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Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June, 1960, Zambia/Rhodesia Border
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Florence was in heaven. The Mosquito was 6,500 feet up and racing over the Rhodesian countryside, the ground beneath a green blur broken by glimmering blue lakes and the lazy brown waters of the many rivers and streams the cut through the region. They were following a long, high cliff face that stretched for miles through the jungle.

"What are you looking for exactly?" She shouted above the roar of the engines, leaning in close to make herself heard.

"Communists!" Redeker shouted back as he glanced out of the canopy window.

She felt her gut sink slightly at the words. As a Journalist she was well acquainted with the Bush War, the horrendously violent and largely unknown border war raged between Rhodesian Security Forces and Communist guerrillas. A colleague of hers had once spent a week on the border with the Rhodesian's and come back a changed man. The things had seen, well, he had won a Pulitzer prize for his story and photography. He had painted the Rhodesian soldiers as baby killing monsters, and on his next journey to the country he had been gunned down by the wife of a soldier killed in the fighting.

"Where are they?!" She shook the memory from her mind as she tried to see something, anything, that might be "human". All she could see was a mass of treetops.

"Do you really want to know?!" He shouted back. She could see the warning in his eyes and in that moment she was reminded he was a soldier first.

She thought for a long moment and then, nodded. The Bush War was a fact of life for her country and she was a Rhodesian. Communism was a poison and she, as much as her family, feared it's arrival on their side of the Zambezi River.

"Down there!" He was making a gesture toward the ground and she had to partially lean over him to see out. The wall of cliff seemed unbroken until, for a brief second, she a darker patch of shadow beneath the foliage. "Cave mouth!"

She nodded as the planes shadow flitted over the cave and kept going. She sank back into her seat and then got close to his ear. "Can we go back around?!"

He shook his head. "No! Might alert them!"

"To what?!"

His finger extended to point off to their right. It took a moment for her to pick out the three aircraft skimming along over the tree tops, their dull brown and green camouflage making them almost impossible to pick out. Two of them she recognized as Submarine Spitfires. The third plane was something she had never seen before outside of pictures. It had three engines, with a pair of cockpits between them and a tail gunner in the rear. It looked like an oversized De Havilland Mosquito.

"What's the third plane?!" It looked familiar to her, she had certainly seen it on a magazine cover somewhere but couldn't remember where.

"The Angel!"

"The Angel of Death?!"

She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut when she heard the name. The Angel of Death. A strike bomber the Rhodesians had designed specifically to fight the jungle insurgency. It was famous for two things, rockets and napalm. Napalm had been invented in the past three years by Rhodesian weapon specialists. It had proven deadly against the Communist insurgents and the Angel carried two large canisters of it beneath the main fuselage.

"Yes!"

She sat back into her seat again as the two Spitfires peeled away and climbed up past Redeker's Mosquito, wiggling their wings as they shot past.

"Do you want to watch?!" He called to her. She glanced at him, ready to be angry, but the look on his face was not one of malice or glee. Rather it was of a man who had seen what was about to happen before and knew what she would see. It was a warning.

She shook her head even as she glanced over her shoulder. Far behind her she saw the twin flashes of a pair of rockets as they shot away toward the cave. She turned away before they hit home.

The Empty Throne

I'd take a shot at it.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Stuck in Kuala Lumpur, mein gott.

And ooooo, Persia. This is gonna be interesting for the Arab World (which consists of me right now)

@SgtEasy

Ottomans are technically Arabs ain't they?

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June, 1960, Zambia/Rhodesia Border
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Comrade Bupe, son of Kalonde, son of Zambia, stood with his back to a Giant Eucalyptus as he carefully peeled a Mango with a pocket knife, digging out the sweet fruit inside as he did so. He slid a piece into his mouth, some of the juice trickling down his chin as he did, chewing happily as he half heartedly scanned the jungle in front of him. It looked as it had every day for the past three weeks, green, dense, and alive with so many different creatures. In retrospect, if he hadn't decided to join the a local Communist group known as the Masiye, he might have like to study the jungle and all it's various species.

Behind him, just out of view, was the mouth of a cave, heavy vines hanging down over the dark opening, trees on the rock face above serving to conceal the hideout from Rhodesian air patrols. Even as he ate the Mango he heard the drone of an engine and looked up, peering through the jungle canopy to see a Rhodesian Airforce Mosquito flying along the ridge line. Another surveillance flight in all likelihood. The Rhodesians made one a day but the Masiye had been careful to keep their space well hidden.

Though, maybe not hidden enough. A week ago two people, a man and a woman, had staggered into the cave half dead with exhaustion. The man, called himself Andrew, had told them of how the previous group he had been with, a local bunch of nobodies none of them recognized, had been ambushed and wiped out by Rhodesian Security Forces. The woman had shied away from contact with anyone, especially men, and only spoke in low tones. Whatever had happened to her had clearly been horrible. She had only confirmed Andrew's story with nods.

The Masiye leadership had pressed them to stay but Andrew had shaken his head violently. He kept saying "They will come. They will come." It was no secret who "they" was, but the cave was well hidden and the Masiye well armed. They had been raiding into Rhodesia for years now, the ongoing Bush War, and never had the Rhodesians located them. Andrew and the girl, they had never gotten her name, had thanked them for their help, accepted some supplies, and carried on westward.

