Recent Statuses

2 days ago
Current I still need to reinstall New Vegas and load up on all the mods.
4 days ago
My thoughts on this wedding business:…
25 days ago
I don't care for the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
1 like
2 mos ago
A viable alternative to the intellectual 'merits' of My Little Pony is to read the Greeks and the Romans. Cicero's treatise on friendship is a good start.
1 like
2 mos ago
Questions I ask myself when writing an RP post: how the fuck do you invade the Russian far-east from land?


Most Recent Posts

It's that time of year
brandy and eggnog there's plenty of cheer


“I wonder how everyone back home is doing.” Wu Hong spoke, cutting the still silence among the group as they marched along through the trees. Intermittently the radio would squeak or speak as someone along the line said something in it. Fleeting pieces of conversation would come and go, but nothing that brought significance.

“Damn, you're finally going to speak?” Yu Huan asked, smiling as he hoisted the heavy radio comfortably up his back, “I haven't heard much of anything from you the whole time. What's on your mind?” he asked.

“I figured these woods muted him.” Keung added, his voice faint under the weight of the packs. Hong turned to look at him and saw him smiling broadly from under sacks of overflowing green canvas.

“No it's just... Been a while.” Hong said, “The last letter I sent was a day before we moved out. How long has it been now, nearly a week?”

“Probably.” Huan said, “I stopped counting.”

“Last I heard my sister was set to graduate school soon. She was ready to have her examinations. I don't know how she's done, I would like to know.”

“My brother's wide was pregnant. I'd like to know who my nephew is. She was ready to deliver last I heard.” said Huan

“Really? Congratulations. First for them?” Keung congratulated.

“First niece, or nephew. I'd be happy to see a photo of them. When do you think we'll get time to send and receive any letters?” asked Huan.

“Probably when we stop moving.” Lei groaned, walking alongside Keung. His face was glowing red from the strain.

The group came to a gentle hill and they began to climb it. “So how was it, home for you, Hong?”

“Well it was... Quiet.” he said, “Not particularly bad, though spooky; I guess. We could see Korea if you went down the river. There was always a fear that if war broke out with Japan, we'd be the first in the way.”

“So you joined the army?” Keung asked.

“Yeah...” admitted Hong.

“The Korean border? Isn't that a bunch of Anarchist communities, Union Party turf? What'd they think about you joining the army?” Lei huffed.

“No one didn't say anything to me. My father just patted me on the shoulder and let me go.” said Hong, “I don't think anyone believed we would be in Russia!”

Lei laughed, “What'd they think about Tibet?” he asked.

“They hated it. Why?”

“I know a few professed anarchists who hated the idea. Another who wanted to see it happen to break the power of the Dalai Lama. Then he got angry the Dalai Lama was mostly retained, if stripped of his political power.”

“I can't speak for them all.” Hong said.

“I think we're here.” Sergeant Ju Gan shouted from in front. Following him up, the rest of the patrol crested the hill, and from a clearing they looked down into the forest below. Cut into the bottom of a shallow valley buildings could be seen lining a rough grid of streets. A creek flowed through it.

“Is this it?” Huang asked, kneeling down to prepare to drop the radio.

“Might be, call it in.” Ju Gan said, dropping down himself to squat in the tall grass.

Expertly laying the radio down Huang worked the machine and placed the receiver to his mouth. Speaking bluntly and plainly into it he began communicating their location. Working with Ju Gan they began making attempts to calculate their position to refine it.

As they situation oriented itself, the rest of the squad gathered around and took a seat. In the grass flowers were blooming and bees flitted about. Hong wandered forward a few pieces to sit on a rock, listening to the birds and look down at the not-to-distant settlement nestled in the bosom of the wilderness. Through the trees the hints of a road could be seen. So too did the rails of a railroad break into and out of the trees, cutting across craggy, broken fields. In one direction along those rails were the Japanese. In the other direction was the darkness of Siberia's heart and the dysfunctional politics of western Russia.

