gorgenmast

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

Aaron and I have agreed: it's a fine app. Glad to have you aboard.

Accepted!

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

Howdy sir. The US has been hurting for some good direction. I'm sure you'll do a good job of it.

The US has always been a popular choice with a lot of players, but unfortunately, most of them eventually drop out after they've made vast and often-bizarre changes to the country. For example, the the United States had a socialist president for a term basically because le communism is liek totally epic cool XD. In order to accommodate these changes, initially we would perform some substantial reworking of the backstory just so they didn't seem quite as ridiculous alongside everything else. We've become stricter about this now have new players conform to our lore rather than conform the lore to new players.

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

Give or take a decade, yeah.

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

Golondrina, Port Fuad, Egypt

Luis found himself staring up at a network of aluminum ducts and piping. The soothing rumbling of the idling engines vibrated under his back. He was somewhere in the interior of the warship, somewhere removed from the bullets and the rockets and the dying. A fleeting respite from the war raging beyond the bulkheads, Luis welcomed it all the same.

He laid upon a plastic dining table; the Cruiser's mess room, Luis recognized. It had apparently been converted into a triage during the course of the battle, evidenced by the green card hanging on the wall above his head meaning that he was of the lowest priority. Medics went back and forth past his feet to check with the actual casualties, glancing briefly at the green card before ignoring him. The medics' lack of concern was in fact reassuring to Luis, who worried that he had been somehow injured in the exchange between the cruiser and the Ethiopians. He didn't remember how he had come to be placed in triage, only the fact that he had thrown up. That and his first sight of real blood, the Ethiopian burning to death before his eyes. He would remember those things for the rest of his life.

A gurney rattled past his feet, its occupant shrouded by a blanket splattered in dark, drying blood, the very sight of which wrung Luis' stomach. How could he be expected to fight, to kill, when the very sight of blood could make him faint? He didn't belong here. He knew that much.

"I understand he was the first." A gruff voice unfamiliar to Luis declared, punctuating the silence and the gurney rolled out of the mess hall.

"So I hear. The first to give their life for this war." This voice was familiar, and commanded terror from Luis. It was General Ponferrada. Luis shut his eyes and pretended he was still unconscious.

"And he has been joined, with the landing of the International Brigade there will be more to come."

"Reconnaissance flights report that the irregulars have actually taken substantial amounts of ground. Color me surprised, I am that much more hopeful now for the campaign in Ethiopia, when the Africans engage our real soldiers." The General's words elicited naught but silence. A tense, unnerving silence that even Luis was disturbed by.

"They are real soldiers, General. They fight for you, they are dying for you. Don't discredit them again." Luis couldn't believe his ears. Who would dare talk to any general in this tone? Let alone Victor Ponferrada.

"You are fortunate, Admiral, that I honor your leadership and direction. Your service in Boston and Helsinki is a credit to the Republic. Very seldom do I tolerate anyone to speak with me in such a tone."

"I honor them." Admiral Santin shot back. "I respect the foreigners for their bravery and dedication to the fight against the socialists. They aren't just some pawns to absorb bullets for the regular infantry. Give them the respect they deserve."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the mess hall. Beads of anxious sweat formed on Luis' forehead. Several moments passed before the muffled, concussive rumbling of artillery cut the silence and, curiously enough, the tension.

"The destroyers are still firing?" General Ponferrada asked, welcoming a chance to change the subject. "I thought that all targets of value had been hit already."

"All but one." Corrected Admiral Santin. "That salvo came from the Aksum."

"Don't fret, Admiral. The Ejercito is preparing to neutralize the Ethiopian vessel as I speak." Ponferrada dismissed, his bootfalls drawing closer to Luis' makeshift cot. "By morning tomorrow, the fleet will reach the Red Sea." The General's footsteps ceased when he reached the table upon which Luis lay. Even and he kept perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness, Luis could feel the General's piercing gaze as he inspected him.

"What's wrong with him?" Admiral Santin asked of the triaged private.

Luis couldn't help but wince as the general scrutinized him. He hoped the general hadn't notice the twitch of his face. This was not how he wanted to be seen by such a formidable superior - hiding from the battle in triage. He felt his face grow warm completely against his will. He was blushing profusely from embarrassment. He could feel it in his cheeks, sweat matting under his hair. He tried his best to squelch the reddening glow, but it was of no avail. There was no way that the general would miss such a display.

"Cowardice." Ponferrada concluded.