Mango froze halfway to Bupe's lips as he heard the snap of a branch in the brush. He was dressed like any of the other sentries, his body covered in a series of branches and fern fronds that allowed him to look somewhat like a dress or bush. It was very difficult to detect and had been used to great effect numerous times in ambushing unwary Police and even several Rhodesian patrols. Nothing moved now but his eyes as he scanned the brush in front of him. Several raiding parties had been sent out a short time ago but they were not due back for days.

A shadow moved within the undergrowth and Bupe ever so slowly lowered his hands until he could touch the stock of his rifle. The mango, now hidden beneath his cover, dropped to the ground with a gentle thud. He kept still once again. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He was not alone.

He acted in an instant, dropping into a crouch and spinning away behind the tree. A rifle cracked a second later and wood exploded next to his face as he ran for the cave entrance. It did not matter that the enemy had found them, only how they were going to survive.

More bullets shredded the brush around him but he was in the thick of it now and who ever was shooting at him would have to be a lucky. As he drew closer to the cave he was his comrades moving up to throw the camouflage off of their defensive trenches, weapons at the ready. As he came closer he held his rifle above his head until one of the others saw him and waved him in. He leapt over the nearest neatly concealed stone berm and spun around, laying his rifle across the top layer of ferns.

Shouts echoed through the jungle in front of him, shouts in Afrikaner. His own men were shouting now, pointing to various points in the bush and he watched as another sentry, caught outside the cave entrance, lunge up to attack a Rhodesian soldier who suddenly appeared in an opening in the foliage. The two struggled for a moment, the tree like Masiye trying to stab the bigger Rhodesian with a machete until a hail of gunfire from the barricade threw down both men. A storm of gunfire erupted from all across the jungle in front of Bupe as if in revenge. Bullets shattered the rock behind him, threw dirt into his faces, and men began to die.

Bupe had been doing his best to shoot back at the enemy. He felt fear, he had always felt fear, but he thought it made him smarter. He did not take risks that the others might and kept his head down when he could. Even now, as he slid his rifle forward again, working a new bullet into the chamber, he did it slowly. Attracting attention was a sure way to get killed. He took a breath, held it for a moment, aimed at where he thought he had seen a muzzle flash, and pulled the trigger. He quickly began to reload, never knowing if had hit a man or not. Another bullet was sliding home when two canisters came curving out of the jungle trailing orange smoke. It took Bupe a moment to realize that they bracketed either side of the cave entrance.

"Fall back!" He screamed, startled faces turning towards him. One man opened his mouth to reply and then flopped backward as a machine gun burst tore half his head away.

"Fall back!" Bupe screamed again, frantically this time as he began to run doubled over toward the cave entrance. He did not have to look to know that the Rhodesians had ceased firing. He could hear the sound of engines. There were no roads here.

He burst through the camouflage vines that covered the entrance to the cave just as the Rhodesian Angel opened fire. Bupe had seen the aircraft once before in a magazine. It was designed as a "bunker buster", that was the term he had read. It was not terribly fast, nor did it fly very high, but it was perfect for smashing strongholds. Like a cave for example.

The first rocket was high, slamming into the rock face above the cave and sending a thunderous cascade of rocks down onto the Communists trying to retreat from their defensive positions. Bupe heard the screams as his comrades fell beneath the falling debris. Some, most, managed to stagger through the wall of dust just as a second rocket burst through the screen of vines to detonate against the rear wall of the cavern.

Bupe felt as if his world had exploded, his ears rang and, when he put his hands to them, his fingers came away wet with blood. He had dropped his rifle and frantically began to search through the dust that was choking him. Shapes ran in the dust, others limped, some twisted and fell and more dark shapes appeared at the entrance of the cave.

His fingers found a pistol, he did not know whos, and he picked it up, squinting towards the cave entrance. The sights found a dark figure running to the entrance and he pulled the trigger once, twice, five times, and the man spun away to fall into the dirt, Bupe unable to hear his screams.

He felt a stinging sensation in his leg and looked down to see blood oozing from just above his knee. He did not feel any pain even when hands grabbed him by the arms and he was hustled toward the back of the cavern where a sharp turn in the tunnel would protect the Communists from their attackers. The last sight he saw before they turned the corner was that of the cave entrance.

The vines that had covered it were gone and the entrance framed the jungle outside, a beautiful green mass topped with an azure blue sky he would remember forever. But in that sky, coming like an angel of death, was the Rhodesian plane. He saw flames burst from beneath its wings and the small objects drop away. They did not move or waver. They were coming for him.

Bupe was dead before the rockets slammed into the back of the cavern, sealing the communists into their web of tunnels. The bullet in his leg had severed the femoral artery. His comrades, those who survived, swore to continue the good fight while outside the victorious Rhodesian Security Forces buried their dead, leaving the enemy dead for the scavengers.

Above it all, un-moved by the wars of men, a mango tree reached towards the sky.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June, 1960, Outside Salisbury, Rhodesia
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Florence had left the city just before dawn, the early morning air sharp and cool as she drove her Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle down the tree lined avenues of the Rhodesian capital. The sweet smells of fragrant Indian Bauhinias, the wide spreading Croton, the Giant Eucalyptus, vivid red Flamboyants, and the magnificent Jacaranda trees were thick at this hour and she gloried in them. She wore a black leather jacket, tight blue jeans, and faceless motorbike helmet. On her back she carried a small backpack with her camera, a notebook, a couple of chocolate bars, and a change of clothes.

Even at that early hour the city was alive with people and vehicles as delivery drivers, newspaper boys, police cruisers, buses, and taxis hurried about the neatly maintained streets. City workers moved about purposefully, emptying garbage and recycling bins, working diligently to tidy up small parks and, in one case, replacing a large power transformer.

