Dinh AaronMk

Keep an eye on the TV

'cuz I'mma about to rock the RPGuild headquarters.

Who can post first?!

Aw shucks, googer, ya blew it again. You let some snot-nosed upstart steal your thunder. Nice going, ya freakin doofus.

@gorgenmast

I think it's time we took you out back, googs. You have shamed us.

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

As a special note, it's worth noting here that since 1960 is an election year in America we've given permission to Byrd to have some limited control in directing or discussing the course of American politics. OR at at least should someone take the reigns of America, he'll be there to give them some information. Or something like that.

World of Nations - A freestyle Nation RP

Auclairé

Deparmon fo Tumerrié

Camuleis

Gulls cries were the first major sound in the port as the men began to move at the navy pier of the southern port town. Tucked back in a bay, split by a narrow river the naval and civilian port as Camuleis was by no means a major institution or significant naval center. But it was also by no means particularly small. Housing both the local command for the Guaârde fo Coât – the coast guard – and the Armee Màrine – the military marine – it would have been, if half the infrastructure were not military be large enough to be a significant commercial port. That would be too if there was any commercial reason for it to be used as such.

As it largely stood, the civilian and military uses of the port was divided by almost half a kilometer's worth of open water and a large yellow brick and plaster surface wall that had to have at least been raised during the years of the Revolution. Its ramparts capped by a roof that was less for safety and more for decoration, a sheet of eloquent moss-covered red ceramic shingles. For its utilitarian purpose, it helped to shield the parked yachts, speed boats, pontoons, small fishing boats, and other civilian-use craft from the larger wakes of the military's docked armaments and the base's own garrison.

While the sun was only a bare suggestion on the horizon, the rosy fingers of dawn slinking back to give way to the golden sheet of morning, the silver white glow of the base-side lights still shown in the waking light as the garrison at the base rolled into action. Of particular focus in the operations on shore was the large, mid-sized warship tied down at birth, its massive arm-width mooring lines groaning at the shifting weight of the bobbing warship as a bridge was extended to its deck and loading craned spun to life to begin the process of outfitting it for its coming mission.

Pallets packed tightly with boxes of ammunition, rations, and spare equipment were hoisted up into the air to be lowered down with a gentle thud on the gray deck of the warship. Attending sailors in their dark navy-blue pants sans-culottes, bright orange helmets, and puffy sleeved cotton shirts worked around the loaded pallets, thrusting jacks into them and hauling them off to cargo lifts. On the bridge the active crew boarded, with their rifles secured at their backs with their personal bags and heavy duffel bag in one hand. With a raise of the hand, they tipped their wide-brimmed hats to an on deck officer who saluted them as they stepped onboard.

“What's the details on the mission?” asked an officer, standing over a table. The table itself was a large computer monitor showing a map of the area south of the capital and cutting off just below the extant colonial provinces. Several stacked napkins on the side of the screen protected it from a coffee cup steaming on the edge.

The conference room was sparse, save for the broad windows that looked out at the loaded scene outside the office. The open shutters letting in the cool morning ocean air, with its smell of salt and oil and the sounds of the harbor outside. The shouting of men, beeping of machines, and the slow steady alarm of the lifts and cranes in use being let into the briefing.

“The missing vessel last checked in on its radio 28 hours after leaving port,” a commanding sailor said, “At the coordinates of 100 South, 300 West. It was a commercial freighter, so everyone saw it leave port. Its disappearance at sea fits a pattern of disappearance from pirate-related activity from Donsiclia.

“Donsiclia, which is still recovering from a major civil war following a coup has not had the resources or time apparently to ever crack down. Because of the tentative instability of the government, crime has been rampant and its been difficult. As such, it's particularly understandable.”

“Commander Delecoix, if I didn't know better I would say you're sympathetic.” a third officer said, laughing before he drank a cup of warm tea.

The three men in the room were officers in the navy. As such they had foregone the ruffled sleeved white shirt of the common mariner. They wore long coats instead, fastened tightly across the chests with silver or gold buttons. They were so blue as to be almost black, and the white collars that rose from the shoulders held the men's necks tight. The collars too came to a single lapel, that folded left across the breast, where the badges of rank were pinned.

Commander Delecoix cut a tall figure with broad shoulders. His wide thoughtful brow gave him a brutish demeanor that hid his empathetic intelligence. Both his complexion and his eyes were a light brown. “It's important to understand.” he said briskly, “We're not dealing with a race of barbarians, like the Yahupois or many of the others out west.”

“Might it be associated with them, now that you've raised that question?” asked the officer drinking tea. He was a boyish looking man, with a round chin and bright wild eyes. He smiled openly at the suggestion. Excited almost if so, but more smirking at the joke the thought was.

“Captain Gilliard.” Delecoix groaned, “No, it is not. I in fact don't see any particular reason to venture any further west than Zandor. Though should it turn out to be the case I would expect you to report back and let the international office handle it.” he said in a groan.

“So what sort of support can we expect to receive?” the other officer at the table asked. He leaned off of the screen and crossed his hands behind his back.

“Well intelligence is working on the ground to find any leads. If anyone might no of anyone and where they would go. The international office is trying to get the Donsiclimon government to throw us mercy and give us some chivalry. There hasn't been any updates to it when I received the mission report, so I doubt anything had changed. Either way, I will be forwarding any change in information to you on your hunt, Captain Gaspar.”

Captain – First Captain – Gaspar nodded. Tall, almost to the point of competing with Delecoix for height he was a thin reflective sort. He turned his eyes – light green, silvery and distant and seemingly aloof – back down to the table and looked down at it. “Right,” he began, reaching into his pocket for a tablet-like device. He captured control of the map and began, “To clarify with you, commander. What we have is a ship lost at these coordinates...” the map zoomed in to crop closer to the area in question. Leaving the coast in view and context a dot was placed far off the northern shore of Donsiclia, that stretch of land between the southern reach of Auclairé proper at the Deparmon fo Verde-Sümd and of the extant Deparmon Colonia Sain Sumogne.

