Dinh AaronMk

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Pepperm1nts said
CRAAAAWLING INN MYY SKINNN THESE WOUNNDS THEY WILL NOT HEAAAL- Comatid words

fuk ur emo faggot shit.

As We Knew It

Grand Traverse county

The waters of Lake Michigan had been rendered slate gray as frozen north winds tore south. Waves that were once magnificent as they were often stormy in autumn flattened and died. What not stretched clear into the horizon now was a wasteland of ice. Ice so thick and hard it did not take the sun. Where the snow had not drifted into great white dunes the ice of the lake lay like a coat of armor across the surface of the lake. Impenetrable. Wrought of steel. Gone were the days epic ships passed through the winter waters to break it. Now were the days it grew thick. Now were the days it would not break till spring.

High atop a hill over looking the wasteland expanse stood a monument to a man. Planks of drift wood, sheets of steel, and columns of brick and bundle of rebar formed a wide irregular circle. The stands bound and kept as one by thick bare vines with the still-hanging shriveled grapes that they bore.

The vines twisted and turned across the ground - which had been cleared of snow – to a central nexus. An alter. A sarcophagus. Wrapped around the pile of brick and stacked cement that it was twirled the vines, deadened for the winter. They gripped the sides and rose up, the coarse woody arms raising to the sky, supported by each other as if they were a bonfire.

“What are you waiting for, you said you would do it!” jeered a distraught boy at the base of the alter. He looked to be a youth of eleven, his fair skin beat cheery-red against the biting, driving coldness of the winter air. A red knit cap was pulled over his long blonde hair. His blue eyes stared out excited, anxious, expectantly. His heavy coat flapped and fluttered against his side and arm, several sizes too big anyways.

Standing next to him was a young girl of equal age. An ungloved hand rested on the frozen surface of the alter-piece alongside the offerings and left-behinds of pilgrims past: bloodied rags, jars of air, even a foreskin or two sat clustered in the empty space created in the vines. Little things left behind by the gulls and the crows when they descended on the frozen sanctuary, or simply not eaten yet.

Raised above her outstretched hand hovered a quivering knife. Jagged, and hardly clean it loomed over her waiting fingers as her companion continued to pressure for the offering.

Long auburn hair flew in the wind. Whipping up into her face as a sudden hard blast of frantic lake-wind tore across her face, singing the exposed skin even redder. The young girl recoiled against the biting wind and she bit on her lips.

“I'm scarred!” she blurted out. She squinted her green eyes as the wind continued to blow. As they teared up against the dry wind they dripped down her face, freezing. It only made the cold worse and it irritated her. Her heart raced as she hovered her father's knife over her hand.

“But you promised!” the boy said excitedly. He felt a feeling of dread as he realized that perhaps the sacrifice would not be made today. Nor would he get the chance to make his bid for fortune.

“They say great things happen when you give!” the boy said again, “Like, that's what everyone says about this. We'll all have to at some point.”

“Yes Theo, but I'm scared now!” the girl screamed back, sobbing under the pressure, “I know what I said God damn it. But now I don't know!”

“What, you're chicken!?” Theo taunted. Theo, of the house of Pierce. His family – like the girl's – was one of the prominent ones. One of the ones on the Council. He didn't know what they did, or why they were important. All he knew is that he'd be on it someday for sure. And all men on the council were great men. Some having made great offerings to Joshua.

“Well maybe I am, what are you going to do about it?” the girl snapped back. Angela Rythmann. Some said he family was wealthier than the House of Pierce, but Theo didn't know why. The Pierces owned the most vineyards in all of Grand Traverse! How could they not?

But, some say they weren't, no matter how many slaves they owned. Once more, he never knew what the Rythmann's had such a strange, silly horse as a sigil.

But Angela was right, what could he do about it? Keep going. “You have to!” he yelled.

“Why!?” Angela replied.

“Because, well. You just do!” the response came, “You'll have great things happen. You'll have to!”

“I don't care what happens, but I'm not cutting off my finger!” Angela roared. Her voice was like a clap of thunder going off alongside one's head. Or the roar of a powder rifle against the ears.

With a fiery fit the young girl picked up the knife and threw it against the ground.

Theo looked down at it stunned. This, this was almost an offense! He was shocked, like someone had the audacity to call him a dick.

“You what!?” he bellowed.

“Dammit Pierce, I'm not!” Angela said, stomping her boots onto the frozen ground, “And if you want me to do it, you do it first!”

“That wasn't the deal!” Theo squeeled, throwing his arms up.

“Well I'm changing the deal!”

“No! That's impossible. You never change the deal!”

“Not unless it's on paper!”

Theo bit back his sourness as he reeled back, eyes wide. His pride hurt like his cheeks in the cold wind. Or maybe they were just that numb. For whatever the case, he lunged for the ground, picking up the knife as he pushed Angela aside.

“Theo no don't do it!” Angela yelled as he threw his hand onto the table, raising the knife above it. He tensed his fingers, and readied his arm. He made ready for the down stroke, clenching his teeth and holding back his tongue as his eyes shut tight. What was his older brother's saying? Tighter than a Catholic girl's legs?

But the stoke never came. He froze in the position. No amount of strength on his part could trump his own will to not cut off his finger. But still he held his breath. But willing himself to cut it off, and to not. His pride had been hurt, he had to maintain image. He had to fix it. He had to do better!

Instead of cutting downward, he peeked an eye open as he slowly lowered the quivering blade to his hand. He saw the jagged, sharp edge of the blade quiver in his own fingers as it came lower onto his hand. He moved it slowly, carefully. It touched sharply on the back of his knuckle where he could go no further.

“Children!” a man's voice sang out, shaking both of the kids from their trance on the knife and alter. With a start both jumped to the source of the harsh stern voice. Standing at the edge of the circle of trash stood a tall hooded figure in a thick wollen, fur robe. His stern cold stare latched onto them, and did more to send chills down their spine than the depths of winter could. Shivering they stared into his sunken bearded face before turning with a start and running off.

Not realizing it, Theo dropped the knife atop the cement of the alter as they fled from the Shrine of Joshua, leaving behind their dare and mission to make a personal sacrifice.

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Now post in PoW fagget.