It took her nearly thirty minutes of traffic lights, dodging pedlars with their wares, and zipping through the increasingly heavy traffic, to reach the edge of the city as houses gave way to rural acreages and farmland. Traffic lightened up even more out here and Florence brought her bike up in speed, racing along the highway, properly paved within the last ten years.

Her destination was an hour outside the city and she heard it long before she saw it as a pair of Submarine Spitfire's roared overhead, their massive Rolls Royce engines drowning out the sound of the bike beneath her. She watched them as they climbed away to the north east, racing into the early morning sunrise until she could see them no longer. Part of her wished she had become a pilot. To be able to travel at more than 500 kilometres an hour would be an incredible rush.

A guard tower appeared on her left, standing at the corner of a tall barbed wire fence that ran West and South, mostly hidden by small shrubs that attempted to make the place look less like a military base. Buildings began to appear as well, she could just make out the curved roof of hangers and the more blocky outline of barracks. Again she was struck by how African everything looked. Many places, like German Cameroon, had done their level best to maintain their colonial roots with building styles and art. The Rhodesians on the other hand considered themselves African and showed it in their choice of local style.

She turned into the entrance of the Salisbury Airforce Base, a sign next to the roadway proclaiming that it had been established in 1921. A gate, as well as a pop up barricade, blocked the road, small glass enclosed guardhouses on either side manned by RSF soldiers. She drew up next to one just as a gust of wind brought the reek of gasoline to her nose from the airfield beyond.

"Hello!" She said with a large smile, pulling off her helmet so that the man could see her face. He brightened visibly when she did so, few men could resist a pretty girl. "I am here to meet with Major Redeker. The name is Florence Chideya, from National Geographic Magazine."

The soldier glanced down at the paper in front of him and then returned her smile. "Yep, you're the only Journalist expected on the base today. Here," He handed her a small green badge with a "P" on it. "That will get your access to the base, just make sure you don't leave the green zone without an escort." He gestured to the tarmac where she could see a green line painted on the pavement. "If you do, you'll be shot." He said the words without any implied threat, which made them all that more sincere.

She thanked him, clipped the badge onto her jacket lapel and waited while the security barriers were moved. The soldier waved her through, pointing her towards a two story building with a pair of Rhodesian flags out front flapping lazily in the light wind. White Security Forces Land Rovers were parked neatly nearby and, as she drove slowly toward the building, she could see a row of Spitfires parked across the runway. Closer to her, their long cigar shaped bodies swarming with mechanics, were a half dozen transport aircraft painted a drab green. The hangers behind them appeared to be busy with movement but she could not make out what was happening from this distance.

A single Mosquito fighter bomber was idling nearby as she drew up to the command building and shut down her motorcycle. As she swung out of the seat a figure dropped from the wing of the Mosquito and jogged across the tarmac toward her. Major Frazer Redeker was dressed in a standard blue jumpsuit and brown flying hood, pockets bulging with various items, a semi-automatic pistol on his hip. He smiled as she walked towards him.

"Hello Florence! Right on time. Are you ready to go? Need some water? Quick bathroom break? We'll be up for the better part of an hour." He shook her hand, gesturing to the command building.

"Thanks for having me, and no, thank you. I should be okay for an hour." She laughed, the excitement building in her as she walked toward the aircraft. The two big twin engines were turning slowly, the rumble of them evident as the air vibrated around her. She was admiring the craft, looking it over, when it occurred to her that it had no guns on it. "Don't these usually have cannons or something on them?"

"They do." Redeker said with a nod. "But this is a reconnaissance plane. All we have onboard today are cameras." He showed her the large camera built into the nose, and the two in the wings, ensuring they kept a wide berth of the still turning propeller blades. "It allows us to carry more fuel if we want, and fly faster." He had to shout to be heard over the engines now.

A ground crewman had carried a short step ladder forward and Florence thanked him as she climbed up onto the wing of the aircraft with Redeker. The cockpit was a tight space and she put her bag behind the seat as she climbed across the pilots chair and dropped into the second seat. Redeker climbed in after her and slid into his own seat with practiced ease. Florence was immediately conscious of his leg pressed against hers. It might have made her uncomfortable but he did not seem to notice and she was determined not to make things weird.

"Ready to roll?" He shouted, his teeth flashing into the dazzling smile she had seen three months before.

She nodded as she pulled on the flying helmet that sat in front of her. It did very little to dampen the sound of the twin engines but she suddenly she could hear his voice over the radio.

"Tower this is Redeker. I have one Journalist on board. Looking to blow this popsicle stand, over."

"Redeker this is tower. Reading you five by five Major. You are cleared for take off. Stay safe out there, over."

"Roger that tower, Redeker out."

He glanced at her and she flashed him a smile and a thumbs up. She could feel her gut churning a bit as she looked down the long run way. It had been a while since she'd been any airplane this small and the whole plane seemed to be vibrating with the power of the engines, almost as if it was as excited to get going as she was.

Redeker pushed the throttles forward slowly and she felt, as much as heard, the huge engines begin to claw at the air. They began to pick up speed and the aircraft nose dropped so that she had an inhibited view of the long runway. Trees and fence flashed by on the left, hangers and lines of aircraft to her right. The big cargo planes she had seen were now idling as well and she could see lines of soldiers beginning to board each of them. That was when she realized where she had seen them before. They were carrying paratroopers. A sudden reminder that the Bush War was not over and men still fought and died in the jungles to the north.