Seated on his rock Hong could not help but compare it to home. The clusters of small houses, public buildings, and other establishments surrounded by field and wood. He could not see much for farms around it though. But he could see it was a living community. From the houses thin trails of smoke rose and fishtailed in the hot summer air of Siberia. The sky was clear, and the sun was unhindered. Everything below seemed to shine in the emerald glow of the prehistoric forests of Siberia. Even this small isolated community.

Finishing his duties Ju Gan stood up. “We're waiting here for a bit.” he declared, “We're going to need to wait for the rest of the company to come together and we're going to head into town and see what's happening.”

“Yes sir.” tired voices responded, eager for a short reprieve before heading in.

Walking to Hong, Ju Gan sat down on the rock along side him, propping his rifle up against his knees as he searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “Remind you of anywhere?” he asked the young private as he found his pack.

Hong didn't respond. He didn't know what to answer with. A no, perhaps? He became aware that he was certainly taking his time to look down at it, and perhaps that would be a silly answer. He couldn't say yes, because as close as it reminded him of home, he also couldn't come out and say it looked like it. It was missing much of what his home had, it was missing life.

“I don't know if I ever found out, but do you smoke?” his sergeant said, offering him a cigarette. Hong looked over and shook his head and Gan withdrew the pack, putting one in his mouth and searched his pockets again. “I heard you talking back there.” he added, diving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, yeah?” asked Hong.

“Indeed. I can't say this place reminds me of anywhere. But fuck if we're not here- Where the hell did I put my lighter?” he grumbled angrily as he searched his pockets, finding nothing.

“Maybe it's in your bags?” Hong suggested.

“Probably. Fucking hell. Forget it, never mind.” he said, giving up. Opting to chew on his cigarette instead.

The two sat there quietly, as the rest of the squad came to migrate around them. Bao and Qi eventually wound their way over, taking a seat in the tall grass with their rifles in their hands. Over time the forest began to turn and churn as foot steps broke the silence. Traipsing through awkwardly the other teams meandered their way to them, stepping from the trees on an odd course and almost missing them entirely. In time the hill began to fill up as the remainder of the company gathered in.

As they gathered around, officers decided they would become too conspicuous early on, and they were moved to behind the tree line. The fear was the village would be alerted, and they might resist or even send out an alert. As groups found their way in small cooking fires were lit on the opposite side of the hill, and rations were heated. Formal lines of communication were established back, or attempted. A census was taken. As heads were counted the commanding officers in the unit went off to make their decision, and several of the non-commissioned, Ju Gan was one of them.

The body of foreign soldiers that walked into the village gave pause to the few that remained there. Standing back aghast the Russian civilians stood and gawked at the uniformed Chinese soldiers who walked in formation into the village. A standard had been unfurled and was carried through the gravel street through the inter-playing shade and sun cast by the trees and village homes. In the center of town the bell tower of a single church rose above the roofs, being the only major landmark in the village. Among them walked Yu Huan, who with the rest of his squad fell in the rest of their group to be the vanguard into the isolated Siberian community. As it were, they would take the temperature, gauge the threat in town and if no resistance was met establish the Chinese presence.

For all the silent pomp the Chinese entered with, it felt anti-climatic. They entered into a town as liberators, but without an enemy to fight. There wasn't any clear distinction of who was an enemy here and who was not. With wary gazes they searched the empty windows as they passed. In Huan's hands his rifle felt heavy, burdened by the tension that hung on his shoulders.

Passing by open doors he could hear the whispers of women holding their children back from the strange people entering their town. Their red flag flew bright and vivid in the summer sun.

Huan pulled his attention from the awe struck and terrified villagers to over the shoulders of his comrades. At the head of the column strode their commanding officer. His long great coat hung down to his ankles and fluttered with every step. The folded collar revealing the fur lining, and his cleanly shaven neck. His cap was an unadorned crown, and the tip of his jian sword rested on his shoulder as he marched ahead unencumbered by any weight, carried aloft by his spectacle of command.

