NationStates Jolt Archive

The cloudless skies were unbearable because of the heat. The thick, sticky weather, feeling the clinging of skin to skin, the people walking about with umbrellas in a rainless climate, feeling only the slight tingle of a burning sensation in the intense outdoors. To and fro, within the stone metropolis, there was a giant tower, tall and erect, that seemed to be as if it were a single sword stabbing defiantly into the cerulean sky. A malicious sun draped its golden eye atop the single point, casting a weak shadow like the presence of a sundial. Though here, within the concrete jungle, there was this single tower, looming like a tiny obelisk, cast in the blackness of others, much younger.

The city of Haasdra was a sprawling city, unguarded with fortress walls and untouched by the fingers of time. It was everlasting, as the old catacombs still ran through amongst the subway stations, the tombs of ancient masters sleeping amongst the newly dead. A mix of the oldest traditions found within the dark east splashed with modern life, it was a breathing entity, a rotting beast that lived even in expiration. From the north, the large rushing currents of the emerald Viraigius smashed beneath gargantuan bridges, castles situated at their banks, overlooking the streams for invisible foes, long gone. To the south, the endless desert, infinite and without mercy, gobbling up the last bits of civilization as the dust devils reigned supreme. The smell of smog, acrid and powerful, was a cigarette to the city’s throbbing lungs.

A dandelion-coloured smog, gleaming with marigold, hung about the heavily industrial south, the tunnels crowded with people as they skittered about the underground, unwilling to risk their health in the dangerous natural air. To the east, the massive citadels, homage to old monarchs, stood like a ghost city, a skeleton of the glorious Haasdra, twisting and winding as it laid dormant and unused, quiet and broken. Enkur’s monument, a silent turret that stood supreme over all, still cast its shattered shadow upon the bone-filled valleys. Only great rivers once rushed through here, and foolish men were stuck within its furious waves.

To the west, the sea. Cold and merciless, the islands of the Arguns were only slightly visible as a purple sunrise gave way to the steaming morning. A slight cold breeze from last night’s chill still lingered about the ghostly shores, smooth and fragrant with blushing lavenders, the sapphire oceans beyond. Lone men and women walked along the shores, their footsteps the premonitions of those to come that day, as they tallied and surveyed the distance, overlooking the length towards the small chunks of land just before the horizon. Ebony turrets were graced with golden sunshine, the cold shells of artillery in their armouries.

Sudden buildings had been erected beside the shoreline, many of them tall and wealthy, like spikes that protruded on a thin cracked skin of a dying planet, sharp and withering before its broken surface. But a single shadow, erect of a building within the center of the Tsellian world, still stayed visible from north, south, east and west.

Here, cars were steadied, and within its hearth there laid a deliberation. Men and women, gathered from every single city within the Amalgamate, deliberated as the throne stayed vacant and lay bare. A porcelain throne – so fragile and firm – had naught a single touch of a king for years! Here, within this chamber, lit only by the dim light of a thousand candles, cast dancing shadows over everyone that sat within. 96 seats, one banished, one empty.

94 men and women, their eyes strained and their bodies impatient, tapping their fingers as the clock in the center, cast by the light of the sundial, struck nine. Nine in the morning. Nine. Too early to deliberate – what could Rashkta be thinking?

“She’s late.” One of them said, turning to another beside him, his glasses put back on the top of the bridge of his nose by the push of his finger. “She called us all here, and yet she doesn’t even show! What kind of attitude is this?” He leaned back slightly, yawning as the others looked at him with disgust and dismay.

“I understand your worries, Scion, but there’s not much that can be done in this situation. When she calls using a Direct Order, we have to assemble immediately. It’s just...” The man replied, looking at the sundial, the sunlight pouring through, “…what could she be thinking?”

Large doors opened loudly, the creaking announcing soft footsteps that clattered with not a single echo. The armoured behemoths of men walked beside this figure, their swords drawn as they looked forwards, chained by their arms to her neck, a single band that felt cold to touch with the holes for each single soldier tied to her thoughts. Long chains looked like long tails, dragging their heavy weight as she walked around the perimeter of the massive sundial, walked up the stairs to the porcelain as she sat down quietly.