Redeker began to pull back on the control column and the Mosquito leapt into the sky as he worked the landing gear pump until she could feel a thud as they slammed home into the fuselage of the aircraft. The feeling in her stomach was replaced by joy as the world feel away beneath them and she could see all of Rhodesia spreading out beneath her. The highway she had come in on was steadily getting busier and in the distance she could see the light flashing off the sky scrapers of Salisbury as the sun cleared the low hanging morning clouds to the East.

She gave Redeker another thumbs up and he winked as he banked the Mosquito to the north.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June, 1960, Odessa, Ukraine
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Mr. Smith stood before an older building near the waterfront in Odessa eyeing the Rhodesian flag that had been hung from just above the doorway. The building was an older one, though like every other building in this part of the city, it had suffered damage from fighting over the years. The area in which he stood had once been a thriving tourist destination but now, with the war and regional instability, it was over run with Russian Refugees. Where some saw chaos, Smith had seen opportunity, an opportunity that had not presented itself in his lifetime with the Foreign Office. He had been directed to find white folk to settle in Rhodesia and while the Russians were hardly of Anglo-Saxon stock, they could certainly make a big difference. It was an opportunity it would be a shame to miss.

The windows next to the door had been partially covered in placards that showed rolling Savannah, beautiful mountainscapes, rolling fields, and ocean vistas. Each sign read, "Peace, Stability, Life, Rhodesia", in big bold font, alternating between Russian, Ukrainian and English. It was early, the sun barely touching the tops of the surrounding buildings but already a small line had formed.

Desperate people in desperate times made for interesting applicants and though not a single one had actually been seen by the staff inside, Smith already knew which would be rejected. There were young, old, male, female, injured, infirm, strong and bright eyed. With hundreds of thousands displaced and pouring into the Ukraine, the Rhodesians would be able to take their pick of the best and brightest. They would take no more than 10,000, all of them under the age of 30 unless they had badly needed skills. Those like Doctors, Engineers, or others with valuable skills, would be welcome if they were not over 50.

Smith excused himself past the slowly growing crowd and stepped into the cool interior of the building. The huge windows that faced the street were allowing light to stream in to the mostly empty space. Six desks had been arranged in a line near the back wall with expectant looking clerks behind them, half of them black. Part of the application would be seeing how the applicants responded to having to deal with a black person. Rhodesia, despite its policies, did not want people who could not get along with the majority of the population.

Behind each desk stood two men or women in Rhodesian uniform, though they were not armed, that would hardly fly on foreign soil, and one Ukrainian police officer, lured in by the promise of double wages for a days work during their time off. Several others were out on the street to maintain order if required. Smith did not believe there would be trouble, but then again, he was always prepared. The local Police Commander had been given a "gift" to ensure there would be no issues and the city permit people had quickly cut through any red tape for the building when offered a hundred pound.

"Everyone ready?" He asked the assembled group. The Ukrainians nodded, as did the Rhodesian soldiers. The clerks, their desks piled high with applications for the hopeful refugees gave a thumbs up and grinned. "Good. Here we go."

He turned back to the doors and pushed them open, taking a moment to prop them open on either side, allowing the fresh spring air to flow into the musty building interior. The line, doubled in size since he had gone inside, took a shuddering pace forward, and he smiled, waving the first ones inside.

"Welcome! Welcome!" He repeated the phrase over and over again in his broken Russian as people streamed past him. They queued up quietly enough in small groups or with their families, the look of hope on their face almost pathetic to behold. Many had everything they owned with them, which was not much.

Slowly the lines moved forward, each individual completing their document with the assistance of the Ukrainian translators, or the two Rhodesians who knew Russian from their overseas studies. Once the document was completed it was carefully filed into a manila envelope which went into a brown box to be carried away by one of the Rhodesian soldiers behind the desk.

Those forms, two pages in total, asked for basic information such as age, sex, weight, height, occupation, education, family, etc. Each box ticked was worth a certain number of points, or in some cases, immediate disqualification from the process, though the applicant would not know it yet. Smith would have had to have a heart of stone not to feel for the old couples that shuffled forward together to fill out the paperwork, the glimmer of hope in their eyes hopeless before they even arrived. They would leave with many a "thank you" and a bow, chatting amiably, not knowing that they had already been rejected.

The day ground on as hundreds of hopefuls made their way down to the building, flowing in and out again like the tide. Smith watched it all happen from a corner of the big room where he had his own desk. Only the very skilled immigrants were sent to him and, at this point, only a half dozen had been worth the time he needed to invest in them. Still, plenty of young folks had come through and that was worth something.

He stretched his long legs under the desk and beckoned the next man forward, his wife and two kids in tow.

Dulce et Decorum Est - A WWI Inspired Nation Roleplay (Stalled out, we have a new thread for the reboot)

Empire of Takeda

Empire of Takeda

Name of Nation:

Empire of Takeda (Official Histories)
Land of Dragons (Local dialect)
Wyrmland (Common Slang)

Alignment

Neutral

Population:

360,000,000

Government:

The Empire of Takeda is an Imperial Theocracy ruled over by Watasumi, a great Blue Dragon, who lives in a massive sunken temple at the heart of the Empire. Watasumi's decrees are law and binding on the Empire as a whole and none question her word as she is considered the living embodiment of the gods who created the Takeda race. Watasumi issues much of her wisdom and directives through a female Wyrmkin who holds the title of Empress, a position that is hereditary in the chosen ruling family.