A figure stepped aside into the street, dressed in an old suit. The man looked as if he had not cleaned or shaven in a while. His beard had grown out and was ragged and wild. His hair was pulled back against his skull and tied in a knot behind his head. He seemed nervous and apprehensive as he walked out into the street before the company and smiling tensely he began to speak, his confidence wavering and frightful, “Z-Zdravstvuyte!” he hailed.

The officer rose a hand and halted the company. He made a series of quick curt orders to his men. One of which was for them to stand at ease, Huan could lower his rifle. He looked to his side to where Bao and Qi stood, they kept a hold of their rifles, but allowed their posture to drop some. From the ranks a junior officer stepped forward and joined with his senior counterpart, both approached the man in the road.

In low voices words were exchanged. Clearly neither the commanding officer or the man could speak the same language, and the conversation was carried out through a translator. It was a long conversation, or felt like it. The tension in the column mounted as men shifted in their boots and turned to look at the spectators with wary nervous feeling. As the sun beat down on them, a conclusion must have been met. The senior officer turned back to his men, he was a clean trimmed soldier, if not for the thin beard growing on his chin.

“We're staying.” he announced. Not making the circumstances feel even more climatic.
Don't any of you go about thinking this is dead, because it's not.
Sorenio Republiqa duo Azula Coatl


Tucked between the bossom of two green hills the village of Vèron sat nested along a single cobble road between the breasts of earth. In the early sunlit morning, a pale mist enveloped the country village, masking the plastered farm houses and barns that grew out of the main road. In the foggy morning the nearby cackling of chickens sounded faint and distant as the first rustlings of day crawled on the city. First in the bell ringing of the blacksmith as he set about beginning his early orders, each clang of his hammer on the anvil sounding a pure clean note into the still misty air. Then the lulling moo of cows as they called for their masters to come and milk them, their teets hurt. The sounds of children and of play had not yet awoken, now was the hour of the working man and woman to begin their waking chores. Many of them did not need the timely chimes of the city bells, their bodies were their own clocks.

Rising out of his bed, a sinewy man awoke. Stretching out his arms he breathed in deep the morning air that came into his cabin. It was sweet, and moist. It carried into his nose the smell of the vineyards and orchards not far from his house. It did not let these smells of flowers and fruits go dryly. No, there was a rich earthly moisture to it that reminded the man of wine. Years ago, when he worked in the city he had drank, now he had moved into the quietude of the country to work on his studies and take up lighter duties the very smells of the country had become his wine. He had learned to drink it with his breakfast.

He rose naked from his sheets and walked barefoot along the coarse wooden floors of his house. It was not large, though by country standards it was near a mansion. Split into three rooms, he lived alone; slept in the bedroom cordoned off in a corner. The other smaller room was a pantry and storage, with the hatch into the cellar cut into the wall and the floor. The main living and entertainment area was at the front of the house, and its wide and spacious windows let in the morning air and scents as they had no glass, only an interlocking weave of stripped bark tied by horse hair, interlocked leaving hexagonal holes of barely a quarter-inch diameter; a screen of wood and fiber.

He went to a wooden counter along the north-east wall of the living room where a bowl of night-chilled water lay. Reaching into it with sun-kissed and cupped hands he splashed water into his face and rubbed it through his beard, combing the coarse hairs with his fingers. He let the water drip away as he headed into the pantry. From there, wrapped in cotton rags, and brought out a brick of salted ham, shriveled and tiny and he could hold it in one hand and nearly wrap his hands around it. He took it outside.

His bare feet kissed the dewy ground as he stepped out of the door and wandered around to the side of the house, desiccated and salted ham in hand. In a sandy area, seperate from the home was a small brick fire-pit under a canopy, the roof angled such that water would run off in one direction, and the smoke drift off the other. An over turned pot was nearby, and placing the wrapped ham on the bricks he took the pot and filled it from a nearby pump well, filling it water. He placed it over the fire-pit, no larger than the length between his elbow and wrist and lit a fire. Once sparking, he threw the ham into the pot, and walked off waiting for it to boil and cook.

