, Crowe lived up to the title of engine sergeant, plunging his arms into his charge until all that was visible of them was the top of his rolled-up sleeves. Finding the problem, a cracked steam line, he started to unscrew it with a miniature wrench tucked into his left palm. The column had not been able to stop to let him do his repairs, so Crowe tried to hurry and get his charge operational again before he lost sight of his unit.

All ready the sun was drifting dangerously near the horizon, wan beams of light barely providing enough illumination for Crowe to finish the job. The pressure having been relieved by the valve in the back of the clockwork man, the broken pipe came out of place readily. Winding it back through the twisting chest of the machine was another matter. With many oaths and much cursing the frustrated engineer extracted the piece and set about replacing it. Eventually satisfied with his work, Crowe withdrew his arms once more and told the machine to activate. Listening to his voice, the soldier sparked into a fuller form or life, shrugging off the hibernative state it had been in while under repair. Immediately it set off to rejoin the rest of its kind, smoke chugging from exhaust plumes as it sped on. Cleaning himself with a once-white rag that was no longer, Crowe hurried after it, intent on catching up. In the distance, the distinctive shape of the rest of the corporate soldiers was easily visible despite the shrinking light. They were gathered around something, Crowe could see that. Almost stumbling down a hill in the act, he brought out his scope and zoomed in as best he could. Tracks. Something had been in the area recently, and judging by the equine make of them it wasn’t the missing column.

***

“Sir,” shouted a lookout from atop his tower, “something is happening to the airship!” Snapping into action, Tul grabbed back the lens and zoomed into the ship, just in time to see it calve. Two shapes flitted away from the bulky black specter, jetting quickly towards the expeditionary fleet. Flak guns swiveled on their bases as they tracked the shapes, but the officers on deck waved them off.

“Let them get closer, see what their intentions are,” Tul instructed the nearest NCO. Turning on his heel, he made his way back to the cabins and the guests he had thus far neglected.

It was very clear in that evening that Manya (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/33/Hussarballad.jpg) was becoming effectively the ruler of the small town of Engelsgradd as Saratov was gradually replacing his role in politics for his role in engineering. First it was just on the last Fridays of each month that he would usually let her to manage the town, but now it had become so commonplace that she even was unofficially promoted and people already called her with the title of Vice-commissar. Perhaps that would be a stepping stone for her to get into the heart of the Party, but for as the sole of her shoes touched the stone streets of now the gloomy and dark town, her eyes tried to accompany the shadows formed by the common lampposts and by the natural bright of the moon as she passed through several houses of red and white bricks. It was just more five blocks ahead before finally getting into her home.
Even though that quaint little town was completely safe, asides from that recent problem with the thieves, a notable exception to its calmness, she had an intuition there was something wrong, a fear that started to grow as she observed her surroundings of several houses and an entire block dedicated to a single town square further ahead and drew a revolver from her belt she tended to carry with her recently. When she crossed the street to the next block, a cold, unsettling thing could be felt pressing against her neck as an assailant came from seemingly nowhere behind her and tightened a garrote around her neck, ready to kill her immediately, with her breath becoming difficult due to its pressure. The fear that stroke her from such unexpected event had led her to tremble slightly as the man, while still forcing the garrote against her neck came to her ear and whispered:

"Drop your gun, lay down now, close your eyes, stay quiet and don't move or struggle... or you will be dead before you can even feel it".
The assailant removed the garrote from her neck as she immediately dropped her revolver on the ground, but at the same time the barrel of another revolver could be felt touching the back of her head as she complied and laid down on the cold stone ground of that street. Soon she could feel those brutes grabbing her legs with their large, rough hands, and pulling up the legs of her brownish red pants to reveal the pale, delicate skin of her ankles, and then removing her shoes, grappling her ankles together as she struck in despair fearing what was about to come. a stretch of rope could be felt surrounding her ankles as it was passed around her legs and she trembled afraid of what they were going to do with her. Soon her hands were put together at her back as well with a rope as those hands kept touching her while pulling the sleeves of her red suede jacket. She was flimsy as they finally blindfolded her, whoever they were, and she could feel her body being lifted against one of their shoulders as Manya could feel herself hanging uncomfortably.

In a few minutes she felt a painful drop against a surface as several hands pushed her body into a very uncomfortable fetal position, followed by the strong sound of a thump, she assumed they threw her inside a large chest as her muscles started to ache from the discomfort. And finally as she was almost dying of fear, being one of the more superstitious crowd around Soviet Steam, considering all the legends about the infamous myth about a deathless man who captures young woman for him, but such thoughts were quickly dismissed, as the stories never happened beyond the main continent where Soviet Steam was located. But still the fear continued to leap into her, crawling on her skin, as she had no idea on what they would do with her and why they captured her.

At that street, the only thing that remained were her shoes and socks, with a note written in blood in her socks with a very ugly script: "5 tons gold. Next Wednesday, 4:15 PM, 40 kilometers south-south-east from this town". Maybe it was ironic such location was the opposite of the place where they expected to find these low-lives and instead provoked an unnecessary conflict and foolishly possibly acquired a new enemy.