Species:

Ryūjin (Local Dialect) / Wyrmkin (Common Slang)

Ryūjin are truly Wyrmkin. Humanoid and bipedal, they have the shape of a Human or Ork but the head, claws, feet, and scales of a Dragon. Immensely strong and fast, they have made up the bulk of the Takeda ruling and religious elite for a thousand years. Like Humans, they have a variety of appearances but regardless of scale colour, height, or gender, they are tough, fast, and very dangerous. Only the smallest among them are capable of operating a biplane or crewing a ship leaving the majority to be found in the ranks of the Imperial Army.

Elves

Takeda is inhabited by two primary races. Elves, who make up 70% of the population, are unique to the region with darker skin and deep blue eyes with no discernable iris, and a thin vertical black pupil. They form the basis of Imperial manpower, from forming the bulk of the Army to working the tiered fields found across the Empire.

Culture:

The Empire has a deep rooted history of conflict and strong belief that death is as beautiful as life. The Takeda strive to make everything they do perfect, be it the placement of stones in a temple garden, the killing blow of a sword, or the exact angle of a brush stroke in their art. The ever present threat of death is steeped into their culture, be it through death in battle, or from the powerful earthquakes and storms that can batter their cities.

The Ryūjin hold a special place in society as they are considered to be the closest any Takeda can come to being one with Watasumi. As warriors they are fearless and lead from the front in battle. As religious leaders they are known for their great honesty and kindness to the poor. As leaders of clans they are known for their cunning and guile.

Takeda itself is broken down into major Clans, Clans that have been warring amongst themselves for a thousand years. Only in the past hundred years, with the slow encroachment of foreign ideas, has the practice of inter-clan warfare been reduced to individual duels between champions. Much of the former military might of the clans has been rolled into the new Imperial Military structure under the direct command of the Empress and Military Council.

History

WIP

Territory Claims:

WIP

Economy

The Empire is a regional economic powerhouse as it produces unparalleled high quality steel, some of the finest gunpowder in the world, unmatched silk, and the finest diamonds to be found.

Technology:

The Empires greatest weakness was its refusal to modernize for so many years. Technology is slow in coming to the region and the civilian population has embraced it far more readily than the military which, while using rudimentary breach loading rifles, still places great stock in hand to hand combat. This is particularly common amongst the Ryūjin who have always relied on their great size, speed, and strength to win battles. To say that Takeda is "behind the curve" when it comes to technology might be an understatement. Most recently the Empress has begun exploring options to modernize the Empire as it is clear that failing to do so will expose the Empire to a fatal blow from outside adversaries.

Army:

The Imperial Army is currently a small percentage of the population, poorly armed, but superbly trained. In melee combat the Imperial forces have few equals, and they have made great efforts to maximize the efficiency of their antiquated weapons. Takeda delegations are preparing to approach neighbouring powers in the hopes of modernizing the armed forces.

Navy:

The Imperial Navy relies heavily on small, fast, warships. Attempts to produce larger vessels with heavier guns has been greatly hampered by the lack of technology available to Imperial ship builders. Much of the large Takeda Merchant fleet is made up of vessels procured from foreign nations.

Air Force:

The Imperial Airforce is made up entirely of aircraft purchased from other nations, or poorly made copies recreated in Takeda. The sheer size of the airforce is its saving grace as it looks terrifying on paper. The Takedans hope to begin producing their own homegrown aircraft with assistance from neighbours.

Rolls:

Roll ID: 370349117316136961
20 - Territory - Your nation is the cream of the crop, and a majority of the globe is under your command. Vast lands are yours to command.
2 - Tech - Your nation is doing poorly, extremely antiquated. Modernization is still a long ways out.
5 - Army Size - Your army is relatively small, but is maintained year-round.
18 - Economy - Your economy is well-off, and a majority of what needs to be funded is.
2 (+5) - Production - Your nation is largely agrarian, with some natural resource exploitation to a small degree.
7 - Navy Size - You have an okay navy, it is still largely merchant vessels however.
18 - Airforce Size - You have a decent amount of biplanes.
6 - Mobilization Ability - It takes a few months to mobilize.

Dulce et Decorum Est - A WWI Inspired Nation Roleplay (Stalled out, we have a new thread for the reboot)

Empire of Takeda

Empire of Takeda

Name of Nation:

Empire of Takeda (Official Histories)
Land of Dragons (Local dialect)
Wyrmland (Common Slang)

Alignment

Neutral

Population:

340,000,000

Government:

The Empire of Takeda is an Imperial Theocracy ruled over by Watasumi, a great Blue Dragon, who lives in a massive sunken temple at the heart of the Empire. Watasumi's decrees are law and binding on the Empire as a whole and none question her word as she is considered the living embodiment of the gods who created the Takeda race. Watasumi issues much of her wisdom and directives through a female Wyrmkin who holds the title of Empress, a position that is hereditary in the chosen ruling family.

Watasumi

Species:

Ryūjin (Local Dialect) / Wyrmkin (Common Slang)

Ryūjin are truly Wyrmkin. Humanoid and bipedal, they have the shape of a Human or Ork but the head, claws, feet, and scales of a Dragon. Immensely strong and fast, they have made up the bulk of the Takeda ruling and religious elite for a thousand years. Like Humans, they have a variety of appearances but regardless of scale colour, height, or gender, they are tough, fast, and very dangerous. Only the smallest among them are capable of operating a biplane or crewing a ship leaving the majority to be found in the ranks of the Imperial Army.

