Dontgonearthere
21-02-2008, 10:32
Konstantinyye, The City, the Center of the World, shone like an overgrown and tastelessly large diamond. Its many spires, bell towers, churches and palaces creating a vast glow which, on especially bright days, could blind a person who stared too long. Its million or so citizens called it being 'city-struck', and would happily sell you any of a dozen %100-guarunteed to work cures.
The interior city, inside the Justinian Wall, was host to wide streets of heavily polished marble. The general public only saw these on coronations and other state occasions. And only on sufferance. At the tip of the pennensula that the Western half of the city sat on, the ancient Constantine Palace, which had grown and expanded over the centuries to include at least three other palaces. The original palace was rumoured to be buried under the chapel, although where exactly was unknown. Parts of the building were, though, a thousand years old, and riddled with history.
Blackened stone from the sacking of the city by the Rus ages ago were still visible in some places. Deep ruts in the walks flanking the main doors of the palace marked where generations of guards had patrolled.
In the newer, and far less tasteless, St. Peter Palace, Tsar Peter II, for whom the palace was certainly not named, pondered.
Currently he was pondering a map. He pondered many things, however. As was evidenced by the excessivly large pile of books which ringed the two pieces of furniture in the room that werent bookcases. One was a table. The other was a somewhat aged armchair.
His finger rested on a small dot, which represented a town. Or rather where a town used to be. The near-constant warfare between his own empire and the Eastern state had reduced it to a smoking rubble so many times that people had given up on inhabiting the place by this point, which was fine. Most of them had fled to the west.
The Tsar was a young man, although he did not look like it. He was one of those people who, by the age of twenty five, looks to be roughly fifty and will remain so for the rest of his life. A massive skylight set into the roof displayed the acidic-orange looking sky of Constantinople, an effect brought on in recent years by the increasing number of coal-powered factories in the city.
Another window provided a view of the Imperial Port, which typically serviced the better class of merchant. In the forest of masts, two or three funnels were visible, one of which was spewing the thick cloud associated with the new steam ships. Not particularly effecient, they still spoke of wealth and power. Technological power, and enough wealth to afford the massive amounts of coal they consumed.
The Tsar withdrew a pen from a drawer under the desk and drew a circle around the town, then followed up with a complex series of lines. The exact meaning of which would be quite impenetrable to anybody not inside the high command of the Imperial Army.
Silently, the map was passed off to a servant, who moved quite soundlessly across the carpeted floor, vanishing into the stacks of books as quickly as he appeared.
Within the day, the map had passed through the Straits of Marama and was on its way through the Black Sea to the front of the constant drive to expand the Empire's Eastern borders.
"First rank, FIRE!"
The drawn out 'kaa-raack!' of organized musket fire rippled down the line as the first rank of purple-clad musketeers, representing the Constantinople Regiments. Almost as soon as the sound had died away the next rank had stepped forward and was kneeling.
"Second rank, FIRE!"
The rotating fire method was nigh-impossible for any save the best-trained and drilled troops to maintain. And it wasnt particularly useful outside of certain situations, but in this case, it was perfect. The Eastern soldiers were undisciplined, though vicious, and a constant stream of fire, supplimented by the ferocity of the green-clad Russian soldiers in their charges, had rapidly broken the force sent out to meet them at the river crossing.
As the Eastern soldiers broke under the fire, encouraged by the cheers of the infantry, the attached battalions of Spanish cavalry leapt into action, as part of the well-drilled machine the Imperial Army had developed to handle these situations. Blue and white uniforms, mounted on some of the finest examples of the equine species avalible, stormed across the field, cutting down fleeing soldiers while the bulk of the infantry moved in at double-pace to secure the crossing.
With their steady advance thus-far unchecked, the Imperial forces had secured the entire Channel Pennensula with little resistance. It was theorized that the main Eastern force was massing to sweep down on them, but thus far all serious efforts had been crushed.
Just behind the line, General Kiel Reinhardt idly sipped at a cup of tea. Watching the battle with half an eye, he appeared more interested in the contents of his cup. It was not to say that he was a poor general, he was, in fact, a very good general, especially by the estimation of his men. However, he was hardly required for such battles as these, which his soldiers could easily have won on their own.
He was about to open a small tin of biscuits when the messenger appeared.
"General! Important delivery for you, sir!" The messenger ripped off a salute, perhaps creating a small sonic boom. He was freshly conscripted from a village in the Ruslands, judging by the cleanlyness of his green uniform.
"Mmmhm?" The general looked up, "Ah, yes...leave it on the table..." He leaned forward slightly, inspecting the rank insignia, "Private. I shall look at it later..."
"Beg pardon, sir, but this is from the Tsar himself! Its got the seal on it and everything!"
Reinhardt's attention, suddenly riveted on the letter, was suddenly more focused than even the best quality telescopes. The red wax sealing the letter did, indeed, bear the Imperial Seal. Nobody else was permitted to use the double-eagle...
The general ripped the seal off and quickly removed the letter itself.
A short time later, he smiled. His previous lethargy banished.
"We've got orders...we're going to make a real advance, finally. Private, go to the colonels and tell them to prepare to break camp. We've got a long march ahead of us..."
The interior city, inside the Justinian Wall, was host to wide streets of heavily polished marble. The general public only saw these on coronations and other state occasions. And only on sufferance. At the tip of the pennensula that the Western half of the city sat on, the ancient Constantine Palace, which had grown and expanded over the centuries to include at least three other palaces. The original palace was rumoured to be buried under the chapel, although where exactly was unknown. Parts of the building were, though, a thousand years old, and riddled with history.
Blackened stone from the sacking of the city by the Rus ages ago were still visible in some places. Deep ruts in the walks flanking the main doors of the palace marked where generations of guards had patrolled.
In the newer, and far less tasteless, St. Peter Palace, Tsar Peter II, for whom the palace was certainly not named, pondered.
Currently he was pondering a map. He pondered many things, however. As was evidenced by the excessivly large pile of books which ringed the two pieces of furniture in the room that werent bookcases. One was a table. The other was a somewhat aged armchair.
His finger rested on a small dot, which represented a town. Or rather where a town used to be. The near-constant warfare between his own empire and the Eastern state had reduced it to a smoking rubble so many times that people had given up on inhabiting the place by this point, which was fine. Most of them had fled to the west.
The Tsar was a young man, although he did not look like it. He was one of those people who, by the age of twenty five, looks to be roughly fifty and will remain so for the rest of his life. A massive skylight set into the roof displayed the acidic-orange looking sky of Constantinople, an effect brought on in recent years by the increasing number of coal-powered factories in the city.
Another window provided a view of the Imperial Port, which typically serviced the better class of merchant. In the forest of masts, two or three funnels were visible, one of which was spewing the thick cloud associated with the new steam ships. Not particularly effecient, they still spoke of wealth and power. Technological power, and enough wealth to afford the massive amounts of coal they consumed.
The Tsar withdrew a pen from a drawer under the desk and drew a circle around the town, then followed up with a complex series of lines. The exact meaning of which would be quite impenetrable to anybody not inside the high command of the Imperial Army.
Silently, the map was passed off to a servant, who moved quite soundlessly across the carpeted floor, vanishing into the stacks of books as quickly as he appeared.
Within the day, the map had passed through the Straits of Marama and was on its way through the Black Sea to the front of the constant drive to expand the Empire's Eastern borders.
"First rank, FIRE!"
The drawn out 'kaa-raack!' of organized musket fire rippled down the line as the first rank of purple-clad musketeers, representing the Constantinople Regiments. Almost as soon as the sound had died away the next rank had stepped forward and was kneeling.
"Second rank, FIRE!"
The rotating fire method was nigh-impossible for any save the best-trained and drilled troops to maintain. And it wasnt particularly useful outside of certain situations, but in this case, it was perfect. The Eastern soldiers were undisciplined, though vicious, and a constant stream of fire, supplimented by the ferocity of the green-clad Russian soldiers in their charges, had rapidly broken the force sent out to meet them at the river crossing.
As the Eastern soldiers broke under the fire, encouraged by the cheers of the infantry, the attached battalions of Spanish cavalry leapt into action, as part of the well-drilled machine the Imperial Army had developed to handle these situations. Blue and white uniforms, mounted on some of the finest examples of the equine species avalible, stormed across the field, cutting down fleeing soldiers while the bulk of the infantry moved in at double-pace to secure the crossing.
With their steady advance thus-far unchecked, the Imperial forces had secured the entire Channel Pennensula with little resistance. It was theorized that the main Eastern force was massing to sweep down on them, but thus far all serious efforts had been crushed.
Just behind the line, General Kiel Reinhardt idly sipped at a cup of tea. Watching the battle with half an eye, he appeared more interested in the contents of his cup. It was not to say that he was a poor general, he was, in fact, a very good general, especially by the estimation of his men. However, he was hardly required for such battles as these, which his soldiers could easily have won on their own.
He was about to open a small tin of biscuits when the messenger appeared.
"General! Important delivery for you, sir!" The messenger ripped off a salute, perhaps creating a small sonic boom. He was freshly conscripted from a village in the Ruslands, judging by the cleanlyness of his green uniform.
"Mmmhm?" The general looked up, "Ah, yes...leave it on the table..." He leaned forward slightly, inspecting the rank insignia, "Private. I shall look at it later..."
"Beg pardon, sir, but this is from the Tsar himself! Its got the seal on it and everything!"
Reinhardt's attention, suddenly riveted on the letter, was suddenly more focused than even the best quality telescopes. The red wax sealing the letter did, indeed, bear the Imperial Seal. Nobody else was permitted to use the double-eagle...
The general ripped the seal off and quickly removed the letter itself.
A short time later, he smiled. His previous lethargy banished.
"We've got orders...we're going to make a real advance, finally. Private, go to the colonels and tell them to prepare to break camp. We've got a long march ahead of us..."