Also, Lord Thespos visual aid:


http://aaronmk.deviantart.com/art/Lord-Thespos-460462334

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

The dry salty air hung in all corners of the air. No amount of rugs. No amount of canvas to hide the putrid brine smell of the salt flats. The air was stagnant and cold. No heat or moisture resided in the salty desert landscape of the Rhumid north. It felt that no fire could force the cold winds to subside and retreat from even inside the tents of the mighty Calydonian Empire.

But there was no cold that could break the citadel in man that he retreated to when in mourning. There was no blade sharp enough to bring a man out from his sorrow for the passed liege that had fallen just days before, and the loss of his son and only heir.

A hulking shape sat upon a simple cloth-draped seat in the midst of a dark-red tent. Stakes the width of a man's arm waved and shook as the deep-red canvas caught the cold desert air and fluttered in the hard breeze that swept across the flats. A great black bolt of cloth lay draped over the floor as if a rug, emblazoned in glowing yellows and oranges flew a arcing star, ending in the points of a vicious flail.

In the middle of the dark tent the simple cloth-covered seat glowed like a fierce star alongside the twin braziers that crackled and sparked under twin nets of brass. The smoke rose gently to the ceiling, to be caught by the cloth roof and channeled out through the tallest point of the cold shelter.

And the beastly shape sat hunched between the fires. A man of sorrow. A man rendered from death to pity and shame.

Thespos Comatid was by no words a modest man in stature. No one could ever claim that he was anything less than a giant. And though his hair grayed and a lengthy beard fell from his chin he continued to defy the goddess's assault on his body. He defied the aching of his bones by lifting his sword. He threw himself to war and slaughtered many, hewn three men in half with one pull of his mighty sword. He had been cut, slashed, stabbed, and bitten in so many times even the scars that dotted his body lost count of the attempts men had made to down the giant of the Comatid family. The scars crossed his face in such a coarse cruel order, it was a wonder he stood still.

Falling over his shoulders a faded red cloak covered his arms and wrapped down to his legs. It past his knees, and fell at his ankles like a pool of blood. And where the cape parted from his chest, the blood of a king shone on his stained white armor. The blood was likewise trapped in the thread of his heavy cloak.

Thespos had been the first to rush to the body of Syros when that panicked horse had dropped him. Where many hang back stricken into shock to move. As the king's body was broken by trampling hooves Thespos had ran out to the broken corpse. Too late to save the honorable, great king the Goddesses had blessed them with.

And Syros broken and bleeding he had carried him from where he was dropped. On the pillar arms of Thespos he carried a man who knew no equal like a babe. For once, the man who had seen many brothers slain, and broken many families his equal had been broken. The ultimate price had been paid. And the price had been doubled when his son was slain. It still swam in him. Churning the murky din of his saddened conscious.

He wished he could be there. Could have saved Galos. Been in the way of the arrow on that fateful raid. There was anger. Anger so hot. Fire not for himself, but for the people who killed perhaps Thespos' closest friend, and his son. It addled him. Shook the giant's face. His soft sea-green eyes shivered in their socket as he struggled with himself.

There was a flutter of cloth as the flap to his tent opened. And the king's attention was brought up. His curled, dark-silver hair shone in the fire-light like iron.

Standing at the door was his very son and heir. A fair-skinned boy, with a build that echoed his father. Though he was not nearly as tall as Thespos.

He looked up at him, waiting for what news the young man would bring his elderly father. His son, Manoren was always the one to bring the news. Sometimes, it was all that Thespos thought he was good for. To receive and report information, or to operate on it. He was modest with the sword otherwise.

But this day Manoren did not raise his voice to speak. Simply he bowed before stepping inside, closing the tent flap behind him. The prince walked around the edge of the tent to a table in the far corner. The clink of silver and clay made a soft pattered song as he poured a glass of wine. The soft watery sounds of the deep maroon drink sounded as refreshing as the thought of water.

The two knew each other well enough as father and son. Manoren knew the tense silence of Thespos meant trouble. But he had not left, and Thespos knew that there was something his son must say. It was merely a waiting game on who would speak first and break from their respective, distant silence. Who would break the coldness on each other's faces. Who would thaw their tongue.

Manoren moved from the table, two goblets of wine in his hand. His pace was soft and calculated, and perhaps 'walk' was hardly the right word to use for the way he moved. He was softer than that. If there was any offensiveness in his gait, it was washed away on the wind by how he glode to his father's side. Rounding in front of him, he knelt out of respect and rose to him a silver goblet of wine, filled to just a hair below the brim.

Thespos glared down at it for a long time. His mouth remained shut. His eyes unblinking as he looked down at the offering. Manoren was about to retract the offering from his father. Finding defeat in the cold unmoving glare of his father. It disturbed him.

But from under his cloak a heavy hand reached for the silver chalice, and took it from his son's hands. With a thirsty chug, he rose the goblet and there downed the wine, half flowing into his thick silver beard and trapping itself in his bushy mustache where it remained, a maroon stain on whiskers of elder gray.

“You have something to say.” Thespos said, looking up at Manoren. His voice was booming even when silent. Rolled like thunder as it left his tongue. It rattled with the broken bones of the thousands of mens he had killed.

“It's hardly good news.” Manoren said. He was softer. It was still deep, but was not carved out in blood and battle. It had not been risen to roar orders and rallying cries across the thunder of crashing wood and screaming steel. It had not had to overcome the battle cries and roars of men.

“What could make these days darker?” Thespos asked saddened, “We have lost a King of Kings, and hardly a half week after we lost his son. We lack a leader, we're in the middle of the desert building his last wish. A road. A road! Such men should dream of better and build better.”

“It is Onesimos.” Manoren spoke, plainly, “He has died.”

“Onesimos.” Thespos spat bitterly. His distaste was obvious and shone green in his eyes as he looked away, spitting on the ground, “That is a king whose name is fit for a road!” he boomed.

“How did he go?” Thespos asked his son, taking a sip from his wine. To be honest, his curiosity was not profound and he could hardly care if he was gored by a Rhumid warrior, or had simply masturbated too hard for his cock.

“His men say murder.” Manoren said, “They want blood.”