From here the details of the coast were clearer, defined. The various bays, harbor, outcroppings, and mouths of the small rivers and streams that poured in from Donsiclia's rocky inland. “What sort of history do we have in any of the towns here?” Gaspar asked.

“It varies.” Delecoix answered him. “We have confirmed a few for pirate activity. In such cases we were able to scare them up. But this depends on how readily they can be identified. As always we need permission to actually enter and last the alert was given they were making headway on it. We are expecting a green light to enter by the time you arrive. I would advise you milk out the journey by some twenty-four hours just in case.”

“Understood.” Gaspar said.

“Oh, how I wish for the coup days of shelling them, no matter whose waters were whose.” Gilliard said, Gaspar's subordinate. He spoke in reference to the international response of the Donsicilian coup-turned revolution. The regional governments had banded together to attempt to coordinate a response to the abuses of the then government against its own people, and of certain revolutionary groups targeting the nation's minorities.

“This isn't then.” Delecoix told him, with a stern heavy tone.

“I know.” said Gilliard.

“So at the end of the day, we're not getting a lot of information?” asked Gaspar

“No, that's all up to you to find out, or for someone else. At the end of the day you're roll is to simply locate the ship physically, arrest or eliminate the pirates if need be, and bring the ship and its crew home. Supporting work will be done more-or-less third party and you'll be appraised of any changes.

“I've asked to outfit you with some equipment, if I may.” Delecoix began, he had his own tablet. Gaspar let him have control. The map was removed and a blue print render was brought out.

“You have on board in your equipment three new SW4 reconnaissance drones.” the commander said. On the screen an image of a rudimentary-looking airplane was projected. Its statistical specifications listed alongside he began to more-or-less recount them, “With a range of close to sixty kilometers, it can subsist on battery power for nine hours of constant flight. It broadcasts video feed at 4k resolution and can zoom in on a grapefruit at sea at 2200 meters. Its flight ceiling is 48 kilometers, and at two-and a half meters long and six wide it is small enough to appear on radar like a seabird. At 60 kilograms, most of the sailors in your crew should be able to care it.

“Its water tight and buoyant, if need be it can be launched from a catapult on deck or in the water. It can be controlled through broadcast to your usual consoles, or even handled through a VR headset by its pilot.”

“Impressive. Are we going to have anything else?”

“If you ever need to go online I've signed off a couple LOVs for you and your men. Same as always, boat them onto shore and drive around.” Delecoix said, “That's it.

“I've sent additional mission details to your email as well. This contains the target ship's designation and crew roster including names and photos. You'll be able to read up on the specification of the ship and its history. As you go, both you make sure to read it and use it if you feel anything is necessary in your ship briefing. Now, good luck, captains.”

The two stood straight, and gave their commander a slight bow. There was little need for ceremonial formality between them. With that, the briefing had come to a close and they headed out for their ship.

“I'll be honest.” Gilliard began, “I'm not excited for the mission. But I like the thought of those drones.”

“Have you re-certified for remote surveillance?” asked Gaspar.

“I'm sure I am. I'll have a look at the operations manual when we get on deck.”

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

China

Northern Mohe County

The Amur River, its waters dark and cold ran through the hilly valley. The sharp rises and valleys of the river way a carpet of untouched wilderness and primal forest on both sides. At the river bank, seated on an empty crate Aiwen Wu sat leaning against a larger water-rounded boulder sipping tea from small tin cups. The kettle sat askew on the boulder next to him, the freshly boiled brew letting up tendrils of milky white steam.

He sat watching the progress across the bridge set up across the river, a simple pontoon based construction. The currents of the water jostled it and he could watch it rock and yawn in the slow gentle flow of the coal-black waters. For all the preceding days to this moment the engineers had worked diligently to lay a crossing into the Russian far-east, into the dense fortress of its primal unsettled wilderness. It was hard for any man to imagine the density and the surreal emptiness of Russia from a map, one could not see the trees, the boulders on the banks of the rivers, the impressive hills and th majesty of its forests. Even in the heart of summer there was too the air a surreal coolness, a dampness let on by the medieval woodlands. But now Commander Wu was there, overseeing the first steps into Russia itself and he was beginning to feel that poisonous sense of doubt.

He could see Russia now, he put himself on the coat tails of a massive sprawled imperial beast. Standing at the top of hills, at the top of watch towers he could see across the immense wooded desert of the Russian Far East and the majestic terror it represented to a tactician. And for it, he had begun to doubt the initial plan of action. At least here in this position.

From up the bank an engineering officer slid down loose sand and gravel to where Aiwen Wu sat drinking his tea. His dirty face and stained uniform heralding he had not been idle in his work. “Comrade.” he said in a tentative tone.

“Sit.” Aiwen Wu offered, gesturing to a spot next to the boulder, “You want some tea?” he offered, raising his now empty cup to the approaching officer.

“I'll be fine, thank you.” the engineering captain remarked, squatting next to the rock and unfurling the map, “But I wanted to talk to you about some important affairs.”

“You have my ear.” Aiwen Wu invited.

“You realize how far away our objective is?” the officer asked. Wu nodded his acknowledgment and the officer continued, “You're asking to effectively build a road through dense, untouched forest in order to capture the closest settlement on the Trans Siberian. That's a fifty or sixty kilometer project. This will take up the entire span of our combat season, that is if we're able to stay on schedule. I am merely concerned for the logistics of this endeavor.”