Humans

Takeda is inhabited by two primary races. Humans, who make up 70% of the population, are unique to the region with darker skin and deep blue eyes with no discernable iris, and a thin vertical black pupil. They form the basis of Imperial manpower, from forming the bulk of the Army to working the tiered fields found across the Empire.

Culture:

Imperial Palace at Kiso

The Empire has a deep rooted history of conflict and strong belief that death is as beautiful as life. The Takeda strive to make everything they do perfect, be it the placement of stones in a temple garden, the killing blow of a sword, or the exact angle of a brush stroke in their art. The ever present threat of death is steeped into their culture, be it through death in battle, or from the powerful earthquakes and storms that can batter their cities.

The Ryūjin hold a special place in society as they are considered to be the closest any Takeda can come to being one with Watasumi. As warriors they are fearless and lead from the front in battle. As religious leaders they are known for their great honesty and kindness to the poor. As leaders of clans they are known for their cunning and guile.

Takeda itself is broken down into major Clans, Clans that have been warring amongst themselves for a thousand years. Only in the past hundred years, with the slow encroachment of foreign ideas, has the practice of inter-clan warfare been reduced to individual duels between champions. Much of the former military might of the clans has been rolled into the new Imperial Military structure under the direct command of the Empress and Military Council.

History

WIP

Territory Claims:

WIP

Economy

The Empire is a regional economic powerhouse as it produces unparalleled high quality steel, some of the finest gunpowder in the world, unmatched silk, and the finest diamonds to be found.

Technology:

The Empires greatest weakness was its refusal to modernize for so many years. Technology is slow in coming to the region and the civilian population has embraced it far more readily than the military which, while using rudimentary breach loading rifles, still places great stock in hand to hand combat. This is particularly common amongst the Ryūjin who have always relied on their great size, speed, and strength to win battles. To say that Takeda is "behind the curve" when it comes to technology might be an understatement. Most recently the Empress has begun exploring options to modernize the Empire as it is clear that failing to do so will expose the Empire to a fatal blow from outside adversaries.

Army:

The Imperial Army is currently a small percentage of the population, poorly armed, but superbly trained. In melee combat the Imperial forces have few equals, and they have made great efforts to maximize the efficiency of their antiquated weapons. Takeda delegations are preparing to approach neighbouring powers in the hopes of modernizing the armed forces.

Navy:

The Imperial Navy relies heavily on small, fast, warships. Attempts to produce larger vessels with heavier guns has been greatly hampered by the lack of technology available to Imperial ship builders. Much of the large Takeda Merchant fleet is made up of vessels procured from foreign nations.

Air Force:

The Imperial Airforce is made up entirely of aircraft purchased from other nations, or poorly made copies recreated in Takeda. The sheer size of the airforce is its saving grace as it looks terrifying on paper. The Takedans hope to begin producing their own homegrown aircraft with assistance from neighbours.

Rolls:

Roll ID: 370349117316136961
20 - Territory - Your nation is the cream of the crop, and a majority of the globe is under your command. Vast lands are yours to command.
2 - Tech - Your nation is doing poorly, extremely antiquated. Modernization is still a long ways out.
5 - Army Size - Your army is relatively small, but is maintained year-round.
18 - Economy - Your economy is well-off, and a majority of what needs to be funded is.
2 (+5) - Production - Your nation is largely agrarian, with some natural resource exploitation to a small degree.
7 - Navy Size - You have an okay navy, it is still largely merchant vessels however.
18 - Airforce Size - You have a decent amount of biplanes.
6 - Mobilization Ability - It takes a few months to mobilize.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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April 30th, 1960, North Western Rhodesia
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Florence Chideya, born to a white mother and a black father, had been born in Rhodesia, considered herself Rhodesian, and like many in her generation, saw opportunity in the softening of Rhodesian laws around the employment of black and coloured people. She, for example, had been one of the first coloured people to attend the University of Rhodesia, graduating with a Bachelors Degree in Communications, majoring in Journalism. She worked first for a local Rhodesian Newspaper that had long gone out of business, moved to England where she began working for the BBC before being sent back to Africa as a local corespondent. Six years ago she had been approached by National Geographic, THE National Geographic, to begin free-lance writing for them. She had never looked back.

On this particular day she was a guest, albeit a guest with a camera and writing a story, but a guest nonetheless. Her father, long dead, had been a member of the Chewa Tribe, near the border with Zambia. The Rhodesian Government had done its best to at least ensure public broadcast radio made it out that far and her fathers tribe had heard of her exploits on the BBC and, when she was hired by the National Geographic, they had purchased a subscription to the magazine. They had become avid fans of her adventures and sent a letter inviting her to return to witness a special event, Kuomboka.

The word Kuomboka, when translated into English, literally meant "to get out of the water". The ceremony itself took place every year at the end of the rainy season and though it was primarily a Zambian Holiday, in which they celebrated the King of the Lozi People, it had maintained its importance in Rhodesia for the local tribes. Florence had originally been surprised when she learned of the celebration and openly questioned why the whites, who did not always appreciate such goings on, had not stopped the practice. The Elder she spoke to had smiled and shrugged.

"If they take it away, we will find something else to celebrate. Why would they stop us celebrating a Zambian King, maybe they hope we will leave and go north?"