----------------------------

They did their best, till the very end... but it was no avail, they were not holding a ravine or very narrow valley, or another place where they would force the Insh Al Ikwan to attack them in small, tightened lines to give them an asymmetric warfare advantage of terrain, and neither they were physically well before as the desert took part of their stamina before the battle.
The fact was, private Onoff never expected so large numbers to come thereafter and he knew they have made a huge mistake, one that should his captain be alive would lead him to be condemned to death by firing squad for provoking a diplomatic disaster through sheer incompetence or lack of foresight to order their mission to be stopped for a while as they were too tired to think properly when they spotted those natives. As the natives captured him he seemed to be both afraid and defiant, they spoke several strange words to him in languages he could not understand at all as he looked at them confused. When the man pulled his knife he immediately thought he was going to be killed, something which he was not afraid of, as he expected to probably have the same fate in Soviet Steam as a punishment for negligence and not discussing with his captain about his completely questionable orders before they engaged into that combat.

He seemed a bit shocked as the man carved some sign at his cheek instead of killing him, and he seemed to resist quite well to the pain from it. His look now seemed genuinely of someone who was deeply sorry for all that happened as the nomad showed him how to ride one of the camels, he had little to say, but he seemed also ashamed to have engaged or not questioned such bloodshed. He tried to start something as he, with his eyes lowered, pointed to himself and said: "Yevgeni Onoff" as they marched towards Engelsgradd. At the same time the 12th cavalry of Soviet Steam was heading towards the direction of the Nomads, after arriving at the town for gathering some additional supplies for their trip.

----------------------------

As the next day came, Saratov was again at his office rather than occupied with his inventions. It was strange Manya did not arrive yet as she never came late. Suddenly an young boy reached his cabinet in a rush, bumping its doors as he looked at him with worried eyes. He was carrying a pair of brown womanly shoes and black socks with blood.

"Comrade Saratov! There is a very urgent problem! Manya was kidnapped and here is the message the criminals left!", he shouted to him uneducatedly at his cabinet.
Although he would initially scold the boy for the way he went storming into his room, when he heard him mentioned Manya he immediately let it pass as he looked at the boy, who gave him the socks with the written words: "5 tons gold. Next Wednesday, 4:15 PM, 40 kilometers south-south-east from this town"

Saratov punched his desk and said to the boy, angered: "What! Those thieves took her? Five tons of gold from our collective economy? Tell the nearest division of cavalry besides the ones looking for our 85th Infantry to head to that position indicated in the message and give them five tons of shots!"

"But comrade? Won't they kill her if you solve this issue such way?", the young man asked, as he heard the way Saratov replied.

"Listen boy. Do you know how many hospitals can be built with the export of five tons of gold to help the sick and alleviate the pain of the dying? Do you know how many schools can be constructed with the value of such amount of gold to give our people the best technological education in the world? And finally, do you think those capitalist thugs will stop kidnapping people in their foolish belief there are more important people than others here after the payment of this ransom? No, they won't, they will only then continue preying on us like the parasites they are. Manya, she is a great woman with much potential to grow in the Party, but she is not more important than the people who could need the wealth of such gold for healthcare, food, shelter and other needs. Not even the life of our current Dictator is more important than that of a simple farmer, because without the farmer the Dictator would be only a starving pile of bones."

"I understand comrade, I'll deliver your message to the 10th Cavalry regiment in Parisgradd to the northeast to find and kill those bandits based on these coordinates, but if you allow me, I'll give them an order to send an unarmed caravan ahead of them with chests of fools gold, so they can lure them to get Manya to them safely, and be killed later."

Saratov smiled to the messenger: "Clever boy you are Triskov, this is the sixth suggestion you gave me this month, I believe you have potential to be promoted next year to be Manya's assistant once I leave the position of commissar to her, if she comes back alive."
The boy simply smiled and replied humbly "Thank you comrade, I do what I can to help the Soviet. I will send the message to the 10th Cavalry, they shall handle the fool's gold chests into a caravan as well", he replied as he turned his back to leave Saratov's cabinet. However Saratov interrupted him with another question:

"Wait Triskov, do you have any reports from the 12th Cavalry regarding the fate of the 75th Infantry?"
"I am afraid I do not have, comrade Saratov, now before I leave may I ask you a question: any prediction on when the Commissariat of Public Works will finished the laying of telephone lines to our town?"
"From the reports I have available, I believe in the next month they shall be finished Triskov, and yes, they will be very helpful if that's what you are thinking about.", he replied as the young man finally left his cabinet. Regarding the 12th Cavalry, they did not yet met the nomads heading to their town, something which would happen pretty soon at this rate though.

-------------------------

Nothing of interest was spotted during their travel as Sergei Ganov headed to his bunk to sleep. In the next day as he woke up, the airship was already landed on the sands as they got down using a pair rope ladders, followed by their supplies being literally thrown to the ground from the airship inside a single box covered by large quantities of pillows to amortize the impact of the fall. Ganov looked at the three other men as he unopened the box with their help. There was a large mountain to their east, and the entrance to the cave was visible, being about 200 meters away from their location. Inside the box, besides electric lamps, there were also an old camera they used for registering interesting findings, gunpowder and several revolvers and bullets they took with them, holstering them on the light brown belts of their desert beige colored uniforms while one of them carried the camera and its tripod. The box was left there, empty as they started to head to the cave entrance, walking through the sands. Ganov was on the lead as after their walk they were just facing its entrance, which was tight and barely large enough to fit an human inside. In a line they entered, one by one, inside that cave, with the last one pulling the tripod ahead of him first while Ganov already turned on his electric lamp and started to survey the entrance of that cavern for anything of notice, with some fear as in the main land of Soviet Steam caves tended to have more things than only those science could explain.

OOC: Going off to Uruguay for a week, so I wont post, if this is still alive anyways.