Vilageidiotx

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

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June 2nd: Ras Hotel, Addis Ababa
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The African Congress had no building. It was not an official government of any kind, but a loose set of agreements between nations, and though Addis Ababa was its official host, they had no designated space for their meetings. The Emperor of Ethiopia paid for them to use the Ras Hotel's convention space when they needed to meet, lining the marble walls with the flags of the participant countries. It was a nice place at least, built to the standards of the high class hotels of Europe and America, though some amenities like the convention space received very little use within the context of Ethiopian society.

Benyam Felege, Ethiopia's Minister of Foreign Affairs, sat next to his and the Emperor's guest, Reginald Heap. Benyam was an aging man with a horseshoe of white hair drawing the boundaries of his baldness. Age made him lean on the side of plump, but he still moved well enough. The motion to bring Rhodesia into the African Congress had just came to the floor. James Lutalo, Chairman of the Swahili People's Republic, was here in person. Benyam knew what that meant. He wasn't surprised when Lutalo walked up to the podium. He struck a dramatic figure, wearing military fatigues and a black cap with a red star on it, neither of which were particularly strange for a leader of the Swahili communists. But what stood out was his steel breastplate. When he spoke, he sounded as if he were giving a passionate speech to his men before they went over the trench.

"Nationalism is a thirst for blood. That is its purpose. The nationalist does not draw borders, he draws battle lines, for that is where he will slake his thirst in years to come. The black man knows this. We are not nationalists. We dwell in a living, breathing land. We are part of the fabric of this continent, and our relationships are natural and peaceful, not only with each other, but also with the land we call home. The white nationalist cannot integrate into our civilization. That is why, in front of my fellow Africans and for their sake, I exercise my veto as a founding member of the African Congress. Rhodesia will not enter the African Congress so long as free Africans still have rights."

Reginald heap seemed bothered and offended, but Benyam knew what came next. When Lutalo showed up, he'd set in motion a specific order to the proceedings, and Benyam had a part to play. It was unavoidable. What he did next was as necessary for his job as putting bread into the oven is for the baker.

"I want the record to show that Ethiopia objects to the Chairman's statement." Benyam started. Reginald Heap looked up at him like he was a hero about to do battle.

"State your objection." the presiding officer said. Benyam nodded graciously and began. "You say that white nationalism is unnatural because they bring war, and the black race lives in peace. Is your own people not evidence against you? Did Kampala not recently come under attack by revolutionaries within your government?"

"The Freedom Army of God is a fringe group. They are terrorists and enemies of the people, and they will be dealt with like dogs." Lutalo said. He was misleading the others and himself when he lead with the Freedom Army of God. That was a fringe group; a collective of misfits held together by the extreme form of Protestantism they'd found in English missions after their own people didn't want to associate with them. But they were only part of the coalition aligned against his Kikomunisti Party, and it wasn't FAG that kept Lutalo up at night. It wasn't even the Kingdom of Buganda, though they were the backbone of that coalition. What spooked Lutalo the most were the Watu wa Uhuru: the Free People, Swahililand's anarchist party, and their creative leader, Marcel Hondo-Demissie. Benyam knew all this. It was his job to know.

Part of what made the Anarchists so frightening was that they recruited from Lutalo's own base. Lutalo saw himself as a disciple of Hou Sai Tang, but not everybody on the left looked up to the Chinese example. There was a faction of primarily western Communists that derided China as "The Hou Dynasty". This group loved to spread an old rumor about Chinese revolutionaries marching into Beijing under a version of the Qing flag with the yellow swapped for red. Those yellow-scare tactics worked on some Africans, who saw the Houist philosophy as a guide to King-making, and who believed Anarchism to be the true path to revolution.

"So they do not live as part of the fabric of this country? In natural and peaceful relationships?" Benyam said.

Lutalo slammed on the podium. "I am offended that Ethiopia would chose to defend the tactics of Rhodesia. What kind of leadership is this? Are all monarchists traitors to their own people?"

"Be more grateful for the monarch, friend Lutalo. The Emperor is paying for both your dinner and your room."

"The veto stands." Lutalo glared like a revolutionary who just commandeered a camera. "Rhodesia will not enter the African Congress."

And like that it was done. The motion was rejected. Rhodesia was to be excluded. Everybody knew this was going to happen, even Desta Getachew's memos to government officials spoke of inevitable defeat. Politics isn't just grand victories and solid treaties. Ethiopia's stance throughout the process had been one of "Good cop." They knew how Lutalo would act, and they knew that Lutalo was a threat, so making a good impression on their southern neighbors was their entire goal, nothing more then that.

"That's it then?" Reginald leaned over and asked.

"I'm afraid so." Benyam said, standing up. "We can work out other deals, between our nation and yours."

"I appreciate that, good fellow, but my superiors will not be happy with a rebuff like this. I'm afraid my countrymen altogether will be like a man sent away to his mistress. Where else should we go but to the embrace of the fat wife?"

"I cannot promise the same deals to Britain. If your intentions are to return to that old wife, my countrymen will be very disappointed."

"I don't like it either, but I cannot control the girl. Rhodesia has a mind of her own."

"The female metaphors are giving me a headache." Benyam said. "Good luck in your country, sir. I hope we speak again."

"Good luck." Heap smiled, "And thank you." They shook hands and parted.

The ambassadors and delegates spread about the room. It was claustrophobic, and Benyam started toward the doors to the porch to get some air. He was stopped by a glowering James Lutalo, standing like a warrior guarding his King from an intruder.

"Mr Lutalo." Benyam said, "Rousing speech."

"Are you opposed to the needs of the great Swahili people?" Lutalo challenged.

"No. You won as I recall."

"If Ethiopia is so against us, we can become independent."

"Don't make that move." Benyam stood up straight, "You know the stakes. Do you know that the Rhodesians are looking at the possibility of reentering the British fold? You think when they are done, they might not have a score to settle with the uppity negro Houist in British East Africa?"

"It's been thirty years." Lutalo didn't waver.

"Grudges can last lifetimes. That's the nature of our relationship, Chairman. Don't pretend you are doing us a favor."

"You aren't doing the Swahili Republic a favor either."