Simple but elegant logic she supposed as she listened to the heavy drumming of the royal Maoma drums, which had been echoing around the region for a day before the actual event began. She was surprised to see a number of white faces in the crowd at the event, and only some of them were soldiers, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They flirted politely with the women, chatted amicably with the men, gave treats to the children, and kept time with the drums on the sides of their Land Rovers. She also noted that, if there were any of the feared Ridgebacks around, they were being kept tactfully out of sight.

The replica of the Kings barge, also known as a Nalikwanda, painted black and white, was slowly sweeping around the river bend, powered on its way by strong young men who would soon be judged for their skill by the women of the tribe. The Chewa were unique in that sense, only women could inherit, so the young men must impress a wife rather than the other way around.

A huge cheer greeted the barge and the crowd surged forward toward the water, children held high so that they could see the replica of a huge black elephant, the ears of which can be moved from inside the barge, as it balanced on top. Smoke poured from the top, letting everyone know that the Lozi King was alive and well. Florence glanced around for a vantage point, her camera hugged tight to her body, she wanted to get some photos of the whole crowd. She didn't think her editor would find the event very exciting, but her family would love to see it anyway.

The closest high point happened to be an RSF Land Rover and she hurried towards it. The soldier on top glanced down at her and he smiled as she jogged up, his teeth incredibly white against his tanned face.

"Ma'am." He nodded to her as she got closer and she realized, perhaps belatedly, why she had found the white soldiers so strange here. They were polite to everyone. Despite the divide between black and white here it wasn't a hostile racism like in the United States, or even in Britain. The whites, most of them, were hardly what you could call arrogant and treated the black population like equal citizens, even if that wasn't true on paper.

"Hello!" She responded with her own smile. She was wearing a local dress, full necked and very colourful, it was in stark comparison to the drab green Land Rover and fatigues the soldiers wore. "May I come up there?" She hefted the camera to make her point and the soldier glanced at her, back at the crowd and the nodded. His two companions spared her a brief glance before turning back to watch the procession.

The soldier on the top knelt down and extended a hand rough with callouses and scored with powder burns. She grabbed it and leaned back slightly as he dragged her up onto the roof of the Land Rover, taking care not to bang her camera against the metal sides. He steadied her for a moment and then, once she thanked him, he let her go and sat down on an ammunition box, gesturing for her to sit on a fuel can.

"Thanks!" She said again and sat, the view was far better seven feet off the ground and she quickly began to snap photos. A young girl and her mother were at the waters edge waving madly to the Nalikwanda, several older men were seated on rough chairs, a polite space given to them. A black Police Officer was smiling and dancing in a circle holding the hands of a small child she took to be his son. Several young white people were standing with a crowd of young black people their own age, she pegged them for University students at once by their friendly manner, more modern clothes, and obvious prosperity compared to the locals

"You're that Florence gal from National Geographic aren't you?" The soldier next to her asked, surprising her enough that she lowered her camera and turned to look at him.

"What gave it away?"

"The camera." He winked at expression of exasperation. "And I've read your articles. You do nice work."

"You read my articles?" She asked. She didn't know why it surprised her that a white soldier read her work and she suddenly felt ashamed.

"Yea, of course. You're a bit a celebrity in Rhodesia. Not many people here, white or black, worked for the BBC, let alone National Geographic." He seemed so earnest in his opinion that she had no reason to doubt

"Well it's always nice to meet a fan." She recovered her composure and stuck out her hand. "Florence Chideya."

He shook it with a smile. "Frazer Redekker."

As he said it she glanced at his shoulders and realized, belatedly, that he was not an enlisted soldier. Not very observant for a world class Journalist. The patch on his shoulder showed a large bird with wings spread and the words "Alæ Præsidio Patriæ" beneath it.

"You're a pilot!" She exclaimed. She had always loved flying and done a fair bit as a passenger.

"What gave it away?" He replied with a laugh and nodded. "But yes, I am. These poor chaps are just along as my escort today." He nodded at the two heads below them. "I had some leave and wanted to come and watch this festival. I've only ever seen it from the air."

She was excited now, the opportunity that was presenting itself was to good to pass up. "Would you take me flying?!"

He looked at her for a moment and she saw a flash of... Suspicion possibly, cross his face but then he gave a slow nod. "I can certainly ask up the chain of command. Not every day a world renowned photo journalist wants to come for a ride." He reached into the front pocket of his fatigues and drew out a simple business card gave his name, rank, mailing address and a phone number. "Call my base on that number in the next couple of days, ask for me, and we'll make something work."

She thanked him profusely before excusing herself and jumping off the Land Rover. She still had some photos to shoot and a story to write.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June 6th, 1960, Rhodesian Embassy, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
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"Well shit." Sergeant Patrick Mulligan muttered the words as he stared down at the two bodies on the floor. Ambassador Heaps was crumpled against his desk, his bathrobe lying open to expose most of his body which was now soaked in blood. Beatrice lay directly in front of the door and Mulligan was glad he had not gone further into the room as some of her blood dripped off the ceiling, narrowly missing the brim of his pith helmet to splatter on the toe of his boot.

"That sums it up well." Replied a second security officer as he crowded into the doorway next him. "Murder suicide?"

"Sure looks that way." Mulligan stepped back, bumping into the second man as they both cleared the door way. He glanced around the room again, spotting the weapon under a nearby chair. It was a common enough pistol used locally by any number of Police, armoured car drivers, etc. The scene certainly looked like a murder suicide but nothing he had seen suggested that the Heaps were having domestic issues. They were lifelong perverts, wife swappers, sex party goers, and so forth. Unlikely one of the suddenly became insanely jealous. He knew that Heaps had royally fucked up the Rhodesian application to the African Union but he doubted something like that would cause his wife to shoot him.