Bilbao, Spain

It was only when he was on the plane when they took his bag off. With the whizzing of black nylon sliding past his face, Julio Zuraban's pupils stung upon exposure to light for the first time in hours. Through squinted eyes, he found himself handcuffed to the armrest of his bench seat. in the cavernous belly of a massive aircraft - military construction, that much was clear. Most probably a Gargola bomber, the workhorse of the Spanish air forces, simply due to its size. Pintles on the far end of the fuselage where racks of bombs could be mounted suggested that this was indeed a requisitioned bomber. Though he was hardly an expert on military aircraft, Julio knew well enough that these planes were built for the express purpose of moving a great masses for incredible distances. It was clear this would not be a short flight, but the destination was not as apparent.

His captors had blacked-out the half dozen windows on the plane just as they had with the bus that had taken him to Arratzu. Even so, there was nothing to see beyond the walls of the plane. Julio stole a glance behind him out the rear loading bay, and saw only the interior of a hangar and a line of prisoners being herded off the buses and up into the fuselage of the plane like so much cattle.

"How come they aren't fucked up like the other flights?" The handler who had removed Julio's bag from his face asked his companion. "The Doctor decide he doesn't want a plane full of vegetables anymore?"

"Couldn't tell you. Maybe he needs some controls for his projects?" His partner suggested nonchalantly, locking handcuffs to seats and yanking black bags off of captive passengers as he went.

Questions bit at the tongues of all the prisoners aboard, but each knew to stifle their questions. Julio and the rest of them learned that speaking out of turn earned nothing but a round of cattleprod beating; worse still came when one was demanded to talk. Anyone who had spent any amount of time at Arratzu knew that everything went most smoothly when silence was maintained.

Another twenty minutes passed as the last of the prisoners were chained to their seats, a length of time that passed like seconds to Julio. After what seemed to be an eternity of ennui and isolation at Arratzu, he could scarcely process all the activity around him. His senses were overloaded trying to process it all, particularly the sheer anxiety and discomfort of what appeared to be a hundred fellow prisoners. In a way it was a welcome break from the bleak hopeless that permeated Arratzu, to know that he would not die there after all. At the same time, the departure from Arratzu was terrifying. After hurting that interrogator so, Julio knew he would not be allowed to go unscathed, and he remembered how he wished for him to be fully aware when he met this Guijon. Whoever this man was, it could be counted upon that he would mete out a fate worse than any at Arratzu.

Anxiety bubbled up in his stomach as the engines spun to life outside the hull. The plane rumbled and shook as their handlers made their way out of the rear doors, which ground shut behind them. The lighting of the hangar left the cargo hold as the doors shut amidst the building pitch of the spinning propellers. The plane bounced gently beneath Julio, exacerbating the queasiness in his stomach. The plane was rolling; already taxing itself out the hangar and onto the runway, they could feel the landing gear's suspension bouncing against the tarmac. Whatever their destination, the pilots seemed intent on arriving as quickly as possible.

As the captives were jostled about within the dark belly of the airplane, Julio's anxious glance met that of his neighbor.

"I know you." The man sitting next to him uttered. He was older man, just shy of elderly. Or perhaps younger. A time in Arratzu had made appear older than his years, and he was bruised and cut much the same as Julio.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Yeah. I know you. You're the Senator. Zuraban."

"What's left of him." Julio confirmed.

"I don't think you could've done worse than me." With his free hand he pointed to a scaly patch of scabby scar tissue just above his right ear, notably devoid of the thin, black hair set to graying by the tribulations he had faced. "One of those masked assholes got carried away with that box knife during the initial processing. Gilipolla."

"Why would they do that?"

"I suppose I did antagonize him. A little." He admitted with a sheepish grin. "Maybe more than a little." Julio smiled in turn.

"Anyway, I recognized you. I saw you a few times in person, in Madrid. Before you just sort of disappeared after telling that committee how full of shit they were. Yes, I remember that. Quite a stir that made; took some balls to say what you did, I admire that. That had to be what, five years ago now. I guess you got what you deserved. Five years in that place... You paid dearly for it."

"I don't think I was in for that long." Julio admitted. "They took me in sometime in... April, I think?"

"This year? Jesucristo, I don't even think you spent six months back there. You must have made someone's shitlist."

"You could say that." The former senator admitted with his own mischievous smile. The whine of the propellers dramatically increased in pace, the bouncing accelerated as the plane lurched forward to take off, erasing the smile from his face. Julio's stomach sank against his back as the bomber rose up off the runway and climbed upward, bumps of turbulence rocked him and the others as the plane soared upward. As stability returned to the fuselage, Julio's new acquaintance resumed his conversation.

