Vilageidiotx

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

((Collab with Wyrm))

What is it you call the dead when they come alive? They were ghosts, or ghosts of corpses, bloodied, bloated, and grey, dressed in tattered leathers, boots rotting off their feet, pus oozing through the holes in their broken bodies. Blood poured like water from a crater in the stomach of the big bearded one, and his eyes were white and clouded. A smaller man with a torso peppered in bloody spots walked beside him. But their leader, that... that thing, he was the worse of all. The top of his head had been blown off entirely, shot away as if by a howitzer shell, stringy gore and broken skull like eggshells in the pulp where his brain had once been. There were no eyes anymore, and blood poured from his goblet-like top as he walked. These ghouls, night-visions of a horrific unknown dream, the fevered imaginations a wrinkled debtera might tell children to warn them away from cemeteries, they walked together alone in a desolate desert landscape. They were Highway Rangers. She knew it. Whats worse, she felt like she recognized them. The world around them, rock and dust and the bricks and planks of forgotten homesteads, seemed to fracture and break like pieces of glass as they walked, rearranging all around them, a landscape uncertain what it wanted to be. The creature with half a head still had lips, and they seemed to babble something, random cracking sounds interspersed with the sick gurgling of a drowning man. The sounds came together into words which she wasn't sure about. The words became ideas, and formed into something familiar in her mind until it became a song. It was as if the creature had grabbed hold of something in her subconscious and yanked it out of her.

Yes, I'm gonna walk on that milky white way
Oh Lord, some of these days

It started as a cracked sentence, but soon it picked up a melody, and a band, and the ghouls walked in harmony with the song.

Well, I'm gonna walk that milky white way
Some of these days, well, well, well, well

The landscape broke below them, and their walk turned seamlessly into a descent. Fire lapped from below them. They were walking down a staircase like a basalt formation, and it led straight into the pit.

I'm gonna walk up and take my stand
Gonna join that Christian band
I'm gonna walk on that milky white way
Oh Lord, some of these days

The fires burst forth and blackened the dead things. Blood boiled over the half-head of the singer, pouring over the top like Victoria Falls. The creature smiled, seemingly at her, though she didn't think she was there for it to see. It licked its lips, face basking in rising hell-light, and a grin curled across its peeling face.

She woke up.

----------------------------------
Mid July: Madrid, Spain
----------------------------------

Taytu was recovering in America before politics happened to her. Her brother chose to overreact, and she'd been sent out of the country to Rome where one of the best doctors in Europe was prepared to help her, but fever overtook her over the Atlantic. Instead they landed in Spain, a country she knew little about, as infection ravaged her and made it difficult to think, or to remember.

How silly would it be to die over this? A bullet wound from some commoner in the American desert?

Her ribs felt like gelatin. She stayed still, afraid to move, afraid to cause the pain, though the entire back of her body felt as if ten thousand little pins and needles were trying to push her up and force her to move. She fell in and out of consciousness, aware only of the odor in the room, a mix of her own sweat, of soap, and a sickly dank scent like rotting paper in an old library. The walls were the yellow of old parchment, the mattress thin on a harsh metal frame. Her nurses were nuns, women dressed in thick white cotton, their habits hiding their hair, their pale faces having the pudgy softness of sexless creatures who'd given up on themselves long ago.

Her dreams were horrible. They were shifting deserts and plagues of the dead. She dreamed of the death of family members, of the disease that ate her father, of forlorn battlefields littered with brutalized remains left behind the angels of war to rot in the open air. She was aware of Noh Mareko, appearing occasionally, talking to her, saying nothing she could remember. What she mostly remembered was that rotten paper stench. It seemed to grow, become mixed with a putrid smell like rotting flesh. How much time had went on like this? It seemed like months, though she'd lost track somewhere in Nevada. She was relieved when a nun helped her into a squeaky wheelchair and pushed her out onto the balcony. The pain was fading by then, but the medicine dripping into her veins from a glass bottle hung on a pole kept her numb and only half conscious. How long had that medicine been there? It was in this state she saw the sun for the first time in what seemed like a year. Her face felt flush in the intense heat, and the light hurt her eyes and made her squint.

There it was all in front of her. Madrid, that antithesis of American ambition and futurism. Europe had deflected the alteration of their culture coming from across the Atlantic, swallowing the modern world and regurgitating it into something more fitting to old dignities. The high rises and flashing commercial wonder of New York City was narrowly reflected in a different light, replaced with somber neo-gothic architecture, a city of high rises like cathedrals and basilicas to material need, the streets neat and orderly. It was, essentially, a good catholic city, the church spires hardly distinguishable from towers of industry and finance. This gave it a dignity, but also an Imperial harshness.