Along the side of his house the man grew berry bushes, a handful in all in neat rows, three in all. He searched the brambles and picked into a wicker basket choice berries. When he had half filled it, he brought them to the pot, now beginning to steam and dumped them in. Throwing the wicker basket back on a return trip, he passed by the bushes and headed off into some hedges, where he relieved himself.

After half an hour much of the mist had cleared and the man had gone back inside and got dressed in a pair of white trousers and a loose red cotton shirt. The rising morning sun had chased it away and with a hat on his head he shaded his eyes from the strength of the rays and clenched a pipe between his teeth. Still barefoot though, he went over to the fire and squatted down next to it, looking in under the cast iron pot as the embers sizzled and sparked. The pot was boiling strong now, and the berries he had tossed in had largely dissolved and stained the water a deep wine-dark red; what was left of their carcasses drifted on the surface deflated and ruptured. The ham was somewhere deeper inside. It wouldn't be ready for a while, imported ham was normally heavily salted and the man owned no produce to feed himself with. But he got by.

He chewed his unlit pip though as he watched. The saliva working up around the mouth piece. Raising a hand to the fire, he decided to change that. Nothing moved through the air, there was no sound or sense to determine something had happened. But jumping spontaneously from the embers a small spark jumped, flew through the air, and landed in and lit the man's pipe. With a few puffs, clouds of silver gray smoke were wafting through the air. He smiled.

The pot wasn't nearly done enough, so he headed into the house. Under a lounge in the sitting room he kept a guitar, a short necked thing with a broad shield-shaped body, its bowl of a body making it in all, like that of an over sized nut, a half gourd. The strings pulled over an array of holes that radiated out like a flower.

Holding it in his hands, he strummed it a few times and soft high notes reverberated out on the echoes of the gourd-like body. Its notes echoing into a reverberating harmony that vibrated with the electricity of the early morning. The sun had fully breached the horizon, and the full chorus of the birds had awakened to join him. As he headed out onto the porch deftly picking the strings with his long calloused fingers and long nails he improved to their song, humming along the way. He didn't care if he sounded out of tune with them or himself. If he made a mistake he corrected and adjusted and reached his own personal harmony.

From the distance in the village came his indirect response. The heart-beat thud-thud-thud-ud of the drum beat as the town crier stirred from his hut and went through the village tapping his square báfuie. As he strummed, wandering back to his cooking fire he leaned up against the side of a cashew tree, crossing his legs he improved away watching the street as the drumming grew louder. He craned his neck around a flowering book to see the white robbed figure of the drummer make his way down the road calling out to the sky and the sleepy residencies to come and great the day, to great the sun and all its nature. His prayer was shouted in a loud wavering wail. To match, the man played his guitar higher seeking the harmonic resonance to the wailing off-tone voice of the crier. Then he passed on by, and the heartbeat thud-thud-thud-ud and his voice became distant again.

But on the road, walking in the opposite direction of the crier came another man. A strange man. Dressed strange for these parts. It was the finery, he was a burning candle in the middle of the night, a diamond among ashes. Dressed head to toe in a silvery blue uniform he had white metal ornaments hanging from the tassels of his doublet and cloak, probably silver. A white jerkin, embroidered with blue waves pressed against the doublet and held him stiff and firm against the breeze. He had a sword at his hip, his boots muddy. The man stopped playing as he watched the newcomer with curious eyes.

He was clean too, less so his boots from walking. But his face and beard bore all the hallmarks of careful cosmetic care. His white flat cap was crowned with a single black feather, probably a crow's, hanging off from above the left ear. As he drew near the man called out from under his tree, above him on the gentle slope of the hill.

“Good morning, stranger. What brings a dandy like you out here? Didn't think I would see any stiff necks when I like Grosso.” he called in a high-pitch sing-song voice.