“Is this true?” Thespos asked. He knew Manoren had a way for knowing and expected the truth out of him. He knew it would come from him to he.

“Maybe.” his son said indecisively, “I would examine the body myself if his men were not so on edge and saddened themselves. But I hear a poison arrow may have claimed him.”

Thespos spat a hissing spit. Half laughing, shaking his head. “That is a way to be claimed.” he said growling, “I doubt we can expect anything from his son now then.”

“Not until someone confesses or he kills the man he thought responsible, maybe.” shrugged Manoren. Walking across the tent he continued, “But that itself his uncertain. You know I know I have only known the man so long. I can speak in confidence.

“I would have much rather predicted Syros' next move. At least I had to guess with his honor.”

“Fuck that horse.” Thespos cursed. He swallowed back the pain in his heart, keeping a straight face. He turned to look at his son, who had stopped to examine the mighty sword his father carried into battle.

Star Fell was its name. Legend in the family spoke of it having fallen before Andrean Comatid one night as he looked out the windows of his palace. He observed a great fire streak across the sky, and a sparking fire in the country. Rushing to investigate, the king had found buried in a hole so deep it would fit a house a great black stone.

Andrean ordered the stone excavated, and broken and melted down to iron which as used to craft the large curved blade. His sword though lay sleeping in a wrap of heavy furs. Only the long wooden handle hung out. The handle itself was almost as large as a man's torso. It had become in itself a sort of rite to inheritance in the family since its forging. The son to carry the sword was the one to inherit the son. And none lifted it better than Thespos, who was the second of the line to carry it into battle.

“If it would make you happier, scouts later found the horse and brought it back to camp.” Manoren said, “I managed to acquire it and slaughtered it. For Syros. And for Gregorios.”

“Horses are expensive and hard to rear, why would you kill it!?” Thespos shouted angrily.

“It seemed the apt punishment. But that beast could be attributed to the deaths of two men who would call it master. And it was old itself. It had to be put down.

“I gathered up its blood, and if you would wish I ordered the cook to cut and serve the meat for today's dinner. Its hide will be tanned and set aside for armor repairs, and the bones ground to meal and used for ritual.”

“At least it will be put to damned use.” said Thespos.

As We Knew It

We may start.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Buganda, Uganda

A dry sun loomed over head, shining off the expansive waters of Lake Victoria as riders in the back of a rusty twenty year old pick up truck road along in its bed. The dry dusty wind buffeted past their face as the vehicle merged gracefully in and out and through the traffic along the road. The road was one of a view paved roads in the whole of the country. But the dusty

Cutting through hamlets and open fields the truck kept moving. Shacks built up from plywood and corrugated steel sat alongside bungalows of white plaster and red shingles. Expansive fields stretched out to towering dry trees. All along the edge foot traffic and animal traffic moved along at their own pace, independent of the driving speed of the automobiles that lazed along the road.

“I can't say I'm surprised on the intelligence on this chap.” John said over the open air whipping past them as they rode Taxi, Uganda style. The flaked black coating of the truck bed was heating up something painful, even with the air rushing over to cool it. The man shifted constantly as the bumps shot up through his ass. A wide brimmed and torn cowboy had flapped in the wind atop his face in a vein attempt to guard against the harsh equatorial sun.

“He got plendy'a investigadive reports.” Emmanuel shouted back. A tired baseball hat crowned the dark-skinned Haitian. Wrapped down the back of his wide ovular head a rag protected the back of his neck. “Charges for goun posession. Charges on religioous violence. He a real characder. Buo'd none of id made it do court, mon.”

“What 'appened to all of that?” John asked. A semi trailer carrying bales of hat wrapped in linked chains of bungee rushed by alongside them. A trail of grass whipped through the air and danced to the bed of the truck before being re-captured and whipped high and away.

“Look like id wos all dropped in dh' courts. D' investigative reports gid up dere and de shood'em down.”

“Bloody 'ell, ya think they got someone' in the courts?”

“Probably.”

The truck jostled, bringing the two's attention up as they rose up over the surrounding terrain. Along their side Lake Victoria shone like a bright turquoise jewel as they rose up over the Katonga river. Inundated with early-summer rains, the tributary was a sword of muddy brown across the swollen green, swampy shores of Lake Victoria. The river shimmered as it flowed into the Lake through its wide mouth, one of many uncountable water ways that entered into the great African lake.

The bridge rose over the water and the swampy weeds and clumps of resilient green life whose roots dug deep into the mucky riverbed under them. Also lost in the overgrowth was the forgotten ruins of the old bridge that has cut over the inundated river below. The original bridge having been lost in the war by the parties the agents hunted had only highlighted the compromised condition of the water way. Earthquakes in the years preceding the war had softened the soil, and rose Lake George enough that the water from it often flowed faster and heavier.

Its destruction was inevitable, whether it was to sever advances from the south or a wash out of spring and summer rains. But as the war cooled, a new bridge was erected over the old. Rising to show the Great Lake in its full glory, and all the countryside before dipping down.

“We'll be getting' close”. Emmanuel said, “We ready?”

“As I ever been.” John smiled, “So what's the plan?”

“I'm dh' only black brothe' dhey'll likely led in to dere' group.” Emmanuel laughed, “We'll need t' drop you off somewhere outside.”

“I can deal with that.” John smiled, “If any blokes ask me what I'm doing, I guess I can get off saying I'm studying birds.”

“Dhen you god your equipment?”

“Yeah, give me a call when you're in.”

Dihn Art - tfw no one looks at gallery

Thank you. I thought I did pretty well too.

And now a thing I couldn't be bothered to color:

Satyr Warning

http://aaronmk.deviantart.com/art/Guilosatyrpones-460145471

Context to its inspiration:
"You ever fucking looked at a war scythe? Its a spear. Straight handle, slight curve to the spearhead. That's fucking it.
No grips, no curve to the snath, nothing. Its a fucking spear. And spears are a weapon, not an agricultural implement.
Should we also go to war with sheep shears and sickles? Or maybe items designed to be weapons?
I felt dirty just googling war scythe I went into private browsing so people don't know I looked that shit up. And I have pony porn bookmarks.