"Exactly." Benyam pressed a finger onto the Chairman's steel breastplate. "We're on this mountain together. We don't have to be friends, but we need to be comrades. Now if you excuse me, sir, I have an appointment with a Cornell." Lutalo stepped out of the way and let him pass.

The outdoor air felt like freedom. He leaned against the wall and took out a cigarette. The Ras was located in the business district in front of the Gebi Iyasu. Around him were stubby buildings, paved roads, and waiting cycle rickshaws. Everything went the way Benyam knew it would. It had went the way Desta Getachew knew it would. But there was a major X factor in Ethiopian politics. How would the Emperor react? Would he even care? That was all beyond Benyam's control, and he resigned himself to that fact. Better men then him lost their minds worrying about things outside of their control.

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

Emir Hassan Al-Himyari's Journal
(Kept in Arabic)

May 31st - Left Hargeisa at 8:35 AM and arrived in Djibouti at 1:26 PM. I should have arrived an hour earlier, but my Doofarka flipped and I had to put it right side up. Djibouti is a stinking place. It smells like Khat and gasoline. I parked at the airport and spent some time before I found a man who could fly me into the desert. He is a helicopter pilot. I have no clue where his machine is made, but it is as rickety as the Doofarka I left in the dust near the runway. The impression I had of taking off from Djibouti in that thing must be the same impression a snake has when it is lifted by an eagle. Worse perhaps, because the snake is at least confident the eagle knows how to fly.

We stopped at Assab, landing near a pathetic airstrip where my pilot bartered for gas. Assab smells like neither gasoline nor khat, because it is a town that doesn't have nearly enough of either, or of anything else. I purchased a salted fish and ate it plain. It wasn't good, and was very thirsty. Though we are near the sea, water cost nearly as much as gasoline here.

The land between Assab and my destination is a vision of hell. I have lived in the desert all of my life, but the volcanic wasteland that is the northern Danakil is an habitat for only the most tortured kind of life, creating a world that is more comparable to the moon than it is my native Somalia. This is the homeland of the Afar people, who somehow manage to force a living out of the pumice. They live like Bedouins, but more savage, most caring for goats in the rare oases or mining salt near the salt lakes and hot springs that scatter the landscape. Half way there, we flew over Nabro: a dormant volcano, or rather two volcanoes, that rise above the wastes in a way that impresses the soul. It became dark before we arrived, and I watched the sun return to greener pastures. My pilot insisted he didn't have the equipment to find his way at night, so we landed on a sand dune, and he pulled out a blanket, sleeping in the sand. I remained in the helicopter and forced a night's sleep in the bucket seat. The sand was surely better for him, but I would not risk being left to die in this place, or to be cornered by some sun-stroked Afari shepherd and accused of being a demon so he can relieve me of my testicles and wear them around his neck as it is whispered these people do.

June 1st - I awoke at sunrise to the sound of chopper blades. We were shimmying into the sky. My pilot reached in back and handed me a piece of dried fish, making it the second time in a row I resorted to such a meager meal. I dreaded to know what my host would have for me when I arrived.

It was two hours before we saw the shimmering sight of Lake Afrera. It is the largest body of water we'd seen since leaving the Red Sea behind at Assab. As we got closer, I saw another dormant volcano on the east shore of the lake, and around the rim of that volcano I saw the buildings that are my destination. Why the Doctor chose this place is beyond my reckoning.

We landed in a sort of permanent camp. Afrera is a salt lake, and a significant amount of the world's rock salt comes from here. Afari work in these mines part of the year as an extra source of income. For some deprived souls, a place like this is the closest they get to tasting modern civilization. What they earn they trade for extra amenities to use in their depressing nomadic lives.

Once I was dropped off, my first shock was discovering that nobody was willing to take me to the other side of the lake, and to the dead volcano that is my destination. The people here fear the Doctor. I have heard stories about how unsettling his business is, but the superstitious natives speak of him as if he were a demon. What is worse is that coin money does not sway the desert dweller the same way it sways a modern man. I nearly had to threaten a man with death before he reluctantly offered a ride on his camel.

The miners collect the salt from the shore of the lake, where rising water has deposited it over millions of years of rare rainfalls. The heat in this place is intense, and the work is hot; I suspect that the men here do not fear hellfire, because they already know the experience.

We passed the minefields and started to climb the slowly ascending volcanic rise. My companion warned me to have my gun out. There are ghosts living among these rocks he said. They find corpses of strangers here all the time, their bodies mangled and their eyes soulless. I find myself liking the Doctor already; he has the good taste of choosing a haunted mine for his home.

We reached a road. My companion stopped. "I will not go further, even if you shoot me." he said, "For if I die here, Allah will know me. But if I die up there, I will live forever among the ghosts." He pulled out a gun, and for a moment I expected trouble, but when he aimed it in the air and pulled the trigger, I realized it was a flair gun. A speck of black dust came climbing down the imposing volcano. It came closer, and I understood it was a vehicle. When it arrived, I thought my companion was going to shit his pants, but I was delighted to see it was a Doofarka; Somalia's pet project had a home outside our borders. The man who got out of the vehicle inspired no fear in me.

He was a dark skinned man, not of the Afro-Asiatic peoples of Somalia and Ethiopia. His hair was messy and wild, both beard and afro like that of a mountain shifta, but he wore an outdated suit like some sort of Victorian English gentleman. He also had gloves and a cane. All of this he took with him down the mountain even though he was the driver, and it'd all been soiled by a thin layer of volcanic soot.

"You are late." he said.

"Ah... ah... all I had was camels." my companion replied, clutching a charm of some kind. The stranger ignored him, staring instead into my eyes.

"It's not easy to get here." I said.

The stranger smiled. "Enchanting, isn't it?" he said, "Isolation secures liberty. Come now, lets leave this pusillanimous provincial alone." he tapped his cane twice against the packed dust road, creating a small grey cloud. I shrugged and climbed into the back seat of the familiar vehicle. The Camel driver didn't wait for confirmation before he grabbed the reigns of the beast I rode in on and rushed back to his sad salty life.

"You are the Emir I presume." the stranger said.

"I am." I replied, speaking loudly over the rush of the wind. The stranger put his cane next to the shift knob, and I was amazed that he never confused the two. His hands seemed to operate as if they had eyes of their own, as he never took his real eyes off the road.