The man in the room jumped, startled. He stepped back and turned to meet whoever had speak and when he saw the skinny man under the tree clutching a guitar a relaxed breath escaped his pale lips. “I am I messenger looking for Michelia Moor.” he said, straight and to the point.

“Michelia? I heard he lives in a stone house on a hill, and he boils his pork about this time in the morning.” the man on the hill said smiling, “Might have a cashew tree too.”

The messenger looked at him stunned, and scanned the surrounding area. Many of the farm houses here were stone and on hills or on the gradients of hills. The mist had cleared away and they were all as sharp and defined as anything. From the chimneys or outside ovens, smoke billowed out as many were just now beginning their day.

The messenger looked confused as he looked back up at the man. “I can tell your an idiot and you looking at him.” Michelia said, “And the name isn't Moor it's Moorie. Who are you from? Dalmendelo or Peruscoti?”

“Peruscoti my lord, I have a request for you.” the messenger said, stepping towards him to offer him a rolled piece of parchment from under his cap. Michelia walked down the hill to the road and unfurled the paper, scanning the hastily written script.

“You know anything about this?” he asked.

“No sir.” the messenger said.

“Well this isn't telling me much. Come on, you have to know something.” Michelia continued to prod.

“I'm afraid I don't. The master hasn't made me a member to his party. I just deliver the messages.”

“I'm sure you do. Listen, I just boiled some pork. I'll split it with you and we can figure out what's going on. Or at the least what the road is like.” He waved his hand for the messenger to follow him, and after a moment of hesitation he followed the man up the hill.

“I'm afraid I don't have anywhere to sit out here, so we will need to eat on the ground. I'll go inside and get some plates. Wait here.” Michelia bid to the man, before stepping inside. He came out minutes later with a couple of beaten metal plates and utensils before heading over to the pot. He dumped out the liquid within in, and reaching in with a knife stabbed the wayward dessicated piece of meat which had over doubled in size and cut it on one of the plates. Glistening and warm, steam rolled up from it as he brought it over to the messenger who had taken up a spot leaning against the house. Michelia joined him.

“So, what is going on in Saolo Grosso?” he asked.

“How do you mean sir?” the messenger asked.

“What's the major news.” he intoned coldly looking aside at the young man. Michelia cut a piece of ham and chewed.

“There has been a trial lately, that is the major news.” he said, “With the master's son. He was sentenced to death the other day.”

“Have they hung him yet?” Michelia asked.

The messenger shook his head, and took a tentative bite of the breakfast offered to him. “Have there been appeals?” Michelia again inquired.

“Several, but this was the last shot. It was before the entire council.”

“And he's still hanging?”

“Not yet.”

“Then they still sentenced him to hang?”


“Then I don't know what he expects me to do unless you left late with an earlier written note. I would not go home then, he might cut off your head.”

“No sir, I am not in the wrong here. He wrote and gave me this letter to run to you late last night!”

“You poor boy.” Michelia laughed.

“It is nothing I'm not used to. The walk was longer than usual, but I have done night missions before. The countryside was a lot better than making a run through the city.”

Michelia snickered at the comment, but continued into his line of inquiries, “So then, if he ran out of appeals and his son still hangs, then why me?”

“I do not know.” the messenger said, “What did the letter say?”

“That it wants me to go there and talk to him about it. I take it he wants me to go through all the trouble to get there so I won't be inclined to refuse on the spot. I should have moved to the mountains.”

“Will you go?” the messenger asked him.

Michelia scratched his chin as he thought, and cutting another piece: “I suppose I should.” he said, “The money would be nice.”

“Oh good, I don't know why you would want to live out here. It's out of the way.”

“I like the peace.” Michelia rejoined bitterly, “And I actually feel needed.”
New Auslassia

Central Auslassia

The computer screen flickered as the robot rolled down the corridor of rock. Debris and untouched machines littered the passage, the only light being what shown out of the remote piloted drone as it inched along. On the terminals next to the pilot's controls diagrams and readouts measured various atmospheric conditions. The humidity and radioactivity were high, however neither sufficient to damage the robot. For the time being, the increased level of radiation had an irritating effect on the live-feed, indiscriminately flickering the screen and filling the live-feed back with a soft static. It was not much to make anything inoperable, but it cast a feeling of uncertainty on the crew as they moved ahead.