“I'm aware it's difficult.” Aiwen Wu said, raising a freshly raised cup to the distant forested bank. It looked empty, it felt empty. There was nothing but the sounds of birds, of crows, and the not-to-distant sounds of boots crossing the pontoon bridge into Russia, “But when I was given this mission, I did so knowing it would not be easy to take all of Russia. And we must make the first steps somewhere.”

“Yes, commander. But are you truly aware of the sort of scale this project is? How well secured will this assignment be?”

Wu raised his hands to the men crossing now, “Those are the men guarding the path for your engineers.” he said, “This is one of crossing sites, as unfavorable as it is. I ask only for your men to set it up and establish ourselves here. It is a lot better than forcing our armies to march through two access points, areas I am sure they'll be watching. I want the element of surprise.”

“And this is your option, have you considered any alternate paths? I do not wish to second guess you, comrade, but the intensity of this labor will take a lot of time and resources from this invasion. While we were setting up your crossing here, I ordered some scouting up river, and there is a tributary feeding into the Amur some sixty-kilometers up water. If would better deliver our men in-land if need be. I do not know where it leads, but it would be a more effective way to access the Russian interior that to march through its forests.”

“Is there?” Aiwen Wu asked.

The engineer nodded, “If I had anything to say about it, I would recommend a mapping of, or identification of that river. Wouldn't there by anything in the military geographical survey? I'm sure they would have such maps as Russia.”

Aiwen Wu nodded. “Perhaps.” he said, “But for now I want the road cut through to Yerofey Khabarov. Our ability to take all of this land will depend on how much land we'll be able to exercise control of, and for our allies. Actively if there is to be a Japanese reproach to counter our liberation, we will have to meet it. Control of the rail way will not only let us re-mobilize men across the breadth of this country, or for our allies, but to also curtail and prevent our enemies. The Trans Siberian is one of our primary objectives. This mystery tributary is not.”

“It would be easier for me and my men to establish this position as a river port to launch incursions up river.” the engineer continued to argue.

“I'm aware.” Aiwen Wu said dismissively, “But that is not now the point. I may consider the possibility, but right now we are in commitment. I will see to investigating this river, but until then I want the current course to remain as is.”

“Very well comrade. Forgive me if I came off as a little abrasive.” apologized the officer.

“You didn't, so don't worry. If you're worried going ahead about security then the route there will be secured.” he rose his hand to point at the soldiers crossing the bridge, “They may be out of their armor, vehicles. But I trust in them to keep the road move ahead secure. If there is any enemy to meet we will fight them.

“Thank you for your confidence.” the engineer said, rising. He bowed, and headed back up the bank. Aiwen Wu continued to watch the crossing of the troops.

---

Wu Hong stepped onto Russian soil. He wasn't sure how he should feel. Like the rest of the soldiers cross over, he wandered off to the side, his rifle slung out as he tentatively scanned the trees, and the high hillocks and peaks that surrounded him and stretched out into the distance. He felt his breath in his chest, tense and uneasy under the current situation. What should he expect? What was there to expect. Looking around, he saw that many also did not know what they should be expecting. Some had their weapons drawn, but they were not at the ready. Others poked and prodded into the bushes, weapons shouldered and scanning around. Was there supposed to be resistance? Shouldn't they have known?

Wu Hong's image of war drifted to the fairy tale, the legend and the story. The ones where the invader was met at the border by the brave defender. That on deceleration of the threat the defenders would come rushing and assemble. That at the very doorstep of crossing over the two armies would begin contesting the country from the very first step. And that from there out the struggle would be constant and brutish.

He had drawn to mind the Great War in Europe. Of the vast desolation of artillery and the snaking maze of trenches and barbed wire. A vast swathe of France and Belgium obliterated as two armies met to fight. But here in Russia, where was that great army to meet them? It felt less like war, but more like home invasion. This felt scarier than the thought of war in general. This felt more unnerving than the inglorious act of killing. What could be visualized as the objective, the enemy? Could they fight trees? Were the trees the enemy?

“Wu Hong!” someone shouted from behind. The pensive private turned, seeing a broad shouldered, older soldier approach him, “We need you.” the man said, waving the young man to him. Shifting uneasily in his boots he turned to look back through the tree line, and followed after the older sergeant as he headed up into the trees and the bush line.

Stepping away from the river the underbrush grew thick and soon he was walking through grass up to his knees and passed broad flowering bushes. The under brush was coursing with Chinese soldiers, trying to find their way through the forest and shouting out to one another. The forest was alive, the bird songs chased out by the shouts of men as they sought out one another and orders were issued out and direction given.

The sergeant Wu Hong followed walked with a heavy stomping gaite. His shoulders swaying side to side like some great ape, and he was as tall as one too. His giant pack swayed side to side on his back. He was Ju Gan, his immediate commander. He looked every bit of the soldier Hong was not, broad strong face, bullish nose, and a rock hard chin. His eyes shone with a collective coolness like stars, but sharp and like steel.

He lead him up into a clearing where five other soldiers stood or sat about. A moss covered log had fallen and come to rest on an exposed face of stone in the hillside. On it waited two men, one with a large bulky radio on his back and a pair of large wide-lensed glasses that magnified his eyes. The other sat chewing on a blade of grass, going over and over his rifle in his hands as he worked dexterously with his fingers. Two others stood off to the side as one leaned against a tree, a bandoleer of bullets wrapped across his torso from his shoulders down. A third sat at their feet, rubbing a cloth across his rifle.

“Are we all here now?” Sergeant Gan said as he entered the clearing. The others looked up and around, and at Wu Hong.

“Yeah, looks like it.” said the radio man with the wide glasses. He was pudgy, even under his uniform and the definition of an unbeatable gut shown under his coat. He scratched at his pale nose and looked about at his comrades.

“We're at a good start then.” said Ju Gan, “Well, it's best we begin this hike then. The major wants the company to fan out at seventy meters each between each squad. We're going to be heading north. Yu Huan, you're to check in with the rest of the company every hour.”

“How are we going to know where we are?” the radio man, Yu Huan asked, “It's not like we're going to have very good maps. Have you seen them? It's emptiness for miles.”

“As best we can.” the sergeant said, and the squad laughed. Sergeant Ju Gan continued, “I'm going to take point.”

“Excuse me, comrade. But I've lived in woods like these for years. Are you sure someone else should take point?” the man seated in the grass said, speaking up, “It's not like I'm from too far south. We wouldn't want anyone to sprain an ankle while we're marching.”

“No, Cheng Bao, I'll take lead. I need someone on the wind to keep an eye out on things. If you can keep some kind of visual contact with the others on the left side that would fine.”

“As you say so, comrade.” Cheng Bao said, standing up. He was tall, like his commander. But not nearly as broad. He reached down and picked up his hat and placed it atop his broad head, capping his wild unbrushed hair.”

“Keung, Lei, do you think you can stay in the center and carry anything extra? I know you two got strong backs. It'd help to life some weight off of us, hiking through these forests.” the two standing next to the tree over Bao nodded solemnly. “And Wen Qi, I'll need you opposite of Bao, try to maintain what little bit of contact as you can with the others so we know where we are. If we need to run a message, you're on point there.”

“Yes, sir.” the man seated on the log said. There was a general complacency of their positions settled that fell on the squad and they readied to move out, heaving their heavy bags off the ground.

“A final question before we head out,” Wen Qi said, walking over to the sergeant. His features were sharp, and his brows fell low into his eyes. In the faint light of the forest they looked empty, filled only with shadow, “How are most of the supplies going to move with us? I take it we're not going to try heading back to the river?” he asked.

“Long Company is on that.” Ju Gan told him, “They're going to be moving the food and supplies behind us. I got orders that they want us to cover eight kilometers today. The days after that we're supposed to be covering ten. The goal is to get to our objective in ten to eleven. If Long can keep up, we'll have the supplies to last us the next couple of weeks until something more permanent can be worked out.”

“And if we run out?” Qi asked.

“We're on our own.” Gan answered, solemnly, “Hopefully we won't come to that point.”

“Well, I guess we should start hiking then.” Wen Qi said, with a wide over enthusiastic, satirical smile.

World of Nations - A freestyle Nation RP

Auclairé

Deparmon fo Aubre, Celemsville

Gates clanged shut down distant halls, and dim lights shone from the ceiling. Stepping over to the police desk, Hox exchanged words with the officer on duty. Asking for papers, the correct paper work was passed along to him. The man at the desk nodded, and calling to another had the gate opened with the clang of a heavy metal key. The gate opened, and the young lawyer was let into the holding facility.

The air here was musty, heavy with the smell of mold and mildew. The walls were no less ancient than anywhere else, and under the ground they glistened with water that leaked in through the cracks or porous stone. The temporary holding facility for the police was close to the river-side, alongside the ferry terminal for Clemsville and the small river port. This close in and in moist ground, it was not entirely unusual. It peeled away the plaster from the wall in large chunks over a short length of time.

The smells intermingled with the common smells of man, the sweat and musk of unclean or unperformed prisoners waiting trial, or drunks sleeping off their excess wine or beer. In one cell Hox passed, a misty eyed middle-aged laborer starred blankly through the rusty old bars of his cell, apparently half comatose from narcotics. He was here to recover through his eye and after effects; a doctor would be called later to take him off their hands. For now, like the drunk tanks he was merely tucked away to keep him to the side and out of sight, to prevent interruption in Celemsville's streets.

The space the cells were kept was a long hallway with a single bank along one side. Benches lined the others and a single table at the far end kept an officer on duty. Is white uniform was the cleanest thing in the underground. The lapels of his uniform folded back to his shoulder to show a ruffled light-blue undershirt. Black holster straps kept his baton close under his arm. He rose, seeing the lawyer and his escort.

“Cell five, the kid's counsel is here.” shouted the officer. The other nodded and headed to meet them at the cell in question. His black hobnail boots drumming heavily on the cold gray granite of the floor.

They came to him as he shifted through a collection of heavy iron keys on a large ring. The young man in the cell was fully alert, and looking up at him. His eyes met with Hox's, but he showed no joy.

Seated on a plank bench the man there looked to be no more or less remarkable than anyone else. Dark, coffee colored skin, narrow nose, small shrew-like eyes. His hair shaved back and course like steel wool. But there was a sharp alertness deep in his green eyes, a thinking look far more expressive than the drunk or the stoned. He showed no reverent respect for the lawyer as Hox stepped in, but neither did he make any clear indication of dis-respect.

Dressed in the plain gray jumpsuit of a prisoner with a bright pink stripe across is waist and down his arms, his full well-fed form filled the one-size uniform well. He was a large man, that was clear.

“Good evening, Mersaul Clairmon. I'm Hoxua Lisseur.” said Hox, introducing himself.

Mersaul looked up at him. And simply nodded, empty of any enthusiasm or even pain. “I figured as much.” he said, his voice flat and unwavering. He had a still emotionless rattle. Hox found it unnerving, like speaking to a robot.

“So listen, I'm here you're in deep trouble and I'm here to help. I was hoping t-” he began to say.

“I don't need help.” Mersaul said.

“What do you mean?”

“I know exactly what I did, and I know exactly why I did it. I will not turn around and say I didn't do it, because I do not regret it.” Mersaul answered, holding the mono-tonal inflection.

“Are you really sure about this? This is murder after all? You killed a man, that's life in prison at the least?”

“How does it really matter whether I get life or not?” Mersaul asked, “I am a doomed man either way, whether or not I confess makes no difference, the police have all the proof they need. Whether or not I am defended will not change anything going ahead. Neither will where I live for the rest of my life.”

Hox sighed indignantly. “I don't even want a lawyer.” Mersaul added.

“Whether or not you want one is out of the question, because someone asked.” Hox told him, “We – I – was requested to defend you by your girl friend.”

“Elise?” Mersaul asked. But he did not seem to change his tone, even for her. The same sort of dead indifference carried itself between the subjects. Hox wondered if he even cared. He nodded, and Mersaul leaned his head back against the cool wet brick and sat silently. He thought for a while.

His chest rose and fell in a long dry sigh, “This isn't her problem. She should not have.”

“Well, listen. Either way I'm contractually obligated at this point. So the least you could do is have the interview. If there isn't going to be any fighting or pleading from you then this'll be as simple as the end of week.”

Mersault nodded, he understood. “Could you tell me one thing, though,” he began, “Why'd Elise send for a defense? The state would have provided one for free. Now though, it'll go through court for sure.”

“You're saying you just want this over with?” Hox asked.

“It would be for the best. I have no qualms, therefore I should not need to speak for myself or have an advocate speak for myself. There is no guilt in my heart or desire to see I pay less for my actions. I know what I did, and know well the full price. If full price is what I have to pay, then full price is what I will pay. But Elise, Elise I guess wants to get the deal out of it.”

“She must love you.” Hox said.

Mersaul nodded. “Well listen,” Hox said, “I take it I can reduce your sentence. If you're going to in the end plead guilty then I can get some time shaved off. You won't die in prison, you'll come out eventually. I hear it's awful to be an old man in prison, and at least this way I give you clemency for the end of your life.

“So to begin, why don't you just repeat to me what you told the police?”

“What for?” Mersaul asked.

“To make sure if there's anything different between what the police know and you, I can use this in the trial. It's not a crime to leave out details, but it is wasteful to do so on your lawyer. I can use them to convince the judge to lessen sentencing even after the jury convicts.”

Mersaul blinked, and nodded. “I killed a man with a .45 pistol on the bank of the river. I left his body on an open sandy beach a hundred meters from the Emalais Parg outside of town.

“The man was Pierre Forge, a tourist from Amôn. He and I had gotten drunk and wine, and debated life after death. We both agreed that there was a place the soul goes after death, but disagreed as to what. He believed in reincarnation, and admitted he was willing to depart this life. I told him I can help him confirm this, and I shot him.”

Hox looked at him stunned. He looked over at the police man standing guard and he only shrugged indifferently. Squatting down on his haunches he leaned in close and asked, “Have you ever felt the inclination to violence before?”

Mersaul shook his head, “I have never so much as hit a man before.” he told him, “This is the only time, and I bear no guilt for it. I will see its consequences through. That is all.”

“You realize what you're telling me is highly irrational – absurd even.”

“Is the rest of life not irrational, absurd?” Mersaul asked, “What do we do every day but defy our own personal inspiration, desires. That is all I allowed myself to do, expressed myself as a free man. I made the conscious decision that if I was to do anything, it would be to him who was all ready to go. The blame of his death is all his, as is the blame of me eating a sandwich, or drinking wine. I was merely the instrument of its execution; and do hammers feel guilt for when they build a house, kill a mouse?”

Hox sat baffled. He shook his head, and attempted to bring the conversation back to rationality, “This man, Pierre Forge, have you had any encounters before. Did you have a fight before you sat down to wine?”

“We had met earlier that day.”

“And did you have a fight, any underlying reason you might have killed him?”

Mersaul shook his head. No he had not. “There was no grudge you could have held before against him, that you acted upon until then.”

“No, there was none. If there was anything I would say he was too cowardly to commit to his own suicide.”

“And this, you stand by this as the reason for your actions?”

Mersaul nodded.

The situation Hox found was far more straight forward than he anticipated. It terrified him, to see down the full length of where this was headed. What Mersaul was doing in the end was pleading guilty at the get go without much in the way of finding clemency. He did not imagine he would even appeal, even if given the chance. This would normally not be an issue, a case that was decided before it began, all that would need to be finished was the paper work. But without so much as a turn in the road it felt as if this was a train headed for the cliff, and Hox found himself riding that train to its disastrous conclusion.

This did not excuse that in many cases the defendant was generally found guilty anyways. That his job as lawyer was to lessen the sentence, give options for appeal and probation. In the little time he had been practicing, and all the time researching and performing discovery, he hadn't ever witnessed what was a civil train collision about to begin. It shook him, and he was part of it now too.

“Listen, I can plead insanity for you. Best case then is you are interred at a mental institution. Be far more comfier there. Is this something you would like?” Hox asked.

“I'm not insane.” Hox answered, dead pan.

“Yes, yes. But still, this is the option I'm taking away here. And it's not so much for your benefit: But Elise's.”

“Either option is poor for her, and equal to me. You could send me to the Blade and I would not worry. In the end I feel no guilt for what I did, and in the end had I the option for another life I would not want to forget this.”

Hox sighed, and stood up. “Then very well. If I need to speak with you again, I will. I'll need to go and collect the court dates.”

“It was a pleasure.” Mersaul said, as Hox left the cell. His persistent level tone inclined him to question whether or not Mersaul meant what it is he said.

Walking back down the long hall the escort said to him, “He's quite the character.” as Mersaul's cell door was locked further down.

“I never thought someone like him could well exist.” Hox said, “I've always...”

“Though killers would plead? Or be tough? Well perhaps, but he is a first for us too. Don't feel like you're alone on this.”

They came back to the check-in station for lock up, and the officer on duty let them through. The escort joined his companion in the little side room, sitting down to read a book.

“I hope your talk with him was productive, counsel.” said the desk officer.

“We'll have to see about that.” Hox said, “Is there any limits on seeing him?”

“Given how he doesn't try to start anything, and is content to sit and meditate away his hours, I don't think there'll be a problem. He seems to pose no risk.”

“Alright, thanks. I might have questions later.”

---

Outside again, Hox breathed in deep the sweat clean air. The smell of flowers and of distant farm fields was adrift on the warm breeze blowing in over the hills, and the fresh aquatic aroma of the river blossomed from the reeds along the river to meet it.

With the police station – white faced, and blue shingled – behind him, Hox reached into his pocket for his phone. No longer among the police, he could turn it on. He noticed he had a message, someone had tried to call. He recognize the number and walking towards his bike returned the call. It rang a couple times.

“Çoix.” said a voice finally, answering.

“Armon, you called earlier?” Hox asked.

“Yeah, I did. But you had your phone off. You still up for your share of the cognac?” Armon Çoix asked.

“Ah- what time is it?” Hox asked.

“A little after 13:00.” Armon answered.

“Then I go out on lunch. You want to meet at Fibbiro's?”

“I see no reason why not. I'll meet you there.” replied Armon, “Should I invite Sailie along? You should get Daphne. How long you got, a little over an hour?”

“It doesn't matter in the end. As long as I come back with case notes and in time to do anything else.”

“It's settled. I'll see you there.”

“You too.” Hox answered, as the line went dead.

The court in front of the police station was like a small garden, and the limited parking area was shaded by three large oaks. Squirrels darted about the grass and into the bushes as Hox walked passed, going into his contacts. He made another phone call. The recipient answered quickly. “Floer.” said a woman's voice.

“Hey, my winter lily. Are you up for lunch?”

Daphne Floer laughed giddily on the other end, “Damn you and your timing. I was about to make lunch! I was wondering if you'd call today. Where at?”

“Fibbiro's, next couple of minutes. I had to interview a client at the police station. Armon and Sailie are going to be there.”

“Then I see no reason why not!” the woman said excitedly, “It'll be a double lunch date then. I'll get a jacket on and meet you there.”

Hox smiled, “Me too. All the stars to you, m' amore.”

“And you too.” she replied, hanging up.

Hox breathed lighter, and mounting his motorbike fired it up. Backing out of his spot he headed towards the road, and sped off.

---

Fibbiro's was a small cafe across from a park. In the shadow of two larger buildings on either side it sat along a road slopping down to the river. A patio up front sat risen from the street, accessible by a set of stairs only a few steps high. Its orange face glowed in the hot afternoon sun, its red shingles a dull flame. The front windows, tall and broad were opened out onto the world, they were only wooden shutters. Inside a lunch crowd, their voices trailing out to the street.

Hox's bike pulled up along the curb, several blocks down. Down the streets, a couple was walking the opposite direction, and recognizing them they raised their hands and waved. “How goes the day?” the man said as they drew closer. He was the proprietor of last night's race. He was a tan-skinned man, out of the night's long cold shade. Portly, but handsome. His partner was a darker skinned lady, and her long black hair was brushed along the back of her ears, flowing the back of her dress, capped by a broad flowery bonnet.

“It goes as well it does, so far.” Hox said, “You just arriving?”

“Around the corner.” Armon said, waving back behind him. A man on a horse trotted past. “By the way, here's your cognac.” he added, holding out a bottle he had been carrying on his way up.

“Ah, mercy be!” Hox laughed.

“Don't get too excited for me, you will need to thank Carli the next chance you get. She's the one who deserves the happiness.” said Armon, as they began walking up into the cafe.

“Believe me, I will.” Hox said, holding the mostly empty bottle tight. The waiter didn't seem to notice as they were escorted to their seats. Or he did not seem to care. “How are things at the Vineyard?” he added, asking.

“They are doing well.” Armon's woman, Sailie said, “The quality of the grapes this year is wonderful, and they have a bolder flavor. It's up in the air with my father whether we'll have to cut them down to produce more of the same, or turn them into a special vintage.”

“How is the fungus?” Hox asked.

“We believe we have it beat. It's been receding the past few years. We have it more or less confined to a few odd vines.” Sailie announced gleefully, “Is Carli here?”

“I assume she's on her way.” Hox said. They were being seated.

“Would you like any coffee?” asked the waiter. He was a tall man, the tail of his red coat falling long down his thin white troisers and culottes. The hair on his head tied back into a pony tail.

“How does Carli like hers, creamed?” Sailie asked.

“I believe so.” Hox said.

“If that is fine with you guys, I will go for it creamed.” they agreed. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

“So what happened later last night?” Hox asked.

“The usual, you didn't miss out. We went to the bar, had a few rounds and left. That new kid couldn't do much, he had a round and I insisted the others buy him ginger beer. He left when the rest of us went out, about midnight.”

“So you buy the bottle at the bar, or elsewhere?”

“No, we got it at the bar.” Armon said, “It ended up being the third cheapest brand they had. But oh well.”

“My, Carli splurged.” Hox laughed.

Armon laughed, “I suppose she did.”

Sailie rose unexpectadly, half out of her seat to wave at someone behind Hox. He turned to see Daphne coming up. She came up to the table, and bowed down to kiss him on the head, and took her seat. “I'm not late, am I?” she asked. She produced a fan from her bag and began fanning herself with it.

Compred to Hox, she had a darker complexion, a soft sweet caramel that glower. A white dress hugging the soft round curves of her body, and a satin vest from her broad shoulders.

“No, you're not.” Sailie said, “Coffee was just ordered, creamed.” she added.

“Oh, thank you.” Daphne said, beaming. Moment later the waiter returned with a platter consisting of the effects to serve coffee, the cups, the copper pot, spoon for sugar. He spread it all out on the table, and left behind some menus. There was pleased 'thank yous' as he left.

“So what have you been up to?” Daphne asked the table as she let her hair free from the bun she wore. It fell about her shoulders, wavy, light, and dark.

