Tsumonrin

Helgryce wrote:

Pulling on the horse's reins, the beast rearing up on its hind legs (and nearly throwing her off) before coming to an abrupt halt, Catrin gave a small shrug, placing her garrison cap on her head and gesturing toward the flag with a quick thumb motion, "I'm just a concerned local with antisocial tendencies. I prefer the term 'insurgent', personally. Or insurrectionist in a pinch. Makes me sound more intimidating. I'm supposed to deliver a message to your military strategists, it's urgent."

The leader holds his rifle up, "Very well. We'll take you to our main camp, but we'll be blindfolding you on the way there. Try anything and we won't hesitate to gut you like a fish." Sure enough a soldier came from behind and wrapped a blindfold around her eyes and after trudging through the woods for what seemed like an hour, they sat her down in a chair and removed the blindfold. In front of her would be Mr. Staalinov himself.

"Thank you Vlad. You and your men get some rest."

The officer from before saluted and left Staalinov alone with Catrin. He started with a sigh, "So my men tell me you're an insurgent. Part of a greater force from Pradonia. This true? Because if it isn't I'm gonna have to shoot you."

Egoia wrote:

The leader holds his rifle up, "Very well. We'll take you to our main camp, but we'll be blindfolding you on the way there. Try anything and we won't hesitate to gut you like a fish." Sure enough a soldier came from behind and wrapped a blindfold around her eyes and after trudging through the woods for what seemed like an hour, they sat her down in a chair and removed the blindfold. In front of her would be Mr. Staalinov himself.

"Thank you Vlad. You and your men get some rest."

The officer from before saluted and left Staalinov alone with Catrin. He started with a sigh, "So my men tell me you're an insurgent. Part of a greater force from Pradonia. This true? Because if it isn't I'm gonna have to shoot you."

Catrin gave a nod, smirking and reclining in her seat, "'Fraid you're gonna have to get someone else for target practice today, then. Name's Catrin Ness, terrorist and extremist. But about that 'greater force' thing... That might be a bit inaccurate soon..." she slowly reached into her pouch, ensuring all in the room have a clear view that she is not pulling a weapon as she extracted the intel brief from the camp out and held it out, "This letter'll give the finer details and numbers and such, but broadly, we've got this plan, right? And, well, we ain't really expecting to be walking away after it."

Catrin gave the cypher for the letter as she handed it over, so the finer points of the plan and other information could be discerned by Staalinov et al.

Akrosford, Mechanic Department
Loria followed a group of scribes in robes to a training course where a series of soldiers, twice the size of normal men, would be running a course. Jumping over fences and even full walls with ease, some going so far as to simply smash into it, breaking the concrete. One of the scribes holding a flamethrower would wave one over, "alright just stand still,' with that he lit the man up and it began spewing fire, "feel anything?"

The soldier shook his head, "it's a little warm but It's not too unbearable. No worse than a tank"

"Be sure to keep your water intake levels nominal."

Loria nodded in approval, "Fire Squadron looks good. Now about that new SPG design."

The scribe led Loria to an artillery firing range where a flatbed truck with a series of rockets on the back of it would be, "Forgive us for the unorthodox design, some of the scientists wanted to try something similar to the turboprop engines on a small scale on projectiles so we let them have at it." The scribe handed loria and the other scribe earmuffs, "you'll want these..." after putting them on the scribe waved to a man in the truck. The rockets began to move up and down and soon they began firing rapidly with a screeching sound, smashing into the targets. After all shots were fired the scribe took the earmuffs of and turned to loria. "Their accuracy leaves something to be admired but we're working on that. And it has a terrifying psychological effect."

"how soon can we start development?" Loria asked.

"2 months."

"Get on it"

Helgryce wrote:

Catrin gave a nod, smirking and reclining in her seat, "'Fraid you're gonna have to get someone else for target practice today, then. Name's Catrin Ness, terrorist and extremist. But about that 'greater force' thing... That might be a bit inaccurate soon..." she slowly reached into her pouch, ensuring all in the room have a clear view that she is not pulling a weapon as she extracted the intel brief from the camp out and held it out, "This letter'll give the finer details and numbers and such, but broadly, we've got this plan, right? And, well, we ain't really expecting to be walking away after it."

Catrin gave the cypher for the letter as she handed it over, so the finer points of the plan and other information could be discerned by Staalinov et al.

He looks over the document with the cypher for a minute and then sighs, "you leftists and your fetishism of martyrdom. No possible way I could dissuade you of your plan or have you all flee into our lands after the battle?"

Egoia wrote:

He looks over the document with the cypher for a minute and then sighs, "you leftists and your fetishism of martyrdom. No possible way I could dissuade you of your plan or have you all flee into our lands after the battle?"

Catrin paused, considering this for a while, before giving a solemn nod, clenching her hand into a fist, "I'll be honest here, as much as I'd love nothing more than to charge into a machine gun nest while singing the Internationale and get mowed down 'for the cause', you're right. There's no sense in dying like that. My friends'll be killed, my hometown bombed and burnt and turned into a warzone, my family gods-know-where, but at least I'll still have my life, and I'll still own wherever I'm standing. With that message delivered, I'm free anyway, no one expected me to come back after. The survivors from the initial attack'll probably launch a guerrilla campaign with whatever they've got left, set traps and ambushes throughout the forest. I suspect a few'll make their way here eventually, but don't expect any significant numbers. The camp was pretty dead-set on this being our best shot to win the war when I left, and they're a stubborn lot, to their own detriment a lot of the time. I hope they make it out, of course, I left a lot of good friends in that camp, they're an entire community. But I'm trying not to think about it too much, they've made their minds up, and I mine." She stared off at the ground for a few moments, trying to clear her head of the subject.

"It was my birthday... you know... Quite the present, to learn all your friends'll be killed and your camp overrun, your way of life stamped out. That's what got me the job of messenger, a final gift from the camp, a second lease on life. I'm extremely grateful for it, but, it just... Hasn't really sunk in yet, to be saved by some fluke of when I was born. I was as ready to die as any of the rest of them, but fate seems to have had other plans. I don't suppose you lot're looking for a new rebel from Vystland, are you? Because I don't really have anywhere else to go; I can't go back, I'd die, and I can't go elsewhere, no country wants an anarchist, nor I any country."

Helgryce wrote:

Catrin paused, considering this for a while, before giving a solemn nod, clenching her hand into a fist, "I'll be honest here, as much as I'd love nothing more than to charge into a machine gun nest while singing the Internationale and get mowed down 'for the cause', you're right. There's no sense in dying like that. My friends'll be killed, my hometown bombed and burnt and turned into a warzone, my family gods-know-where, but at least I'll still have my life, and I'll still own wherever I'm standing. With that message delivered, I'm free anyway, no one expected me to come back after. The survivors from the initial attack'll probably launch a guerrilla campaign with whatever they've got left, set traps and ambushes throughout the forest. I suspect a few'll make their way here eventually, but don't expect any significant numbers. The camp was pretty dead-set on this being our best shot to win the war when I left, and they're a stubborn lot, to their own detriment a lot of the time. I hope they make it out, of course, I left a lot of good friends in that camp, they're an entire community. But I'm trying not to think about it too much, they've made their minds up, and I mine." She stared off at the ground for a few moments, trying to clear her head of the subject.

"It was my birthday... you know... Quite the present, to learn all your friends'll be killed and your camp overrun, your way of life stamped out. That's what got me the job of messenger, a final gift from the camp, a second lease on life. I'm extremely grateful for it, but, it just... Hasn't really sunk in yet, to be saved by some fluke of when I was born. I was as ready to die as any of the rest of them, but fate seems to have had other plans. I don't suppose you lot're looking for a new rebel from Vystland, are you? Because I don't really have anywhere else to go; I can't go back, I'd die, and I can't go elsewhere, no country wants an anarchist, nor I any country."

Staalinov put a hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry. I understand... really. Before the uprising in Staalkastel, my family's farm was blown up in mortar fire. I was the only survivor. I laid under the rubble covered in blood and splinters for who knows how long before a neighbor finally found me and took me in. Unsure who dropped the mortars on us, Wielbelkia or Pradonia, not that it really matter whose shooting at you. Funny enough that neighbor became something of an important figure in radical circles up until the uprising, one Mr. Adolphus Gregorson. Lead a militia straight into the royal palace and killed Duke Ahren in his bed. I was his aide. The point of all of this however is that I understand."

He pulled out a cheap piece of tin metal out of his pocket and handed it to her, "Here. It was given to me by Adolphus. He didn't like having things like this in a museum. Meant to be a medal for "Heroes of the Agrarian Socialist Movement" or something like that. What it really means is that I stayed alive long enough to be given a shiny cheap piece of medal. What makes it worth it though is that when he gave it to me he told me, 'well son, now everyone is going to take you as a hotshot military commander.' Lo and behold, I'm the commander of an operation that may be the difference between life and death for millions of people. No pressure." He waved down a soldier walking by, "Joker, you're with the syndicalist regiments, right?"

"Let me ask my general secretary and I'll get back with you." The soldier had black hair, green eyes, seemed to be in his mid to late twenties.

Staalinov turned back to Catrin, "Now you see why we call him joker. That also means he's either going to be the first or last person to die in this operation." he turned back to Joker, "This is Catrin Ness, I'm attaching her to your regiment. Get her equipped. If we get anymore Pradonian soldiers I want you to make sure Weller puts them under her command. Got it?"

"Aye aye cap'n. C'mon Miss."

With that he led her to a campsite in the trenches where a group of men and women in red and black uniforms would be smoking cigars, playing cards, listening to the radio and even one fellow playing old union songs on a piano, "Over there is our quartermaster. He'll get you suited up with a gasmask, rifle, firestorm gear, sidearm, and other materials. If you want a specific color for your rifle or decals let one of the quartermasters know and he can try and put something together. Unlike most armies, we have multiple armorers because we don't like the idea of having one man be stuck making sure over several thousand rifles are gauged in a year. Water is available at the pump there, commissary there, and once you are acquainted you can find Weller over at the piano."

La Gazette de Schayne
Serving proudly since 1835
August 16 1920

WAR IN THE SOUTH
As many citizens in the southern reaches of the Empire have already noticed, war has erupted in the disputed territories beyond the border. The regime in Pradonia has made its move and is now attempting to seize the former Staalkastel territories that call themselves "Egoia". While there's no official statement from the Emperor, the army has been mobilized to repel any attempted incursions into Wielbelkian territory. This isn't the only war in Argus though, in the southwest, the Rhodian state has collapsed into warring factions. Republicans tired of the Prince's mishandling of the nation, those loyal to the prince and even the followers of Vincent Mousseau are now all fighting to decide the future of Rhodia. Mouser and Rhenmetal stocks predicted to rise with increased arms production. (see page 2)

Mystery aircraft spotted
An unknown aircraft was spotted by citizens in Dinsmark. Witnesses claim it was faster than any they've seen before, leading some to speculate it's some new model of interceptor. Officials remain tightlipped for now.

Hunter claims to have seen man-sized creature
A hunter from Schirm reported to authorities that he spotted a large grey creature whose "eyes glowed red" when he shined a flashlight at it. He claims to have spotted it while out hunting pests, after farmers complained about livestock being attacked. Describing it as a "large flying bugman with 3 meter wings", he claims to have scared it off with a gunshot and that it was holding a dead goat in its "claws". This would be dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic were it not for the fact this is only the latest in many reported sightings of similar creatures, though experts remain unconvinced. Wildlife biologist Robert Schmidt told reporters that this "Mothman" is more likely to be an unknown relative of the radiant moth, potentially one to dethrone its relative as the largest moth species, rather than some bipedal insect beast. (see page 4)

Below the Cormorant

Helgryce wrote:

The Messengers
The forest, near the Vystland-Staalkastel border, Pradonia
1130 hours, 25 July 1920

Catrin Ness, a resistance fighter with the Vystland partisans, rode her horse at full gallop toward the border, her rifle bouncing against her back from the small amount of slack in its sling. Just a day ago, in the partisan camp she'd called home for the past several months, dire news had arrived from the scouts, of an unstoppable invasion force massing at the border in Fort Mÿn and Brymm, and a plan had been formulated: one that would most assuredly result in the deaths of the entirety of the partisan group, all to buy time for the egoist revolutionaries across the border to prepare. However, it was readily apparent that those egoists would need to be informed of this plan, and so a runner would have to be dispatched, delivering an encoded letter detailing the Pradian troop counts, their locations, their support, and other crucial information, along with the partisans' plan to delay them and, with the partisans most certainly marching to their deaths, the locations of all their equipment caches in the vast forests of Vystland, should the egoists ever manage to find their way to them.

Catrin had been the natural choice for the runner, and the subsequent camp vote confirmed that the young 19-year-old would be sent. The reasoning among the camp wasn't that she was particularly popular, though she certainly did get along with the camp's inhabitants well enough, and though she was a great shot and experienced on horseback, the partisans had better marksmen, and faster riders. What made her the natural choice, compared to anyone else, was the simple fact that it had been her birthday, and none in the camp were willing to sentence someone so young to their death on their birthday.

So, Catrin was given the message, a case of ammunition, rations for a week, and a black and red flag to show her allegiance so the egoists at the border will hopefully not shoot her, and sent on her way on horseback to race to the border after also being told the cypher. She'd rode through the night, passing through her home village of Brenna, now eerily silent and abandoned, on the way. Now near the border, she took the flag and hoisted it up over her head, it billowing out behind her.

Egoia

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Meanwhile, letters with very different origins arrived in the courts of Worklaw, Wielbelkia, Meincertarg, Arvug, and Czestowalskalia, delivered by couriers, the letters all sealed with the decade-out-of-use royal coat of arms of the Jölland-Cryssborg-Walce dynasty of Pradonia impressed in fine wax, and trimmed with gold leaf. Along with the letters, generous gifts of narwhal horn and amber jewelry, gemstones, and fine perfumes are provided.

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Though the Cormorant is spotted by the Pradian forces, Pradian command makes the decision to allow the plane through, to witness the new weapon of Pradonia and spread the message in the hopes of inspiring fear in Pradonia's would-be enemies. However, anti-air guns are manned, in case the plane attempts any hostile actions.

The Small Serdian piloted biplane would slowly circle back around to a lower altitude but maintaining just some space between himself and the gathered Pradonian forces. "Alright... let's see what you're up too..." Lieutenant Evans said to himself as he banked his plane slightly and eventually circling the area to keep an eye on the assembled Pradonians, curious as to see what all those new machines on the ground were going to do... all the while slowly moving his hands to the charging handle on one of the twin Spandaus on the nose, pulling the first one back before pulling the second back also, prepping both machine guns for use against the Pradonians as... insurance against any trouble they might cause.

Egoia wrote:

Staalinov put a hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry. I understand... really. Before the uprising in Staalkastel, my family's farm was blown up in mortar fire. I was the only survivor. I laid under the rubble covered in blood and splinters for who knows how long before a neighbor finally found me and took me in. Unsure who dropped the mortars on us, Wielbelkia or Pradonia, not that it really matter whose shooting at you. Funny enough that neighbor became something of an important figure in radical circles up until the uprising, one Mr. Adolphus Gregorson. Lead a militia straight into the royal palace and killed Duke Ahren in his bed. I was his aide. The point of all of this however is that I understand."

He pulled out a cheap piece of tin metal out of his pocket and handed it to her, "Here. It was given to me by Adolphus. He didn't like having things like this in a museum. Meant to be a medal for "Heroes of the Agrarian Socialist Movement" or something like that. What it really means is that I stayed alive long enough to be given a shiny cheap piece of medal. What makes it worth it though is that when he gave it to me he told me, 'well son, now everyone is going to take you as a hotshot military commander.' Lo and behold, I'm the commander of an operation that may be the difference between life and death for millions of people. No pressure." He waved down a soldier walking by, "Joker, you're with the syndicalist regiments, right?"

"Let me ask my general secretary and I'll get back with you." The soldier had black hair, green eyes, seemed to be in his mid to late twenties.

Staalinov turned back to Catrin, "Now you see why we call him joker. That also means he's either going to be the first or last person to die in this operation." he turned back to Joker, "This is Catrin Ness, I'm attaching her to your regiment. Get her equipped. If we get anymore Pradonian soldiers I want you to make sure Weller puts them under her command. Got it?"

"Aye aye cap'n. C'mon Miss."

With that he led her to a campsite in the trenches where a group of men and women in red and black uniforms would be smoking cigars, playing cards, listening to the radio and even one fellow playing old union songs on a piano, "Over there is our quartermaster. He'll get you suited up with a gasmask, rifle, firestorm gear, sidearm, and other materials. If you want a specific color for your rifle or decals let one of the quartermasters know and he can try and put something together. Unlike most armies, we have multiple armorers because we don't like the idea of having one man be stuck making sure over several thousand rifles are gauged in a year. Water is available at the pump there, commissary there, and once you are acquainted you can find Weller over at the piano."

Following behind on her tour, she looked over the 'medal' she had been handed, turning it over in her hands and examining it closely. She wasn't really one for medals, herself, she found them to be somewhat vain and pointless, but one given as a gift took on an entirely different meaning, in a way. Not a show of that same vanity, but of trust. Slipping it into her own green uniform's pocket, she addressed her guide in her characteristic Westian accented, albeit fluent, Staalkastelian, "That's definitely better than we had. If you wanted your rifle customised, your only choices were to engrave the stock with a knife yourself, or to make your own dyes and tarnish out of foraged berries, flowers, and some foul-smelling substances we wished we had gas masks for. Joker, right? Thanks for showing me the lay of things, I think I can find my way around from here." As she said this, she had already began walking toward the commisary. "Haven't stopped to eat since I set out yesterday, I'm starving!"

After her brief lunch and a visit to the quartermaster, Catrin wandered through the camp and trenches for a bit, acquainting herself with the layout and committing it to memory as best she could. When she was satisfied she could navigate without getting too lost, she finally made her way to the piano, leaning arms-crossed against the nearest head-height solid object and waiting for the current song to end before interjecting, "Always loved that song. Yngfar used to play it for our unit on their guitar around the campfire, and we'd sit around stomping our feet for the percussion while singing along and drinking like a bunch of idiots. You're Weller, I presume? Name's Catrin Ness, the partisan from the Pradian side of the border, not sure if anyone notified you I was coming. I take it you're this unit's delegate, or something like that? I was told to speak to you, and if you have a moment, I've got a few questions about how things're organised around here."

Serdian Republic wrote:

Below the Cormorant

The Small Serdian piloted biplane would slowly circle back around to a lower altitude but maintaining just some space between himself and the gathered Pradonian forces. "Alright... let's see what you're up too..." Lieutenant Evans said to himself as he banked his plane slightly and eventually circling the area to keep an eye on the assembled Pradonians, curious as to see what all those new machines on the ground were going to do... all the while slowly moving his hands to the charging handle on one of the twin Spandaus on the nose, pulling the first one back before pulling the second back also, prepping both machine guns for use against the Pradonians as... insurance against any trouble they might cause.

The Pradians continue to watch the plane carefully, but are ordered to begin to march out toward their waiting transports to travel upriver in preparation for the inevitable invasion. The river transports, loaded with mecha, armored vehicles, guns, ammo, artillery, and the likes, train their machine guns on the plane, but none yet fire. The airships, meanwhile, fly ahead, into the distance to some undisclosed airfield. Off the coast, scores of warships, all bristling with guns yet none seeming to exceed the treaty-imposed tonnage limitations on maritime vessels, line the harbour, flying strings of colourful flags and painted with great murals portraying scenes from Norse mythology along their hulls; a new maritime parade tradition started by the NSHAP. Numerous smaller vessels, river patrol craft, line the mouth of the river As, their own hulls free of the grandiose murals of their maritime counterparts, indicative of their intended upcoming use in the imminent invasion.