Turning a corner the robot's cameras looked on the corridor where the blast had occurred. In the humid air of the cavern a soft blue glow enveloped the cavern, emanating from a side tunnel. There was some murmuring at the control center. The pilots pointing out in awe the radioactive phenomenon. The conditions were plainly obvious: the radioactive source was active in humid conditions underground. The humidity itself was enough that the suspended particles of water were interacting with the direct contact with radioactive waves that they were lighting up.

The robot progressed and went down the passage. At the very end a large fissure had been opened in the wall. Beyond a solid blue light bathed out and the additional intermingling of further passages and chambers beyond. There was awe at the control center as they went ahead. Never before had anyone seen anything like it, and as the drone approached the opening there was excited chatter. What lay beyond wasn't simply a natural cavern, another chamber eroded away by centuries or a millennia of the dissolution of limestone by water, but something wholly different.

At the edge of the opening the robot's camera looked down at a chasm of pipes, ventilation, conduit and catwalks. A great pool of water filled the bottom and the sensors read sharp rises in all areas. Radiation spiked violently, ebbed suddenly, only to erupt again in a great explosion. The live feed repeatedly ebbed from absolute static back to a hazy if clear screen. There was shock and awe as the men at the controls looked on and saw the industrial chasm opened to them. Who would have believed that thousands of meters below them there was something such as this buried there. There was excited talk of calling in for more gear to scout the ruins further, rejoinders that the radioactivity was so high, it was unlikely they ever could. Then in the excitement someone hit the joy stick for the robot wrong and the little robot lurched forward to the precipice, swayed back and forth for a little, and plunged down ward.

The men at the controls screamed as the expensive piece of equipment took a final plunge into the radioactive depths, the screen filling with static and flickering violently. Briefly a sign passed by written in a familiar script, but they could only make out “oy”. It splashed down into the water there, and drifted into the radioactive depths with its live-feed full of a blue light. But as the heavy machine turned into the abyss its cameras passed by to look at a set of violently blue glowing rods deep in the water. And the radioactivity killed it.

Somewhere deep in the chasm, a system activated.

At 299,792,458m/s a beam of energy erupted from the ground roughly near the mine. The thunderous clap it produced as it broke through thousands of kilometers of packed rock and sand in a single punch was enough to send tremors rumbling across a wide area. At the coast an earthquake measuring a 5.4 was recorded sending geological experts into a puzzle. But closer to where the beam had come the energy was far more absolute, though no one had bothered to measure it. There was such a force that rocked the ground that it felt as if the sand and dirt all around was going to rapidly liquify. And it was very close to being so, loosening so much that standing structures were absorbed down into the ground. The entrance to the mind itself collapsed, trapping some eight-hundred miners who had gone in to work the least dangerous parts of the mine and to work on meeting some level of production quota. Nearby several houses collapsed killing several, and the tent the robotic survey crews had set up in folded and fell down on top of the survey men, trapping them under disorienting fabric and bruising more than a few heads from falling metal framework.

Traveling through space, the yellow beam of energy interrupted space operations and vaporized one freighter in the beam's way. Observers noted the suddenness of its appearance, like a flash of halogenic light that appeared in a single stretch of space before crackling out of existence as quickly as it had come, leaving no trace. But all of this was much slower than the beam was traveling, and by the time all this had been done it had reached its final destination at the edge of the orbital system where in a silent crack it erupted in a blooming cloud of golden roses that spread out like a nebulae in miniature at a distance, the light of which was so strong that back in the orbit of Novira its presence was a faint haze in the distance, like shreds of wax paper on a window pane. It persisted there, taking on the second transmission from the thing in the ground, with far less dramatic flair than before. As its job was completed, it though held open the door.