Oh, and let's not get started how useless a war scythe would be at actually scything crops, or most fantasy scythes,
Just pick an actual fucking weapon and stick with it. Don't pick just a sharp thing. Next thing you know someone's going to be dragging a guillotine to a battlefield.

>Wow, I had a lot of mad bottled up about scythes."

">not bringing a guillotine to a battlefield"

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Family name: Comatid

Banner: A yellow, flared star shooting down over a black field.

Home City: Comadua

Satrapy: Lower Qarima

History: The legends of the Comatid's rise date to what'd many claim to be the beginning of the era of man and the retiring of God from the mortal realm. When man was still in simple cloth wrenching at the eyes of their foes with the claws of their own design a man was cast from the heavens to tame a tribe of people known as the Athpenians. The man, known as Comidisus was rumored to have the strength of two lions with the endurance of a sea turtle, and the stamina of hawk and hare.

The old legends surrounding him tell of Comidisus slaying the Cyclops named Pricipus at the hill of Hisbius at the mouth of the river Alos – which runs to just south of the modern Calydonian capital.

The death of the cyclops Pricipus was said to please the heavens so heavily that when his years of blasphemy against their names came to an end and his blood bathed the soil the hill turned to gold and the tribes of Athpenians came to it like a moth to fire. Seeing the beauty of the hill and hailing the strength of Comidisus they proclaimed him their king. As a reward, he wedded the seven daughters of the seven chiefs and sowed the seeds for a dynasty to rule the mouth of the river Alos, to what many would hail as being timeless.

Though the Hisbius' hills is not made of gold, the strategic position of the city had made it a rich kingdom since even the integration into the greater Calydonian kingdom in the Second Era.

The Comatids followed the Calydonians faithful until the reign of King Liandros. The family's historically rich coffers began to dwindle rapidly over the years over an unresolved trade-dispute with the Noble Republics of the sea. An embargo imposed on the family's trade and port over bitter arguments of marriage and the reported kidnapping of one of a significant trade family's daughter had put the Comatids' on the receiving end of piracy and blame.

The dispute – which would have been otherwise harmless – spanned for too long over Liandros' reign and it sapped the family's gold. Pleading the king for assistance and receiving little action the Comatids were forced to bitterly take the embargo, loosing ships, men, gold, and trade posts for over forty years of conflict.

But the death of Liandros and the ascension of King Syros, the To Be Unparralled.

The sapping of their coffers over time had made the Comatids exceptionally greedy, even more so when Lord Meandrin died, leaving at his stead his twelve year old son Thespos as king of the Comatid domain. Though young, Thespos was no idiot or no weakling. Even before his reign the boy had acquired a great story for being strong, with rumors having it he slew a lion by himself while hunting with his uncle in the woods.

Thespos would have revolted against Syros in a bid to acquire the loot needed to fill his family's legendary coffers. But instead, greater things happened. Syros himself was no fool and saw the need in their family and all others. And with tremendous might mustered all the arms of the Empire against their enemies.

How they fell. And how the gold came.

Thespos insisted on entering the field of war at the age of fourteen. And after much violent coercion was given his father's sword – crafted of meteoric iron from the heavens – and armor and sent off to lead a column of warriors on his father's war horse. With the armies of Syros he set out across the world and expanded his own personal legend.

Thespos the Cleaver from Heaven may be a comparatively minor name in campaigns so defined by Syros the Unparalleled. But the means and abilities of Thespos in the wars gave him much honor and recognition in the court and as a gift Syros felt compelled to gift unto the young warrior and his family the southern territories of the conquered Qarima Empire, giving him land and titles across the lower spans of the former, crushed Empire and all its wealth.

Thespos ruled the Qarima not in gentleness. Though he loved the gold, the quality of the wood, and the taste of the wine. He could never get over its impish inhabitants and their dirty skin. Though, he found allies in their people he never saw the means to advance their dynasty, feeling that they better served him as managers in the wilderness provinces of the old Empire, and a means to oversee the less attractive expanses. For the rest, he slew or sent into exile into the magnificent unknown in the west, to be devoured – presumably – by the monsters that live there.

Under Thespos, many of the Qarima were enslaved as workers of concubines in the king's court.

Thespos married his cousin, twice removed when he was fifteen. She being only eleven at the time.

After being given the lands of the Qarima, Thespos did not slow and continued to campaign alongside Syros and his armies for as long as he could until the death of Syros. It is said the two had a great a respectable friendship and that Thespos had been by Syros' side when he was dropped.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Kalachinsk, Russia

The embrace of night was a cool and welcome relief. It lay across the Vilage, bringing to a conclusion the events of earlier that day. Though not silencing the war as a whole, the sing-song of crickets mingled with the distant thunder of artillery fire. Aircraft droned regularly over head towards Omsk. The surreal mixture of country-side peace, and the relentless pursuit of man towards self destruction was a surreal experience. As one part of the world was too busy dying for sleep, another was closing on their last breaths of the waking hour.

Under the canopy of a bomb blasted roof Tsun sat staring out to Omsk. His body gripped with a distant numbness as he quivered and shook on the rickety floorboards of that abandoned attic. His knuckles gripped the edge so tight they glowed white, locked to the boards like clamps of steel. His breath sawed in and out through his lips with a strained gasp. The sounds of fighting were inescapable, and the ghosts of earlier that day had him surrounded on the inside. He felt trapped between two hells, and he felt a desperate need to get away. But to where?

The rattle of the Tei Gui shook still in his seat. The thunder of its main gun echoed in his ears as a distant, soft ringing found a home. It felt like mosquittos in his head, adding to the panic that filled him like a pitcher of water. Bitter water, salt water. There was nothing refreshing about the experience. It was a bloody drum that beat his skull, forcing the water down through his skull to his tongue. He tasted the bitterness of his own fear, his shame. It poured from his skin. His sweat stuck his uniform to his skin, freezing there against the cool mid-spring night. The freezing temperature only made it worse.

Shells thundered through the darkened abyss of the night, sending up bright flashes of fire and light, briefly silhouetting distant barren trees. The guns had arrived a few hours earlier, and entrenched themselves a mile behind the tiny Russian village. The dull thumping boomed over them, and the ghostly response of the shells responded back. Occasionally, flares would spring up from the countryside. Tsun watched from his perch, not in rapt interest, but of fear and empathy. Watching the patterns of flare vs fire, where the shells would drop as a distant star sprung from the darkness.

Omsk glowed with its own eerie light. The distance between him and it making the city only a electrical glow on the horizon. Or perhaps it was fire. But the smoking passes of hair-thin spotlights glowed through the fog and the clouds as the defenses scanned for aircraft. Was this like China during the Revolution? Could he even remember those days?

Would this be China if its enemies breached its borders?

The implications were haunting. Torturous over the battlefield laid out in the darkness around him. This was free murder, and for one rare moment in his life he began to cry. He fell to his side against the splintered and frayed floor boards, feeling the spines of broken wood dig into the side of his face as he shut himself off from the battle. Tears breaking the dams in his eyes and flowing with the force of a flood. He croaked and sobbed, rolling on the cold boards.

It didn't matter, the war drowned him out. And it charged him on. It pushed the dawning realization he had been forced into a world beyond his control and trapped all the way through. He lost time as he lay there. He sniffed and sobbed, soaking up the bitterness. He was trapped.

How could man be so brutal? Even his own people, how had they gone into this. He had thought so differently of war. That it was honorable somehow. But, this was something else. And he had only been in it for a day. How would he keep without going insane? How had the others?

“Are you quite done?” a man said indifferently. The sudden voice of an intruder froze Tsun in his position. Bitter, afraid tears still crawled down his face, but he had been caught mid-breath and he instead starred off in the distance, drawing coarse broken breath.

Heavy boots trod across the wood in a slow careful swagger. Tsun scrambled up, staggering to his feet as he turned to address the visitor. The cold life-less flashes of flares and artillery fire lit up the emptied room they were in, and the deep bald features of Hui. There was little empathy in his face, but no hate or condescension in his expression.

“I- n- Ye-” Tsun bubbled and blathered. Running his hand through his knotted hair. The weight of a horse pressed against him. Fear, anxiety, embarrassment. He didn't know what. He staggered, muttering incoherently as he tried to look for the most appropriate word to use. Nothing came out. Nothing came to mind. His speech was as his mind, a turbulent mess. “Abhayenomaybe.” he finally choked in distress.

“I'll take that as a maybe.” Hui said, stopping alongside him. The loader fumbled in his pockets, drawing out a red package.

“Cigarette?” he asked, holding out the box with a clip of a wrist. A small number of crumpled bent cigarettes poked out at him, barely illuminated in the deadened light of the moon. And only briefly brought to light in the flashes of battle.

“I-” Tsun started. Conflicted.

“Oh well.” Hui said. Retracting the pack. With a pass he returned it to his pocket, drawing one out as he returned it. With a click he held out a lighter, shielding the fire as he lit up.

“You did good.” Hui complimented ghostly after a long silence. Echoing explosions and gunshots punctuated the following silence as the dull ember glow of the cigarette lit up Hui's face. The distinctive stubble of an unshaven jaw shone in the fiery glow.

“I- thanks?” a conflicted Tsun said, “I don't know...”

“No, you did well.” Hui laughed. “But of course, with Song screaming at everyone and everything firing on you, what choice is there?”

“What do you mean?”

Hui shrugged, “You know.” he said, “Song forbid you turn that thing around without his orders mid-fire fight. They may have armored the '80's back-side up. But I wouldn't give these vodka pissers the chance to stick a rocket in our ass. I don't want to be the one to test armor durability.”

Tsun stood stunned. Hui approached the subject in such a casual distant matter it shook him harder than the war around them. “How do you do it?” he found himself asking.

“Do what?” Hui asked.

“This. All of this.” Tsung said. He found it difficult to simply imply the current state of things. It felt sickening to him. But he was here, like a village child in Kowloon.

Hui kept silent for a moment. Drawing from the glowing cigarette as he looked from him, and to briefly distant Omsk. “You learn.” he said cryptically.”

“How?” Tsun pleaded, “How do you?”

Hui visibly shrugged, not even sure himself. “Just keep rolling. It'll all probably be over in a couple months anyways. It always seems to.”

“There's something though...” Tsung said, pressing to desperation, “All of this... I don't know if I can do this. It's... different than what I thought it would be.”

Hui nodded, “I haven't thought about it.” he said, “And I don't want too. Comrade, I think that's for the best.”

Turning for the stairs he extinguished his cigarette against the bottom of his boot. “And Song's wondering where you are.” he said, “He'd want us both back. Doesn't want a sniper to take any of us. Let's get back.”

Northern Russia

A dead silence hung over the forest. In it, the shadows hid all under the boughs of gently snow-dusted pines. The low underbrush was still dead and barren. Under the stars and a moon hidden under the clouds the low grumble of motors rolled across the desolate Siberian forest. First three, then five. From the five it doubled to ten. From ten a complete brigade of mechanized infantry. The roars of their engines filling up into the night time air. Loosing themselves in the snow-packed boughs over heads. From weak head lamps the light snow glistened a amber and golden light.

The low rumble echoed in the darkened silent wood. The sounds of the motor low as the small, low vehicles skirted through the snow at the run of a quick man. The pocketed heavy tires digging into and kicking out the snow as they wound through, digging their own paths. The effort was slow going. But it was expected with what they had.

The low drone was interrupted by a high growling pop and a wet whine. The sharp cut of the sound split through the silence like a gunshot. And likewise many of the riders responded likewise. The caravan swerved to the side, and dark shapes dove from the seats for cover. All at once the sound of the motors died to a monotonous idle rumble as their riders – and passengers – took to the snowy ground.

But there was no response.

“At ease! At ease!” a voice shouted into the night, “Ease, comrades!

“Kill the cars. We've got motor problems.” the same man shouted again, distraught and frustrated. Slowly one by one the rumbling of small engines died and the Russian forest died into subtle soft silence. A deadened weight hung in the ears of the soldiers as they killed their mounts. A silent nervousness and tensity weighed over the unit as they set to watch into the darkness.

With a click, a singular light turned on. Illuminating a field of steam and smoke as a small group of men gathered near.

“The fuck happened this time!?” Tsien Huang coughed from the steel-frame nest on the top of the buggy. Gripping his coat by the edge he waved the heavy cotton fabric in the air, brushing aside the thin acrid smell of smoke and putrid smelling steam from the motor below him. An expression of contempt and disgust twisted his face as he glared down below.

“I'm looking.” a man growled. The driver. In one hand he held a heavy flashlight and with the other he fought to wave out the tendrils of steam and smoke as he looked over the exposed engine block. Pipes and pockets glowed a soft cherry red, but he paid these patches no heed as he looked over every edge he could.

“Did we get snow in it again?” Yun-qi asked, leaning over the driver's shoulder. He squinted his eyes against the harsh biting vapors of wrongly-cooked oil and gas, “I'm hoping that's not the smell of a motor on the brink of exploding.”

“I'm not about to rule that out now, but it's likely.” the driver said, biting his lip, “This will take a while. Perhaps you should get in with the other units and we'll make camp.”

“Right, how far do you think we got?” Yun-qi asked.

“Again, without an odometer I can't say for certain.” the driver laughed, nervously, “But maybe twelve hours driving, roughly forty-five kilometers an hour... Maybe five-hundred fifty kilometers.”

“And we're not any closer to knocking on Radek's back fucking door.” Tsien Huang cursed in his cage.

“Well, we're in good a spot as any.” Quan Yun-Qi added, “We'll stop here. Work on this tomorrow and move when it's done.”

“Copy that.” the driver grunted, burying his head into the cloud of fog and smoke as he sought out what had blown. The trip had been very dissatisfying.

Yun-Qi turned from the disabled buggy. When they were moving they made good progress. But the deeper they got, the less they managed to make in time. Of the twelve hours on a motorized forced march across Russia, four outside had been used in simple maintenance on the Russian made buggies. The cheap, quick to manufacture design was a cheap boon to the effort. They could be pounded out in Novosibirsk on a fistful of Ren. But they were that, cheap. And it irritated Quan.

On every occasion, the fault of their stall had fallen on the exposure of the engines. The combat engineers under his command had did their best to conceal and protect the fragile second-hand engines from the elements. But any given moment that itself seemed to fail and the snow managed to get in with much added frustration.

It hadn't been hardly a day since he and his men had deployed from their forward post in the far-north of Siberia - where they had froze for the better part of a winter in the arctic circle – that the ills of the Russian built buggies manifested. In almost eight hours kicked-back snow had built up over the motor and effectively drowned the engine of Yun-Qi's own buggy. To infuriated shouts all over, they were forced to stop as the issue was amended.

Of the most frustrating was when they rallied back to move after camp, where snow melt had frozen in the fuel lines and caused them to rupture. For a brief moment, they were at the closest they had been to going up in flames. As black smoke erupted from a live motor they moment they turned it on the day was doomed to be sour as nine and a half hours were wasted in fixing, and examining the similar carts. It was at that stage the column divided into their own units.

The loose regiment turned to their colonel as he called out to them. Handing out the order to make their camp for the night. Given the hardly ideal position, the command was met with frustrated grumbles. For the men, it would be difficult to find a solid place to dig down. Woody bushes grew clustered around the young pines, and the ground was still cold, despite it being the middle of May.

“Lùjūn shàngxiào!” Tsien Huang called out, summoning Yun-qi's attention as the coated Mongolian sprinted up to his officer's side.

“Yes?”

“At least for my own benefit, are we close to wherever we need to be?” Huang asked, “Driving off road through the Russian wasteland is exciting, comrade. But it's not what I expected on this campaign. And there's an end to a road somewhere.”

Yun-qi smiled. With a distant sigh he shook his head. “I'll need to check the map.” he sighed, “But we should be getting there soon. Provided we don't have any more problems.” he added, looking to the disabled buggy. The sounds of tired motors were replaced by the hacking and thudding of picks and shovels as his men dug into into the frozen ground for their camp.

“Well damn if that's not what he said before!” sneered Huang. Throwing his arms into the air he shouted sarcastically, “I'm so excited!”

Quan rolled his eyes. “Sure...” he mumbled. The soldier snorted and shook his head.

“We better be damn close.” he growled, “Or I'll go out and look for it myself.”

****

Small pinprics of light dotted the dark trees. Loose canopies scattered throughout the forest contained the soft glow of lamp lights or small forests as the Chinese held against the bitter cold of Northern Russia. Likewise, Quan Yun-qi brooded over his map.

Laid across his lap like a blanket, he leaned over it in the light of a gas lamp suspended from the hook of a metal pole driven into the frozen Earth. With his coat, a unwashed stone gray blanket lay across his shoulders as he worked over the day.

“Comrade.” a man's voice said, drawing up Yun-qi's attention from his map. Hovering in the opening of his quickly erected tent loomed his radio officer.

“Chen.” the colonel muttered, “You got the reports in?”

“Just finished.” communication's officer Chen said, throwing himself down on the cold ground. He stole wore his heavy radio, the heavy straps holding his heavy form in a tight hug. Rummaging in his pockets he spoke: “Sentries are out as well.” he said with a sigh, pulling out a piece of paper, “I have their communications on my primary channel. It's all quiet so far.”

“Suppose they still we're here?” Yun-Qi asked.

“Not with the south being a load of shit.” he coughed, “Fuck it's cold.” he commented bitterly, “But no. I don't think so. And there's too much wasteland for them to watch over. I don't suppose they would have found the time to keep our northern post under watch, even if they knew it was there to begin with. No one lives up here.

“Or, no one in their right mind.”

Quan Yun-qi took the slip of paper in his gloved hands and unfolded it. Triangulation data and coordinates were scribbled loosely across the entire scrap in messy quick handwriting. “I suppose you're right.” the colonel coughed.

“So then,” Chen started, “How are we doing in our voyage to this so-called installation?” he asked.

“I'm finding out.” the colonel said with a long distressed sigh, “We're still going south-west. But it'd help if we knew where there were any landmarks. Do you remember crossing any rivers?” he asked.

“No sir.” Chen shook his head.

“Then we're still north of Surgut. So we must be on the right path.”

“Do you suppose we're out of the arctic?” the comm officer asked.