They were Temsplaces, holy warriors that served as leaders, commanders and religious figures within the Jenrakian army, the muscle that kept the military functioning and the faith strong. Powerful beings, they were fiercely loyal men, opt drawn as slaves to warfare, children of Enkur, their bloodthirsty god.

A single man entered the door, a single sword wrapped around his waist, dangling from the front. He had a calculative look on his face, his eyes chilly and his face slightly thin, as small markings were marked below his eyes. Long black hair was slightly messy and shoulder length, a small portion hanging around his back as she looked at him, and he nodded back.

The chamber fell to silence.

“This is the immediate deliberation of Rashkta Nirandu, Lady of Haasdra, Lady of the Virai, Lady of the House of Nirandu, and Queen of the Amalgamate of Jenrak.” The man yelled, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. “This information is verified and accepted by the 94 Lords of the Black Star, of the Amalgamate, and the Tsellian Affiliation. Herein information is by Mirianda Treyuko, of the Treyuko House.” He bowed to the obelisk and to Rashkta, then backed off, his form standing only in the shadows.

“I, Rashkta Nirandu, wish to call upon the subject of legitimacy as dictated by the codes of the Therax and the Scriptures of Arnalia.” The woman sitting upon the porcelain throne said briskly and strongly, her eyes unwilling to cast their stares upon any others. She was a firm woman, though slightly shorter than average, who where she lacked in height she carried in countenance. Her figure was hidden by the long draping robes that trickled down the steep steps her throne, like a waterfall that splashed from an invisible silk river above her shoulders. She carried snow-white hair amidst a pale, pale face, her eyes blood red as she carried snow glittering lips, smooth and untarnished by the world. Her face was soft and young, though her fingers were calloused by the handle of a gun and blistered by the sheath of a sword. There was a smell of blood upon her, and her words were cold and soulless.

“I, Amakai Texakaun, wish to query as to this call of legitimacy.” A man chimed up, a stern man, nearly hitting the end of his forties, the call of old age already touching his withering head and the bags of experience already dragging his once plump cheeks.

“I, Edoqlius Herram, wish to also query this call of legitimacy.” A younger man asked, his face sharp and pristine, though highly professional. He had thin lips and a slightly darker tan than the others, though his amber eyes were like a cat’s stare in the rare blackness.

“Query accepted?” Mirianda asked, looked at Rashkta, who nodded. “Then Mirianda Treyuko accepts the query.”

Rashkta began. “The query is to be answered with another query. Does the Council of the 94 Lords consider that the traditional legitimacy of our royal lineage to be an appropriate and applicable action to undertake?” She waited, as the whispers clung around her.

“The House of Nirandu is to have an appropriate secondary heir to the throne, otherwise there is no other way than to field a child with a branch house. That is law, and cannot be taken in any other form.” A raspy man answered, staring sternly at Rashkta. “Outside marriage is not acceptable by traditional Therax law, and for the unity of the country, as well as the legitimacy of the Therax Law to continue within the nation, there must be a condition that must be met for the heir.”

Rashkta frowned. “Then, is the legitimacy of the heir impossible if there is not a single viable child birthed from any of the acceptable houses or any Nirandu branch house?”

The Silence meant yes.

“A child of illegitimate fashion is an affront to Enkur. Such an insult is to be dealt with accordingly.” One of them replied, as whispers grew stronger.

“However, there is an alternative.” A woman replied. “If a suitable supplement house is found to rule Haasdra, then hands may change accordingly.”

“What house may be used to supplement the Nirandu house?” Mirianda asked, still having his eyes on Rashkta.

“The Annirak House is the only living house that bears a direct line to the Sethronne House. Should the Nirandu house step down as head of Haasdra and the Annirak house take up the position, then the question of legitimacy of an heir is no longer something for the Nirandu house to worry.” One of the male members of the council noted, his hands clasped at the front, leaning forwards as he looked at the sundial, deep in thought.