"The household is showing up." The second officer commented quietly and a brief glance over the shoulder revealed curious house staff starting to crowd the nearby doorways, kept at bay by more security.

"Anyone called the locals yet?" Mulligan asked as he bought himself more time to think. The Rhodesian Government had a contingency plan for this sort of situation, top secret orders that had come down from somewhere on high in the event an Heaps was ever killed. It was almost to perfect... He didn't wait for a reply as a plan crystallized in his mind. "Find Abay. He's our killer. Make sure he fights to the death."

The second officer didn't argue, only nodded and turned away. Abay was a local Ethiopian they had hired six months ago. The man had Communist leanings but that had been the point in hiring him apparently. No one had explained to Mulligan why at the time, he had fought the idea, but now it was making sense in his head. Abay was a sacrificial pawn. He looked up and caught sight of Sara Reicker on the upstairs landing. The rest of the staff looked scared or worried and she was making a good act of each as well but her gaze was steady, her feet shoulder width apart, head held high. No ordinary secretary that lady.

The second security officer had vanished into the household and toward the servants quarters. Ten seconds passed before a shout rang out, a gunshot, and then the sound of breaking glass. The security officer burst into the hallway again, pistol drawn, helmet gone.

"He bolted out the window!" He shouted, waving his weapon toward the side of the house before running for the door. House staffers scattered in front of him like leaves before the wind. He reached the door and wrenched it open just as the sounds of a man yelling suddenly broke the night air, more gunshots rang out, and the roar of Ridgebacks brought shrieks from the staff inside the house. But not from Sara. Mulligan was still watching her and saw her glance outside and then turn away as if it was nothing. She was cold. And very dangerous.

The shooting died away and the sound of Ridgebacks turned from excited barks to the rumble of dogs who had found their prey. A horrible scream came from the brush, rising and falling in an awful cadence, almost over ridden by the victorious calls of the dogs. Mulligan waved one of the other security staff over, told him to ensure no one entered the room, and then headed for the door.

Outside the main yard was a blaze of light. Security Officers in their white uniforms manned positions as they were trained to do while men in green fatigues, the Immediate Action Rapid Deployment Team or IARD, hurried into the bush after the dogs. The screams died away to nothing and two men came from the brush dragging a pair of big Ridgebacks and a German Shepard whose chests were covered in blood. Another two men came a minute later, dragging a body by its arms and dumping it onto the gravel drive.

Mulligan walked over, his mind still sorting through scenarios as he went. The face of Abay stared up him, the black skin around his throat and lower jaw had been turned into shredded meat by the dogs. One leg was badly torn as well. That would have been the Shepard, they were trained to bite and hold, the Ridgebacks to kill. The man was certainly dead.

One of the IARD Men spat on the body and then stalked off, the big Shepard trotting along happily at his side. Sirens could be heard now. Gunshots were not so common in this part of Ethiopia that they would be considered part of the night noise. The local Police would have to be kept at bay but it would be impossible to simply prevent the Ethiopians from being part of the investigation, one of their citizens was dead now after all. Mulligan turned and began to rap out commands, he had much to do and little time to do it.

***Three Hours later***

Three Shotel Agents stood in front of Sergeant Mulligan, three black men staring down one white man, as the world watched from beyond the cordon of local Police. More Police stood around the yard, mostly giving the security dogs and their handlers a wide berth. Here and there a Policeman talked with a Rhodesian Security Officer. The Police spent enough time in the area to be on friendly terms with the Security detail and made for a bit of a bizarre scene.

Even the Shotel men, Agent Mehret, had ties to the embassy staff. He and Sergeant Mulligan played gold together once a week at a local country club. The two men looked like interracial twins to some extent, both tall, broad shouldered, short cropped hair, and with a ramrod straightness that hinted at previous military experience.

"Communists?" Mehret said with a slight eye roll. "Come on Pat, don't fuck with me. What's going on here?"

Mulligan smiled thinly at the short form of his name. Mehret only used it when they were golfing, and then only after a few beers. He was trying to play on the relationship the two men had. Mulligan couldn't blame him, he would have done the same.

"I told you Mehret, bloody man attacked by Security Officer and bailed out the window. We know he had Communist leanings, found some literature in his room, and Rhodesia isn't exactly popular with the commies these days."

Mehret leaned in and winked so that only Mulligan could see it. "You sure it wasn't a lovers tiff? Your Heaps aren't exactly what you would call subtle in the amount of black cock she liked to suck."

Mulligan had to concede that Mehret had a point. Beatrice had climbed onto about every black mans pole she could and rode them to hell and back. In fact, it wasn't ultimately a bad story and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it. Mehret mistook the surpassed fury for shame at failing to cover up the real reason.

"Don't worry Patrick. It won't hurt Heaps reputation at all. Nobody liked the son of a bitch anyway." Mehret kept his own face straight but glee danced in his eyes. That Heaps had been killed by a jealous lover of his wife would delight the local gossips and keep the papers busy for a week or two. He had no doubt that Rhodesia could weather the storm.

The two men stopped their conversation as black van rolled through the crowd. The Coroner. It would take all three bodies to the local morgue where the Shotel Agents and a Rhodesian Security man would remain with them until the Heaps could be transported home. There would be a state funeral with all the bells and whistles. If there was one thing Mulligan and Mehret could agree on, Heaps hardly deserved in.