“At home.” Armon said, “Working on my bike. I wasn't needed into work at all. Sailie was working with her father to figure what to do about the vineyard.”

“I had a new case.” Hox said.

“Oh, is that why you called in the middle of the afternoon?” Daphne teased.

Hox smiled, “Yes, and it's quiet the unusual one.”

“Do tell, or- er, what can you say?” Sailie asked.

“Well it turns out it made the morning news today, so I can say what I know.” Hox began. “It's a murder case, I went to see the client today in the holding cells.”

“Oh wow, a murder. I didn't know you handled criminal proceedings.” Armon said.

“Apparently I do now.” Hox said, reaching out to the pot to pour a cup, “The man's a strange one.”

“How so?” Daphne asked, taking the pot next. Placing a cube of sugar on the spoon first though, she poured the coffee over it. Letting it melt the cube away and drip down through the holes in the bottom of the spoon.

“Have you ever known a man comfortable being guilty for being a killer?” Hox asked.

“Well, in a book.” Daphne said, leaning closer to her boyfriend as she gently held the cup in her hand, “I was read Jean Mierre's Dark Night. The killer in that book is totally remorseless. The client is someone like him, is it? He deserves to be locked away, don't even try.” she advised him, in partial jest.

Hox smiled and laughed, “No, he's far from it.”

“How can you be far from something like that?” Armon exclaimed, “That's... absurd.”

“That's what I told him. But it turns out he's completely comfortable. I get the impression he doesn't care what I do.”

“So why'd you take it?” asked Sailie.

“Because I'm being paid. Turns out it's not the man himself that hired out to my boss for help. It's the man's girlfriend.”

“Really? Have you met her?”

“No, I haven't. I didn't suppose it was the point to be honest.”

“It seems strange.” said Armon.

“The whole thing is.” Hox agreed.

World of Nations - A freestyle Nation RP

<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>

Three words: extremely limited resources.

(Also, you may not have noticed but Lanist Khaganate is also a interdimensional nation. Plus I'm not even actually here to conquer anyone for at least a few hundred years IC, but more like the role of the European nations in India pre-British Raj)

@Nucleep

Extreme limited resources doesn't really count for a country that can send anyone to any other dimension. This implies a long line of technological development and support for them that puts the entire state at an incredibly, unimaginable advantage over anyone else. There is no limitation in resources when you can peel back the differences between inter-dimensional reality to enter others at will. It's not the difference between British dudes with muskets fighting Indians with bows, it's people with assault rifles fighting people throwing mud.

World of Nations - A freestyle Nation RP

How the fuck are we supposed to expect ourselves to do anything but be rolled by an inter-dimensional space-faring nation? It seems we might as well give everything up to the giant bullshit machine that just appeared.

🇰🇵 ¡gorgenmast ahora disponible en Español! 🇰🇵

Spain is a rightful province of Portugal.

World of Nations - A freestyle Nation RP

Auclairé

Deparmon fo Liber, Villa Libero

“Citizens of the Assembly, it has come down to me to inform the noble national court of the citizens of a profound transgressions against not only the state itself, but of the law of man and of nation.” the speaker said, standing atop the dias. Dressed in fine clothes his delicately polished shoes shone in the warm electrical light of the hundred of bulbs over-head, suspended by silver chandeliers and from the large glass dome at the middle of the room. Had all lights been off, the soft light of the afternoon sun would have shone down on him, cutting through the pipe smoke of the Reprosentiff fo Nacionalie there today. It was a packed chamber, and the men leaned forward to hear the man speak.

The speaker, a tall dark-skinned gentlemen struck a striking image. Broad shouldered, a defined face. His eyes shone bright. His head crowned with wiry black hair.

“Off the Black Coast, from our national exclaves of Sain Sumogne and Bastiôn the trade vessel Sôme Pierre went dark over the maritime radio check ins. Reported leaving the port of Simerov with a full cargo of raw material for refinement and use of the Company Josephine Metalworks. A cargo weight of two-hundred fifteen tonnes the material wealth aboard the ship was estimated to be at over twenty-million libre.”

There was shocked murmuring from the assembly who gasped and guffawed. Over the rioting expressions the click of cameras nearby could be heard as the journalists at the speaker's feet hurriedly made moves to capture his doubtlessly pained expression. He rose a thick sun-kissed hand to the breast pocket of his deep violet velvet vest and hung it there by his thumb. The rolls of the sleeves of his white cotton undershirt turned and waved as he moved. Turning on his feet as he paced and look about him. “This represents the greatest material loss our country has faced in piracy alone!” he declared.

“If this was in Donsiclious waters, what was the answer by the government in Sirir?” a representative asked

“I have spoken at length with the ministers.” the speaker said, “And we have concluded that the best course of action is to take a direct approach. This is the third such action, as I'm sure we all remember. But this is the largest such theft of a ship and thus far, through our normal channels the government of Donsiclia has thus far been incapable of acting on our pressure to curb the endemic of piracy off their waters. On the consent of the Assembly, I ask that economic measures be taken against our neighbor to our south be reprimanded, the financial assets of their leaders frozen until they are willing to take the matter seriously! And that, if necessary, the Assembly takes moves to consider, as a warning against Donsiclia the matter of direct military intervention in its ports to identify and capture the pirate bodies who have so long threatened our southern Departments.”

This a shocked murmuring among the assembly. Defiant shouts. “President Jean-Luc, you can not be serious to come before the National Assembly, so devoted to peace, and make requests for war.”

“It is not war I demand,” president Jean-Luc decreed, “But a threat of which I am requesting to bring results. Coupled with the freezing of their personal assets in our national banks!”

“Then what responses will your office make while we consider your recommendations?” a representative called out.

“We are already moving to act ourselves.” Jean-Luc answered, “The foreign office has been given orders to make direct appeals to the government in Sirir to provide information deemed helpful in tracking the course of, or to keep watch for strange activity within their borders. We have likewise given orders to prepare a ship at the port of Camuleis to hunt the pirates, recover the ship and her sailors. It is of my opinion, and of my ministers that the unchecked negligence of the new southern government in Donsiclia be brought to recognize its own follies. The Minister of Justice, Pierre Duran is willing to see the pirates – when captured – tried in Auclairé as criminals against our people and our laws, and not as before in Donsiclious courts.”

There was subdued discussion among the representatives. Jean-Luc Henrie stood patiently, like a stoic in the middle of the room. The Assembly chambers, an ancient room in an ancient building murmured like a temple. The representatives speaking like monks chanting. Surrounding him on near all sides the seats of the assembled representatives rose upwards in banks. The columned walls rose to support a gallery, and behind the medieval ramparts atop those a light gaggle of onlookers looked down, women waved fans and men leaned over looking down. Higher up the ancient statues of the old kings looked down, though their faces had been wrecked over two-hundred years ago in the Revolution, now behind chain-mail coifs they were faceless wraiths in their tunics. In this hall centuries before then the barons and oligarchy of the kingdoms of the nation met in assembly, and was now occupied by the people.

The chamber was hardly austere or as gray as an old castle's walls. Great colorful banners hunt from the ceiling between the many chandeliers overhead. And between the statues of the ancient kings paintings of the Revolution and the intermediary years had been hung. The stone work too was in places carefully carved and painted in earthly bands of red and yellow strips, interlaced, the pattern was repeated across the columns and they were like maypoles with the ribbons tied tight against them.

From behind the stage the president stood, the speaker of the Assembly rose in his canopied tent. “Than you, and the grace of wisdom on you, our president.” he said, “I declare the Assembly in motion to consider the crisis set before us by the Executive Office.” Jean-Luc Henrie smiled and turned out the door as the speaker continued to speak, “Per immediate concern on the issue the Ministry of Security recommends in light of the recent attacks a proposal of its own related to the current crisis. That in accompaniment with our southern traffic emergency allocation to the Department of the Navy be made for the funding of escort to and from the Deparmons fo Sain Sumogne and Bastiôn...” the door to the Assembly chamber closed behind the president as he left the hall. Around the corner his secretary met with him.

“An appropriate speech, but I think it could have been better.” the stout man said, jogging up to meet with the president. He was a mulato man, his light coffee skin and thick wiry hair contrasting, as his narrow nose and wide face. It was not far from Jean-Luc, whose nose was likewise long and narrow.

“Well, what can you do.” Jean-Luc said, “I suppose next the media will need some words.”

“I've already gotten a few requests. If you would like I will schedule a special media event in the Palais Executif later this afternoon.”

“You might as well. Has the ambassador from Donsiclia returned our requests?”

“No, he hasn't.” the assistant said, “He says his government back home has not sent him new orders.”

“Then we keep waiting. Let's go then.”

Portei fo Libero

@Fairyfloss

Atop the control tower for the vast port of the capitol, the port authority radio operators sat looking out at the vast network of piers and canals, directing the ship traffic to and from. The great iron lattice work of cranes hummed and sang with the sound of motors as the large freighters to the capitol city were being unloaded. Below trucks and train carts assembled or moved every which way in a sense of controlled chaos as freight was being moved in and out. Often times, the traffic headed into the port was passing through, sailing up the Rouje to the ports further up, where at the point where the river becomes too shallow and begins to narrow deep-water boats could not pass. There the freight would be transferred to river freight, and would deliver their goods deep inland. Often these same ships would come back, all the way into the Portei fo Libero to unload crates of wine or other commodities for shipment over seas, their broad decks navigating the coal-dark waters of the river mouth as it mixed with the azure blue sea further out.

From the windows of the control office, further inland the capitol city brooded over the vast industrial complex of the sea port on its ascending hills. The city stretched out to sea along the Cape Emaîs, which enclosed the harbor from the open sea. The ivory white, soft blues, spring greens, and the multitude of colors of the homes there on the forested hills of the Emaîs showing bright along brick streets and promenades up to the chivalric lighthouse of Sant Crispi, its red-brick construction like a castle bastion set isolated from any fortification, but fortified once to guard the mouth of the harbor as well as guide vessels in.

Likewise dominating the hilly skyline in-land, at the edge of the broad windows of the wood-paneled control room the ascending waves of the iron tower of Màndùi Filisoph rose clear into the blue sky.

It was also not just commercial vessels that scoured the great harbor. The white specks of private boats at the tip of long hair-thin wakes wound through the water, heading into the mouth of the harbor to enter into open sea also passed, as the larger gray shapes of coast guard posts slowly patrolled through. Close to shore wooden paddle boats remained, old men casting rods into the water to fish in the warm equatorial sun. Just behind them, the docks and lower terraces of the sea walls provided a platform for swimmers to rest on, just beyond the confines of the seaport itself.

“We are the merchant-warships of the Yathon Corporation,” a radio message came in, through the headset of one of the port directors, “We request an opportunity to dock. We wish to establish trading relationships.”

The radio man cocked a brow at the request. He looked aside at his desk neighbor and said, “I don't suppose we handle international relations?” he asked.

She looked aside at him, confused. The clear expression on her face spoke for what the answer was. Of course not.

The operator looked up through the window at the sea port outside, searching for an open pier. The numbered cranes indicating the individual piers. He cross-referenced them quickly over his computer, and relayed a message out to the foreign ship, “Yathon Corporation ship, you are clear to dock at pier seventeen. Please prepare your manifest papers and to receive shipyard inspectors. You will receive instruction from a shipyard officer on where to proceed next.” he said clearly into his microphone, “Tugboats will come to assist you.”