She came back slowly over the course of the week. She learned she was at Hospital de San Sebastián el Mártir, not far from the city center. Sleep was the only thing she had to do most of the time, but twice a day the kindly nuns helped her outside, and she spent a moment watching the city. Airships came and went slowly, the native transport of a culture that saw leisurely slowness as a natural part of dignity. She noticed the soldiers in the street, and noticed how nobody else seemed to notice them. Madrid was crawling with uniformed military men, guarding crossroads, checking papers in front of government buildings, stationed on busy roads just... watching. She knew something was happening, a slight impression, something she'd heard in her sickness, or perhaps just intuition. But what was it? Spain didn't seem to mind. It went by casually, the people perhaps slightly slower and more venerable in their way then Americans, but casual all the same.

Noh came back to her in her room. When she saw him, the airiness of her situation went away. She felt grounded to the world again. Vulnerable.

"What am I doing here?" she demanded of him. Her voice was weak. She could feel it, and it bothered her.

"You had an infection." he said. She'd already knew that, but she looked thoughtful as if this was new information.

"I didn't make it to Rome." she stated.

"No."

"Where were you?"

"It's hard for me to get through."

"Through?"

"The blockades. Soldier blockades. I'm a foreigner, so they deny me entry most of the time. They are real tough around here since... well, you don't know about it."

"What?"

"There was..." Noh bent down, his expression pensive, maybe a tinge afraid. "The King has replaced his government. The military has helped him."

"There was a coup." Taytu said blandly.

"Shh! We are guests."

"We are dignitaries." she said, "And I've just been shot. Do you suppose everybody wants to put a bullet in me? It's a coup. They won't want to cause an international incident."

"I do not know. I wouldn't want to know. There is a rumor a German nobleman was murdered."

This piece of information made her pause. A smart revolutionary, one who had the competence to be a true statesman, will leave a foreign dignitary alone. No reason in raising international ire. But the problem with revolution is that they don't guarantee deserving leaders. What sort of creature might be lifted out of the gutter, their idea of government based on fairy tales and things they read about in books, to be made King until Darwinian nature intervened and plucked them from the throne? She might be caught in a burp of history, unlucky enough to be put to death by a someone forgettable.

"Have you informed the embassy?"

"They know you are here and are doing what they can, but I get it they are confused."

Confused. Naturally. It was a revolution. Who could you trust?

"Tell them I'm awake." she said, "I want to speak with the Ambassador. Whats his name?"

"Dejazmach Wendem Cherkos."

The name was familiar. She could put a face to him. A nobleman, not a man she knew well, but still a man she knew. "Get him. I don't want to be stuck in this country much longer." Noh left her in the company of the taciturn nuns.

Silence has a sound. Its like hushed air, and the long echoes of every little thing nobody pays attention to in a normal setting. She was awake now, anxious, uncomfortable with this strange atmosphere. With no radios in the building, she could hear whispering old nuns from the other side of the hall. She heard moans from fellow patients. Sometimes, when the silence grew so loud the air could be heard like static, she swore she could hear screaming. Tortured souls? No wonder these people were Catholic. Or was she dreaming this too?

Still, she was feeling better. Healing was no longer a problem. She was left in a strange despair that seemed ridiculous to her. Bored, not five minutes after Noh had left her, she struggled to hike her gown up her side so she could see the wound that had cost her so much pain and time. It was there, just above the jut of her hip bone, looking like some strange formation on the moon. Her entire side was discolored and bruised black around the webbing formation of scar tissue, at the center a brutal scab. Seeing it made it sting.

"No no!" a nun rushed in. "No no no!" The camel-faced woman grabbed her hard by the bottom of her gown and tugged down with some force, and Taytu realized she'd exposed more than just her hip. But what did it matter? She glared at the nun until the unhappy woman retreated, leaving her alone again, in the quiet with her wheeling thoughts.

An image appeared real quick and unformed in her mind of cracked lips and blood. Her heart twinged with fear. Was she going insane?

She couldn't just stay here. Noticing the wheelchair in the corner, she made a hasty decision. She pulled herself out of bed, her limbs feeling suddenly weak as if she were old and invalid, he side bursting in artillery shells of pain. When her bare feet felt the cold linoleum floor, her legs seemed to beg her to put them back in bed, but she persisted, and rose like Lazarus from the dead. The pain followed her march to the chair, feeling as if she were being folded sideways. She imagined herself to look like a leper, haggard, skeletal, an entirely broken woman, but none of that mattered so long as she could reach the shining excellence that was that ancient wheelchair. She sat in it, propping her good side against the bar, letting her spiking pain subside.

When she was comfortable, she started to roll. It was work, especially dragging the awkward pole and bottle with her so it didn't tug at her arm. The wheels whined with every turn, and her arms were shaking, but she kept it moving until she was in the hall.

It was a well kept hospital for all its depressing faults. The walls and floor were clean and maintained, decorated with the occasional crucifix or muted painting of a praying saint. She wheeled herself past nuns and white-coat doctors. They didn't seem to mind. She passed a young soldier standing guard, brown uniform and cap, in front of a closed door. What was that about? The coup? It didn't matter. She was looking for outside, for a world beyond the smell of old paper and ether. Her blood seemed to know where it was. She followed it and the memory of sunlight on her skin.

When she found the door to the balcony, it gave her energy, and she turned the wheels with more vigor. A kindly old nun opened the door and she was out. The Spanish sun struck her immediately, and it made her feel well again. She was outside! On the street below she could see soldiers. Someone somewhere was strumming a guitar. It reached her like a sound she wasn't supposed to hear, overcoming the car noises in the busy street, hitting her ear as if it were just around the corner. A yellow and black checkered airship hovered lazily over the hills to the north. She closed her eyes, let the sun shine its cozy orange light through her eyelids, and smothered the anxiety inside herself.

Somewhere, at some time, a church bell started, and a dozen more answered all at once. She was vaguely aware that she was cold. The world faded away.

She was in a small sort of airship at night, standing on an outdoor platform made of steel surrounding the balloon, a number of soldiers with her, floating just above the treeline. She knew she was an American, but how that had happened she didn't know. They were all holding heavy rifles. A grizzled veteran standing next to her was singing to himself.

I feel so bad I got a worried mind
I'm so lonesome all the time
Since I left my baby behind
On Blue Bayou

The moon was gone, and the darkness was nearly total. The landscape was dark blotches and shadows against a deep dark blue.

"Wake up." a gruff voice whispered, "When we start, we'll be sitting ducks. Toast or be toasted."

Saving nickles, saving dimes
Working til the sun don't shine
Looking forward to happier times
On Blue Bayou

"Is that? That's them! Toast them!"

They all started shooting at shadows below. She could vaguely make out the reflection of their fusillade against the sides of trucks.

"Cajun chickens!" one man screamed manically, "Bok bok bok bok!"

The singers voice became something of a shout.

I'm going back someday!
Come what may!
To Blue Bayou!
Where the folks are fun!
And the world is mine!
On Blue Bayou!

She became aware that some of the dark figures scrambling beneath them were Highway Rangers. Her finger pulled hard against the trigger. So hard that it hurt.

Enemy gunfire pinged against the armored gut of their airship. But something heavier belched further ahead, flashing like a red star in the black swamp, and moments later the air behind them burst into flame.

She woke up, breathing heavy, the night completely silent around her, sweat on her brow. It took her several seconds to realize it was another nightmare. She was in Spain, in bed, safe, but she knew there would be no sleeping again tonight. She stared at the shadowed ceiling and listened to the drip of liquid from the bottle hooked up next to her. The drip had a rhythm, like a metronome keeping time for a silent orchestra. It seemed to go on forever until she disappeared from it.

The next morning, she was wakened by a worried looking nun. "There is someone here to see you." she said, "Are you well?"

Noh. She didn't see him, but he must have got the ambassador through. "Yes." she croaked, pulling herself up. The nun grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to Taytu's neck, then scurried off. There wasn't a wait, the person was just outside the door, and it wasn't somebody she recognized.

The woman who stepped through the door and in that sterile white room was as out of place in Spanish Madrid as Taytu herself. There was an air of confidence to the woman that Taytu almost envied as a hovering nurse was shooed out of the room with a stern word or two in broken Spanish. Her visitor was, almost unbelievably, a black woman. Even beneath the politely ankle length dress and high collar Taytu could still see that this woman was incredibly fit and found herself returning the broad smile.

As she swept into the room the faint smell of roses came with her, cutting through the sterile smell of disinfectant. She was pretty, well dressed, but in a way that Taytu recognized as being entirely forgettable. It was no accident, of that Taytu was sure, and in her experience only one group of people dressed like that, intelligence agents and spies.

"Your Majesty, I am Sara Reicker. I bring you the warmest regards of Viceroy Delgado and be apologizes for not being able to attend to you personally." The woman spoke flawless Amharic, though her dialect was slightly off, she was clearly from somewhere south of Ethiopia, Rhodesia maybe. She bowed her head slightly, enough to be polite. "How are you?"

