gorgenmast

Crusader Kings, A game of Thrones (Gilded Throne Reborn)

House Name: House Lastren

Head of House: Anastus Lastren

House Specialty: Light cavalry. When Vidor Lastren swore fealty to the Emperor and denounced Tihune in favor of Kammeth, the Emperor gifted Vidor with one hundred fine riding horses so that his unmounted clansguard "might ride as true imperial knights". From this original stock came the hardy Varlander: a hardy, stocky steed with the endurance and speed to run down lightly-armored infantry. Additionally, there is a tribe of indigenous horse people who owe fealty to House Lastren known as the Narze. Riding upon shaggy and nimble Tkarin horses, the Narze dispatch their foes with long javelins. These mounted javelineers are among the finest light cavalry in Ethica. A troop of Narze riders serve in Lord Lastren's retinue, and freelance troops can be called upon if the Lastren Lord need their assistance.

House Ancestral Artifact: None. House Lastren joined the Empire long after the age of Lalaifia and missed out on Kammeth's divine gifts.

Important Members:
Pending

Nation/Realms Name: The Septentrion

Sigil: Pending

Flag: Pending

House Motto:

Region/color on map: Pending

Race name: Pending

Racial appearance: Pending

Racial traits: Pending

Capital: Vardfork

Capital Population: 9,000

Other Major Settlements:
-Vandaster
-Riffleford
-Cape Finisterre
-Frostmouth Keep (Imperial outpost)

Population: 100,000

Culture: Pending

Type of Government: Feudal aristocracy

Influence and relations: Highly dependent upon the Empire.

Military - Pending

Unit demographics: Pending

Landscape: Pending

Wildlife: Pending

Economy: Destitute

Religion: In the cities and feudalized south of the Septentrion, worship of Kammeth prevails. But the old god of the land - Tihune - is revered by many, particularly in the unsettled North. Lord Vidor Lastren converted to worship of Kammeth when he swore fealty to the Emperor and zealously forbade the old rites of Tihune worship during his rule. His heirs, more concerned with keeping the Septentrion intact than maintaining an impractical facsimile of a southern kingdom, relaxed their stance on Tihune worship. The sparse population merits few clergy to teach the laity the exact parameters of Kammeth's faith; as such, syncretism between the new religion and the old ways is common.

History: House Lastren was the last dynasty to join the Empire of Ethica. A leader of a settled tribe of Northkin named Vidor Lastren sought the audience of the Emperor. Before the Emperor of Ethica, Lastren pledged his allegiance to his Empire and forsook the old god of his people - Tihune - in favor of Kammeth. With Imperial support, Lastren carved out a fledgling kingdom out of the Septentrion by pushing his unsettled kin out into the hills and forests to make room for farmsteads and feudal estates. While Vidor Lastren had modest success in fashioning the southern marches of his dominion into a simulacrum of a functioning feudal kingdom, the vast majority of the country was simply inarable. Windswept hill country, dense forest, sheer mountains, and harrowing winters confounded Vidor's efforts to establish a feudal enclave in the northern lands.

To make matters worse, the Northkin tribes that had been displaced during the initial wave of imperial conquest returned in the following years. They avenged themselves by raiding the functioning estates in the south of the realm and pillaging the farmstead hamlets. Vidor demanded his imperial benefactors send more soldiers to put paid to the rampant forays of the savages. The Septentrion was developing into a financial burden and a military quagmire for the Empire as whole. Before he could see the situation improved, Vidor suffered an untimely death when he fell from his horse at a gallop and was accidentally trampled by one of the steeds of his retinue.

Aetius Lastren - rechristened with an Imperial name by his late father - took the reigns of House Lastren and was dismayed by the state of the realm he had inherited. His first priority was to quell the unsettled Northkin within his realm. Aetius was not as stubborn as his father had been, and was not as inclined to see his way meted through force as Vidor had been. Aetius, after all, was born as a Northkin himself and could empathize with the unsettled neighbors that his father wanted only to expel through force. Aetius called a council to be attended by all the Northkin tribes living within the Septentrion. Through much negotiation and compromise, an uneasy truce between House Lastren and the tribes was brokered. In exchange for a meager tribute from the tribes, the Northkin would receive protection from House Lastren and the Empire of Ethica so long as the Northkin left feudal estates and settlements in peace. This arrangement was shaky and often violated, but it was instrumental in restoring order to the countryside.

Anastus Lastren is now Lord, and his policy has been a pivot back to the Empire. Taramyth Paragon grossly neglected the northern garrisons, and Anastus has had to battle for each Imperial soldier posted at the remote northern fortress at Frostmouth. Word has filtered back to the Webwood savages that Ethica's northern flank is exposed. Perceived Imperial weakness has resulted in exacerbated incursions by the savages, stretching House Lastren's men-at-arms and the Imperial soldiers all too thin. Now, with Taramyth's death and a coming long night, the state of the realm is dire indeed.