"I was informed of your visit by colleagues in the Shotel. Do you know of my work with that organization?"

"Your work?" I was surprised to hear the driver speaking of his work. "Are you the Doctor?"

"Doctor Babukar Sisi." he said, "Yes. I desired to make your acquaintance before any of my pupils. It seemed more sensible that way."

"Good to meet you, Doctor Sisi. I don't know of your work, except that it has to do with the brain, and that you are something of a mental wizard, always willing to take on new projects no matter how dirty they are. I was wondering if you had any understanding of military science and the art of soldiering? My Shotel contacts seemed to imply you would."

"Supersoldiers?" Sisi asked rhetorically, "Did you know that ancient Germans ingested the fungus Amanita muscaria before battle, transforming them from pig farmers into the mythical berserker? The supersoldier has been a psychological experiment since the first eon."

"That's a yes then?" Before he had time to respond, I saw an ashen grey face pop up above a rock in front of us and disappear. "Did you see that?" I asked. My hackles were raised, and my hand went to the grip of my firearm. "That face?"

"I don't mind them and they cower from me. Do not worry. This is not a dangerous place for us."

More faces popped, flanking us. What were these broken things? Were they ghosts like the Afari seemed to believe? Or was there something else going on? I observed that many were bald-headed, or grew hair in scrappy uneven ways. Were they sick? I kept my fingers on my gun just in case. We reached the rim, where a long three story building made from cheap wood sat on the edge. A helicopter was parked in front. We stopped and went for the door. Before we went in, he grabbed into a box sitting outside and brought out several hunks of flesh. He flung them, but the faces stayed still.

"I chose this locality because of the hot springs." Dr Sisi explained. "They have curative properties. Come, let these ones eat, we'll converse inside so they are not unnerved by our presence."

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June 1st: Kampala, Red Africa
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A lonely policeman sat in a booth at the edge of town. The police booths were an idea taken from Iyasu's reforms for Addis Ababa, a method of strategically dispersing officers in places where neither traffic nor proper roads facilitated response times. A bicycle leaned against the flimsy plywood structure. Inside the booth, aside from the officer himself, was extra ammunition, an old British era map of Kampala, and a flashlight. The officer smoked a cheap cigarette and played with his lighter, looking through the little flame at the night sky beyond.

On. Off. Fire. Extinguished. He did this over and over until the moment that, upon extinguishing the flame, he saw a couple enter town on horseback. It was midnight. The woman wore a neat green dress, the man had on fatigues. It was hard to see what they were doing in the dark. The man rode on back, the woman had the reigns. He seemed to be handling something. The officer thought he should ask, but gave them a moment, trying to figure out exactly what this couple was doing. It wasn't until the man threw something at the booth that the officer went for his gun. It was too late. The booth exploded, taking the officer with it, and the Ugandan countryside was once again disturbed.

(Optional Action Time Music)

More horsemen came out of the surrounding forests, two a horse, lit match cases dangling from their necks and bags of dynamite on their backs. They trotted through the suburbs, lighting dynamite sticks by pressing the fuse into their case. They each took their own street, surprising those officers who were awake, flashes of fire and roaring explosions taking up the night. Public buildings were their targets.

Booths went up. Government stalls went up. Cars went up. The city sounded like a warzone. Brave men and women looked out, but most hid. War wasn't new here. They had developed the instincts.

When one horseman saw another, they tried to break away, taking different streets and covering as much as they could. This way dispersed them far across the sprawling suburbs. They took out anything that looked like a government office. Flame followed them.

The quiet was completely dissipated. There was screaming, roaring fire, the explosions, and the dread sound of horses.

Cops came on their bikes and motorcycles. The man and the woman saw an officer come behind them on a small stuttering motorbike, and when he pulled out a gun, the man lit and threw a stick of dynamite. The street exploded, putting a wall of flame between them. Bullets rang out blindly.

They galloped now. Somewhere, a heavy machine gun rattled, sounding big enough that they assumed it was on the back of a truck. The Communists had been surprised, but they were hitting back. He threw a stick at a transformer. The explosion made lights flicker. "We need to loop out." he said. The suburbs twisted like a labyrinth and threw off her internal compass, but she looked at the stars and quickly regained her bearing.

She came to the dread realization that the heavy gunfire was on a road that was going to merge into hers. He did too. She spurred the horse as he grabbed several sticks. A diesel engine thrummed closer to them. Alleys were connecting them now. The gunner noticed them, and in between buildings he sent a burst of fire. He lit two fuses. They crackled forebodingly. When the roads merged, he threw the sticks. One exploded in the air, the other in front of the truck. It wasn't destroyed, but it was disabled, and the couple got away untouched.

The raid was winding to an end, the sound of explosions down from a constant roar to an occasional pop. The suburbs of Kampala glowed orange behind them, lit by fire, blotting out the stars and giving the rising smoke a salmon colored glow. Guns were going off somewhere, and truck engines labored in several parts of the city, but the countryside was calm, like nothing ever happened. They rode into the sleepy forest canopied with the fronds of jungle foliage. Rich red mud struck their legs and the side of the horse.

He kissed her on the mouth, just a quick peck. They heard each other's hearts beating fierce with adrenaline. "I love you, Grace Odinga" he said in a deep, quiet voice.

"I love you, Marcel Hondo-Demissie." she replied, smiling, the taste of him still on her tongue.

More horsemen trickled into the woods, one after another. All that went into town didn't return, but that didn't mean they were gone for good, and the dynamite cavalry rode home hoping to be greeted by their missing comrades when they got back.

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

tfw you go to bed hoping tomorrow will get better, only to wake up and now it begins feeling worse.

@Dinh AaronMk

woo! flu season!

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

So you think you have what it takes to be a Preciprick?

Many have tried, but few have the nads to keep up with this RP. We've had dozens of scrappy young kids come in thinking they have what it takes, only to limp away defeated a few posts later. This messes with the lore of countries. Because of this, we've reinvented our application process.

If you are new to PoW, you must prove yourself to be a valuable poster before we will give you your choice of world nation. How do you prove this you ask? This is simple. You will start out on the proving grounds of PoW: the shattered remained of mighty Imperial Russia!



This map isn't a definitive set of borders; a post-apocalyptic chaos like PoW Russia has no true borders, but this map gives you an idea of where the centers of power lay. Here you can be whatever you want so long as it makes something like sense. Want to be...

A rebellious Imperial officer ruling their own little Kingdom?
A communist or anarchist commune?
A King out of the gutter?
A roving band of Cossacks?
A mysterious horde of animal-mask wearing criminals?
A cabal of mystical orthodox monks trying to unite Russia under the cross?

Go for it! Your imagination is one of the things being tested in the application process, and the more creative you are the better we'll like you.

How long do I have to be in Russia before I can pick another country?

As long as it takes. What we are looking for is evidence of skillful writing, evidence of imagination, but most important of all, evidence of consistency. We need proof of your stamina. That means we are looking for posters who maintain a relatively dependable RPing schedule. And we don't ask for much. If you post once every two weeks, we can live with that, though it'll probably take longer to promote you to full Preciprick.

What happens if I don't have what it takes.

You can stay in Russia. Maybe you'll develop what it takes there. Russia isn't just an application process, it's a training ground.

What about the rest of the world?



Color means taken or reserved. A shade of grey means the borders of that nation have been defined, but are not taken or reserved. White means areas where national borders are not defined, and are not taken or reserved.

Countries already taken

-China: AaronMK
-East African Confederation (Ethiopia): Vilageidiotx
-Philippines: Letter Bee
-The United States: Byrd Man
-Danubian Federation: Wilted Rose
-German Empire: Shyri
-Ukrainian State: Mihndar
-Federación de Centroamérica: The Spectre
-People's Republic of France: Asuraaa
-Armenia: TheEvanCat
-Russian Empire: Pepperm1nts
-Ottoman Empire: Chapatrap
-Hellenic Socialist Republic: Nerevarine
-Herzogtum von Deutsch Westafrika: NecroKnight
-Algeria: SgtEasy
-India: Killian
-Great Britain: WrongEndoftheRainbow
-Kingdom of Spain: The Wyrm
-Assyria: EveryMemeAKing

Hall of Shame: Countries abandoned or retired.

-People's Republic of Thailand: BingTheWing
-Rhodesia: The Wyrm
-Empire of Japan: Keyguyperson

Application

Nation:

Flag:

Location (on map):

History:

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

Updated muh fancy map to include Chap.

@Shyri

updated your fancy map because there was some shit left out and shit that shouldn't have been left in.

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

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May 27th. Hargeisa: The Capital of Al-Himyari Somalia
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Azima stood above the gate of an old stone fort. It was the monsoon season, and though it hadn't rained for several days, water flowed from the mountains through the shallow river cutting through town. The desert bloomed green, and a herd of antelope grazed peacefully on the boon. But out beyond them, coming from the distant mountains, she saw dust, and heard the high pitch whine of a familiar type of engine.

The Doofarka was a Somali invention, one of the few boons of Emir Hassan's obsession with military science. They were bare bones cars with tough frames, built light enough to skip over desert terrain, unburdened with armor except for that which protected the driver's feet. Two thick semi-circular bars arced from the front to the back, allowing the thing to role if it needed to. Five of these scrappy vehicles skipped into view now, machine gun turrets gleaming, driving the frightened antelope away in every direction. The Al-Himyari flag flew from each of them. Her father had arrived. She grabbed her quarterstaff and walked down the crumbling stairs to the dusty courtyard below. She wore her dress girded around her loins, bearing the legs beneath her knees, a circumstance that would be considered scandalous if she was another woman. A scarf worn dervish style hid her features.

Down in the dirt courtyard, a number of men in dervish uniform stood at attention. These men were new to the dervish, used to the macho chest pounding of the regular forces, and though they were smart enough not to laugh at the young woman standing shorter than her staff, none of them took her seriously. She stopped in front of them, staring them down like the good guy in an American western film facing the bandits in the street. Nothing happened. Somewhere outside the walls, the whining Doofarkas shut off.

The first man came. He ran at her with his staff in the way they always do, wielding it like a spear, fulling intending to to use his weight. She stepped aside, slid her staff down his before he'd realized what she'd done, and smashed his knuckles. This distracted him, and she struck him on the knees, then on his stomach, and brought him down.

"You do not underestimate your enemy." she screamed. Her voice was shrill against the wind, but she'd proven herself in front of them, making the sound of her voice irrelevant. "A peasant blusters and shows his strength, but the person who practices furusiyya knows that nobility and danger can come from any source." She offered the beaten soldier her hand. He refused it, got up, and awkwardly assumed a stance. He still held his stick like a spear, but less certain this time, trying to find something he'd seen in her but didn't understand.

He went again. When he swung at her, she deflected, always making sure the blows had somewhere to be. She wasn't stupid - if he managed to bring his weight into this, he'd have an advantage, so she kept the weight moving elsewhere, sliding away. She had two things he didn't; speed, and a minded trained for strategy in this type of fight. He swung too hard, left himself open, and she took him down a second time. His staff rolled into the dust.

"Do not rely on your arm strength. That is only one weapon in your arsenal. Use your entire being, all at once, head and heart and legs." She grabbed the man's staff and presented it to him. He took a moment, gripping it hard when he finally gave in, and walked back to the group.

Another man tried her. They sparred again, and she could tell this man had learned the lesson of his comrade's beating, as he was paying more attention. She still moved faster, but when she struck the man in the leg, he didn't go down. A hit to his shoulder caused him to falter, and she took the opportunity. Soon he was in the ground.

She saw her father enter the courtyard surrounded by a Dervish guard. He didn't announce his presence immediately. As if he wasn't there, she finished her lesson. "It is common to enter a challenge assuming you can know everything by simply thinking about the problem, but you cannot prepare with thought alone. You must do, and learn in the doing. This is true with all things in life. There are no experts, only men who are practicing to become better. I want you all to practice now, with each other, taking in all I have shown you."

"Emir Hassan Al-Himyari" one of her father's Dervishes announced, his voice ringing in the calm desert air. The men turned and saluted. They stayed at attebtuib while Hassan crossed the yard and met with his daughter.

"You are a tough teacher" he said to her. Before she could answer, he turned around and signaled the Dervish practitioners to be at ease.

"Would you want anything else for your Dervishes?" she asked. He was her father, and the only family she knew, but there was no warmth in their meeting. He smiled in his typical amiable way, but it was the same smile he used on merchants and soldiers.

"I have interesting news from Addis Ababa" Hassan said, "And something for you to do for me."

Those two sentences together intrigued her. She walked with him.

"The Emperor is selling a battleship to the Phillipines."

"Okay." she responded, "I don't know what that has to do with us. Or me."

"The Bahr Negus doesn't know about it." Her father said. They walked up onto the broken parapet.

"Oh." She stopped, putting a hand on a merlon. The antelope were grazing again.

"It sounds like you don't understand what this means." he said.

"I do, I know." she replied. He looked at her. She watched the desert below. "Politics is your world. I don't think about it as much as you."

"You will some day." he said coldly, "You are my heir."

She doubted she could be his heir. She'd been the focus of scandal and rumor for most of her life. Women were not supposed to be raised as men, such a thing implied the decadence that caused the west so much grief. Her life and everything she'd been allowed to do in spite of tradition she did because of her father. With him in power, she could be whispered about, but not opposed. After he was gone though...

"Hamere Noh Dagna is a difficult man" Hassan said, "But he doesn't know how to act around women. He won't play politics with you in the same way he would with me. He'll be hurt by the Emperor's decree. I think he'll be open to talks."

"About what?" Azima looked up at him.

"Politics isn't a single act. You'll have to learn about this if you are to replace me, or else you'll become like our Emperor. You make one move at a time. Maybe I know what I want Hamere for. Maybe I don't. But either way, the time to start earning his support is now, so when I need him, I have him."

"So you need me to go to Mogadishu then?" She asked.

"Mogadishu" he said, "And remember, keep your eyes about you. There is always something to learn in a city like that."

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

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May 26th: Addis Ababa
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Abun Onesiphorus was an old man, and the patriarch of the whole Ethiopian church. He wore the black robes of his station, a mitre, and two loose gold chains around his neck, one bearing an Ethiopian cross, the other a pendant with the image of a saint. The Abun's beard was long and bushy, hiding most of the chain. Sahle waited impatiently as the Abun and his mob of priests blessed the airplane, then turned to say some words to Akale Tebebe, the new ambassador to China, and his companion, Leul Yaqob.

Desta Getachew stood at Sahle's right, and a fidgeting Rudolph von Lettow-Vorbeck stood at his left. The wind roared on the tarmac, whipping the priests robes and the Abun's beard, and making it hard to hear anything that was being said. Sahle was happy he'd decided to wear a Safari suit like the westerners standing behind him. Yaqob's eyes caught Sahle's attention. The younger brother was staring at the priest with that wide eyed, overly serious look that annoyed Sahle. Yaqob had a way of looking like a foreign explorer examining a strange new land and its alien customs no matter what he was doing.

The Abun walked slowly toward the Emperor. "Your majesty, the prince will go with God at his back."

"Very good." Sahle replied. He didn't like religious ceremony, and felt uncertain of what to do or say in front of the old saint.

"I'm not sure blessings will help the prince where his is going." Rudolph quipped, "The Chinese aren't fond of blessings. Or princes either."

"Christ will follow him into the lions den." the Abun said. He sounded like a kindly old teacher telling a story to children. "I do not fear for the Prince. I fear for the Communists who doubt our unified God."

Rudolph shut up. Desta spoke next. "Do you know of the republicans in the Semien region, your holiness? They are claiming the sanction of God. If God is on the side of our Emperor and his family, then perhaps these heretics need to be excommunicated."

"I agree with you, Bitwoded Desta." the Abun's friendly expression became grave. "I will need details on their sins. If they are preaching republicanism, I will do as you say. There are no men who believe in both God and democracy. Does God let man vote on the eternal laws of the universe? If there is a King in heaven, then the Kingly model is the closest the children of Adam can be to heavenly perfection. I've always said that the Americans and the French that call themselves Christians are really the worst kind of atheist; the lying kind. Yes. I will excommunicate any priest fanning the flames of republican violence against our heavenly ordained Emperor."

"I think the very same, your holiness." Desta smiled.

"Your majesty, go with God." the Abun said. The priestly party departed. Sahle watched as his brother and the ambassador boarded their plane. It took them into the sky, to the east, and out of his way for the present moment.

"Heavens" Sahle was ambushed by Bradford Carnahan, who got uncomfortably close until he was pushed away by one of the Imperial guard, "How did you get such a clean shave out her in the sticks? I was going to recommend Pennington and Pippin razors because you seem like a man who appreciates a good trim. An old school chum manages Pennington and Pippin, and he's a man you can trust with those sort of matters."

"I'll ask my pages when I get home." He looked past Bradford and saw his sister wearing a sunflower yellow dress, knee length, and the sight of her brightened his day. "Hello Miss Carnahan. Have you enjoyed your time in my country."

"Yes. It's great." she said, smiling politely.

"We'll have to talk later on when we have some time." Yaqob said, "I want to know more about America, and I think you would be the best teacher." He parted from her, smiling ear to ear, and the climbed into their caravan of four wheel drive bush rovers.

"We're going down the War Road." Desta told the Emperor's driver. The man nodded. Desta went to his own vehicle, leaving Sahle alone with Rudolph and a single guard. After running into the Carnahan girl and sending his little brother to China, his day seemed bright, and the sky was bluer for it.

Rudolph pulled a blunt from the pocket of his khaki shirt. "You owe me."

"Light it up." Sahle said, "We have a long ride ahead."

(Optional musical number)

The War Road was one of the first highways constructed in Ethiopia with automobiles in mind. It was a wide dirt road that went from Addis Ababa down south to the border of Kenya, its name coming from its original construction during the Great War in order to speed transportation to the front. Iyasu V ordered it maintained in the post-war years, creating the Ministry of Transportation and Public Works for exactly that task, seeing it as a way to connect the rich southern provinces with the Addis Ababa and Djibouti railroad.

The weed kicked in as they went down into the Awash valley. Ethiopia is a mountainous country being torn apart from the Danakil downward, and the Awash was part of the crack that continued into Kenya. Wild camels fed on the scrub brush that fought to grow in that rocky soil. Sahle and Rudolph laughed at their humps. Neither said a thing.

They stopped from time to time because Miyagi Yakuga, the Japanese manager of Negus Coffee, brought a camera with him and insisted on filling it. They stopped to see camels, to see farmers, to see rocks. From Sahle's truck, he'd see the long safari van carrying the Negus Coffee party stop along the side of the road and Miyagi jump out and start snapping photos. Sahle and Rudolph pointed out things Miyagi should get a photo of. They saw a wild ass taking a shit, and both of them said it at the same time. That made them laugh for thirty minutes.

In the village of Mojo, the local priests came out to bless the cars. A young beardless priest was last in the procession of holy men who blessed the Emperor's. In response, Sahle blessed the young priest. He didn't know how to react. They went on.

Before Adama, Miyagi went out to take a photo of a troop of Baboons. The Baboons were only twenty feet or so in front of him. "Steal it." Rudolph said, speaking to the monkeys far ahead of them. Sahle giggled. "Steal it." they both said. Any time one of the animals started in Miyagi's direction, Sahle felt a kind of joy that would be indescribable to the sober.

Adama sat at the bottom of the Awash valley, a town growing in the crack of the Great Rift, like people from the Ethiopian and Harar highlands had rolled down from the west and east respectively and settled where they stopped. Villagers lined up. Sahle allowed people carrying food to come through, and the gifts of fruit and bread helped the two men feed their starving stomachs. Here priests stopped to bless the cars again, but Sahle was too busy with a piece of injera to mess with them.

They passed a crew sent to work on the road. Governors still had the tools of feudal coercion available, and peasants could be required to work on the road as a form of rent. These men were performing simple maintenance before the start of the monsoon season. Seeing a caravan waving Imperial banners, they made way like a crowd of supplicants and bowed with shovels in hand. Sahle stood up, poked his head through a sun roof, and smiled like the child who just got away with stealing sweets from the market.

They climbed upward into the eastern highlands, and the lands once ruled by Somali Muslims until the crusades of Menelik II. The caravan scattered a heard of zebras. Far away, the Bale mountains were visible like ghosts behind the clouds.

"This is a good day." Sahle said, thoroughly pleased with himself, "Nothing can go wrong. We have women, we have drugs to tickle our souls, what can happen?"

"Women? Mrs Heap isn't with us." Rudolph said.

"We have Livy Carnahan."

"She is pretty. But she's an American girl. American girls lift up their skirts for anybody who asks."

"I hope so." Sahle replied.

They arrived in Awassa at dusk, the sun set streaking across the glittering lake. Shepherds watched from the hills and waved at them. Sahle waved back. The town greeted them in ceremonial fineness. The priests came out, as did the city elders, and a number of barefoot teenage girls chosen to award the new arrivals with food and flowers. They were ushered thus from their vehicles to the waiting elders.

"Your Imperial Majesty." the leading elder bowed, "I am Kentiba Lamrot. What is our is yours." Sahle smiled politely, but said nothing. They'd smoked more than just the one blunt earlier in the day, and he was still feeling the effects.

The people who met them were members of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. They were a minority in this land. In a strange quirk of history, it was Evangelical Protestantism that dominated the south center of Ethiopia, particularly the insular Mennonite church, brought over by missionaries one hundred years earlier who radiated out from Sudan like the rays of a heretical sun. The Ethiopian Orthodoxy was the official church of the land, and though the reign of Iyasu had bitterly enforced religious freedom on the theocratic spirit of the country, the Orthodoxy did what it could to hold supremacy wherever it could.

They were brought to a beach on the edge of the lake where food was being prepared. Men lit bonfires like they would on Meskel, proclaiming the Imperial visit a festival. Honey wine flowed with the dinner. The Munchies set Sahle and Rudolph to eating, and eating a lot, while others mingled and danced to a traditional string and drum band.

Miyagi Yakuga took his camera to the beach and tried to take photographs of hippos despite the coming darkness. Bradford Carnahan got buzzed and tried to teach one of the flower girls how to dance the Charleston. When Sahle felt sated, he remembered Livy, and went to find her.

She was near the lake at the edge of the celebration, holding her arms to her chest as if she were cold, between the sound of music on one side and the chatter of roosting water birds on the other.

"You want to dance?" Sahle asked her, his voice soft.

She looked at him surprised, but followed his lead back to the glow of the fires. She danced properly, he moved like he was having fun. "Do you dance like this in America?" he asked.

"No." she said, "I like new things though."

"So do I. It would be fun to travel the world, like you. If I were not Emperor I would go with you and we could see the world together."

"Do you say that to all the girls?" she said, blushing.

"It would not make sense to say that to girls who are not traveling the world, and most of the girls I meet are not traveling the world."

She laughed, breaking the tension that had been building in her face. "You are an amusing man."

"So is that a yes?"

"A yes to what?"

"Do you want to get to know me more? Nobody will miss us if we go back to my room."

"Oh." she became tense again. "I don't know you that well yet."

Sahle wasn't sure how to respond. It had been a long time since he was rejected like that. "Oh. That is too bad." he said.

They danced awkwardly for a few minutes until Miyagi Yakuga approached them. He bowed stiffly to the Emperor, and then to Livy. "It would honor me if the lady would enjoy a dance." She looked at Sahle. Sahle nodded. They went away and Sahle spent the rest of the night dancing with one of the flower girls. Somebody had allowed her honey wine, and she was drunk for the first time in her life, dancing foolishly with her Emperor, a man she'd been taught to respect as second only to Christ himself.

Sahle felt hollow, having failed with Livy. Not defeated, no, not that. He'd try again. But his confidence wavered. That was something he wasn't used to. And though he went to his quarters with the young teenager and ended her virginity in the velour sheets of the nicest bed she'd ever seen in her life, he went to sleep still feeling that hollowness.

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

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May 25th: The Siege of Mombasa
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Thomas Jefferson Murungaru stood on the ramparts of Fort Jesus, loving every second counting down toward his eminent victory. Mombasa was on fire. Some of this fire was metaphorical, the fire of combat. Some of it was literal, the effect of wayward shells on the wooden buildings surrounding the old fort. What happened to Mombasa didn't matter to him. What mattered was that it was falling. Finally, after all this time, he was free.

