[center][h1]THE GREAT USSURI-VARSOVIAN COMMONWEALTH[/h1][/center] [h2]Some 30 years ago...[/h2] [h3]Vladisvla City, Byasarab[/h3] Drop Patrol Corporal Vroda's Journal - Day 1 [i]There are two ways to name a city after a great leader. The first is to rename an important one, re-casting a respected hub under the auspices of vis great name. The second is to make a new city from the ground up. Since the late King Vladisvla had been a great builder in every way, it was only proper that vis memory was honored in the second way. All honor be to vis name! True to the great King's legacy, the city is immense. A glistening marvel dense with warehouses and industry and hydroponic centers, a pinnacle of productive power! Yet, it is an island of civilization in a sea of barbarians, a city whose every function must for now be devoted entirely to its own defense. The farms feed soldiers. The warehouses store arms and munitions. The factories spew military equipment. And around the whole city is the greatest network of fortresses and trenches I have ever seen! Beyond are plains of thick red grass, under a sky of endless grey that neither darkens to night nor clears into bright day. They say the enemy lurk in millions of underground bunkers, for we rarely see them above-ground. Eerily enough, the veterans here say there hasn't been an attack for months. We've sent burrower drones to mine the earth around us, lest the traitor Ayar try to tunnel their way under us.[/i] Day 5 [i]Starting two days ago, several times the bone-headed barbarians have climbed out of their holes and mass to attack about five miles off from the outer lines and push from all directions. Although they outnumber us, the Sky Patrol and our artillery keep them at bay. They as far as the serf levy line yesterday, but the line did its job. I hear a few of the serfs got commendations, good to know some among the common folk have some martial virtue! Such a shame that the revolutionists keep trying, all the plasma fire is ruining the grass.[/i] Day 8 [i]So much for brave serfs! The whole outer line defected to the enemy during an attack this morning, giving the barbarians a foothold in the outskirts! The serf backstabbers and their rebel scum friends tried to push in together, and we had to call in orbital fire to wipe out their rear ranks in the field. Their front was too close to the city to bomb from orbit outright, so us battle-suits had to go in and do the job ourselves. Without the heavy guns from their rear, they couldn't do much to us, and we sent them scrambling back to the trenches. Needless to say, the starship missiles devastated the landscape. There weren't even any fires, just huge blinding clouds of plasma followed by grey barren waste.[/i] Day 9 [i]Command called for a media blackout after yesterday's serf debacle. Any communication we send to home has to go through the fleet first. It's the right move under the circumstances. Can't have the rabble back home getting uppity. But it sure makes watching the holo-game tournaments a pain.[/i] Day 11 [i]Somehow, the half-wit serfs and their rebel friends figured out how to disable the burrower drones. We don't have enough suits to mount a counter-attack, so we pulled back to where the concrete and metal will keep the moles from surfacing. The whole outskirts lost just like that, along with hundreds of important forts. At least we pulled out or destroyed all the equipment.[/i] Day 12 [i]It's a new firefight every hour today. The enemy managed to slip their artillery through tunnels into the outskirts, and now the shells just don't stop falling. They're shooting down our planes, too, and we don't have the numbers to replace them. My own suit's been holding together fine, and I've blasted about four tanks and twenty two barbarians. But two squadmates had theirs break down under fire, and one was wounded before we could bring ver back. Even worse, we lost some artillery suits, and unlike the enemy we can't afford that. I fear I'll die here at the hands of uncivilized brutes. But I won't give up till the end. If I die, I die with the honor my opponents lack.[/i] _ The thirteenth day of attacks began like the last, with the unceasing scream of shells and rockets raining down on Varsovian lines. The Shravians replied with swathes of precision air strikes and calculated return-shellings from artillery suits that reduced entire sections of artillery to shreds, but they simply could not match their enemies' power. Even as the Varsovian aircraft and artillery neutralized ten pieces for every one lost, they were losing the battle. Every plane that spiralled down to its doom and every artillery suit knocked out of action was irreplaceable, while even a whole row of rebel self-propelled guns turned to smoldering rubble was a mere drop in the bucket of reserves. Then came the tanks and infantry. The front-line battlesuits were stretched desperately thin: Corporal Vroda's nearest comrade on either side was a quarter mile away. Vis suit alone, surrounded by ammunition and nestled in the cover of prefab barriers, would have to cover a radius of some 200 meters. The first enemy to enter range rounded a pile of rubble directly ahead. It was an old RWU model light walker, an "egg" on two legs with a chain gun on one arm and a laser on the other. [img]http://k40.kn3.net/7DF20C3B3.jpg[/img] Vroda sent a plasma beam its way, causing it to shudder for a moment as it was impaled before exploding into searing orange fire and black smoke. Merely a second later, a makeshift tank was emerging from an entirely different location, a hollowed-out shell of a building. Vroda barely managed to rotate and fire again in time, but then there were three, six, fourteen enemy vehicles and whole companies of soldiers behind. The prefab barriers shuddered as dozens of enemy shots landed, while the desperate corporal rushed to target his most dangerous assailants one by one: A tank-hunter spider walker here, a fast-approaching armored car with a flamethrower there, a squad of furry Ayar manning a laser cannon yonder. Try as ve may, Corporal Vroda was getting surrounded. Ve remembered that yesterday, ve had been saved by the timely flanking intervention of a VSOP team, little Shravian figures that looked almost like robots with their cybernetics and tight grey power-armor. They had come out with plasma guns blazing, mere infantry ravaging an entire column of tanks before retreating back into their hiding. But right now, ve knew they were occupied elsewhere: VSOP had been assigned the objective of softening the rebel artillery now that the defenders had lost too much of their own to manage counter-battery fire. It was just Vroda and the enemy here today. [img]http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/legendsofthemultiuniverse/images/d/d3/662953a9529cc085498e8d815d715715.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20160403003533[/img] There were too many of them. Vroda was getting surrounded. Shots were starting to hit vis suit. [i]Clunk![/i] The chatter of comrades and commanders cut out with not more than a tremble and a blip. [i]Puh![/i] With a metallic ring and an electronic whine, targeting reticules and rangefinder markings disappeared from Vroda's display. Desperate, ve clasped the triggers and digged into the buttons for every weapon on the suit. Missiles screeched, light gas autocannons popped, plasma beams hummed, and plasma throwers roared. Everything the corporal could see ahead seemed to burst into fire and dust, but the inaccurate barrage scored precious few true hits. It was the fury of a dying animal, knowing no direction, and the enemy knew it. They began to close in on the isolated suit. The fight was over. Or so it seemed, until... _ Day 13 [i]...the enemy was swept away before me in a blaze of explosions and beams and shells from above! Or was it behind? Whatever the case, then came the Ussuri gunships flying in over my head! There must have been hundreds of them, and that was just the ones in my line of sight! Glorious metal birds with the sword-and-gear of our Frontier comrades emblazed upon their armor. My own suit was out of action, but I witnessed what came next. Ussuri in suits and Tr'Kan on foot, a veritable tidal wave of metal and lizards that swept past me and then disappeared ahead, so quick and devastating was their advance! There's no longer any question in my mind. If my opinion as a humble noble corporal is of any value, let it be known that the Ussuri are heroes and true kin of us Varsovians. Their customs may be odd, their habits a little rugged, but the frontier-folk are the strength of Shravia as much as those of us keeping the core in order. We must rise again united, as we did today to overcome the mindless revolutionaries. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will overcome the Imperium degenerates as well. I only hope I live to see it on the ground, as I've witnessed this victory today![/i] _____ [h3]Year Five of the Kyschev Campaign[/h3] [h3]Kyschev; Vostock Sector[/h3] Holo-Journal of Kapitan Sudoslav b a 168th Penal Regiment The stench of death and pestilence are everywhere. The incinerators burn day and night, interrupted only by the burst of shelling, screaming, and the cursed Tr'Kan hissing. We live a troglodyte existence, dodging artillery strikes and air patrols by day, and and skulking by night. We arrived on Kyschev four million strong, thirty thousand tanks and mechanized vehicles, and six thousand aircraft. A decade has passed since our glorious army has landed on this barren wasteland of a world. Kyschev was supposed to be the culmination of a glorious campaign. The capital of the Tr'Kan rebels and the Asov bandits who support them. Kyschev was supposed to be the end. Instead, Kyschev was a trap designed to bleed the Ussuri to death by a thousand cuts. The enemy fleet gave our forces precious little resistance, conserving their ships to strike during the landing operation when the Armada was most vulnerable. Chaos ensued and the wreckage of the flagship Admiral Kubliov still lurks in orbit over the planet, a grim reminder of the battle. The back of the Ussuri fleet was broken and a new offensive by the Asov Clan meant that there was little naval firepower to save Sirakov's army. But like us, the rebels lack the means to deliver a final blow. A blockade has strangled the planet, with only the occasional transport ships and blockade runners slipping through to dekuver vital supplies. Now even that precious link is threatened. Week One: [b]The Siege of Tambov [/b] Something has changed over the last six months. The Tr'Kan have become more bold and we've captured scouts surveying our lines. More importantly, we've seen battle suits much akin to ours amongst the enemy ranks. These feral barbarians are not capable of grand strategems. Someone with shrewd intelligence is guiding them, a cunning Shravian mind. The Asovians have arrived, first only a handful of troopships, then hundreds more. When the offensive came, it was brutal, swift, and sudden. The Front Line of the Vostok Sector was overrun in a matter of two days, the assault not only coming from the air but beneath us as well. Massive tunneling charges blowing massive gaps into fortifications that have been in place for the last three years. It's become clear what the enemies objective is: Tambov. The city on the river is the last remaining spaceport in Ussuri hands, without it, the bare minimum of supplies that have been reaching us will grind to a complete halt. Week Six: The crack of autocannon's and burp of rocket fire is near constant. I cannot deny the thrill of combat, the constant rush of adrenaline pumping through my heart. Yet the state of our existence and its inevitable course cannot be denied. The enemy have advanced into the outskirts of Tambov and no matter how many I kill, it seems the enemies numbers are limitless. The wretched reptiles and their Asovian masters. The radio cracks with a never ending stream of reports and I carefully select which squads are beyond saving. The command module implanted in my wrist hums to life, activation runes glowing as I trigger the kill switch. Massive explosions follow, sending shrapnel and debris flying in all directions. The explosive collar around my own neck is a reminder of my own fate should the scum overtake my position. I take a moment to survey the space port. Near constant shelling has reduced Tambov to smoking ruins, fires rage uncontrollably through many of the districts. It's only a matter of time. Enemy bombers swoop in for another strafing run, leaving ka trail of destruction and destroyed vehicles in their wake. A wave of our own missiles pursued them, a twisting trail of contrails. Despite our efforts in holding the perimeter.. I receive my orders... Withdraw. Week Fourteen: A battle is raging in low orbit. The streaking remains of warships come shooting down like stars, but down here in the trenches there is no respite. The enemy has taken seventy five percent of Tambov, only the space port, protected by a void shield and a network of anti-aircraft batteries still remains firmly in control. But that control is slipping by the day. The streets are carpeted with the dead and destroyed vehicles. Tanks lay haphazardly, thrown like a spore's plaything. Enemy air attacks have gone from annoying to incessant. Our supply of missiles has run extremly low and like birds of prey, every movement is watched. The regiment of four thousand has been cut to just four hundred men. We've been ordered to dig in around the space port. I await the final assault. It doesn't come. Swarms of new fighters have arrived and suddenly there is a pitched air battle in the sky. These sleek new fighters swat their enemy counterparts out of the sky, leaving little more than flaming wreckage in their wake. Orbital bombardments swiftly follow, blasting the countryside to volcanic glass. Hoverbirds swiftly follow, deploying specialized platoons. Their battlesuits identify them as Shravian's but these aren't the aging ing battlesuits that the Ussuri grunt has grown useto.d to. Gleaming and advanced, it is only then that I see the colors of Varsovia emblazoned upon their shoulder emblems. Our cousins from the Core World, long thought lost. The sky is soon filled with new waves of Ussuri troopships and words soon begins circulating that the Varsovian's have broken the blockade! Without their help, despite their odd ways, we would've been little more than meat. Perhaps there is more to these long lost cousins than meets the eye. They are brave in their own right, with Ussuri manpower and Varsovian ships, the Galaxy will tremble.