Jenrak
21-08-2008, 17:46
The Battle on the Dunes of Allai, the waning days of the Krejeistan Empire
Sleep amongst the gunfire. Slumber in the flames.
The world of the Krejei rebels, their eyes thick with the cloudy mists of assumption, their hearts strong and ready for the taste of victory. But nothing, of all these men, could compare to the war they fought now. For whose war was it? Whose war, is this war? Where did it begin, when the Krejei generals marched from their shackles amongst the tallest towers of the Zarazego*, to the lowest, blackest coal mines in the valleys of Ascherach. When did these conditions, so terrible, so horrible, become reality? Only god knows now, but if you ask the Jenrakian, he will say it wasn’t him. If you ask the Krejei, he will say it wasn’t him. So who’s to blame?
Who’s to blame when the Krejei General Salicid marched amongst the dunes, the quiet Claws digging their wheels into the kilometre deep sands, the noise of the engines and the steam pipes from the tops of their elongated heads bursting out noxious fumes. To aircraft, it was a cloud that blocked off all visible sight, and to the soldiers that marched below it, it was a poisonous shade from the overwhelming sun. Who’s to blame when the million long men, ready after 10 years of preparation, began their genocide against the Jenrakians amongst the lowers plains, where nobody was spared – women, children, men. It was not the most horrific of events to have occurred in this damnable world, but it was nonetheless tragic. So, I ask, to all who read, will read, or have read these words – who is to blame?
Was it Rashkta, the Queen of the Jenrakian crown, the Matriarch of the Tsellian religion, as she pushed for the empire to go south, the bombardment day and night as the funds sucked dry amongst the sands? Or was it the man who influenced this attack, the General of Thorns, Authaulus, who in his broken pride demanded the capitulation of the southern provinces. Did he see unity within the Amalgamate?* Or was there something else beyond the horizon he wanted to see? The endless oceans of the Krejeistan empire? Or the infinite dunes of the Hsac camps? The slave army of the east? The technologically superior monsters of the south? Who is to blame?
Because now, amidst the march, the Krejei stand tall, readying their forces as the quick, sharp, searing cries of the jets roared through the noon air, the bright and blue sky only showing a gray haze amidst the simmering discus of the morning sun. It wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t uneasy – there was nothing but extremities of feelings. War drums rumbled in the threads, the long lines left behind like sidewinders in the sand. A snaking, marching, mobile empire as the million men prepared for their assault, the choppers roaring like locusts in the desert as apaches followed behind. Some swore, sighing softly as they marched, whilst others stopped and started. It wasn’t a long trek, but it was a difficult one. And only the fall of night gave relief to them.
Within the General’s tent, Salicid sat amongst his captains and commanders. His eyes were like the noon sun – golden discs that were fogged by a greyish shimmering, a smoky glaze that danced unevenly around his sclera. His face was young – patriotic, idealistic, simple – the signs of war had not yet touched him, but his hands showed that he had already felt the warmth of tragedy envelop his soul. Amidst his thin features, his piercing lips and muddy eyes, he carried a single long red line of broken flesh, a scar, draped amidst a velvet veil as he donned it carefully to hide his face. The flames danced in the tiny fireplace of a light-source, the merry blaze casting ghostly shadows upon his long face. His eyes, ever so haunting, looked at the others – all gaunt, all thin, all of them like him – young and idealistic, leading an army that men their age should not have led.
Men their age died in armies, died in wars. Not led them.
Salicid’s eyes still lingered, the gazes of his men looking at him. “We stole a single Claw, but what about the artillery? Can we reasonably fit them into the logistics?” He asked, his finger tipping upon the flames, the small incense-like stench of his pipe giving off a wafting fume. It smelled like death, and he relished in its stench. “The Jenrakians have taken too much from our country, and we’re stuck in this?”
“We’ve been staying on their good side a good decade now, Salicid. Their Queen is likely to strike back at us if we aren’t very precise.” One of his generals, a straw-yellow haired man with a burnt lip and a white eye answered. One side was the face of a youth – pampered yet hard-working, carefree yet worrisome. The other side was the face of war, as the smallest stitches of where bullet wounds kissed his cheek, knife wounds touched his eye, and what seemed to be an acidic burn upon his mouth revealed a shrapnel shower scar, like fleshy worms dug deep into his features, writhing and crawling.
“Mnemus, I understand how this can be a problem, but we need to keep pressing.” Salicid answered, his voice haughty with grief and stress. “I mean, the quicker we get there, the quicker we can regroup, wait for Saulok’s orders and then make our move, right?”