Strengths:
+ Seasoned: The Septentrion is a hard place. Constant barbarian incursions, squabbles for supplies, and general hardships cultivate a stronger people. Fighters Septentrion have seen combat time and time again with marauding raiders often possess extensive combat experience. Even the peasant levies will typically fare better in combat than their softer southern counterparts.
+ Remote: At the Northernmost fringe of the Empire, the Septentrion is far removed from the political turmoil that seethes in the more populous south. Imperial oversight is scarce and House Lastren is usually left alone unless their Lord requests imperial attention.
+ Supported: Barbarian incursion is a fact of life in the far north. Fortunately, the Empire is (usually) amenable to backing the realm with military support. Imperial armies, in addition to helping protect the countryside, prove useful in quashing peasant revolts. This defrays the cost of military endeavors.

Weaknesses:
- Savages: Lord Aetius Lastren's efforts at smoothing over hostilities with the indigenous Northkin did much to pacify the realm. However, not everyone got the memo. Raiders from the Webwood trickle through treacherous mountain passes into northern Ethica, presenting a constant nuisance at best and an existential threat to the Empire at the worst.
- Inhospitable: The fact of the matter is that the Septentrion is poorly suited to sustaining a feudal realm. Agriculture is only feasible in the south of the realm. Flocks, fishing, and imports from the south are necessary to feed the populace, small though it may be.
- Depauperate: The Septentrion would be able to pay its dues were it not for constant Imperial support. Make no mistake, there is natural wealth to be had in this land - the north is ripe with mineral wealth and quality stands of old-growth timber. However, the inhospitable nature of this land is such that this wealth is difficult to extract.
- Dependent: Without the Imperial garrisons' assistance in containing the barbarian incursions, the Septentrion would collapse and northern raiders would overrun the realm. House Lastren expends much energy in reminding the Emperor's court that without reinforcement, barbarians will wash across the Septentrion and stream down into the valuable southern realms.

Export:
- Wool
- Timber
- Honey

Import:
- A better question is 'What don't they import?'

Slowboatting to Alpha Centuari

Back to Kerbal Space Program.

@gorgenmast

Pretty much

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

"My argument is that War makes rattling good history, but peace is poor reading." - Thomas Hardy

Slowboatting to Alpha Centuari

Oh damn. I was under the impression it would take in the hundreds of nuclear propellers to get up to those speeds...

Back to the drawing board.

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

((This is a collaborative post by @Vilageidiotx and @gorgenmast. Edited by @Pepperm1nts.))

Dire Dawa, Pan-African Empire

Sunrise over the Danakil brought with it the battle. A wake of pulverized dust rose into a fire red sky as it came onward into the foothills of the Ethiopian Highlands.

Hassan chose as his perch the top of a small hill north-east of Dire Dawa. From here, he could see the flat valley where the battle would begin. It was rainy season in the highlands, and stream beds that spent most of the year bone-dry now trickled with shallow water. One river - the Dechatu - divided Hassan from Dire Dawa before running north. Another came down from the east and ran along the edge of the eastern hills. They came together in the north, where they disappeared beyond the river bluffs that marked the end of the Danakil desert. Between the waters was the road to Djibouti, and the indention left by the destroyed railroad. The road and rail met in a small village beneath the bluffs; a place called Shinile

It was in that direction that Hassan saw the enemy appear. The Spanish approach kicked up so much dust that the north was covered in a brown haze. When the solid figures of tanks appeared out of the haze, it sent a chill through Hassan's body. This was it. Djibouti had been a planned failure, but this was the real test. What happened here would decide everything.

"Tell the armor to move out." he said. No hesitation. He could not afford to be anything but bold here. To break under the pressure that such a fight imposed... that would be the end.

He heard the motley sound of a dozen different manufactures of engine come alive in the valley behind him. He had hidden his armor in the vale between the hill he had chose as his perch and the rising highlands south of Dire Dawa. The first shots of the battle were fired as the Ethiopian armor made its appearance out in the open. Hassan became aware of his breathing. He monitored it, taking strong and steady breaths. He could command his forces where to advance and where to fall back, but he could not command them to succeed. For now, he could only watch.

--

A hundred armored fighting vehicles pressed inexorably southward. They were elements of the 133 Regimiento Blindado, the armored spearpoint of the Spanish invasion. Lightly-armored vehicles fitted with heavy machine guns and small cannons on their turrets roared across the last remaining miles of the detested Danakil, spitting sand and sun-baked gravel from thick-walled tires. Compared against the heavyweight tanks and rocket artillery plodding along some distance behind, these lighter vehicles were small, weakly-armed, and thinly-armored. But their light weight made them nimble and maneuverable. They were light cavalry of the Ejercito, perfectly suited for harassing, raiding, and cutting off routes of escape. Or rather, perfectly suited for such roles in more suitable climes.