“Oy ya bungers get outta ya hampers we got ourselves a ringa.”

“You what, cunt?”

“Tis what I thought but we got a ringer, oy what a ripper of one too!”

“Cor, what the blimey hell is it?”

“Take a look ya shit.”

“Oh, bloody hell. It's the Angle I tell you that much. What she doing?”

“Hella I know. Cor, how long has it been since we've last heard?”

“Blimey, that's a hard doovalacky mate. A year or two, mate?”

“That's a bludger a statement, cunt. Ya missing a few zeroes there me thinks.”

“You troppo, mate? Couldn't be that long. When we leave home?”

“With or without Black Hole time?”

“You what?”

“If you hadn't insisted on surfing the waves around a few black holes, the numbers wouldn't be as big of an issue. But fucking hell ya cunt you hadn't decided on that time keeping wouldn't be such a doozey.”

“You accusing me of wasting all your time on rippin' on a few gnarlies mate?”

“How'd you think the Canberra did so much in so little time?”

“...I thought they were just nerds.”

“Fucking hell. Wake up the others and put on some jocks at least.”
@Dinh AaronMkBy mainland do you mean the continental territories down South and eastwards to my main island?
Removing that entirely would completely change the demographics and turn Yllendthyr into a quite different faction. Lot less diversity and chance to explore unique cultures.
So even if I have to take other reductions I'd rather have some continental holdings because that's a core element for the nation's roleplaying style.

The problem is despite that it gives them access to too much undue power in the north, since that solid arch of holdings north to south entirely controls the waters of the north and gives far too much influence to a single person over the others. So you're asked to tone it down and work on getting there through IC posting.
@Crispy Octopus

You look fine to me, I'll add you in next chance I get.


What was the question? All things going on I may have overlooked it.

@Willy Vereb

I passed the revised map by some of your regional partners out of concern for the over all territory, and the opinions I got was generally mutual and it's asked you remove the mainland territories and at the least consider the smaller islands as outposts, though you've said they'd be mostly that anyways.
My core worlds' landmass is bigger than Sweden and roughly at the same latitude with plenty of water access. This is no paradise but neither is unlivable, especially since a number of those islands are actually in the moderate climate zone so even just derived from the longitude this is better off than Sweden. And the Swedish Empire was a powerful nation in its time in spite of its low population.
Following the colonization of islands their next target was further up North so no problem. As for the Southern conquest it's still something I wouldn't call impossible. It depends on the state the region was in. If it were a powerful nation say comparable to medieval France then perhaps Yllendthyr would've never taken them. But not all nations are as strong as West European major powers. Nor the land which is now Galhonore was necessarily united.

Anyways, when me and Aaron were talking about the size the topic involved a ruling which meant newer players should have smaller nations. My only response to that was the fact my nation is already considered smaller than what most of the old players were making. And I am fine being smaller and less important than them.

I have no problem with the idea of changing details about my nation. I have problem when the follow up response is passive aggressive and authoritative. To my knowledge I did not provoke such a response and it rubs me in the wrong way.

Whether or not the bulk of those islands and landmass is in temperate zones is irrelevant since your people would be originating in a territory as harsh or harsher than Iceland, as me and Crispy has just established. What this implies is that the physical conditions of the region should be so harsh you're not really at a position to organize to form an Empire. If anything, you're at the mercy of other people, or a tribe of people somewhere in the north that might get called in as mercenaries from time to time. The most reliable food source may be the sea, but the sea would hardly be a significant agricultural bounty on which to build a civilization that'll do anything more than raid like vikings.

Keep in mind that when Scandinavea is used as a comparison a lot of its population is centered further south. It wasn't the Sami who marched south to conquer the proto-Germans, it was the Germans in the south that spread out and conquered the lands around them. Your positioning is rather poor to make an Empire so organized it can think to use three simultaneous currencies.
<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>


Crits you die
No crits, you live
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet