gorgenmast

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

If you liked that, wait until Aaron gets into the Mafiya shit.

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

Madrid, Spain

Deep within the heart of the Halls of the Republic, Alfonso Sotelo had resumed his seat within his office following the troubling unveiling of the statue on the complex grounds, and immediately attempted to forget the affair. But as the leader of Spain and the the most powerful man in the West, he knew full well that nothing could simply be forgotten. His paralyzing fear had been captured in a thousand photographs that would find their way to newsreels and publications by that very evening. Within the week, the entire world would be privy to that embarrassing ordeal at the foot of the statue, and he feared that the incident would result in yet another of the insidious rumors about him. Alfonso went to great lengths to brand himself as the assertive socialite at the nexus of Spain's upper society, but after four years the fabrication was coming apart at the seams. Murmurs among those who worked directly underneath Spain's eccentric Prime Minister told of a lonely and perpetually irate monster. Some claimed that Sotelo had no real friends to speak of, and worse still, others hinted that his weight had fallen since taking upon the mantle of Spain's Presidente de Gobierno due to an aggressive dependency upon cocaine. These scathing whispers comprised the penultimate concern on his unending list of fears; not in and of themselves, but because they were true. Sotelo's public facade, however well-constructed it may have been, was slowly being chipped away. The bright, confident veneer he had fashioned for himself was not impenetrable. If these things could come to light, then it might come to pass one day that Alfonso's Sotelo's deepest secret be known and his greatest fear realized: that the world might discover the plot that had allowed Alfonso Sotelo to rule the West.

For Alfonso, the statue of himself paired with his predecessor was a reminder of that dark reality waiting to make itself known. For as long as he was Prime Minister of Spain, the monument would taunt him from just beyond his office. He wished it could simply be torn down and the man who wrought such a poignant reminder hanged for tormenting him so. His mind swirled with a volatile mixture of anxiety and rage which manifested itself as a violent trembling of his bony arms. The fury coiling within his limbs released with little warning and his arm swung into a sizable stack of documents. A flurry of papers scattered through the air and tumbled clumsily into a mess across the black marble desk and the tiles below. His chest puffed and fell as he tried to regain a sensible rate of breathing. If the statue was to remain outside his office, Sotelo knew he would need help if he was to continue functioning.

From within one of the drawers of his black marble desk, the Prime Minister produced a vacuum-sealed bag filled to capacity with a snow white substance. Purchased anonymously from a producer in southeastern Ecuador, it was the purest coca that could be bought. Sotelo pierced the top of the bag with a sharp letter opener and sprinkled a smallish pile onto the polished surface of his desk where it glowed with pure whiteness against the black marble. With the same letter opener, he tapped the pile into a suitably-long row before hovering his left nostril over the line and inhaled it all in a long snort.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he threw himself against the padded backing of his chair as a familiar wave of ecstasy coursed through his brain. The myriad of problems pitted against him seemed surmountable - paltry even. Certainty took hold where despair gnawed just moments before.

Sotelo's euphoria was interrupted by a soft beeping. The red LED of a console carved into the side of the desk blinked intermittently, informing the Prime Minister that he was being hailed for a telecall. He pressed the appropriate button to accept the transmission, which allowed him ample time to hide the baggy of white powder in the confines of a drawer. From the ceiling directly in front of the desk, an electric motor whined with a soft, high pitch as a large projection-screen television descended gradually from the ceiling. A flickering rainbow of colored bands glowed warmly on the giant screen, directly above which was a camera tethered to a telephone cable that ran up into the ceiling.

For some time, telecalls had left the realm of cutting-edge technology; the technology to conduct live calls in which both parties traded video and audio had existed for the better part of a decade. Even so, the cost of the equipment and infrastructure - coupled with its unreliability - made it far too expensive and problematic for anyone but large corporate entities and the governments and militaries of wealthy nations to bother with it. But for those who possessed the capability to conduct these futuristic video-integrated calls, the convenience of holding meetings from anywhere at any time was tremendously valuable.

The band of quivering static on the television screen blinked and was replaced instantaneously with the bust of a dapper young man clad in an olive green jacket whose breast was decorated with a dense band of medals. Curled tufts of black hair squirmed out from underneath his general's cap and sharp hazel eyes stared forward through the screen underneath thick black brows.

"General Ponferrada. It is a pleasure to speak with you once again."

"Equally so, your Excellency." The young general responded after a brief lag, bowing his head slightly.

"And how has Malta treated you thus far, General?"

"The Maltese have been accommodating enough to myself and the 3rd Mechanized. If they have any qualms with our invocation of the Ibiza Treaty, they've kept them amongst themselves - as they rightly should."

During the final weeks of the Ottoman Empire, elements of the Spanish Ejercito based in Algeria moved across the border into the Turkish holdings along the North African coast and seized Tunis and Sfax unopposed, doing so for the sake of "maintaining regional stability". Additionally, and unbeknownst to the majority of the world - transfixed upon the collapse of the Sultan's dominion as it was - two Spanish armies had been placed on the island of Malta. Officially, these forces had been assigned to Malta - a client state of the Ibiza Treaty - for the purpose of providing stability to the region for those few who were aware of the mobilization. The actual role of the 3rd Mechanized Division in the aftermath of the Sultan's fall would prove far more sinister.

"Forgive my curtness, Excellency, but I'd like to move ahead to purpose of my contacting you. The Levant War has come to a close and my forces sit idly by as Ethiopia rebuilds. Our single best opportunity in delivering the fatal blow to the Yaqob's regime is rapidly slipping from our grasp. Every day we bide our time, their military regroups and replenishes itself. The Pan-African Empire will only get stronger-"

"I know these things already, General."

"Then why have you not acted?" Ponferrada spat. Thanks to the advances of modern technology, the general could see in real time as an irritated Alfonso Sotelo rose up from his seat.

"What did you tell me?" Sotelo growled.

"I spoke out of turn, Excellency. I did not mean-"

"I did not ask you to apologize. I told you to repeat what you said."

"Why have you not acted... Excellency?" General Ponferrada recited shamefully. The Prime Minister resumed his seat.

"Remember whom you are speaking with, General." Sotelo bridged his fingers upon the desk as he assumed a more comfortable posture. "I will remind you that I am charged with overseeing every aspect of the Republic. I am afraid that there were extenuating circumstances at play elsewhere that prevented our engaging against Ethiopia and Brazil in the past month. You will, however, be pleased to know that this situation has since resolved itself. To my knowledge, I only await the departure of Admiral Santin's battlegroup from Cadiz to issue my ultimatum to Claro and Yaqob. After the 10th, you are to keep your forces alert and prepared for combat at all times."

"Very well, Excellency. You have addressed all my concerns."

"Then I have nothing more to discuss." Concluded Sotelo. "Until we speak again." Alfonso pressed the button on the console built into the desk once again and the live feed cut to the same twitching band of colors as the screen and mounted camera retracted back into the ceiling. The hidden compartment in the ceiling for the telecall equipment shut with a mechanical whine. Silence fell upon the office yet again, but only briefly. A second interruption came - this time in the form of a knock on the doors.

"Permission to enter, your Excellency?" Asked a monotoned bodyguard from behind the doors.

"Let them in." The Prime Minister sighed.

As permitted, the doors of the office creaked open and allowed entry to one of the nondescript suit-donning goons that populated the Halls of the Republic, flanked on either side by two musclebound bodyguards. They closed the doors behind them and escorted the man to the foot of Sotelo's desk. He cast a curious glance to the papers scattered about the floor before redirecting his attention to Prime Minister Sotelo.

"Good afternoon, Excellency. I represent the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, and I wish to bring to your attention a matter that we thought might be of interest to you."

"Proceed."

"Certainly. Now, do you happen to remember Julio Zuraban? The senator who disappeared before he was charged with Disloyalty?"

"Senator Zuraban..." Sotelo mumbled thoughtfully to himself. "Yes, I remember quite well. What of him?"

"Our associates in Egypt discovered him in Ottoman possession several weeks before the collapse of the imperial government. He is in our custody now, en-route to Bajaras Airport and due to arrive later this evening. We thought it might suit you to... 'catch up' with him."

"Catch up?" Sotelo remarked with a malign grin. "I would love to."

The Gods are Crazy

Crabmeat said
Yeah, I will do. I should have made that point sorry. I'll post in the OOC when they're ready to be received :)

Bear in mind that while Veden is geographically in the north, it's only access to the sea is downstream through what is presumably at least a thousand miles of lakes and rivers of sometimes questionable navigability. On top of that, the mouth of these rivers is far in the southeast of the map, which is probably another several thousandish miles from Zivar waters.

Now I'd be happy to have your envoys to be sure. Just bear in mind that it's going to take any ship bound for Veden a very long time to arrive. But perhaps I can meet them halfwayish with this expedition I've sent downstream.

Muttonhawk said
Huh, that opening post quickly turned into something much bigger than I had anticipated. I think I am going insane for doing this.

I for one am really glad you showed up again. That was a very enjoyable post.

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

Oh shit. Do we have another /pol/lster in our midst?

The Gods are Crazy

Aylsfyn

((I took some liberties with Skullding here, Aaron. Let me know if you'd like me to alter anything with regards to him.))

Monavdu disappeared gradually behind Prince Haalenstern and his wizened companion Skullding in the hazy noontime humidity. As they rode out from the capital into the interior of the island, her skyline of gargoyle protected spires and marble minarets lost their meticulously chiseled details and melted into a faint gray silhouette against the the blue horizon. Here, some two leagues from the sea, the land sloped gently down into the sea in a great, open grassland waffled with vast farms - both of which were foreign sights for a native of Veden's mountainous woodlands. Equally exotic to the Haalenstern prince was the sensation of riding upon the back of a horse; the Sons of Veden were hardly reknowned for their skill in the saddle. In fact, horses in Veden were mostly kept to be eaten much like cattle were in the rest of the world. Even so, the haunt of the brothers Bjorni was tucked away deep in the forested heart of the island; too far from the shore to be accessible with his kalga - the Srafn - and too far from the capital to go it on foot. Fortunately, Skullding had chosen a stallion with a comfortable gait for Theodocis that could be relied upon to follow close behind his own mount.

On the beaten dirt path upon which they rode, the peasants that tended these fields could be seen in great number tending to the furrows of sprouting grain; backbreaking work, but necessary to feed the teeming city to their east. Caked in a thin layer of soil and dried mud, the serfs looked dumbly up from their labor to see the horses clopping past them. With apathetic curiosity they watched the two trot by for a moment before returning their attentions to the chore at hand. They were a dark lot with skin coloring that nearly matched the loamy earth they toiled in. Due to the nature of their breeding and poor diet, the peasants were incredibly short as even Theodocis could stand a full head and shoulders above the tallest of the serfs. Skullding seemed to pay them no heed, but Theodocis found the peasants somewhat curious. He had heard tales in Monavdu taverns that the indigenous people of the island were the distant descendants of a mighty empire of apes. Apes, some inebriated storyteller had once recounted to Theodocis, were hairy manlike creatures that lived in the jungles of the southern lands. The Ape Empire, after ages of conquest, disappeared into legend and left only the native inhabitants of Aylsfyn and the vine-choked ruins within the island's jungles. The tale hardly came from a reputable source, but it was a good story nonetheless.

"A ride of two days lays before us." Said Skullding back to Theodocis. "But given our current pace, we will not arrive for another week. I fear we must hurry the pace." The bearded wizard dug his heels into the mount's haunches and it galloped forward down the path, launching clods of dirt and rocks in its wake. "Do hang on!" Skullding reminded as he raced ahead.

To Theodocis' dismay, his own steed lurched forward after Skullding's horse at full gallop. The Prince worriedly dug his heels into the stirrups and seized the fore of the saddle with a white-knuckled grip as he bounced wildly down the trail. It was thoroughly nerve-racking experience for a novice rider.

"Slo-o-ow do-own!" Theodocis demanded, each bouncing hoof-fall momentarily interrupting the flow of his speech.

"Unless it be entirely necessary, it is imperative that we maintain our current pace for some time now!"

As the two galloped westward, the coastal plains transitioned into rolling hills punctuated with copses of tropical trees that rose high above the land and opened into a wide umbrella of waxy green foliage. The patchwork of trees became increasingly dense until, rather quickly, Skullding and Theodocis found themselves riding through thick rainforest. Skullding tugged back on his reins and his horse slowed to a trot, the Prince's horse slowed and fell in alongside the wizard.

"We must take this trail less swiftly. Thick roots lay underneath the leaves, and they are prone to trip a horse that fails to move cautiously." Skullding explained, pointed to the trail ahead. Indeed, a narrow corridor running through the dense jungle had become of their trail now and its floor consisted of a thick blanket of leafy detritus. Theodocis took solace in the break from their gallop and took a moment to breathe easily. In the canopy above them, the forest reverberated with the exotic calls of jungle fauna. Their shrieks, howls, chirps, and ribbits melted together into a cacophonous din so loud that the Prince could scarcely hear himself think.

"I suspect the road will improve not far ahead!" Said Skullding over the roar of the jungle. "But until then, we can go no faster!"

"You will hear no complaints from me!" Theodocis snorted.

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

Hue hue

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

Madrid, Spain

A fluttering mass of cooing pigeons swarmed about the wrinkled mass of gray fabric that blanketed the newest of the capital's numerous landmarks and monuments. Plaza Republicana, the tree-lined park that surrounded the heart of Spain's capitol - the Halls of the Republic - played host to a reasonably-sized crowd that had come to witness the unveiling of the monument today on the second of May. This was a minor holiday within Spain: El Dia de la Abdicacion; twenty-five years ago today, Juan III - the ultimate king of Spain - renounced his crown, and the Second Spanish Republic had been born. On this quadranscentennial of the abolition of the Spanish monarchy, it had been decided that a monument dedicated to the 25th anniversary of the Republic was to be erected in celebration.

Just over a thousand people - many of them journalists armed with cameras affixed with bulky lenses - formed a wide arc around the concrete pedestal nestled within the loosely-wooded park. Morning dove and pigeon coos mingled with the dull roar of onlookers as they awaited the unveiling. The sculptor fidgeted anxiously at the foot of his creation as he and the rest of the crowd awaited the arrival of an important guest before the unveiling could begin.

The clicking and flashing of reporter cameras joined by polite applause from the crowd heralded the arrival of that guest of honor. Coming down the winding pathway paved from the Halls of the Republic came Alfonso Sotelo: Prime Minister of the Spanish Republic. A small suit tailored for a wearer with a small frame was pressed immaculately to his breast, but even so it seemed the suit fit him rather loosely - as if he had lost weight since he had been fitted for the outfit. A face characterized by an angular jaw, protruding cheekbones, and a sharp, jutting nose sat atop his shoulders. Within sunken sockets, predatory grey eyes flitted about his surroundings: to the gathering of spectators he approached, and back momentarily to the four hulking bodyguards walking in tandem at his side. As Sotelo drew nearer to the crowd - within range of the cameras - his face wrung itself into a polite smile as he approached the cloth-draped monument.

The Prime Minister craned his neck up to the top of the curtained object. Though the finer details had obviously been obscured in wait for the unveiling, the height and the size could roughly be discerned; and it was quite large indeed. The top of the draped cloth ended in a wrinkled lump about 10 meters above a plaque-adorned dais of granite. There, in front of said plaque, Alfonso Sotelo met the sculptor responsible for the project and grasped his extended hand within his own. His palms were rough and calloused as one would expect of a man who worked with his hands. They felt abrasive and uncomfortable against Sotelo's bony digits and he was quick to release from the handshake.

"Senor Mescalero, I have been quite curious to see what you have so busy putting together on the grounds for these past four months."

"It will have been worth the wait, Excellency." The artist attested confidently with a knowing smile.. "I think you will be quite surprised - and pleased - with the results."

"Excellent." Sotelo began, clearing his throat briefly before addressing the audience; camera lamps flashing incessantly upon Sotelo and the sculptor as he did.

"My fellow men and women of the Republic. It was this day, a quarter century ago, that our nation was ushered into this world through the exhortations of a people - a nation united against the disgraceful and decadent rule of the Borboun dynasty that had sapped the terrifying potential of this nation and led it to ruin. It was on this day, twenty-five years ago, that Spain as a whole had decided that its destiny was greater than servitude under ambitionless monarchs. On this day, el dos de mayo, 1955, we left three hundred years of misrule and decay in history and carved a brave path into the glorious future upon whose cusp we now stand.

Men and women of this great republic, look back but a single generation and see how far this nation has come. While the rest of the world sank into violence and decay, or fell under the iron fist of our communist adversary in the Orient - this republic stood as a bastion of stability and prosperity. Spain stands now as the example for all civilized people of the world, when just twenty-five years ago this nation was an embarrassment among them. As such, it is with utmost pride that I allow Senor Arturo Mescalero, the man who assembled this artwork for which we gathered today to see unveiled, to do exactly that." With open hands, Sotelo gestured to the sculptor.

"I couldn't, Excellency. The honor must be yours."

"Fair enough." The Prime Minister nodded, grabbing a wad of the curtain draped over the monument in both fists. "And so it is my honor to present to you this monument built to celebrate this great day!" With that, Sotelo tore the plain fabric off and let it fall to the pavement in a billowing curtain.

It was him.

Standing before Alfonso Sotelo was a giant bronze statue of himself. But disconcertingly to the Prime Minister, he was joined upon the dais by the likeness of Miguel Tejero. Miguel Tejero - the man that had served as Spain's Prime Minister for sixteen of the 25 years of the republic, the man who had built the Second Republic without precedent, the man that Sotelo had ordered murdered in cold blood four years ago. In the hand of the bronze likeness of Spain's longest serving and most beloved Prime Minister, the crown of the Bourbon dynasty lingered lopsidedly in his fingers, as if he were ready to drop it to the ground like a piece of filth. The giant bronze Sotelo smiled warmly at the crown without a king to bear it.

Sotelo stood silently with the wadded curtains still bunched within his hands, staring wide-eyed at the bronze Tejero. He had been dumbstruck by the statue - perhaps even mortified - and the crowd had noticed. Songbirds chirped in the uncomfortable silence where cordial applause should have sounded.

"Excellency." The sculptor whispered nervously. "Do you like it?"

Sotelo's head twitched briefly as he galvanized himself from the terror of seeing the dead man's face yet again. Quickly, Prime Minister Sotelo calculated the appropriate response, and his insincere smile returned to his face.

"It is brilliant!" Sotelo exclaimed, clapping his hands together to prompt the onlookers to do the same. With the silence interrupted, the newcomers followed Sotelo's example and joined him in a reassuring applaused. "Truly, a masterpiece for the people of Madrid and their posterity to cherish forever."

The Gods are Crazy

Yer a wizard, Erinye.

Landfall: A

ElectromagneticRailgun said Kaus Hettinger

Crabmeat said Lt. Titus Blake

Dear Sir or Madam,

Upon reviewing your application materials and medical records, the Recruitment Committee is pleased to inform you that your application to join the crew of the UNIS Olympus has been accepted! Attached is a disk containing instructional materials that will outline your next steps and pre-training procedures. The address of your nearest Recruitment Office has also been provided, as well as the date by which you will be expected to report for active training for the upcoming mission to 75 Sotelo C. Our local representatives are looking to beginning your training on this historic mission. Congratulations!

Sincerely Yours,

Renault Behe
International Coordinator for UNIS Olympus Staffing Initiative

The Gods are Crazy

If we compare Lumenor to England in 1060 AD, which had comparable area, arable land (maybe), and access to navigable water, the population was estimated to have been about 2-3 million people . Given Nex stated in his application that his people were somewhat less fertile than humans, I would say a population anywhere between 1.2 - 2 million inhabitants seems very reasonable to me.