“What’s with the flawed thinking, General Salicid?” There was an icy tone in Mnemus’ voice, laced with pitiful and shameful disapproval. “We can’t march a million men in three sections from Erabosa to Horsingra in a span of a week. We have enough men searching for us already, and if the Temsplace* find us, you know that even if we can find a way to fight back against them, then there’s always, always, the Glassmen who will come after us.” He reasoned. “Please, just keep the march at a decent pace.”
“The problem is that the Jenrakians have sentries amongst the Viraigius, so there’s no point in keeping a steady pace, it just takes a longer time for them to mobilize an army against us.” His arguments fell through.
“They’re not expecting one here. That’s the entire purpose of having Halihus hold off whatever forces on the other end, right? If we can just divert their attention to the larger groups, then the million man march will, hopefully, get us to the Nahm.* Then, after that, we can just establish a settlement, take up enough of our forces and the Claw to create a reasonable line.”
“Fuck, Mnemus, lines don’t work!” Salicid yelled. He was brilliant, but he was young, and fell to the pride of his youth. “We need to take advantage of the terrain when we get to the Nahm.”
“Then how about this?” He took away the scribbled map and pulled out a fresh one, the images of satellites revealing the multiple airstrips amongst the monotone fields. “We don’t hit them immediately. We wait until they move, then we have a diversionary tactic that will force their bombers to move. Then, when their aircraft are out, we take the remaining airstrips that are there, then take what we can, build a logistics line. We can refuel in the towns nearby, and if they won’t co-operate, we can just take them by force.”
“Can force hold them?” He looked at the maps. “The population is probably at city level. One town,” Salicid touched the map, “is likely eighty thousand or so. Another town is likely seventy thousand. If they provide resistance – “
“They won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” Mnemus answered, his hands on Salicid’s head. “Why don’t you rest? You’re tired, right? C’mon. We can figure it out in a bit more detail later, earlier in the morning. It’s already past midnight now, so the encampment is probably asleep. We can’t get anywhere here.” He answered, as Salicid’s eyes began to droop.
“No, I need to – “ A quick slip of the barrel was heard, as Mnemus’ hands revealed a small knife, laced in a pungent poison as he held Salicid’s head tight towards his body, covering the needle.
“No, General Salicid, you need to sleep. You don’t have to see this. All this time, no wars for you, just everything at the command center. A rebel army led by a youth. No discipline, not knowing what the battlefield is really like.” He clenched his fingers around Salicid’s face, leaving bruised marks as his nails dug deep into his General’s face, blood drawn in his rage. “No discipline at all.” He sighed, his sighs breaking up as tears trickled down in misty veils, mixing with the thick red blood on his fingertips. His pride had stung him at last, to be bested a youth who had never tasted his own blood, or gave up his better prime years to serve his country.
For country? What bullshit. Only the Jenrakian bills in his wallet drove him now. The dawn was coming, and his men were blind to the sunlight’s grace.
That night, the Glassmen came. As black shadows within the already blackened night, they were unseen as they crept, bombs lit up in the dunes, large flaring mushrooming clouds like a garden of mayhem split amongst the sands. The soldiers roared, and yet some were still sleepy, looking about when the tents were gunned down. Quiet was in Mnemus’ tent, still holding Salicid’s body as he cried, the soldiers rushing to his command as they turned back in his treachery.
Vizi-Repeaters smashed the front lines, a wall of fire and mountains of lead moving onwards as the Temsplace fired long fiery fingers of rockets through the night. A cobweb of enemy fire danced through the air, unseen, stenchless, yet still the smoky smells of a strong cordite lingering the air. Rivers of copper water in the sands, drenching them with a reddish hue as for the first time, flies hung around in the desert longer than ever.
The Krejei army, as skilled as it was, did not have the resources to fight off the enemy. Battalions built trenches that did nothing but get bombed, and in the midst of the fight, Jenrakian gunfire did not end. Without Salicid, a proper defensive could not be mounted. Their leader, silent, was a corpse within the heart of the camp. Men, without hope, began to surrender, without foresight of the future. They were youth. They were men who had given the better years of their lives for their country, only to see it fall. They did not see the world as many did. It was their first time, and their last. The Krejei army had seen war for what it was, in all its brutal entirety.
They had slept in the gunfire, and slumbered in the flames.
And they were sick of it.
*The tallest tower in Jenrak, known better as the location of foreign POWs during wartimes
*The term used for the Empire of Jenrak, consisting of 96 smaller provinces united under a single economic and religious focus
*Religious warriors trained from birth to enforce the Church's will, Temsplace are powerful soldiers that act as sentient tanks and serve an anti-armor purpose, though are still capable of rank and command. The Glassmen, on the other hand, are stealth soldiers meant for enemy disruption, and is the term used for the department in Jenrak dealing with both covert operations and espionage
*A large lake in the desert that is the runoff source of the Viraigius, Jenrak's largest river
Sleep amongst the gunfire. Slumber in the flames.
The world of the Krejei rebels, their eyes thick with the cloudy mists of assumption, their hearts strong and ready for the taste of victory. But nothing, of all these men, could compare to the war they fought now. For whose war was it? Whose war, is this war? Where did it begin, when the Krejei generals marched from their shackles amongst the tallest towers of the Zarazego*, to the lowest, blackest coal mines in the valleys of Ascherach. When did these conditions, so terrible, so horrible, become reality? Only god knows now, but if you ask the Jenrakian, he will say it wasn’t him. If you ask the Krejei, he will say it wasn’t him. So who’s to blame?
Who’s to blame when the Krejei General Salicid marched amongst the dunes, the quiet Claws digging their wheels into the kilometre deep sands, the noise of the engines and the steam pipes from the tops of their elongated heads bursting out noxious fumes. To aircraft, it was a cloud that blocked off all visible sight, and to the soldiers that marched below it, it was a poisonous shade from the overwhelming sun. Who’s to blame when the million long men, ready after 10 years of preparation, began their genocide against the Jenrakians amongst the lowers plains, where nobody was spared – women, children, men. It was not the most horrific of events to have occurred in this damnable world, but it was nonetheless tragic. So, I ask, to all who read, will read, or have read these words – who is to blame?
Was it Rashkta, the Queen of the Jenrakian crown, the Matriarch of the Tsellian religion, as she pushed for the empire to go south, the bombardment day and night as the funds sucked dry amongst the sands? Or was it the man who influenced this attack, the General of Thorns, Authaulus, who in his broken pride demanded the capitulation of the southern provinces. Did he see unity within the Amalgamate?* Or was there something else beyond the horizon he wanted to see? The endless oceans of the Krejeistan empire? Or the infinite dunes of the Hsac camps? The slave army of the east? The technologically superior monsters of the south? Who is to blame?
Because now, amidst the march, the Krejei stand tall, readying their forces as the quick, sharp, searing cries of the jets roared through the noon air, the bright and blue sky only showing a gray haze amidst the simmering discus of the morning sun. It wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t uneasy – there was nothing but extremities of feelings. War drums rumbled in the threads, the long lines left behind like sidewinders in the sand. A snaking, marching, mobile empire as the million men prepared for their assault, the choppers roaring like locusts in the desert as apaches followed behind. Some swore, sighing softly as they marched, whilst others stopped and started. It wasn’t a long trek, but it was a difficult one. And only the fall of night gave relief to them.
Within the General’s tent, Salicid sat amongst his captains and commanders. His eyes were like the noon sun – golden discs that were fogged by a greyish shimmering, a smoky glaze that danced unevenly around his sclera. His face was young – patriotic, idealistic, simple – the signs of war had not yet touched him, but his hands showed that he had already felt the warmth of tragedy envelop his soul. Amidst his thin features, his piercing lips and muddy eyes, he carried a single long red line of broken flesh, a scar, draped amidst a velvet veil as he donned it carefully to hide his face. The flames danced in the tiny fireplace of a light-source, the merry blaze casting ghostly shadows upon his long face. His eyes, ever so haunting, looked at the others – all gaunt, all thin, all of them like him – young and idealistic, leading an army that men their age should not have led.
Men their age died in armies, died in wars. Not led them.
Salicid’s eyes still lingered, the gazes of his men looking at him. “We stole a single Claw, but what about the artillery? Can we reasonably fit them into the logistics?” He asked, his finger tipping upon the flames, the small incense-like stench of his pipe giving off a wafting fume. It smelled like death, and he relished in its stench. “The Jenrakians have taken too much from our country, and we’re stuck in this?”
“We’ve been staying on their good side a good decade now, Salicid. Their Queen is likely to strike back at us if we aren’t very precise.” One of his generals, a straw-yellow haired man with a burnt lip and a white eye answered. One side was the face of a youth – pampered yet hard-working, carefree yet worrisome. The other side was the face of war, as the smallest stitches of where bullet wounds kissed his cheek, knife wounds touched his eye, and what seemed to be an acidic burn upon his mouth revealed a shrapnel shower scar, like fleshy worms dug deep into his features, writhing and crawling.
“Mnemus, I understand how this can be a problem, but we need to keep pressing.” Salicid answered, his voice haughty with grief and stress. “I mean, the quicker we get there, the quicker we can regroup, wait for Saulok’s orders and then make our move, right?”
