Thrashia
09-07-2008, 12:42
Sharnhorst Colony (http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b184/Upum/Modern%20Tech%20Thrashia/anchorome-1.gif) | November 5th ~ 2100 Hours
Few quite remember the days when the Empire of Thrashia first began founding colonies of its own on a global scale. Like the dilapidated British Empire of the past, Thrashia used maritime and strong ground forces to bludgeon its way through indigenous nations and international foes alike in order to found what would become the greatness that was Thrashia. But those times are long over and the last people who saw them, are dead and dust. Where once the Empire ruled more than a dozen colonies of significant size it had now been reduced to one: a sole survivor of the old ways, old ways that spelt blood for a generation.
And that was Sharnhorst.
- - - - - - - -
Governor Mikhail Paulus sat on his villa’s balcony sipping from a porcelain cup, worth perhaps five grand. The chair and table he sat at were worth even more. In fact the entire villa, more than 10,000 square feet in size, he lived in and all the belongings in it were worth a fortune large enough to feed hundreds of thousands for perhaps weeks.
And yet for all of that money and the wealth he had from his position as governor, Paulus could not do anything about the noise; a terribly annoying, ear provocating shrill that no doubt came from some idiot whore’s child. Paulus stood up and walked over to the edge of his balcony, its overlook of the sea a marvelous contrast to the view below. Looking down into the muddy streets of Karlvarn he saw a child in dirty rags, tears running down his face, standing on a street corner squealing like a stuck pig. Other citizens walked about, ignoring the child, as if they couldn’t hear him. Well Paulus certainly could.
“Guard!” Paulus called. He walked back to his chair and sat down, once more taking up his tea cup. A younger man wearing a navy blue uniform and wielding an AK-74 at his shoulder entered and saluted.
“Yes sir, Governor?”
“There is a horrible sound coming from below, from a child. Be as so kind as to fix the situation please?” Paulus made an annoyed face, as if the noise still coming from below was self evident enough.
With a nod the guard walked over to the edge of the balcony. Un-slung his assault rifle and took careful aim. His shot was punctuated by another sip of Red China tea, Paulus’ favourite brew. After the echo of the shot faded, Paulus let out a sigh of contentment. At last his ears could rest!
- - - - - - - - - - -
Jason Kraals stooped down next to the dead child lying in the street. Blood was flowing smoothly out from the wound, and it covered Jason’s hand. He glanced up to see one of the Provincial Guard, wearing their iconic blue uniform, turning away and re-slinging his rifle. He stood on the balcony of the governor’s villa. It was perfectly clear who had had the boy shot. Jason had turned onto the street but moments ago. When he saw the boy was crying and screaming he’d been about to take the boy away and help him. Now there was no need.
Cursing Governor Paulus and all his kin to the devil and back, Jason stood and wiped his hands on the side of his shirt. He was dressed in khaki pants and a faded, white button up long sleeve shirt. A gold medallion hung from his neck, barely visible between the flaps of his shirt collar. He picked up the suit case he’d been carrying and turned away from the dead body of the child. There was nothing he could do now to avenge the boy, but later he would repay it ten-fold. Of that he was sure of. Revenge on all of the Imperialist pigs who ran Sharnhorst in the name of the Thrashian Empire.
The streets of Karlvarn were not very wide. Large enough to permit one vehicle to go down them, one-way, and with just barely enough space for the pedestrians to squeeze against walls to avoid being run over. Only the rich drove cars however, and the military drove tanks. Regular citizens were forced to walk, run, or pay a man to give you a ride in a small push cart. Jason, carrying a piece of luggage half as big as he was, had trouble making sure that it didn’t get side swiped out of his hand, and hope that none of the Provincial Guard jeeps or occasional APC stopped to inspect him.
Finally he reached Petrograd Street and turned down it. The evening was fading into darkness so he hurried, not wanting to get caught outside past curfew. He came to a small door set inside the continuous lane of row houses. Above it was a small sign that had the image of a blacksmith’s hammer on it. He knocked on it three times in a syncopated rhythm. It opened a crack and a wary eye looked him over.
“Hurry, its me! Open the blasted door,” Jason said in a hushed voice, looking up and down the street around him.
“Thought you wouldn’t make it before night,” a female voice said. The door opened and Jason pushed himself and the suitcase he carried through. As soon as he was through the door closed with a snap. The light in the hall revealed a blond woman standing over the huffing Jason. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she was striking in a pleasing manner. She was also more heavily muscled than most women, due to the fact that she was a blacksmith.
“Meredith, I think next time you should go get the package. You’ve got the muscles for it and could punch any Blue Boy that tried to stop you into pulp,” said Jason.
“Thought we already had this conversation?” smiled Meredith. “I’m too busy with repairing farming tools and knitting, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah that’s what you tell me,” Jason muttered as he stood upright and palmed the suitcase. The two left the hall and entered the main house. He passed by two twin sisters sitting at a table eating soup. They grinned big when Jason made a face and waved at them. Meredith’s daughters waved back, but said nothing. It was night and curfew also meant quiet hours. Jason followed the female blacksmith into the back of the house and through a door that revealed stairs going down.