Agricola and Li Huan stayed on the other side. Their idea of Communism didn't include the loot and pillage of a captured town, and they look defeated when they realized it was Murungaru's intention to let his men loose for the rest of the day. It was true that Marx didn't theorize about the economics of sacking a city. There was no C-L-M equation where Commodities are Looted and then are turned into Money. Well, not yet anyway. Perhaps he'd add that to the canon of Marxist thought. His own theory of 'Hallelujah, Mombasa has finally fucking fallen!'

The screams, the shooting, and sounds of destruction washed over him and past him. He paced the battlements, thinking on what came next. Should he go to Revolution-Town? Put down the rebels that surrounded their capital? Or was his place here, rebuilding what would be the main port of the Swahili nation? There were corpses on the walkway, but he passed them without thinking too much of them. This place smelled like death. He stepped over bloody bodies as if they were logs.

"Comrade commander!" he was startled by a voice behind him. Murungaru turned around and saw the smiling face of a blood spattered soldier. "We've captured Trevor, sir."

"What a good day!" Murungaru exclaimed, slapping the man on the shoulder, "Take me to him. Let's make it a better day."

They passed by shattered buildings as they walked down the twisting roads of Old Town. Tongues of fire licked the bodies of dead whites. Orders were to take their enemies prisoner, but in the excitement of conquest, the conquerors were killing men and using their wives. No reporters were let into the city. Foreign journalists were entertained on the other side of the bay by Agricola, who was trying to keep them busy looking at the trebuchets that won the battle. It was a mile walk until they left the smoke-choked roads of Old Town and entered a section meant for tourism. This place was open, populated by restaurants and hotels where Communist soldiers were eating and drinking like kings at an apocalyptic feast.

Soldiers and officers met him crowded in front of the hanging motel. The most recent victims of Trevor's morbid taunting were placed on the ground and covered in blankets. Commander Trevor knelt on the ground, a black eye on his face, his thick shoulders heaving as he stared hatefully at his captors.

"You have lost your city, Mister Trevor." Murungaru said.

"I killed as many of your red golliwogs as I could." the captive grinned defiantly, staring Murungaru straight in the eye. "Kill me and you can do whatever you want. This is your hellhole now."

"I am not a murderer, Mister Trevor." Murungaru said. Communist soldiers gathered around the scene, yelling hatefully at the captive but keeping their distance, interested in seeing what their leader was doing. Murungaru had an audience.

"Call yourself what you want." Trevor looked straight ahead, "But kill me."

Many of the black soldiers came here fresh from looting. Their pockets were stuffed, and their bodies were draped with jewelry. Some wore expensive hats they had found regardless of the intended gender. Murungaru saw this. He took a lady's brimmed hat from the head of one of his men and held it like a bowl. "You fought well for capitalism, so I will honor you with the ritual of your people." Trevor looked uncertain. Murungaru orbited Trevor holding out one palm forward, motioning his people to back away. They did. He allowed for a pause pregnant with suspense before he spoke.

"Highest bidder gets to knock out this man's teeth." he said boldly, holding the hat above his head. Offers came as a sudden roar like in a stock market, made up of stolen paper money and jewelry. Murungaru couldn't keep track. He picked a winner at random. A big bald headed man put a gold locket in the hat and walked up to Trevor. He had one punch, and he used it well, sending the white man's head flying back, teeth and blood spraying onto the men holding him down.

More came in. They bought the write to punch, to kick, to cut, to stomp. The hat overflowed with trinkets and paper money. Murungaru watched as Trevor went from defiant, to punch-drunk, to broken, to knocked out. sputtering on the ground.

"Fetch water." Murungaru ordered. They went to Tudor Creek to collect it, bringing it back and dumping the brine unceremoniously in their enemy's face.

Murungaru squatted in front of his beaten foe. They stared eye to eye, as much as they could considering Trevor's swollen face. "You will survive for a time."

"Kill..." Trevor slurred, pulling against the men pinning him down, but his strength wasn't there. Murungaru grabbed a handful of paper money and stuffed it in Trevor's mouth. It soaked up the blood. He pulled a match, struck it, and lit the dry half of the money on fire. Small streams of flame parched Trevor's lips.

"Put him up." Murungaru ordered, "We'll take him with us." They dragged him away, the flaming money in his mouth flagging, to the further taunts of the Communists.

He had made his decision. Mombasa was somebody else's problem. It was time to leave.

Finish the Sentence, Create a Story

There once was a man, who is well known in his shitty. His name was John but on weekends it was Britney. On Sundays, his name was Carl. The rest of the time, it was 'dumbass'. And he has two things that always accompany him, a list of names and a worn-out red marker. It would surprise you to know that, while it went against the expected function, the marker was not for writing on paper.

Morning light filled the hospital, the smell of death hung in the air. The pale walls shone wetly. Above Dumbass's bed hung a portrait of the Quartermaster of the KSR, and by his nightstand was a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush. John had ended up with a broken hip after tripping himself at the stair. Or, at least that's what he told the Doctors had broken his hip. In fact, it had been something far more sinister; autohypnotic asphyxiation. Heading back home, he saw, that the mayor's car had been entirely covered in cling film. Confused by his misadventures, he decided that a live tentacle porn show was the next best option.

He proceeded to go to the fishmongers, and detail precisely what his plan was. The Fishmonger agreed,

"Fourty dollars for fifteen minutes sounds fair." Dumbass reached into his pocket to find that he had forgotten his wallet at home.

"Do you accept IOUs?" Dumbass raised two middle fingers and asked. As a result, he received a look of disgust and a kick in the nuts. Swearing revenge Dumbass crawled away, winded and bruised. On top of that, he was slightly bemused. However, he appeared to have the upper hand as, with a devious smile, he pulled a remote control from his pocket. He pressed the button, and cursed out loud. Then he saw something he could not describe. It was a horrifying, yet beautiful, visage of his old dirty dog named Lasagna. Lasagna looked like it was going to bite off his... well... it's a delicate place.That delicate place is his head, the dog jumped into the air holding a flamethrower and somehow seemed both willing and able to use it.

"Don't attack me," cried the topless porn star who had just stepped into the madness. Because he was running out of gravity, he decided to swim away. At that moment he knew, he was in hell, and at the right second he saw a flying fetus straight to his face. "Why did you abort me daddy?"