The Danakil's unearthly heat, however, could not be more unsuitable for the sort of blitzkrieg warfare that the Spanish commanders had planned for the East African theater of the war. After Spanish light armor had landed at the smouldering ruin of Djibouti, the armored vanguards raced after the withdrawing Ethiopians into the Danakil through the night and well into the day. Come the sun's heat, Spanish drivers found their engines overheating. Stranded on baking desert and open terrain, the first waves of Spanish light armor took heavy losses from Afar fighters and dehydration. The Spanish learned to advance armored squadrons at night and early morning, but it proved too late to catch up and waylay the withdrawing Ethiopian forces.

But on this dawn, the Ethiopians could retreat no more. Here at Dire Dawa, at the yawning mouth of the African Rift Valley, Ras Hassan's forces made their stand. As the Spanish armored cars came ever closer, their enemy came into view. Plumes of diesel smoke rose skyward against the stunted skyline of a provincial city. Ethiopian armor was moving to engage the Spanish advance.

Spanish jeeps and armored cars ground to a halt as their drivers laid eyes on the enemy. Commanders unbuttoned their hatches or leaned out the windows with binoculars in hand. In magnified detail, they witnessed their opponent. Hundreds of tanks in every shape, size, and state of repair. The more learned officers might have recognized postwar Renaults or the numerous Polish contraptions, but the variety was staggering. It was clear that the Ethiopians had cobbled together every automobile with a gun and some armor in an attempt to match the Spanish. But had those tankers learned to fight together as a cohesive force? Did they even know how to operate all of the vehicles in that hodge-podge? Their inconsistency would be their downfall.

Thunder rumbled across the western horizon. Puffs of fire and smoke erupted from Ethiopian tanks as a handful opened fire. A series of sharp whistles rang across the barren plain as a dozen shells fell in a wide scatter a kilometer short of the Spaniards. Ranging shots; evidence that the enemy gunners were unfamiliar with their tanks and what they could and could not do. The Spanish commanders resolved to press their advantage in a flurry of radio signals. Motors roared as their insides filled with fresh diesel, and the 133rd drove forward into the valley.

The Spanish drivers weaved and bobbed at patternless intervals as they advanced, speeding up and slowing down at random. They had entered the enemy's field of fire, but hitting a moving target at this distance would be a difficult task. The African gunners tried nonetheless, sending screaming shells upon the light armor in a thunderous fusillade. Plumes of pulverized ejecta sailed a hundred feet into the air with each impact and rained down around the Spanish.

The randomized, staggered advance was not foolproof, as a more experience Ethiopian gunner demonstrated. A high-explosive shell grazed the side of a Spanish armored car and exploded directly underneath. The vehicle was ripped apart with bent fragments of thin armor plating raining down with the debris cloud. The mangled chassis of the vehicle somersaulted to the side before grinding to a halt as a burning heap. It was a stark reminder that despite the obsolescence of their enemy, the powerful guns on their tanks were plenty strong to make mincemeat of armored cars.

Before more carnage could be unleashed against the Spanish advance, the roar of propellers screamed overhead. Gunners on the cars tore their gaze up to see long-winged airplanes buzz past mere meters overhead, red-yellow roundels on their wings and sides identified them as Spanish aircraft. Two pairs of the Cachalote torpedo bombers roared fast and dizzyingly low; low enough for the tankers of the 133rd to see their underwing bomb racks laden with ordinance.

The two wings veered to the north and south walls of the valley, where Ethiopian flak guns opened fire too late to give the attackers pause. As the planes approached the advancing Ethiopian armor, they turned about and ran above the enemy tanks. Amidst the front tanks of the Ethiopian column, the Cachalotes loosed their bombs onto the enemy. One by one, heavy cylindrical canisters fell - sometimes into the gravel, sometimes falling directly onto the African tanks with booming clangs. Then the second wing crossed the path of the approaching tanks, dropping their bombs in the path of the enemy. Not wanting to run into the bombing strafe, most of the tanks slowed to a halt. With their weapons dropped, the Spanish planes beat a hasty retreat back to the aircraft carrier waiting off the Somali coast.

Curiously, the bomblets did not explode. Nozzle-like apparatuses on the base of the bomblets popped open on a timed fuse instead, propelling a thick gray smoke that billowed up and outward with a pressurized hiss. Shouts of terror rang out through the Ethiopian tanks upon the realization that the Spanish had employed deadly VX gas against them. Some gulped their last clean gulps of air and held their breath as the noxious clouds spilled over their vehicles. Some used their last moments of life to whisper prayers to Allah, God, or whichever they called their maker.

But as the smoke clouds wafted across the valley and seeped into their vehicles, the agonizing pain associated with exposure to VX was never felt. The odorless gas that was claimed to render instant death smelled sharp and acrid, but did little more than elicit bouts of coughing. The realization came gradually that this was not nerve agent. What sort of poison gas had the Spanish just used against them?