“I see trees.” Yun-qi commented.

“As do I.” Chen laughed as he scratched his stubbly beard. “But I do got to say there have been an enormous amount of lakes.”

“Small ones.” Yun-qi nodded, “I don't think they included all but the bigger bodies.” the colonel spoke with a low angry tone as he scribbled along the side of the map. Adding to the margin long streams of math before returning to the center.

“There is good news though.” Yun-qi smiled, “I believe we're getting close.”

“Are we?”

“Less than a day's ride yet.” he smiled, “If we go the right way, we can patrol out to it on foot.”

“So it begins?”

“Soon.

“Very soon?”

“Yes.”

Urals, Russia

Night in the mountains was a cool respite from the day. Without electricity, nightly peace came early and quick. The motions of man died nearly as fast as one could hit the light-switch. So as the sun went down, the villagers retired. The small commune nestled in the bosom of the Urals fell to sleep as their guardians held a constant vigil at their posts, and the numerous wooded outposts.

The snow had long melted. But it did mean it was any colder. The day earlier had been kissed by gentle warm rains which impregnated the soil with warm seed. And as the front passed and left, and as the sun disappeared, the cold returned. The shock then had sent the hamlet to sleep in a eerie thick fog that clouded over the village.

At the table in a small cabin on the edge of the village a pair of Chinamen sat idle in the middle of their only other room. Sparsely decorated, the cabin's main room encompassed the concept of living room, kitchen, and dining into one space. It was hardly bigger than the average apartment in Shanghai, with barely enough space to park two large cars in it. A beaten moldy couch sat pressed against a pressed wood table, and behind it the wood of the counters, the steel of the sink, and the battered rusty iron of a wood stove; a tea pot boiled on top as the jaws of the stove filled with fire, keeping the cramped living space heated and comfortable.

Even with this effort though, a clammy cold draft found its way in. Brushing across the two men's faces like a ghost. Both fought to pay it no heed as they sat at the small table, wrapped in their coats and gloves.

The agent Jun leaned to the side as he rested in his lap the long curved blade of a Miao Dao. The metal shone with a high polish in the light and the heat of the stove alongside it. Gently, the scarred hands of its master ran a smooth stone along its edge, honing it as a rag over top polished the metal to an even more lustrous shine.

The blade was as long as the agent's torso was tall, if not more. The metal shone with perfect clarity the silent, apathetic sneer of its owner. Jun's lips pressed thin into a knotted frown as he looked down at himself in his sword's shine. His eyes had become visibly irritated, but he hardly felt it. But he could see it. His whites had bled a noticeable red. He tried to recount how many times he had rubbed them that day, or even why. But as long as he could see, it was hardly a major concern to the agent.

Opposite of him, his stouter companion, hunched over a pair of books as he studied one to copy the other down. The Mongol, Ulanhu was silent in his studies. If his ancestors could see their kin working over such things, they would disown them. Or so muddled Jun as he leaned over the blade as the studious Ulanhu translated and transliterated the names, numbers, and dates within into Chinese.

“How close are we to finishing?” Jun said, his voice low and heavy.

“Almost finished.” Ulanhu commented, “And I'm happy that I am, I just got a few more lines.” he sighed in relief. Looking up at his partner he gave him a distant smile, “I tried to cross-reference these names with old Imperial documentation in an attempt to eliminate a few names. Just so we do not get you chasing down old hookers perhaps to interrogate.”

“Or remove.” Jun remarked coldly.

“Or... Or kill.” Ulanhu said uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. Sighing distraught he continued, “Some of these persons aren't added as actual names though,” he continued, “which could be remarkably easy. Especially with identification like 'bukhgalter'.”

Jun didn't honor the statement a response. Looking back down to his blade he nodded quietly. Running his thumb along the blade and drawing blood, he deduced he had honed it enough. With a soft slide and a click he returned the long sword into its scabbard.

“There's a lot of persons – or parties – in this book like that.” Ulanhu continued to droll on in a monotonous voice as his partner traded working on his sword for his handgun. With a heavy clunk the nickle-blue Changdu revolver fell with a clatter and he set to dis-assembly and cleaning of the fire-arm. His partner continued: “But 'prachechnaya-avtomat' or the library is probably not your forte of things to pursue to work up the chain of command.

“There's also a 'boss' written down, but I doubt the address is legitimate. I even checked with some of the men here about it, and they say it's been abandoned since the czar died.”

“Do you think it has purpose?” Jun asked as he popped out the cylinder of his weapon. Rolling out a cleaning kit he worked a brush into the chambers as he looked up, listening to his companion.

“Probably a drop off or meeting point for something, there's a few addresses marked that way.” Ulanhu grumbled, “You could go there and check them out, but I highly doubt you'd find significant leads at abandoned apartments or warehouses.

“I'd chase the bookkeeper myself. From a purely analytical input.”

“Why?” Jun asked, starring through the barrel searching for imperfections in the rifling.

“It's just the best lead!” Ulanhu grunted with a raised voice, flustered his composure wavered, and he even glowed a little more red.

“Very well then.” Jun nodded.

“Listen, are you sure you can do this?” his partner asked. Deep concern shone in his eyes as he looked up from the book and into the disinterested stare of Jun, “I mean, if you think you need some help. Organize leads maybe, watch your back even. Then just say. I'll tag along.”

“Is that what you want?” Jun asked, lowering the broken down frame for his revolver. Flashing it through the air was a surreal sight. A weapon so deadly stripped to its base components, it was really something strange. It made Ulanhu wonder, how often a bunch of springs, screws, and levers could be so dangerous.

But, in Jun's hands... That assumption was always ready to go out the window.

“It'd be better than sitting here.” he grumbled, “The general doesn't really have much for me to do. He already has his own field intelligence unit listening to radios and doing communication and map work. There's not a whole lot of things I can do.”

“It's Ivan?” Jun blurted out.

“Wh- what?” a baffled Ulanhu stammered.

“Yea, you're afraid he'll dunk you in another pond, naked.” Jun smiled, “I think he's past that point, comrade.

“You need to stay. Makulov's orders and Beijing's interests. I need someone to keep us up to date with our recon. Those planes found it this far. It's a shame for us to both leave.”

