[center][u][b]United Socialist Savarog Republics. Terra. Savarog Ambassador Quarters.[/b][/u][/center] [img]http://door44.com/desktoppers/alt_toppers/fullscreen/FS_SciFi_Bedroom_Erik_Pedersen_3D.jpg[/img] High Commissar Vardan was sat, though sat was quite the term given how the chair was barely able to support his bulk, in his chambers reading over several reports which had been handed in by the commander of his personal retinue of Crakadors. The notes were in thick, official, font and written with incredibly legibility for a Savarog. They detailed the current happenings on the Savarog home world, a place where Vardan wished rather greatly to be when compared to this dingy, as was his opinion, set of quarters. Nothing in the room was scaled properly, whether by accident or by malicious intent. The bed was a full three foot too short, the chairs were made for what appeared to almost be quadruped creatures, and even the ceiling felt too low. This only served to heighten to sense of deep loathing that the High Commissar felt of Humanity, meaning a lot considering the naturally ingrained contempt the Savarogs naturally have for other races. “Captain, send a report to the teams responsible for the upkeep of these chambers. Tell them to get some proper damn reports regarding the size of the species to be in the room. Seems like the idiots do not realise the insult they've caused in this, matter.” Verdan had spoken this in a low tone, not due to fear of being heard, if anything some form of activity would be a godsend, but rather due to how seething with rage he is. “It'll be done, Commissar, sir.” Came the reply from the power armoured Crakador veteran, he gave a full salute before turning and exiting the room with a series of thunderous clangs as his armoured bulk send echoes across the flooring. “Now then... on to business...” Verdan sighed, re-seating himself and peering at the series of gilded messages he had received... or, he would have done such a thing, if the damnable chair he was sat upon didn't give an almighty crack as three of the four legs completely splintered, sending the Commissar indignantly sprawling across the floor. “I swear to the Lord of Iron, the furniture designer will be flayed...” He spat, righting himself and choosing to instead read the messages from a standing position. “Huh, seems like those idiots who want democracy are causing issues again...hah, that'll be fun.” The rest of the message goes on to detail the glorious skirmish that went on back upon the Savarog home world. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ [center][u][b]Khragk, Homeworld to the Savarog Species. City-Spires of Troyake. Just after the recent skirmishes.[/b][/u][/center] [img]http://cdn.superbwallpapers.com/wallpapers/fantasy/cyberpunk-slums-of-the-future-30114-2560x1600.jpg[/img] It had been a tense few days upon the planet of Troyake, the local populations of Srir had become restless in their determined struggle for either freedom or the very right to vote in the workings of the Savarog government. Until now and likely forever on, the Srir have been treated like second class citizens at best by their Savarog overlords, and such treatment will continue. The weather upon Troyake had been unseasonally humid, with periodic downpours which had been sporadic. Nothing however, would stop the Savarogs in their objective of restoring order, by any means necessary... “Get down you mongrel! Down I said!” Major Gukador Cirr of the Tritarium 2nd Division, spat as he roared orders at one of the many captured rebels that had until late blighted the city of Troyake. The man he was ordering, was a scruffy looking sort of alien man who was clad in what amounted to little more than rags with leather patch work. The actual species was of the Srir, a blue skinned humanoid-amphibian race which resembled large frogs... known among Savarog space (and heavily slandered in propaganda) for their extremely gluttonous and backhanded ways when it came to commerce. Propaganda made them out to be the sort that would think nothing of casually consuming their own children if it meant personal gain. The major himself was splendid in his super heavy Srogas armour, spotted with laurels and medals from campaigns which were nigh on a century old. Clutched in his meaty fist was a heavy looking ridged club made from a dense iron-like metal, nothing visually attractive save for sheer size of the weapon. “Get fucked you mindless slave!” The alien male shouted back, his voice comparable to a slight croak compared to the thunderous boom that was the Savarog's voice. With effort, the rebel put his might behind retrieving a stowed knife from his person, and trying to rush the major down, the knife held high in order to stab the soldier in the face. Courageous martyrdom perhaps, but foolish and asking for death certainly. With a swiftness born of doing this same action countless times, the major grabbed the sprinting frog-man by his blubbery neck, exerting significant pressure on the man's windpipe and esophagus. “I was simple with you. Stay. Still. Your, and your comrades' continued existence is being weighed by your actions, scum. Be still, and never. Never, try to attack me, again.” The major was speaking in a somewhat reasonable tone, though it was all a facade. The major was a man infamous for his sheer unrelenting cruelty to all xeno races, he had a hatred which burnt hotter than even the brightest of suns for all manner of alien life. “And I said to go get fucked. You people are ruining this land, killing these people! You want to be for the whole but kill your subjects?! What sort of crap is tha-” The alien's rhetoric of liberty desire and government criticism was cut short by the wet snapping sound of most of the bones in his beck being broken like fragile toothpicks. “Leftenant, have these scum removed. You have type C level clearance to remove this filth.” “C-chemical weapons it is sir.” “Do not stutter. We do this for the greater good of the vast Savarog commune.” With that the major threw the alien he was holding hard against a wall, delighting himself with the dull thud the alien's corpse produced. “It will be done, Korbal Savarog!” “Korbal Savarog, leftenant.” With that most revered of salutes, the two Savarogs departed. The leftenant to inform his teams of what was to be done, and the major was off to decide which of these various xeno rebels were to die or be thrown into the grinder that was Savarog industry. Humming the anthem of the Savarog nation, the major walked with confidence, his job was most certainly enjoyed. The rest of the day followed much the same, as one by one the rebels were eventually subjugated or eliminated entirely. Some would live to see service as a member of the Savarogs “Political troublemaker” battalions, though the vast would now lay dead in mass graves.