With a horrified scream, Dumbass awoke - to discover that she was sitting on her toilet in Heaven having a heavenly crap. Satan called on his cell phone with fury at the latest posters disregarding former italics tags, the clouds rained unicorns as well.

Meanwhile on Earth,"Dong, where is my automobile?" asked the sexually frustrated old man.

"Where did you have it last?" his butler replied sarcastically.
"I checked my asshole 15 times." The old man's son said.

It seemed that old 80's movie references were in these days. A rolling skating Afro person went up to the old man,"I believe it's inside mine!" The Afro man bent down away from him,"Go! Check!"

"Ride my sweaty beating heart, daddy." pleaded the sexually frustrated old man whilst he silently regretted ruining yet another spam thread.

Afro man smiled a jive smile and spread his cheeks wide so the others could see his favourite subreddit, it was a race and his booty needed to finish it.

Back on Heaven, God decided to check in on Dumbass. "Fucking idiot," God lookes into Dumbass's room to see he was having intercourse with Jesus Christ,"Son!" He exclaimed, stood to attention: the Holy Weiner.

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

---------------------------------
May 25th, Addis Ababa
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It'd been more than a week since the party, and the Palace was getting ready for the Emperor's departure yet again, after he decided to accompany his Minister of the Pen on a sight seeing tour of Sidamo. The announcement had been a surprise to everyone, including Desta himself. It wasn't coffee plants that attracted him to this tourist venture. Rather, it was his newest obsession. He planned to seduce her somewhere in the south so he could forget all about her and move on. This was a regular pattern for Emperor Sahle. He hadn't seen her since the party, but she was still in his mind.

He sat on the veranda at Gebi Iyasu, looking out at the fountain, and the pair of lions sleeping in the garden. Wicker mesob tables were set out in front of everyone, and lunch was served Ethiopian style, with several kinds of spicy stews in little piles on top of injera flatbread. A servant offered Jefferson Davis Bacon some clarified butter. The obese man gazed into the sunshine colored liquid before accepting some.

"My mammy used to call me 'Butters' when I was a boy." the American said, "She'd come out on the porch when it was time for dinner and yell 'Here Butters, come get your cornbread before your sister devours it all.' She was a little woman, the mammy was that is, my sister was fat even in those days. Mammy was little, but her voice carried through the countryside like the angel's trumpets." He laughed a choppy, nostalgia filled kind of laugh. Sahle hadn't been paying attention; his mind was still on conquering the redheaded Carnahan girl.

"What do you think of the food?" Desta Getachew asked, watching the American intently.

"In truth I feel rude eating with my hands in front of y'all. I've devoured my share of ribs, don't get me wrong sir, but this is such a pretty setting, and I don't want to stain the fine China." Bacon patted the mesob and laughed, heartier this time. While Desta ate slowly and Sahle ate mechanically, Yaqob occupying the fourth place didn't eat at all. He was like a guardian statue in front of an Egyptian tomb.

"Relax" Desta said, "Food don't make the man. Titles do. We know what powers we have. How we eat? Eh, who cares."

"I like you, sir." Bacon said, "You'd make a good southerner."

"What is this business you meant to discuss?" Desta's tone remained friendly and formal.

"Well, as I told you..."

"Explain the whole thing for his Majesty's sake." Desta said. Sahle turned his attention, not so much because he heard himself invoked, but rather because he felt Desta's eyes.

"There are only three East Asian powers that the United States gives a damn about; what Nepal chooses to do with its time interests us about as much as a rooster's tit. What we worry about, sir, is the mighty Pacific ocean. That means Japan, China, and the Philippines."

"What does this have to do with Ethiopia?" Yaqob interrupted.

"I'm getting to that, sir." Bacon said, "America don't trust any of the three. If it came to a war over the Pacific, we'd hope Japan comes out the victor. We understand the Japs. Under their Samurai hats, they're businessmen. But that means they're shrewd, and they'd squeeze us out of the market as soon as they got a chance. Now, the Chinese are reds, so we don't trust them for squat. The Filipinos are reds too, but they are the weakest out of the three, and that makes them vulnerable should we need them to be. Now if Hou was as a smart son of a bitch as he puts on airs to be, he'd of locked down the Filipinos and had the South China Sea to himself a long time ago. But he hasn't figured that out yet, so we have the opportunity to throw a wrench in the works for all parties involved, and that wrench is Ethiopian. See, we don't want a war, because war mean winners and winners mean we have tougher competition in those markets still available to us. We'd like to see all three standing still, knifes behind their backs. It's better for business that way."

"We have no reason to anger the Chinese government." Sahle said. That he thought to say that made him feel as statesmanlike as a reincarnated Zara Yaqob.

"What we propose isn't anything so drastic." Bacon said, "There are companies in the United States who have an interest in keeping the South China Sea in check, and they are willing to put their money where their mouth is. Now, you have a navy in the Indian Ocean, and I am under the impression it doesn't get used very much."

"True." Desta said, a slight grin on his face.

"We'd be willing to buy one fully functional battleship off of you, at discount of course, or else we would have furnished the ship ourselves, but we'll throw some trade preferences to sweeten the pot. I understand the coffee industry is a local favorite, and my people do love a good brew. So you chose the ship. The US navy would then move that ship to the Philippines and hand it to them as a gift. A free pawn in the hands of the weakest power. You could send an officer or two to assist in the training Filipino personnel."

Sahle's head hurt. He wished Desta had taken care of this himself. He didn't know what to say.

"This will have to be discussed with the Bahr Negus." Yaqob spoke for him.

"Not necessarily." Desta replied, "The Emperor's authority extends to the entire military. If the Imperial Court issues an edict regarding the navy, the Bahr Negus has to..."

"I'm aware of this." Yaqob interrupted, "But the Bahr Negus isn't just some market town Nagadras. Disrespecting him is a bad idea."

"Who rules in Ethiopia?" Desta maintained the same manner and tone, but there was an irritable touch just behind the surface. "His Imperial Majesty, or his bureaucrats?"

"I will let you boys straighten this out." Bacon said.

"We will." Desta said, "If the Emperor has no objections between now and tomorrow, expect a confirmation on your desk before the sun sets."