"Anyway, I never really introduced myself properly." Julio's neighbor extended his free hand around his lap over to Julio. "I'm Joaquin."

"Joaquin." Julio repeated, accepting his handshake with his own free arm. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Joaquin agreed, bouncing with the turbulence. "For the last friend I ever make, I could do a lot worse than Senator Zuraban."

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

Arratzu, Spain

"What do you want from me?" Julio Zuraban groaned, his voice rasping from want of water. He couldn't remember the last time he had been fed. A bruised and cut face once swollen and puffy had shrunk around his cheekbones. Another week without food, without so much as a glass of water, he would be dead.

He couldn't wait.

"Your resume has a three-year hole since your departure, Senator Zuraban." The ever-smug interrogator, that torturous bastard, reminded, preparing another cocktail of truth serum at his desk in the corner of this 5x6 meter dungeon. A syringe needled pierced the membrane cap of a thimble-sized vial of cloudy white liquid, mixing with the other components within the syringe in a milky cloud as the interrogator drew the plunger up. "I need you to fill that if you'd ever like to leave."

Julio knew full well that he would never leave this place; not alive. His first reaction was irritation, he was in fact aggravated that the interrogator could say something so blatantly false to him. Even after half of a dozen mind-burning administrations of truth serum to his spinal column, he still found that such an obvious lie could sting almost as much as the injections.There was no question that Julio would die in this place; no one who had seen the monstrous things carried out within the walls the Institute of Arratzu could ever be allowed to live. Why could they not admit that to him? Why could they not simply give Julio the closure that his days in this office, strapped to this horrible seat bolted unto the cold concrete below, would be his final days?

Perhaps this was all part of the punishment: a more subtle castigation than the needle and the fire in his mind - a calculated torment that was so perfectly executed. Or perhaps also that Julio's interrogator was, in a certain respect, being truthful - merciful even. If Julio could tell them what his interrogator wanted to know, he could be free. Free from Arratzu, anyway. And after all he had suffered in this place, it mattered not whether he escaped this place in life or death.

"I left Spain by ship from Alicante on the night of August 12th, 1977. I arrived at Bandar Abbas in Persia on the 2nd of September that year. My compatriot was Claude Lemaire. I was Erzurum in April of 1979. The African was Samel..."

"I know. You have told me all this many, many times." The interrogator handed the syringe over to his associate to inspect as he approached the seat to which Julio was strapped. "You have told me the same story time and time again, each time without inconsistency. I see no reason to doubt the veracity of your testimony."

"Then you know I have committed no crime against the Republic. I have never colluded with communists."

An unfounded fear, I can see now after extensive questioning... but you are hardly innocent. You're an enemy of the state now, Senator. I have no other option than to dispose of you."

"Then do it." Julio snarled with grim purpose. "Kill me, and let me be rid of this place."

"That comes later." The interrogator denied, refusing Julio even the respite of death, accepting the syringe back from his assistant and twirling the needle-tipped vial in his fingers. "I have one more battery of questioning for you. One more administration."

"What for?!" Julio contested, suddenly bolting upright in his seat against the restraints. "You told me yourself! That I have told you everything! I am nothing but a waste of resources! Kill me, damn you!" He struggled against the bindings holding him down into his seat with what little strength was left in him. On the padded strap pulling against his forehead and holding his nape into the headrest, Julio felt a looseness. The strap was by some means unfastened. He could feel it giving slightly against the tugging of his neck. Each strain against the leather band loosened its grip. Slowly but surely the band was coming loose.

"This last questioning is simply to iron out any discrepancies among each of your testimonies. Today will be devoted to completing the official statement for the Oficina, and after that, we will be finished here." The interrogator's eyes flitted across the room, to his partner who had gone ahead and begun preparing the antidote injection - the follow-up drug that kept the truth serum from destroying Julio's mind after each interrogation.

"No need for that." The interrogator called out, interrupting him. "No antidote this time. This one's going to Doctor Guijon as well." Julio's struggling intensified.

"What's wrong, Senator? You said yourself that you did not wish to be a waste of resources, did you not? If we don't need you for further questioning, why then would I waste a vial of the antidote on you?"

"Don't listen to him!" Julio pleaded to the assistant. "Prepare an antidote!" The interrogator shot his assistant a dismissive shake of the head, as if to tell him to ignore the whining of a spoiled child.

Julio's struggling against the seat, making it clatter and jingle. The seat's base bounced against the bolts holding it down into the concrete, clashing and banging with each jerky motion Julio made. The interrogator sighed at his indignance, and then made his way around to the back of the chair to inject serum into Julio's neck one last time.

As the he approached, Julio pushed with all his might against the loosened band against his head. With the most satisfying sensation of loosening, the band gave way under the force of Julio's head. As soon as he felt his head was free, he craned his neck over to his side and swung his face at the interrogator's arm. Instinct guided is open mouth onto his tormentor.

With a soft, popping sound, Julio's teeth found their mark on the interrogator's left hand squarely under his pinky finger. The interrogator wailed in anguish as Julio's teeth sunk deeper and deeper into the flesh of his hand, the syringe in his hand fell upon the floor. A salty, metallic bitterness flooded Julio's mouth as his dry mouth was rinsed with the interrogator's blood. Determination and anger kept his jaw clamped down upon his hand, even as the blood trickled down into his throat.

The interrogator yanked against Julio's head, but every tug severed bands of tendon and muscle, all of which burned in sharp pain. Julio's canines cut down into his interrogator's carpals, grinding down against the very bone, even as heat beat against Julio's face with his free arm in a desperate bid to free himself. With his jaw locked down on his hand, Julio tugged against the interrogator's hand and threw the rest of his body weight toward him. The chair's bolts strained under the duress before finally slipping out of the concrete. The assistant, thoroughly horrified, watched dopily as the interrogation chair leaned over and fell amidst the struggle. Julio lost his vicelike grip on the interrogator's hand as he fell with the chair, thoroughly mangling the interrogator's hand as he went down. The headrest of the chair collapsed on top of the syringe vial, pulverizing the glass and spraying the hateful truth serum all about the floor in a small puddle mixed with glass shards. The interrogator fell against the cinderblock wall, sliding down as he stared down wide-eyed at the blood-soaked mess that was his left hand.

A pair of guards dressed in hermetic rubber suits and gas masks barged through the door and bore witness to the interrogation-gone-awry. Before asking any questions, they bore down upon Julio, blood dripping from his lips, with their cattleprods. It was Julio's turn now to be agonized.

"Get him on the bus!" The interrogator shrieked hysterically. "Get him on the bus with the other refuse! Do not let him die! I want him cognizant when Guijon has his way with him!"

Port Said, Egypt

A warbling rumble thundered through the bridge of La Ira de Dios as the propellers of two Halcon fighters buzzed past the Spanish flagship. They displayed their undersides, before soaring back up into the haze of smoke and dust above the twin ports at the mouth of the Suez. Aside from the funnel-esque intake on their undercarriages, their undersides were bare; no ordinance to slow them down in their reconnaissance sorties over the canal. Their first flights had brought good news to Admiral Santin's ears: the Ethiopian formations were largely retreating in the face of the Spanish bombardment.

But their good news was soon overshadowed by less fortunate tidings from the battle. Blasts muffled by sheer distance rang across the water from within the city. It could only be the Aksum, returning fire upon the Spanish attackers at last. Santin could not see where the shells landed, even as he scanned across his fleet with a pair of binoculars. But as he searched for the telltale geysers of vaporized water racing skyward, the Spanish admiral witnessed something that could put the entire invasion in jeopardy. Plumes of dust burst forth from buildings on the shore of the canal as a rain of crumbling concrete and debris splashed down into the canal.

The Ethiopians were going to seal off the canal.

"Carajo!" Santin spat, smashing his binoculars down upon his console. Anemic though the Ethiopian defenders were, they were perhaps more clever than Admiral Santin had given them credit for. They were goading him into their trap, he was certain. The Ethiopians wanted nothing more than for a number of cruisers to storm the mouth of the canal, where they would no doubt fall victim to some trap they had laid for the Spaniards. Unwarranted haste had doomed the Spanish twice this century - one mistake that ended the monarchy at Coquihatville, and another that nearly ended his own life at Helsinki. Santin would not permit another debacle here in the Suez, not when he had other options at his disposal...

"Grijalba, put me in contact with General Ponferrada, at once."

"Immediately, almirante." The ensign acknowledged, immediately busying himself with the radio console to reach the general's ship.

Santin could do naught but grimace as a second round of explosions dumped ever more debris into the harbor. Every ton of debris that fell into the canal threatened to halt the Spanish advance. It would take but one errant hunk of metal scrap or concrete to block the entire fleet from passing through. Salvage divers with specialized equipment would have a to be procured from Spain to clear the canal again, and that would take days, weeks perhaps. It would give the Chinese time to mobilize and come to Yaqob's rescue. The Aksum threatened to foil Sotelo's plan for Africa. It had to be destroyed.

"Almirante, I have the General on the line." The communications officer reported, his hand cupped over the phone's mouthpiece. Wordlessly, Santin took the phone.

"General, do you see what has happened in the canal?" Santin asked, foregoing any sense of pageantry and decorum expected of high-ranking officers meeting with one another.

//I have. I heard the Ethiopian vessel open fire.//

"That, and they are imploding a number of buildings into the canal. They intend to render the waterway impassible for our fleet, and I fear that if I were to mobilize an assault against the mouth of the canal, they would spring a trap or otherwise hasten their efforts to scuttle the canal."

//I see.//

"The Aksum must be neutralized if we are to proceed, and I know of only one option at our disposal to do such a thing."

//I understand. Let me get into contact with Madrid and relay our situation to General Velasquez. The Ejercito should be able to prepare a task force and provide insertion by 20:00 local time.//

"The Cazadores, I trust?"

//Yes. They would be the only ones qualified for such an endeavor.//

"Perfect."

The New Empires

I never said it was completely forbidden. I just said it was frowned upon in most parts of the world, which is probably true. As you said, nobody else has brought it up, suggesting that it's not practiced in many parts of the world.

The New Empires

Merchant Coast in the house.


Now with 65% percent less population density!

The New Empires

Phastos


Name - Phastos, Merchant Coast (colloquial)
Demonym - Phasto
Location on Map -

Flag - A black silhouette of a wasp with wings spread apart against a solid field of red, purple, or saffron.
Capital - Sanhedar
Other Major Settlements - Margho, Rassa, Qolshar
Population - ~.45 million
Races - Predominantly human with negligible numbers of other races.
Culture - The culture of the Phasto people is distinct from that of the surrounding realms; a result of their history. According to the Vastiad - a historical document detailing the early history of the people of the Merchant Coast - the progenitors of Phastos came from a southerly, flowered land across the sea known only as "Rha Shem". Traces of this ancient tongue, mixed and adulterated with loanwords from native languages, comprise a language that is rather distinct from that of neighboring realms and, purportedly, challenging for foreigners to master.
Crimes - While the ownership of slaves is reviled in most parts of the world, Phastos practices the institution of chattel slavery on a scale unseen in the modern world. Slaves arrive from all across the world to the Slave Bazaar in Rassa from whence they are auctioned off throughout the Merchant Coast. Slaves do all manner of task - from construction to prostitution and all work in between. While the institution is a barbaric vestige of the ancient Rha Shem civilization, it is a few respects more progressive than other forms of slavery found throughout the world. Slaves can purchase their freedom or that of a loved one, though it happens terribly infrequently. The faint prospect of earning one's freedom is intended more often as a tool to keep the slaves - who comprise up to a third of the population in cities such as Rassa and Sanhedar - from revolting.
Government type - Confederation of despot-led city-states.
People in power - WIP
Industry - As a confederation of populous urban centers, the chief industries of Phastos primarily concern themselves with the production of manufactured products constructed or produced from raw materials purchased at wholesale prices. Jewellery, alcohol, furniture, and metal crafts are among the most desirable produce, which are distributed throughout the realms by means of the seafaring Phasto merchants for which their homeland is often called. The same roving merchants also serve to facilitate the two largest imports in terms of quantity: food and slaves.
Military - The Merchant Coast has little in the way of a standing army; the lords have little interest in expanding their realms and feel quite safe within their seaside fortress cities. In spite of their lack of a traditional army, the wealthiest merchants have seen fit to invest in small fleets of warships devoted to protecting their goods on the seas. These fighting ships are typically built in the dromon style and are chiefly used to dispatch pirates and other nuisances to trade. Occasionally, these vessels have been used to support land operations, most notably the current siege of the pirate stronghold of Galso by Talmar of Elepho. There, Phasto vessels have been affixed with shipbound onagers and ballistae to facilitate the siege.
Landscape/Terrain - Urban cities of carved stone, surrounded on one side by sea and the other by trackless desert. The peripheries of the inner cities are comprised of cheaper plasters and, in the slave quarters, mud huts.
History - WIP

The New Empires

This is one of those "If you have to ask..." sort of things as far as being at all permissible. But what would you say to a fortress inhabited by an army of automatons powered by internal combustion and steam?

Tales Of A Gilded Throne

Googer has been exceptionally busy lately.

But I'm glad to see our dry-spell seems to have ended. Posts tonight or tomorrow morning. A collab with Zell is in order.