The mass confusion within the Ethiopian ranks distracted many from the fact that they could not see but a few feet in front of their turrets. Through the smokescreen, the roar of the advancing Spanish vehicles grew ever louder over the sound of their idling tanks.

And then, without warning, a torrent of lead tore through the synthetic fog into the Ethiopian armor.

--

Hassan could no longer see the fight. It was obscured in dust and smoke, so that only the firing of guns and moans of steel could be heard, and the flash of fire seen. He realized that, even so close, he had no way of directing his armor from here. When enemy aircraft made their appearance, it became apparent that Hassan's lofty position made him nothing but a target.

He climbed into his vehicle and pointed south toward the town. He could not direct the armor, but he could prepare the infantry for their part in the battle. He was comfortable with ground troops - the staple of the wars his ancestors had fought. It would be up to the commanders of Ethiopia's armor to make their own decisions.

The ride down the hill jostled Hassan back and forth, and he held on tight. A wing of Ethiopian aircraft came in from the south - too late to counter the first appearance of Spanish planes, but a welcome sight none the less.

The smell of smoke and gasoline was beginning to fill the air now. When he reached the trenches where the Somali soldiers waited, his first instinct was to look back at where the battlefield was.

But all he saw was ruddy blankness.

"Have all artillery focus their fire just below the bluffs. If they can make out Shinile, or know where it is, tell them to use it as a reference point." he said to his communication man, who cranked alive a bulky portable radio and shouted back Hassan's orders into the microphone.

When he came to the Somali Regulars in their trenches, he found many of them praying in Arabic. Their voices came together into one drone, above which the cannons began to drum and the clamor of armored warfare held constant amplitude. But the drone of their prayer coming together like a song put Hassan in a better state of mind.

When the Spanish planes flew over, the sound of misplaced gunfire filled the town. It came from the poorly disciplined men that filled most of the African military apparatus. But the Somali soldiers stood with discipline. They did not flinch. They prayed.

--

Behind the incoming wings of Spanish Halcones came the approaching roar of helicopter rotors. Over the last leg of the shimmering Danakil came a quintet of Barracuda helicopters buzzing in low and fast toward the field of battle. In the rearmost chopper, Victor Ponferrada - general and commander of the invasion of Ethiopia - stood in the aisle between his pilot and copilot and surveyed his soldiers gathering for battle behind the armored columns.

"Bank right," General Ponferrada told the pilot over the resonant thrum within the cabin. The pilot eased the joystick over, tilting the right side of the helicopter gently toward the ground. Sprawled across the desert floor some hundred feet below him, the menagerie of Spanish weaponry was on display. Trucks with howitzers in tow were being driven up toward the battlefield. Up ahead, he could see howitzers that were already in position and nearly deployed. As his chopper sped past, Ponferrada watched for a fleeting moment as the baseplates of the mammoth guns were staked into the sun-baked earth by Spaniards armed with sledgehammers. Within minutes, the battle would be joined by the Spanish guns. With a nod of satisfaction, Ponferrada held his hand flat and waved it in the pilot's view - indicating that he was to level out.

The rocky plains leading into the valley were occupied by a swarm of combat vehicles. Centauros and Mesteños - the Spanish main battle tanks - crawled forward with clusters of infantry following right on their treads in order to advance under the protection of tank armor. As they advanced toward the billowing curtain of artificial fog, the light tanks ahead of them rolled backward in retreat. The smokescreen was quickly dissipating, the Ethiopian drivers of the tanks mired in that smoke would be advancing through within moments. With their cover disappearing, the light armor was withdrawing and ceding the field of battle to the heavier guns.

The Barracuda shuddered as its rotors cut through the downdraft of an Halcon buzzing past. Ponferrada's eyes followed the fighter up as it arced skyward to put guns on an Ethiopian fighter high above the battlefield. Wispy contrails trailed behind the wingtips of the Ethiopian plane as it banked hard to evade its attacker. Ponferrada recognized the humpbacked profile of the Ethiopian fighter - a Focke-Wulf 288. The postwar Prussian Spatz was a respectable plane, but combat aviation had made much progress since the 50s and the hand-me-down 288s would have a difficult time evading the guns of the younger Halcones.

"Increase altitude," Ponferrada demanded, knowing the Ethiopian fighters would be too preoccupied with their individual dogfights to strafe his helicopter. The pilot throttled up, sending the Barracuda climbing several hundred feet above the battle. Up here, the General was presented with a commanding view of the battle playing out below him. From this height, it was like watching minuscule tanks escorting clusters of ants toward the diffusing shroud of smoke - armored cars and pulled away and withdrew along the north face of the valley. Every movement on the battlefield was his to survey. What Alexander or Napoleon might have given to see Hydaspes or Waterloo from a God's-eye view such as this.

Ethiopian tanks could be seen lumbering out of the smog now, certainly ready to avenge themselves for the initial barrage inflicted upon them by the Spanish light armor. Ponferrada took the radio mic from the copilot's console and spoke into it.

"Enemy armor is emerging from the cover of smoke. Coordinate amongst yourselves to focus fire on high-caliber armor. Use your shape-charge rounds for the main battle tanks, incendiary shells for the light armor in order to sap their courage." he commanded over the mic, holding it against his throat rather than his mouth to conceal the noise of the propellers.

The first ten to fifteen Ethiopian tanks burst forth from the smoke cloud into the crosshairs of an approaching column of Centauros. A moment passed as the gunners within zeroed the gargantuan muzzles upon the enemy, followed by fire and thunder erupting from their cannons. The earth around the Ethiopian tanks burst into a fine cloud of dust as the vehicles absorbed the impact of the shells fired upon them. Blossoms of sparks and red-hot metal fragments radiated out from the impacts. The Ethiopian armor seemed to be surviving the initial salvo.

The African tanks responded in kind - not as a concentrated fusillade as the Spanish had conducted, but sporadic fire. Ponferrada saw the flashes of fire burst from the Ethiopian columns, and then diverted his attention to his own armor. The first thing the Spanish commander noticed were a handful of geysers of debris rocketing up from where the Ethiopian rounds had hit bare earth rather than a solid tank - many of them had missed. Perhaps the African tankers were not well acquainted with the quirks of their vehicles, perhaps they were not well trained to begin with. Ponferrada didn't much care as to the reason why, but was nonetheless glad to see such ineptitude on the part of his opponent.

More Ethiopian armor had rolled in from the fading smoke into the kill-zone, prompting the Spanish armor to open fire once more. Ponferrada first saw the flash, and then heard and felt the percussive force of the soundwaves jolt the helicopter. The distance and constant whine of the rotors notwithstanding, a thunderous blast could be heard clearly by all those aboard. Sparks and slag burst from the Ethiopian tanks. With this salvo, Ponferrada could see visible signs of critical damage to the Ethiopian vehicles. A few tanks had taken damage to their treads or wheels, causing them to advance in weakened spasms or veer to the left or right. One began to billow with thick, black smoke from within. A Polish TK-55 must have taken a shape-charge round to the magazine, for that unfortunate tank was annihilated in a spectacular fireball. The turret rode the explosion skyward before crashing back down to Earth in a burning heap - certainly a terrifying sight to the other Ethiopian tankers.

The Ethiopian tanks managed another salvo - this time only one or two shells missed. Two of the older Centauros had taken serious damage - particularly one whose exhaust port turned into a jet of fire. Black smoke billowed out from its hatch and from the cannon itself for a few moments, before the force of an explosion from within the tank blew the hatch off and sent a plume of fire spewing out from the cannon's muzzle. A smoldering fire burned from within the tank, incinerating the crew within. Ponferrada could only hope that death came swiftly for the four souls inside. His grimace reminded him of his chapped lips, and he drew a canister of lip balm from within his breast pocket and applied a dab to his lips. The Spanish armor fired once again in retribution while Ponferrada rolled his balm-lathered lips together.

"Deployed elements of the 130th Artillery are to open fire into the kill-zone," the Spanish commander said into the mic as he screwed the lip balm canister back together. "Anti-armor ordinance - low arc, maximum velocity - to be fired on my mark. Armored units are to advance into the kill-zone upon termination of that salvo."

The Barracuda was jarred violently as an ear-splitting bang set warning sirens blaring through the helicopter's consoles. The pilot and copilot immediately set about flipping various switches and knobs.

"What the Hell was that?" Ponferrada snarled.

"High-caliber munition," an anxious copilot reported as he shut off the sirens. "Probably an anti-tank round." A staccato burst of bullets pinging off the Barracuda's armored hull confirmed that the chopper was being fired upon.

"We're taking ground fire from enemy infantry," barked the pilot. "Given your priority, we need to withdraw to a safe distance."

"Fair enough." Ponferrada agreed as he took the radio mic up to his throat once again.

"Mark! Open fire!"

--

Hassan climbed onto a flat-topped house and looked out toward Shinile where the duel of armor was underway. Smoke and dust still obscured his vision, allowing only chaotic glimpses and making it difficult to understand the line of battle. What he saw did not give him confidence. Behind him, his radio-man monitored near unintelligible chatter. He wondered which belonged to the tank commanders, and what they were saying. He wanted to have their view.

Overhead was waged a different sort of battle. The aerial war-horses of the Ethiopian airforce - craft with paintjobs more attractive than their pedigrees - contested the skies against the Spanish. There was no certainty in that fight either. They twisted through the sky, partnered with shining Spanish fighters, dancing together in a way that seemed almost beautiful. The painted Ethiopian craft - lions and warriors, dancing women and Christian Saints - added a melodramatic tinge to the event. The Spanish fighters were cold and industrial, with colorless fuselages gleaming like polished silver in the desert sun. That was their fight; mirrors and mythology playing for the air.

Directly below him, where the neatly aligned streets of the main city met mangled squalor in the form of unplanned shacks and dirt huts webbing all along the edge, platoons of men with anti-armor guns and rocket launchers advanced cautiously toward the front. Some rode in the backs of large polish trucks, or the smaller taxi-trucks that only had three wheels. They would be the first thing to come rushing back if the armor broke.

A pair of dancing fighter planes moaned over the city. The African soldiers opened fire on them, shooting pointlessly above their own heads.

"Radio the hills." Hassan shouted above the noise. "Ask them if they have anything left to throw into the fight."

The radio-man relayed the request, and a static voice responded over his machine. They did.

"Send them in. Stick to the hills. Right flank. See if we can put some push on them."

Hassan drank in the noise of war, fingering the grip of his handgun. His men were poorly equipped and without uniform training, but they had something the Spanish lacked. Inveteracy. They had fought in Syria and the Red Sea, in Katanga and Ta'if. They had fought against each other in '74, and some would have been old enough to remember doing the same in '52. Some, like himself, had seen action during the Congolese Revolution. Spain had seen war too, but never as deep and never as total, and never on their own door step.

He stood, his mind plugging away at the problem of how to win this thing. He watched the pulsing dust in front of Shinile. He listed to droning aircraft engines and the heart-like thump of armored vehicles dueling on the sand. And, like the footsteps of stone giants, he heard his own artillery doing its work.

But then another sound joined it all. An answer to his own artillery. The enemy had brought in heavy guns. He saw the flashes and the bursts, more furious than what tanks could produce, and he began to reassess.

"Recall those reserves." he yelled. "Send them around the east hills. Tell them to use the ridge-line as a mask. Go around the hills and strike at the back of the enemy." Inveteracy. Perhaps he would catch the Spanish unawares. This was a text-book maneuver, but he had caught them unprepared before.

A V-line of five Ethiopian fighters passed overhead, slow and low, their planes groaning from the lack of altitude. Hassan pondered how many years it would be until the Afar dug out the last of the scrap-metal this battle was producing. When would the last twisted Spanish steel go to market?

--

"Open fire!" The battery's commander bellowed to his orderlies.

A soldier under his charge tugged fiercely upon the howitzer's lever, triggering the firing pin to smash into the shell's firing cap. A clap of thunder set the desert to trembling as the gun's muzzle belched a plume of fire. A patina of fine dust burst upward around the howitzer from the massive recoil, but the gun itself held fast with its iron talons staked firmly in the desiccated earth. Another blast, followed by dozens more, heralded the start of the Spanish barrage.

The Spanish guns were aimed at a shallow angle and their shells flew fast and low - nothing like the arcing trajectories of the German shells plunged upon Ypres and Verdun in the Great War. Solid cones of steel screamed just above the Spanish armor before gravity pulled the shells downward into the Ethiopian columns. At such speeds, the barrage was unstoppable; be it earth or steel, the shells pulverized whatever they hit. Those tanks hit by the shells crumpled like tin cans.

As the cannon report echoed off the surrounding hills, an unearthly sound howled across the land - a ghastly falsetto accompanying the choir of battle. The drivers and gunners of the Ethiopian armor witnessed plumes of fire rising above the Spanish tanks. Those who had served in the Danakil knew what was coming - they had tasted the fire of Spanish rocket artillery fired en masse.

The rockets arced high above the battle, buzzing past the Halcones and Spatzes dueling for mastery of the sky above. There, thousands of feet above the ground, the propellant fizzled out and their Earthward plummet began. Crude and inaccurate, the rockets scattered wildly as they rained down amidst the Ethiopian armor. When they careened into the African tanks, the high-explosive charges in their pointed noses exploded. The rocket casings disintegrated as they burst, transforming into high-energy shrapnel with enough energy to perforate light armor.

In the midst of this withering fire, The Spanish tanks went on the offensive. The Mesteños, fast and durable, led the way into the battered Ethiopian column. Using the husks of wrecked tanks as cover, they filtered into the Ethiopian column, sowing confusion and disorder among the Ethiopian armor. The Spanish circumnavigated the heavily-armored fronts of the Ethiopian tanks and scored shots on the more thinly-armored sides. The poorly-disciplined drivers of the African tanks, fearing a fiery demise trapped in a burning tank more than the quick death of being shot for desertion, resolved to retreat. One by one, Ethiopian tanks shifted into reverse and backed away. If their tanks could no longer move, then they unbuttoned the hatches and poured out on foot. The rout had begun.

News of the routing Ethiopian armor trickled through Spanish radios in crackling Castillian. New orders came to the artillery: double down on the attack and prevent the Ethiopian tanks from rallying. The artillery officers issued their soldiers new firing solutions, prompting the gunners to tweak the angle and direction of their monstrous guns. But unbeknownst to them, they were watched from above as they made their calibrations.

--

From the hills that hemmed the valley in, a regiment of Somalian fighters peered over the ridgeline into the Spanish artillery batteries. Down the hillside, dozens upon dozens of howitzers were trained upon the battlefield on the opposite end of the valley. The infantry had all but left them to assist the tanks in scattering the Ethiopian armor. They paid no attention to their surroundings, the artillerymen were preoccupied with the armored battle going on downrange or leafing through the trigonometry manuals for their guns. Ras Hassan had guessed correctly - the Ferengi commander had left his artillery unprotected. Now was the time to strike.

The Somalians charged above the crest of the ridge and raced down the hillsides with their weapons drawn. An avalanche of African fighters descended to the valley floor at full speed. As they neared the bottom of the valley, they filled their lungs with dry desert air and announced their presence to the Spaniards with an ululating warcry.

"LILILILILILILILILILILILILI!"

The Somalian warcry resounded across the valley. The Spanish artillerymen tore their attention from calibrating the cannons and recoiled as they witnessed hundreds of African fighters charging down from the hillsides at full sprint toward them. The officers drew sidearms, but the enlisted artillerymen - unprepared to participate in close combat - did naught but quail and turn to flee.

Seeing the terror in the Spaniards renewed the zeal of the Somalians. As they neared flat ground, they held their weapons to their hips and fired into the Spanish batteries. Here, the Somalians resolved, the ferengi would be repaid for several massacred Afar villages.

--

The events in Shinile passed beyond Hassan's vision. What he saw was a line of solid Spanish tanks advancing steadily through the broken remnants of the Ethiopian armor. African planes in their full painted beauty dove at the coming enemy, peppering them until the very last moment they could pull away. A few tanks stalled and smoked on the field. It was not enough. The din of the battle was so loud that, when the African soldiers at the edge of the city opened fire, the effect was almost unnoticeable. But in the next moment, when the Somalis on the right flank joined the fray, that noise could be heard across the entire field. They raised up in their trenches, ululating and shouting in high voices. Their line didn't just respond with haphazard gunfire - a volley of anti-tank rockets launched all at once from their place, and their fire washed over the enemy in a flash. There were fewer, but the advance would not waver or turn around.

The tanks opened fire. Their sound drowned all the rest. It was soon a matter of buildings and fences exploding. Hassan scrambled from the roof with his guard. Dust flew around them.

"Ras, the ferengi have entered the St Gabriel." a voice shouted on the ground. Infantry. He had expected his armor to do more, and now it was broken, the battle was in danger. The city was in chaos. A three wheeled taxi-truck rolled by like a chariot, armed Ethiopians in the back.

"We can't defend this part of the city." he said. "The houses are too small, the streets are open. Their tanks will drive us. We need to pull back to the center of town." he looked behind their position, seeing if he could spot a good place for defense. The town was flat, so that even the squat huts and shacks out here near the edge managed to block what he could see. There were a block of four-story apartment buildings near the railroad yard. He knew their construction was poor, and that it wouldn't take long to bring them down with heavy guns, but they and the road nearby overlooked the empty space of the rail-yard. It was the only place to make a stand.

"That'll work." he mouthed. He had a plan now. He started to speak out loud now. "That'll work. Where is a runner, I need a runner!"

Nobody. No matter. He grabbed one of his Palestinians by the shoulder and squeezed. "You! You're a runner now! Change of orders. Pull back every other battalion and have them fortify them behind the railyard. We will use the workers apartments as a bulwark!"

The guard motioned a solemn acknowledgement and jogged off. This was the plan. He led the rest of his men to the Somali trenches, passing only two blocks from the front lines.

He found the Somalis hard pressed. They had rocket launchers and armor-piercing guns, and it was their place in the line that had singly held against the enemy advance. The first trenches had been torn by enemy fire. The remnants of those soldiers found a new place in a goat pen, surrounded by a wall made from one foot of thick mud-brick, topped with a line of ordinary sticks driven into the mud like pikes. The Spanish attack sent splinters flying from the top, but the bottom miraculously held. The Somalis crouched unnaturally behind their scant protection. While some fired back at the enemy, others frantically dug into the ground.

"Ras!" the commanding Somali officer shouted from the back trench, holding onto his helmet while shrapnel rained all around. "Get back! It is gory work here! This is not the place to be!

"Can you hold this position?" Hassan shouted back over the din.

"We're still here."

"Stay here." Hassan said. "We are pulling back to the center of the city. This position needs to hold or this army is over."

The Somali commander looked back over his embattled soldiers. He sucked in air between his teeth, making a hissing sound. "This will be an ugly thing, but we will hold. Save this battle for us, Ras."

Hassan nodded at the man and left him there to fight his fight. The battle for Dire Dawa wasn't over yet.

Crusader Kings, A game of Thrones (Gilded Throne Reborn)

@ethanjory@gorgenmast@Lord Zee Also you chaps probably already know this, but bordering the (Yet unnamed) Forest will result in having to deal with the raiding tribes who will generally do all they can to make your life a living hell.

@GreivousKhan

I'm counting on it.

Crusader Kings, A game of Thrones (Gilded Throne Reborn)

The Federated States of Kawachi *Teaser*

The Federated States of Kawachi are a maritime focused people, relying on their naval prowess, predominantly in ship construction, architecture, military ships, and trade ships, that are eagerly sought out by neighbor realms. The massive shipyards dominate the Northern coastline of the main island of Federal Kawachi, creating the seagoing, and river plying vessels of not only their own region, but those of the rest of the Empire. With a heavy focus on the sea, it is of note that in the past, The Federated States have no known cavalry forces to their name, along with being almost bereft of heavily armed and armored infantry units either. Though, to the High Count of Kawachi, Ryan Swiftwave, the sea always provides a intimidating barrier against would be instigators and invaders. *WIP*

@Abefroeman

The Name "Federated States" strikes me as quite modern-sounding; it doesn't fit in the medieval setting to my ear. Maybe something like the Kawachi Confedaracy/Kawachi Dominion to spruce up the name but achieve a more historical-sounding name. Just my opinion, though.

Crusader Kings, A game of Thrones (Gilded Throne Reborn)

The Septentrion

Slowboatting to Alpha Centuari

Or we could find The Monolith and fly through the stargate, wake up in a 5-star luxury hotel suite without doors, and waste the rest of our days in a trippy time-bubble.

Then wake up as Blue Giygas.

@Dinh AaronMk

You mean, them? Because I'm having no part of that mission

Slowboatting to Alpha Centuari

Here's a sort-of-realistic answer:

In theory, the technology to accomplish a brief flyby of Alpha Centauri likely exists now.

A small spacecraft, capable of carrying 10 astronauts and enough provisions and equipment to last the crew for a month or two and nothing more. This craft would be launched from Earth opposite the direction of the Earth's orbit around the Sun - plunging the craft into an orbit just above the Sun. From there, the craft will jettison a nuclear device that will explode just behind it - propelling the spacecraft into escape velocity from the Solar System. The low altitude maneuver above the Sun is meant to milk their their high orbital velocity for all it's worth and take advantage of the Oberth Effect.

Several more of these nuclear propellers will be dropped on the trip out of the Solar System. Enough to bring the ship to a comfortable cruising speed so that it can safely negotiate the Oort Cloud. Once clear of the Oort debris, more of those nuclear propellers can be dropped, allowing the the craft to build up relativistic speed - averaging about 25% to 30% of the speed of light. At that speed, our craft travels the 4.4 light years to Alpha Centauri in 14-18 years. In order to maximize speed, mass must be minimized. Any waste (trash, dehydrated fecal matter, etc) must be immediately jettisoned to cut down on the weight.

Meanwhile, the crew is sound asleep in some form of cryostasis to keep the crew from aging or consuming precious food rations, possibly using a protein found in icefish blood to keep their cells from bursting during freezing. Onboard computers handle everything during the trip, except when one of the crew is awakened to inspect the vessel and ensure the mission is continuing as intended.

Upon arrival in the Alpha Centauri System, the computers awaken the crew 10-12 days prior to their closest pass above the star. The crew spends every waking minute conducting as much scientific observation and experimentation before they reach the closest point to Alpha Centauri. If there are any planets - they might try to spare some propellant to fly past one if possible. All decisions will have to be made onboard without consultation from because it will take almost nine years to get any response back from Earth. Because of this, any decision to modify the flight plan - or any aspect of the mission for that matter - will need to be taken with extreme caution.

As the craft slingshots over the 'surface' of Alpha Centauri, the craft drops another nuke as was done above the Sun - building up even more speed for the return trip back to Earth. The return trip averages a speed of 30%-35% of the speed of light. The astronauts go back into stasis as the craft hurdles back to the Sun for the next 13 years.

Once the craft returns through the Oort Cloud into the Solar System, the crew must decelerate before it reaches Earth, otherwise they face a collision with Earth that would destroy entire countries. This might be done with a series of flyby maneuvers using the gravity of Jupiter or Saturn to bleed off excess velocity, followed by very gentle aerobraking maneuvers through the upper atmosphere of the gas giants. This process could take years depending upon the position of the planets around the Sun.

Eventually, the spacecraft would slow down enough for the craft to safely return to Earth. After 40 years of space travel( plus an additional 1-2 years due to the effects of time dilation at relativistic speeds) the astronauts return home with little more than observational reports and some cool film footage/photographs.

The end.