“What’s with the flawed thinking, General Salicid?” There was an icy tone in Mnemus’ voice, laced with pitiful and shameful disapproval. “We can’t march a million men in three sections from Erabosa to Horsingra in a span of a week. We have enough men searching for us already, and if the Temsplace* find us, you know that even if we can find a way to fight back against them, then there’s always, always, the Glassmen who will come after us.” He reasoned. “Please, just keep the march at a decent pace.”
“The problem is that the Jenrakians have sentries amongst the Viraigius, so there’s no point in keeping a steady pace, it just takes a longer time for them to mobilize an army against us.” His arguments fell through.
“They’re not expecting one here. That’s the entire purpose of having Halihus hold off whatever forces on the other end, right? If we can just divert their attention to the larger groups, then the million man march will, hopefully, get us to the Nahm.* Then, after that, we can just establish a settlement, take up enough of our forces and the Claw to create a reasonable line.”
“Fuck, Mnemus, lines don’t work!” Salicid yelled. He was brilliant, but he was young, and fell to the pride of his youth. “We need to take advantage of the terrain when we get to the Nahm.”
“Then how about this?” He took away the scribbled map and pulled out a fresh one, the images of satellites revealing the multiple airstrips amongst the monotone fields. “We don’t hit them immediately. We wait until they move, then we have a diversionary tactic that will force their bombers to move. Then, when their aircraft are out, we take the remaining airstrips that are there, then take what we can, build a logistics line. We can refuel in the towns nearby, and if they won’t co-operate, we can just take them by force.”
“Can force hold them?” He looked at the maps. “The population is probably at city level. One town,” Salicid touched the map, “is likely eighty thousand or so. Another town is likely seventy thousand. If they provide resistance – “
“They won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” Mnemus answered, his hands on Salicid’s head. “Why don’t you rest? You’re tired, right? C’mon. We can figure it out in a bit more detail later, earlier in the morning. It’s already past midnight now, so the encampment is probably asleep. We can’t get anywhere here.” He answered, as Salicid’s eyes began to droop.
“No, I need to – “ A quick slip of the barrel was heard, as Mnemus’ hands revealed a small knife, laced in a pungent poison as he held Salicid’s head tight towards his body, covering the needle.
“No, General Salicid, you need to sleep. You don’t have to see this. All this time, no wars for you, just everything at the command center. A rebel army led by a youth. No discipline, not knowing what the battlefield is really like.” He clenched his fingers around Salicid’s face, leaving bruised marks as his nails dug deep into his General’s face, blood drawn in his rage. “No discipline at all.” He sighed, his sighs breaking up as tears trickled down in misty veils, mixing with the thick red blood on his fingertips. His pride had stung him at last, to be bested a youth who had never tasted his own blood, or gave up his better prime years to serve his country.
For country? What bullshit. Only the Jenrakian bills in his wallet drove him now. The dawn was coming, and his men were blind to the sunlight’s grace.
That night, the Glassmen came. As black shadows within the already blackened night, they were unseen as they crept, bombs lit up in the dunes, large flaring mushrooming clouds like a garden of mayhem split amongst the sands. The soldiers roared, and yet some were still sleepy, looking about when the tents were gunned down. Quiet was in Mnemus’ tent, still holding Salicid’s body as he cried, the soldiers rushing to his command as they turned back in his treachery.
Vizi-Repeaters smashed the front lines, a wall of fire and mountains of lead moving onwards as the Temsplace fired long fiery fingers of rockets through the night. A cobweb of enemy fire danced through the air, unseen, stenchless, yet still the smoky smells of a strong cordite lingering the air. Rivers of copper water in the sands, drenching them with a reddish hue as for the first time, flies hung around in the desert longer than ever.
The Krejei army, as skilled as it was, did not have the resources to fight off the enemy. Battalions built trenches that did nothing but get bombed, and in the midst of the fight, Jenrakian gunfire did not end. Without Salicid, a proper defensive could not be mounted. Their leader, silent, was a corpse within the heart of the camp. Men, without hope, began to surrender, without foresight of the future. They were youth. They were men who had given the better years of their lives for their country, only to see it fall. They did not see the world as many did. It was their first time, and their last. The Krejei army had seen war for what it was, in all its brutal entirety.
They had slept in the gunfire, and slumbered in the flames.
And they were sick of it.
*The tallest tower in Jenrak, known better as the location of foreign POWs during wartimes
*The term used for the Empire of Jenrak, consisting of 96 smaller provinces united under a single economic and religious focus
*Religious warriors trained from birth to enforce the Church's will, Temsplace are powerful soldiers that act as sentient tanks and serve an anti-armor purpose, though are still capable of rank and command. The Glassmen, on the other hand, are stealth soldiers meant for enemy disruption, and is the term used for the department in Jenrak dealing with both covert operations and espionage
*A large lake in the desert that is the runoff source of the Viraigius, Jenrak's largest river