Once they were in the basement, they entered through another door and came to a room lit by a single uncovered light bulb that hung over a rickety table. Three other people were in the room sitting on mismatched chairs. Two men and another woman. Jason nodded in greeting to all of them and used both hands to throw the suitcase on top of the table.
“Well my friends, we’re almost ready. Last night I was in Morburg, before that in Baybar, and before that when I first started my trip, in New Brostin. Each of the groups in every city is ready. All that’s left is for us to prepare the finale here in the capital,” said Jason. He opened the suit case to reveal an assortment of a dozen small arms and boxes of ammunition. One of the other men, Adams, stepped up and took one of them out. It was, considered by most, an antique. It was an M1A1 Thompson submachine gun, last used probably in 1945. The rest of the small arms were a mix of Thompsons, a few newer USPs, and a single AK-47.
“We couldn’t get a hold of better stuff?” Adams asked, looking up at Jason.
“The raid on the armory in Baybar carried only enough weapons to arm the group there and in Morburg. I got these from my smuggling contacts at the docks. It’s the best they could do,” replied Jason, a note of disappointment entering his voice.
“Better these than nothing than my smithy hammer,” Meredith smiled, picking up the AK-47 and stepping over to a wall. She pulled aside the heavily laden bookcase that was standing there to reveal a hidden closet. Dozens of other weapons, grenades, and ammunition were already hidden there. In a matter of minutes the weapons from the suitcase were stowed inside. Jason took one of the USPs and put it in a hidden holster under his shirt, he’d had to get rid of his old one yesterday after it fell into the River Oder on his way back from Morburg.
Meredith turned around and looked at Jason. “So, are we set?”
“Yes. I’ve got one more drop off to make of weapons to Jimmy’s group on the West side tomorrow morning. That afternoon I’ll give the signal and we will crush these oppressive fascist, imperialist pigs for good!”
The small group gave a muted cheer, not trusting even the brick and earth around them to fully suppress their noise. Jason looked at each of them. “You know your targets. Be ready by 1:00 pm alright? The alarm sirens will be the signal. No one act before!”
“Understood Jason,” Adams said, a wolfish grin falling across his features. “We won’t fail.”
Jason nodded then turned and left the room.
OOC: This is a closed thread. But at the same time, open. If you would like to join in, then please TG me and I will consider it. This rp is not about who has the bigger ORBAT or a number crunching nubcack-pile up. This is, essentially, a character rp, but with strategic and tactical overtones. So please, if you do get in to join, don't post up an ORBAT as a first post, its just annoying. Just saying "a division" or a "army corp" with single number mentioned is enough.
Few quite remember the days when the Empire of Thrashia first began founding colonies of its own on a global scale. Like the dilapidated British Empire of the past, Thrashia used maritime and strong ground forces to bludgeon its way through indigenous nations and international foes alike in order to found what would become the greatness that was Thrashia. But those times are long over and the last people who saw them, are dead and dust. Where once the Empire ruled more than a dozen colonies of significant size it had now been reduced to one: a sole survivor of the old ways, old ways that spelt blood for a generation.
And that was Sharnhorst.
- - - - - - - -
Governor Mikhail Paulus sat on his villa’s balcony sipping from a porcelain cup, worth perhaps five grand. The chair and table he sat at were worth even more. In fact the entire villa, more than 10,000 square feet in size, he lived in and all the belongings in it were worth a fortune large enough to feed hundreds of thousands for perhaps weeks.
And yet for all of that money and the wealth he had from his position as governor, Paulus could not do anything about the noise; a terribly annoying, ear provocating shrill that no doubt came from some idiot whore’s child. Paulus stood up and walked over to the edge of his balcony, its overlook of the sea a marvelous contrast to the view below. Looking down into the muddy streets of Karlvarn he saw a child in dirty rags, tears running down his face, standing on a street corner squealing like a stuck pig. Other citizens walked about, ignoring the child, as if they couldn’t hear him. Well Paulus certainly could.
“Guard!” Paulus called. He walked back to his chair and sat down, once more taking up his tea cup. A younger man wearing a navy blue uniform and wielding an AK-74 at his shoulder entered and saluted.
“Yes sir, Governor?”
“There is a horrible sound coming from below, from a child. Be as so kind as to fix the situation please?” Paulus made an annoyed face, as if the noise still coming from below was self evident enough.
With a nod the guard walked over to the edge of the balcony. Un-slung his assault rifle and took careful aim. His shot was punctuated by another sip of Red China tea, Paulus’ favourite brew. After the echo of the shot faded, Paulus let out a sigh of contentment. At last his ears could rest!
- - - - - - - - - - -
Jason Kraals stooped down next to the dead child lying in the street. Blood was flowing smoothly out from the wound, and it covered Jason’s hand. He glanced up to see one of the Provincial Guard, wearing their iconic blue uniform, turning away and re-slinging his rifle. He stood on the balcony of the governor’s villa. It was perfectly clear who had had the boy shot. Jason had turned onto the street but moments ago. When he saw the boy was crying and screaming he’d been about to take the boy away and help him. Now there was no need.
Cursing Governor Paulus and all his kin to the devil and back, Jason stood and wiped his hands on the side of his shirt. He was dressed in khaki pants and a faded, white button up long sleeve shirt. A gold medallion hung from his neck, barely visible between the flaps of his shirt collar. He picked up the suit case he’d been carrying and turned away from the dead body of the child. There was nothing he could do now to avenge the boy, but later he would repay it ten-fold. Of that he was sure of. Revenge on all of the Imperialist pigs who ran Sharnhorst in the name of the Thrashian Empire.
The streets of Karlvarn were not very wide. Large enough to permit one vehicle to go down them, one-way, and with just barely enough space for the pedestrians to squeeze against walls to avoid being run over. Only the rich drove cars however, and the military drove tanks. Regular citizens were forced to walk, run, or pay a man to give you a ride in a small push cart. Jason, carrying a piece of luggage half as big as he was, had trouble making sure that it didn’t get side swiped out of his hand, and hope that none of the Provincial Guard jeeps or occasional APC stopped to inspect him.
Finally he reached Petrograd Street and turned down it. The evening was fading into darkness so he hurried, not wanting to get caught outside past curfew. He came to a small door set inside the continuous lane of row houses. Above it was a small sign that had the image of a blacksmith’s hammer on it. He knocked on it three times in a syncopated rhythm. It opened a crack and a wary eye looked him over.
“Hurry, its me! Open the blasted door,” Jason said in a hushed voice, looking up and down the street around him.
“Thought you wouldn’t make it before night,” a female voice said. The door opened and Jason pushed himself and the suitcase he carried through. As soon as he was through the door closed with a snap. The light in the hall revealed a blond woman standing over the huffing Jason. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she was striking in a pleasing manner. She was also more heavily muscled than most women, due to the fact that she was a blacksmith.
“Meredith, I think next time you should go get the package. You’ve got the muscles for it and could punch any Blue Boy that tried to stop you into pulp,” said Jason.
“Thought we already had this conversation?” smiled Meredith. “I’m too busy with repairing farming tools and knitting, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah that’s what you tell me,” Jason muttered as he stood upright and palmed the suitcase. The two left the hall and entered the main house. He passed by two twin sisters sitting at a table eating soup. They grinned big when Jason made a face and waved at them. Meredith’s daughters waved back, but said nothing. It was night and curfew also meant quiet hours. Jason followed the female blacksmith into the back of the house and through a door that revealed stairs going down.
Once they were in the basement, they entered through another door and came to a room lit by a single uncovered light bulb that hung over a rickety table. Three other people were in the room sitting on mismatched chairs. Two men and another woman. Jason nodded in greeting to all of them and used both hands to throw the suitcase on top of the table.
“Well my friends, we’re almost ready. Last night I was in Morburg, before that in Baybar, and before that when I first started my trip, in New Brostin. Each of the groups in every city is ready. All that’s left is for us to prepare the finale here in the capital,” said Jason. He opened the suit case to reveal an assortment of a dozen small arms and boxes of ammunition. One of the other men, Adams, stepped up and took one of them out. It was, considered by most, an antique. It was an M1A1 Thompson submachine gun, last used probably in 1945. The rest of the small arms were a mix of Thompsons, a few newer USPs, and a single AK-47.
“We couldn’t get a hold of better stuff?” Adams asked, looking up at Jason.
“The raid on the armory in Baybar carried only enough weapons to arm the group there and in Morburg. I got these from my smuggling contacts at the docks. It’s the best they could do,” replied Jason, a note of disappointment entering his voice.
“Better these than nothing than my smithy hammer,” Meredith smiled, picking up the AK-47 and stepping over to a wall. She pulled aside the heavily laden bookcase that was standing there to reveal a hidden closet. Dozens of other weapons, grenades, and ammunition were already hidden there. In a matter of minutes the weapons from the suitcase were stowed inside. Jason took one of the USPs and put it in a hidden holster under his shirt, he’d had to get rid of his old one yesterday after it fell into the River Oder on his way back from Morburg.
Meredith turned around and looked at Jason. “So, are we set?”
“Yes. I’ve got one more drop off to make of weapons to Jimmy’s group on the West side tomorrow morning. That afternoon I’ll give the signal and we will crush these oppressive fascist, imperialist pigs for good!”
The small group gave a muted cheer, not trusting even the brick and earth around them to fully suppress their noise. Jason looked at each of them. “You know your targets. Be ready by 1:00 pm alright? The alarm sirens will be the signal. No one act before!”
“Understood Jason,” Adams said, a wolfish grin falling across his features. “We won’t fail.”
Jason nodded then turned and left the room.
OOC: This is a closed thread. But at the same time, open. If you would like to join in, then please TG me and I will consider it. This rp is not about who has the bigger ORBAT or a number crunching nubcack-pile up. This is, essentially, a character rp, but with strategic and tactical overtones. So please, if you do get in to join, don't post up an ORBAT as a first post, its just annoying. Just saying "a division" or a "army corp" with single number mentioned is enough.