“I understand.” Ulanhu said weakly, bowing his head.

“So the book?” Jun asked.

“Yes.” Ulanhu sighed, passing over the copied and translated address book, “Again, I omitted a few names that were unnecessary that I can tell with my intel. It's also in three-month old cold. So even if the Mafiya's code-breaking it'll at least look like gibberish Mandarrin to the layman translator.”

Jun nodded, coming quickly to the conclusion in the event he's taken it'd be best to be incoherent. Building a cover.

“And when we go, you should pursue his bookkeeper. He's got no name as far as I can tell, but he has a home address. You won't have trouble finding him? He's literally on the road to Yekaterinburg. In Verkhnyaya Pyshma.”

Looking down at the open book and looking down the names Jun said with a soft up turned smile, “No.” he said, “No I don't think I'll have problems.”

“Good. Same transport as usual down there?”

“I suppose. I'll talk to Viktor.” said Jun.

“Makulov said he'll be sure to have his birds looking out for you.” Ulanhu said, closing the original with a soft hand. Jun stuffed the copy deep into his pockets, “I don't know how. He with held that. But I can only hope he can be in touch.

“And do this fast. The Office is already getting upset that we haven't made progress is convincing Makulov.”

“Ulanhu.” Jun said.

“Yes.”

“We're killers, not diplomats.” smiled Jun.

“I understand.”

“Then good. I'll head out early morning then.”

Lijiang River, South of Quilin, China, Guangxi

A heavy rain fell on the country. The dark night sky painted black at the strength of the rainclouds. The mountains of the Lijiang river valley shrouded in the darkness as the storm rolled over head. Thunder rolled heavily over head as the water kept coming down. The midnight rain fell relentless. But inside it was dry and warm.

The home of Zhang Auyi sat at one of a dozen bends of the river Lijiang. Nestled at the foot of the mountains merely a twenty-five minutes from the city of Quilin.

“What do we got from Chen Feng?” Auyi asked as he lay back in the arms of a bright-red armchair. A table lamp next to him cast around the sitting area a bight yellow halo. The darkness and the silent of the night cast back against the walls and far rooms by the glow of the bulb and the shuffling of papers.

“I didn't get a return on my message yet.” Auyi's companion said with a sigh. He was a small man, with a large heavy head shaped like a brick. A messy mop of hair crowned the top, but went no further than his ears; it was like a rat had taken to nesting there. “I have a feeling she may be aligning herself in the middle and not wanting to get involved.”

“We could use her involvement though.” Auyi mumbled, licking his thumb and turning aside the paper he had read. What came next was another part of a long list. Representatives of the Congress in Beijing.

“She's also elected out of Dalain.” the other man said, looking up, “She may be in support of your platform in private, but if she has aspirations of remaining in office by her own election cycle then I imagine she'll need to consider. Xhu is targeting the industrial bloc for his support.”

“That's to be expected though, comrade Wu.” Auyi nodded, “But what about Tui from the Yingkou district?”

“I got a return on that, and he's in favor. He'll be eager to meet with you, or attend whatever party you want to throw.”

“Good to hear.” Auyi nodded.

“Comrade?” Wu asked, leaning back in his chair and raising a meaty hand to his eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them, “If I can ask the important question, did you talk to Hou like you promised you would?”

“I did the morning after.”

“And what'd he say?”

Auyi paused for a moment. He juggled the idea he could tell him. That Hou would. But there had been no word from him, private or otherwise. “He said he'd think about it.”

“We may have a little under a year left, but his word on this would invaluable. No matter how little he said he would step out of this. After all, I'd hate to see us doing this again to get you into the parliament.”

“And how would that help?”

“Maybe you can use a parliamentary seat to form a bloc against Zhu.” shrugged Wu, indifferently.

“But maybe it wouldn't matter if I can't get endorsement out of them anyways.” Auyi grumbled, “I'd be better of retiring if I can't get it.”

“I got to ask though, comrade Auyi. Is this all your campaign?” Wu asked, concerned, “I realize you brought me back after your provincial commissioner bid. But even then, aren't we doing too little?”

“Shanxi Wu,” Auyi laughed, “this coming from the man who said political endorsements were a powerful thing to have in a race.” Auyi took a soft sigh, smiling distantly as he lowered the parliamentary list to his lap and starring out the night-stricken window, “And it's not like we had long to prepare.”

“I do agree.” nodded Wu, “And even from a... professional vantage point I got to ask you if you think it's time we start to take the platform out publicly.”

“Soon...” Auyi mumbled.

“Soon? How soon? Zhu started himself early. He laid out his ideas to the NPN the day of his announcement to run as a successor. Besides Tau Shan and Kwen He Fui he's being pegged as the man with the greatest chances among my colleagues back at the universities.

“And comrade, you have already a chance to take a demographic none of your competitors are reaching for. Never mind the congressional endorsement.”

“Who?” Auyi asked.

“The youth, of course!” Wu laughed, “You're involvement in the NPN bullshit with that singer Yaoliang Chen and the organization had an effect. Siding with Chen really helped.”

Auyi nodded. He demeanor remained flat and without word. But he remembered that. It was a dispute that threatened to go to the courts. And with a simple purge, it had been ended before it exploded.

“And the youth are smart. They'll support a liberalized agenda. I guess the universities are a blessing here. And I'm one contact away from getting in touch with the college commission to get it down to the kids.

“Granted, the main challenge will get them to vote. Only a quarter have ever bothered to report to a registered public election. But we should really be going after this. We could maybe get a supporter for every Zhu's one and get this to a close early race. Two maybe, if you can get them out of of Shan's growing net.

“I can get the official literature and the survey results across campuses by next week at the latest. But I'd like it if you scheduled a open conference. If you would like, I can get it set for Hong Kong, I know the people. Just say the word.”

There wasn't much to do. “Alright.” agreed Auyi, “Can you get me the phone number? I'll pass a call to someone in the morning.”

Wu smiled, “Thank you.” he bowed.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

I traced them over a world-map I found that included rivers. However I had to blow it up some to get it to the desired resolution I needed.

And double checking, it looks like I didn't notice a line and absorbed Afghanistan into Turkmenistan.