“The Annirak house is headed by Authaulus. The line is already illegitimate with Saerus, and Authaulus is a Temsplace. He is unable to foster an heir. A improper child is to be executed.” Mirianda quoted, as Rashkta sighed.

“Very well.” Rashkta replied. “The Nirandu house will now dictate Sehellim Nirandu as the next heir to the Nirandu House, the Haasdra House, and the next Lord of the Amalgamate and the next Lord of Jenrak. Father is of undetermined house, and the mother is Rashkta Nirandu, current Head of the House of Nirandu, Lady of the Amalgamate and Lady of Jenrak.”

What became whispers turned into outrage. What was discontent and dissonance became hostility. Although there was nobody standing up in furious discordant disagreement, there was already plotting.

“Listen to reason, Lady Rashkta!” One of them yelled, as the others followed suit. “The Lords will not tolerate such an obstinate action on part of the House of Nirandu! This is not what the Amalgamate is made for!”

“Do not disappoint us, Lady Rashkta.” Edoqlius said calmly. “If you exact sudden force upon us, we will exact sudden force upon you. The 94 Lords are not to be trifled with.”

Rashkta stayed calm. “That is all. I am enacting an overwrite of the Scripts of Arnalia and the Therax Laws. That is all.”

As the Lords filed out, only Mirianda and Rashkta was left, the two of them standing at opposite ends of the chamber. He looked at his cousin with proud eyes. “They’ll come for him, Rashkta. They’ll come for your son, for you, and they’ll change all that you’ve sought to create by force. You know that, right?”

Rashkta frowned. “I’m not giving in to any of them. There’s a limit to how backwards you can be.”

“There’s a limit to you as well, Rashkta. You shouldn’t risk any of that, alright?” He sighed walking out the chamber, before she got up, yelling after him.

“I have your support, right Mirianda?” She asked after him, as he stopped.

“I’m insulted that you think you didn’t.” And with that, he continued.

Two weeks later, 2 events occurred within a span of three days that no one would have believed to be possible. Rashkta had overridden the Therax Law and Arnalia’s Scriptures with the signatures of 22 Lords, changing the value of legitimacy, and acknowledging Sehellim, a child begat out of wedlock, to be the next King of the Jenrakian Monarchy. The last signature was Lord Avertharum, of Nakros Geidhos.

Within three days of the sign and the declaration, Sentiauhk forces invaded the shores of Nakros Geidhos, supported by heavy artillery from Nakros Eimunn. Within hours, half of the city was taken. In Nakros Krekos, another Lord who supported Rashkta, rebellion broke out as citizens from the nearby city Nakros Shalax had sabotaged and bombed multiple factories. Within an hour, forces from Shalax had sped through the desert, speeding towards the city.

The Jenrakian controlled territories of Sanduras experienced a massive overturn never seen before, as mobilisation in the north prepared as the Vizithjaqkuun began their dominance, rushing to take city to city as Edoqlius controlled the forefront. Temsplace armies within the Rithos Line were soon bombarded by artillery fire, pushing them back as they fell towards the previous parallel, regrouping and preparing for a second strike.

Battleships and Carriers were looming from the Arguns, holding off what they could of a massive tide aimed for Haasdra, striking at the port city of Ouridna from afar.

The city of Nakros Scion was under siege immediately by Nakros Nahm, as bombers began to strike refineries as soldiers rushed to defend their streets, Lancers rushing through the darkening highways. Immediately after the near annexation of Krekos, Rashkta called for an instant mobilization on the part of Haasdra, demanded the immediate recreation of the Temsplace Armies, and demanded for all Houses under her control to swear back into the fold.

Within hours of the declaration, Jenrak was at a civil war. Mirianda had taken up his uniform once more, his sword prepared to taste blood.

OOC-This sounds interesting. I'd like to join, but can you give a quick little summary? Great opening post, but I'm a little confused as to whose fighting whom...

OOC-This sounds interesting. I'd like to join, but can you give a quick little summary? Great opening post, but I'm a little confused as to whose fighting whom...

I had an OOC Thread gave that all the details. Essentially, there are two factions. There are those do not support the illegitimacy of Rashkta changing the 'constitution', which are those who attacked these cities, and there are those who consider what these old traditions are backwards, the ones being attacked. You essentially side with 22 Lords, who are in support of Rashkta's illegitimate son and whom are being attacked, or you support 73 Lords who believe that what she's doing is wrong and tyrannical, and who are doing the attacking.

OOC-thanks. Expect an IC post soon

OOC: i'll join in as well, need to flip a few coins and make a few decisions so i'll wait till after Telvira makes his to make mine

OOc-I'll support the attackers

IC-A sovereign cannot simply change the laws by which his/her country is run. Telvira cannot condone this tyranny, and we will do our best to insure it is ended.

To the 73 Lords: A Telviran battelgroup will be off the shores of Jenrak within 4 days. It will contain a carrier and the 5th Royal Marine Brigade. If you desire, these forces will be deployed to aid you in your struggle against tyranny.

As these messages were spoken, Telvira's 3rd Carrier Battlegroup, centered on the carrier Markos, set sail from Westport. Along with it were the ships containing the 5th Royal Marine Brigade. If necessary, they could be deployed to Jenrak within 2 hours.

To the yet undisclosed Telviran Battlegroup
I am General Edoqlius of the Cekera. I will prefer if you redirect your forces to my city of Nakros Sentiauhk for more details as to the invasion and proper reeducation of the unwilling Lords to the Laws. The enclosed document will provide you with the details as to the location of the city, as well as port information and etiquette to prevent confusion. Any assistance is welcome, as it will minimise the loss of life in this endeavour.

/Edoqlius

Haasdra was quiet. There was no war yet, but the Tsellian world watched, and waited. Would there be blood upon the steps of the Zarazego, the great Tsellian citadel that watches the world? Only a single small frame of a woman sat there, high above the skyscrapers on her own balcony, the metal frame protecting her against the high gusts as she sat, her robes billowing vigorously in the wind. Behind her, deep within the dark recesses, a small bundle slept, quietly and content.

Doors opened, the soft clatter of feet heard as a familiar face emerged.

“Hello, Mirianda.” Rashkta said, unwilling to turn around.

“Edoqlius is responsible. Right now, he is the one whose head will be needed for his treasonous acts.” Mirianda spoke firmly. A soft glitter was seen around her cheek, and he frowned. “Don’t have second doubts, Rashkta.”

“He makes a good point, you know? I am sacrificing the lives of millions for my child. Is one death willing to make up for millions?” She refused to turn around.

“22 lords believe in you. That’s a majority of the core cities, many of them who have fought alongside you in battle, tasted war as you have. You, above all people, have the right to decide whether your actions are right or wrong. Not them.” He looked at her as she turned her face, and he closed his eyes. “I don’t want to see your face, Rashkta.”

“Why?” She asked, his eyes still closed, as he turned around and opened them. “Are you afraid to turn to someone such as I?”

“You need to have confidence in what you do. If the woman we are fighting for does not have confidence in the righteousness of her actions, then we have a problem. If she doesn’t believe what she is doing is right, then we have become nothing more than villains. What are we fighting for, if even our Queen does not admit it?” Mirianda clasped his sheath, frowning. “Don’t do this to us, Rashkta.”

“Do what?” She tried to sound stern and strong, but her voice began to wane, to fade.

“You were not what you once were. You’ve become weak and fragile, a shell of your former self.” The noise of her crying reached his ears.

“Get out!” She yelled at him, the stirring of her child heard.

“Don’t hide – “

“Out!” The sound of her son, the shuffling of the blankets – all of it caught their attention, as Mirianda looked at her son, before walking to the door.

“I’m sorry I said those words, Rashkta.” He apologised, as he opened the door, and quietly exited, the door shut softly as the wind blew for a fragrant sunset.

Muddied trenches were created by weak sandbags, holding off the edges of the river upon the banks of the Helekai. Nakros Geidhos shimmered with the golden brown hue of artillery infernos, the blazes stretching from the far western shorelines to the middle backgrounds of the town square. Here, machine gun fire drizzled the entire hundred mile line, Lancers pushing through the north as the south began to fall. Edoqlius was at the charge, sitting quietly in his flagship, the massive battleship Cekera, its turrets untouched and gleaming still in the raging sunshine. A man of interesting thought, he was a skilled General whose specialty was the capability of others. He was a General born and raised to be a weapon against other Generals, a man who new more about his opponent than the battlefield itself. Never did he take a life with his own two hands.

But his opponent at the shores of the Nakros Geidhos, within the catacombs as they swirled through the trenches, was no General. Halagaud of the young 4th division was the first to test Edoqlius’ might, leading the defenders of Nakros Geidhos against a swarm of seemingly unstoppable artillery fire and heavy battleship bombardment. Within hours of the first assault, he had surrendered a large portion of the city, calling his troops back to the center line as the enemy began to make staging points. A reckless man, he was no doubt the kind of foe who could be counted on to fight against the genius villain.

Here, at the backgrounds of the city square, the shells flew high as birds strayed far from Geidhos, unwilling to be caught in the crazed fire, gunshots heard below. A gray palette of the sky only trickled with dazzling red hues, crimson lines upon their armor as their guns raged with screeching pain. Medics rushed to and fro, their hands clasped tightly over their pistols, rushing soldiers back to the tents as snipers triggered bullet after bullet in the sky-tall metropolis. Here, skyscrapers were nothing but shrapnel nests, the glass from the large behemoth structures falling down, splashing wounds all over the soldiers.

Edoqlius had planned to hold them beneath the shadows of the large centers of Nakros Geidhos, intent on weakening them through structure collapse, breaking the infrastructure to crush their morale. Tanks had rushed through the slightly rural north, blasting through the plains as they sped down south, their cannons roaring before trip mines exploded in an intimidating plain. In the backgrounds of the square, only two lines were visible. Halagaud rushed the front behind the sandbags, his soldiers following suit as he lobbed a grenade over, a blinding flash illuminating the already bright morning light. Small pockets of rain fell upon them, crimson and sweet as the stench of blood filled the air, mixing with the charcoal off the corpses like a sulphuric cologne. Nodding to the soldiers beside him, they rushed beneath the sandbags, their rifles readied, as Halagaud moved south along the line, a bullet shot hitting him in the shoulder as he clenched his jaw in pain. Nothing too deep, thankfully.

The armour had taken most of the impact, but now a piece of lead half-protruded from his blade. He couldn’t move his left arm very well, and his radio crackled with the angry shouts of his soldiers, telling him that they were ready. If only he was ready!

The noise of bombers were now audible to everyone. The sounds of their engines laughing and cackling in a mechanical fashion, observing the bloodshed as they flashed quickly over the bags. “Green light.” He yelled in his radio, as the flags drew up high, the radios chattering with noise.

Before the compartments of the bombers could open, before the primed missiles could fire, rockets fingered out of the trenches, a small and vast array swirling in a net-like fashion, aiming to the west as they smashed into the bombers, secondary fire blasting at the shrapnel in midair as the bursts smashed down onto the enemy lines. The force of the second wave had moved all their debris onto Edoqlius’ line, harming his soldiers as they knelt for cover.

“Second stage, Green light!” Halagaud yelled, as Vizith Cannons punched shells onto the covering infantry, pinning them down in their trenches as choppers roared and fighters rushed to their aid. “Third stage, Green light!” Halagaud yelled again, the soldiers moving away from the cannons, the missiles primed as they shot down onto the skyscrapers, the debris from the weakened structure now smashing down upon the fighters, their weakened wings forcing them to crash into the ground at the end of the line. “Fourth stage, Green light!” He yelled rushing south as his soldiers rushed south, the fire of the tanks upon the Geidhos expressway heard amidst the horridly loud noise.

Trip mines had activated from his soldiers’ work, blasting apart the square, destroying a large chunk of Edoqlius’ tanks, Halagaud’s 4th division moving south.

“It’s not a problem.” Edoqlius said, reading the reports and hearing the chatter. “We’ve gained enough ground.” Repeaters were situated, as massive turrets and cannons were constructed at captured grounds, their barrels being created within the large mobile factories that were moving along a thousand treads. Siren soldiers moved north, forming a thinly spread anti-air line, as tank forces pocketed in particular sections of the city. “We’ll lock them down, rebuild an infrastructure, and force an attrition. The majority of the city belongs to us, so we’ll simply outlast them.”

Other generals, however, played their plans out differently. Upon the hundred mile-long Rithos line, the Temsplace were at odds against the vicious Pseuronadres. Large, powerful, iron-clad men, the Temsplace were highly religiously devout and fanatic warriors that served as the pinnacle of Jenrakian soldiery. Their abilities were upon the levels of veterans and elites, defending the core homelands against enemy invasions and internal threats, protecting Rashkta with utmost loyalty. They were nothing more than sentient tanks; with javelins on their backs, swords at their wastes and bolt rifles in their hands, they were disciplined, bloodthirsty, and calm. However, their opponent was not to be taken lightly.

Formerly of the Rithman-naar Empire that had spread through the south, the Pseuronadres were a fighting force that new the Temsplace well. After having fought multiple wars against their northern neighbours, the Pseuronadres, under the 21 year old General Alexadora, were well aware of their enemy’s capabilities and their limitations. To them, the Rithos line was a test of their own preparation and diligence, and a sign to show the Temsplace how they have slowly slipped into decay and opulence from the peace. The Pseuronadres, although outmuscled men per men, carried preparation and the element of surprise, as Vizith Repeaters blasted from their lines onto the enemy Temsplace fortresses.

“Lord Authaulus, the north east sector is doing well against the forces at the Lake of Nahm, but there is significant enemy reinforcement at the bottom south west.” One of the golden-clad Temsplaces, a Patriarch, noted. Authaulus was a strong man, the older brother of Saerus Annirak, a Lancer who had long retired from war to raise a family. His brother, Authaulus, had no such thing to call his own. Only the bloodshed of war gave him peace, and in a way, it was somewhat paradoxical. Had he given up on the throne for this war? Had he waged it out of his own personal and selfish whim? Surely not! It was for the Queen! Right?

“Alexadros is trying to spearhead his troops to the river’s banks. Defend the banks, and make sure enemy reinforcements do not get here. Do not try to take any more territory until the Zadikistra arrive. We’re simply stretched too thin to properly focus on management, defence and offence all at the same time. Claws are coming their way, so we’ll be able to move accordingly.”

“Might I suggest that we take the Nahm encampment? That way we can field the battleships as a deterrent and defend the bridges.” He suggested.

“That’s a good suggestion, but we’re still stretched thin.” He looked at the map, the divisions and their pins moving left and right, the enemy forces thickening in colour. “Alright, I’ve come up with a solution.”

We will join in with Telvira same side, we will dispatch a CBG and a Division of troops.

OOC:i'll post the ORBAT later

To the yet undisclosed Telviran Battlegroup
[i]I am General Edoqlius of the Cekera. I will prefer if you redirect your forces to my city of Nakros Sentiauhk for more details as to the invasion and proper reeducation of the unwilling Lords to the Laws. The enclosed document will provide you with the details as to the location of the city, as well as port information and etiquette to prevent confusion. Any assistance is welcome, as it will minimise the loss of life in this endeavour.


This is captain Austin Walls, of the carrier Markos. We have recieved your message and will begin moving immediately. The leader of the ground troops, Colonel Johan Rittmenn, will be in the first wave of landings. He will meet with you to plan our strategy.

Carrier Battle Group 5
USS Carl Vinson
3 Hunter Class CBGs
12 Zumwalt DDGs
15 Arleigh Burke DDGs
14 Decoy FFGs
9 Amphibious Warfare Vessels

3rd Infrantry Division
26,462 Men
2,300 Assorted Vehciles and Artillery
400 Assorted Helos

To Captain Austin Walls,
I will meet you in Nakros Sentiauhk shortly. I look forward to meeting with you. I will at Nakros Sentiauhk within two days. I suggest you prepare your men for the journey.

Taut waves splashed upon the hull of the massive warship, the Cekera rushing along the waves as it pushed with impunity through the garbled waters. The blackening the shorelines thick with blood afar, Edoqlius sat quietly in his chambers as he looked at the movement of his opponents, the soldiers slipping to and fro, some masked under the guise of their own comrades. His hands tucked nicely in thin white gloves; he pressed the edge to his lips as he stared carefully. The noise of the ship still lumbered, the massive cannons gleaming like an intimidating flag in the sunset sky.

As he left the battle, he sat quietly within his chambers, looking at the bustling metropolis of Nakros Sentiauhk. Scarred from war, it was a city that existed in a different world altogether. Made from plate upon plate of torn metal from the shrapnel of a far off conflict, there was a surreal and thought-wracking presence within the city, almost as if it were alive. The noise of the ports, whistling as the holes through the tall shoreline towers catch the morning wind, like a sunrise song by nature’s loving lips. The long railways that stretched across innumerable plains, the tunnels high and fro, small pockets casting rainwater down into the earth – these qualities were Nakros Sentiauhk. They were like man-made waterfalls in a crackling storm, snaked along the city, hiding amongst the obelisk-like skyscrapers. Twisting and turning, they exemplified what Haasdra was not.

A brutalist world, twisted with war into a gleam of the future. An architecture that shimmered with suffering – that was home to him, as Edoqlius sat quietly, looking at the blank screens, thinking quietly as the numbers moved without consequence, the shining dots flashing and clicking before his eyes. How he longed to return!

“I’ll find a way to get through all this.” He said quietly, promising himself as he looked at the image of a woman, clad in pale white hair, her smile thin and wry, her eyes wearied as the sunlight cast long shadows over her cavernous wrinkles. She was a tiny woman, young and fair yet weary, torn asunder by the worries of the world, a weakened shell of her once strong self. Even now, in this photograph, he smelled the blood from her skin, the sugar-like stench of all the souls that lingered upon her own, clawing away at her sanity and reason.

He felt obligated. He didn’t know why, but just did. A feeling that made him believe that had he not, he would regret it for the rest of his life. An action that was made in haste with the best of intent. Edoqlius bowed respectfully, looking at the picture he slid it back into the drawer, sitting quietly as he paid attention to the numbers and the images on the screen before him.

Halagaud was making a push much sooner than Edoqlius believed was possible in such a situation. Even as the ships pressed on, their bombardment upon the half-line constant to reduce the power of their infrastructure, what Edoqlius had gained, so too did Halagaud gain. When Edoqlius made pushes northwards to capture the refineries, the roads were cut off in the south. Where movements to build relays in the west were constructed, sabotage had occurred with utmost speed and precision to halter.

It was a war of attrition that Edoqlius seemed unlikely to lose, but he was losing. The young genius of a captain was taking ground, slowly yet surely, from Edoqlius’ porcelain-white hands. As he sailed off to Nakros Sentiauhk, he sent a message to someone else. How maleficus, these youth! Their vibrant and young ways, always blessed with jubilant vibrancy, prepared to exceed the previous generation’s expectations. Was it jealousy? No, Edoqlius was not yet at that age. Was it admiration and pride? No, Edoqlius was old, yet not that old. He felt his veins grow thicker, but did not yet see them.

He felt that there was potential, and it must be cultivated.

“We are entangled. Don’t make any sudden advances, and focus on fortifying our position. Maintain consistent artillery fire to harm their means of production, and strike for the lower structures. Prevent hitting skyscrapers or towers. Do not make any advanced, as loss territory becomes disastrous to retake.” He ordered to someone on a monitor, a woman who nodded back.

“Of course, General.” She replied, her emerald eyes shining in the heavily shadowed blackness. “I will do that much.”

“Thank you.” He nodded appreciatively, and turned off the monitor.

Meanwhile, amongst the Rithos Line, Authaulus stood within his bunker, his milky eyes touching the flat screen, running his finger alongside the river. “Get the claws to manufacture a three-beam crossing line. Get the demolitions squad to rig the main bridges. Send word to the fleet at Nahm to deploy a battleship and two carriers with bomber capacity for a strafing run. Get the Vizith cannons ready, and prepare two volleys of chemical fog.” He stood up, turning to his patriarchs, his sword held strong as he walked through the tunnel to the end of the hallway, a tall balcony within a deep chamber visible.

Standing here, he looked at the faces of thousands of Temsplace, all of them prepared, their weapons primed, their swords polished, their armour, still rotting with the stench of blood, gleaming with anticipation as some were bent, some were torn, and others carried the markings of the opponent from time immemorial. Authualus, clad in azure blue, stood with crimson red as his red, jutting out from his back as he stood tall and proud, looking down at the others through his soulless helm.

“What you see today is an accumulation of three thousand years of hatred. Three thousand years of a grudge against us bestowed by our great ancestors. To their great ancestors, and a conflict that has lasted longer than any king or queen may live to see. It is a world that we have been born under, live under, and will die under. It is the solitary world, that hands upon the cartilage cage of our blades, crafted from the porcelain-like brittleness of our bones. Here, this is our world.” He began, his voice booming, his hands clasped over his large sword.

“Here comes a wave, so greater and larger than any we’ve ever faced before, and much more prepared than any we’ve seen thus far! But here lies the great foe that we seek! We are not against the heretic, where the strength of dear Enkur is us, where he leads us to the power of success and brings us righteous victory, but we are against ourselves! For these men, the Pseuronaders, that march in their crimson shirts, march under the same flag that we do – the single ram with an omnipotent eye, forever thrashing in the universe at its intricacies. I will make no lies, and shed not a tear to gain your ounce of countenance. The enemy we fight here, may be right. We, who have worked so long, and toiled so hard upon the line, may be wrong. Our actions today, can be a single displeasing form that brings swift justice to our souls.” He stopped, looking around.

“But do we believe we are wrong?”

“If there is any one here in this room that believes that I have wronged you, led you astray into the gaping mouths of Assalad, bow now in a single respect, and leave immediately! You will not be shot, you will not be punished! If you believe that your Lady, your Queen, has wronged you, and your mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, then leave immediately! For this is the hearth and soul of our fair Lady, who sits upon the porcelain throne, and is her and hers alone, no difference! There is none who makes the better shadow within the tallest chambers of Zarazego than our fair Lady, and if you are to besmirch her name and her faith in our great lords with your uncertainty, then make no mark upon our performance today. Make not a single error of judgment that stems from the sinfulness of your inability to act.” He stopped again.

“I expect one thing from you, my brothers, my sisters. I do not expect a victory from you today, as a million men march down the dunes into our homes, but rather something that I can expect from any man in Jenrak.” He waited, seeing if anyone would leave, his helm turning as he stared at them all, unnerving, unflinching, unwilling to disappoint. “I want faith.” With that, the large doors opened, the creaking of the darkened earth splashing thin rays of sunlight as Authaulus took up his gun.

“To arm, my brothers! To arms! To brazen shields and brave cries that shine upon a vermilion sky! To arms, my brothers, to arms! A blessed faith that rings with fervour, so fleeting of a shout! Here we march, in faith, none less, but make all that the world may tremble, and feel the wrath of our conviction. Exeunt this chapter, this conflict, and put an endless rest to a restless tale of faithless long gone.” With that, the Rithos Line moved.

The Temsplace began to move.