"Miserable." Taytu complained. "This isn't the quality lodgings I'm used to."

“It is a shame then that your companion didn’t disclose your true identity to us sooner.” Sara smiled broadly, a smile that failed to reach her eyes. “The Viceroy has placed a small palace at your disposal if you wish.”

"Am I free to leave this country if I choose?" Taytu said wearily.

Sara looked confused for a moment. "Of course. Why would you not be?"

"I'd like to meet with the Ambassador from my country. Can that be arranged?"

"Your majesty is not a prisoner. You have but to ask the nurses to use a phone. Since you seem intent on ignoring my generous offer, think about it, and call me when you have made up your mind." Sara stood and then placed a stamped card on the table. It bore only a phone number and the words Foreign Office. "Until then, your majesty."

"Wait." Taytu said, throat dry. "I didn't deny anything. I want to meet with my ambassador. Here is fine. So is this palace."

"Then I will send word for him to meet us there." Sara had paused in the doorway but now turned back again and barked something in angry Spanish. The nuns appeared quickly and Taytu could not miss the hint of fear on their faces. They conferred for a moment Sara, their strangely pale faces in stark contrast to her black one, then they nodded and hurried into the room to help Taytu dress.

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

He ran, feet conforming to the red earth they knew so well, that he'd known since his birth. He no longer felt pain in that quarter, the ancient jigsaw rocks that littered to roots of the ambas and mountains having long ago cured his soles of their more delicate senses. It was normal for him to cover the rugged distances between the old monasteries of Wag province on a daily basis.

The rainy season was passing, farmers returning to their crops over washed out trails, struggling with ornery pack mules in the dense summer air. Wet dirt from the pockets and gullies not yet dried by the sun caked his feet and the fringes of his cotton tunic as he ran. The green scrub land smelled of vegetation and life, and sounded of birds.

In a cloth sack hanging from his shoulder was, a letter, addressed from the Abba of one monastery to another. Telegraphs didn't connect the small villages or the old places, being a miracle reserved for the budding cities as they grew into something unfamiliar to the older ways of life. Out here, a runner was the fastest form of communication, and young athletic monks the replacement for the phone line.

If the distance was too long, he couldn't complete it in one day. To run at night was foolish. There were lions on the prowl after sunset, and bandits, and far worse things. As a boy, he and his brother had seen an ugly thing swim a river near their village at dusk. He hadn't known how to describe it, but his brother had. "It was a buda" the older boy told their friends self-importantly, as if the experience had turned him into a wizened storyteller. "A man-hyena, searching for a child's skin to make into a shield." The wild places of the world held dangers like this after dark. There were budas, and witches, and falasha, and the ghosts of cursed men who'd fought in ancient wars during the times of Yodit. He would not run at night. When the sky went yellow and the sun crowned the mountains, he made sure he was near his home village, on those familiar trails, safe from the truly evil.

The hut he'd grown up in still stood, now the home of his elder brother and his family. His nephew and niece were playing with the goats in the pen, teasing them through the fence. When they saw him, they ran to catch up with him, mimicking his wide gait in their clumsy childish way, shouting his name as if it were a childhood game of its own.

His brother came out at the commotion, wearing a threadbare tunic and trousers, looking every bit the respectable farmer. That boyish face was still there, covered in a thin mask of wear it was true, but his eyes were unchanged. The two grown men smiled and embraced. Even though they had spent their youth together, any time he saw his older brother, the same memory always appeared. It was the night before he went to the priesthood, his brother leading him through the frightening twilight like a scout ahead of an army. It was a memory of darkness and fear, the appearance of the old witches hut on the edge of the river, the smell of her when he went inside and saw her undressed, the only time he'd saw the secret place between a woman's legs. She bragged to the village she was barren, that no man could put a baby in her, an invitation that might have made her an outcast if the people of the village didn't also believe deeply in her knowledge of magic. She was an eccentric, and a filthy person. She liked to argue with priests and elders in public. As he'd grown older, he'd became a member to the secret everybody knew, that every man in the village had lain with her, and that everyone pretended they hadn't. And so he took his turn before he joined a life of celibacy, that strange night in his youth at a time when he still felt much too young for such things. It was a living memory, or one that came alive when he recalled it, the fear mixed with animal like pleasure, the feeling of having slipped into some unnatural netherworld, the fear of being cursed. It was why, when he saw his brother, he felt joy and guilt and discomfort all in one odd emotional sensation.

"Have the old men made you into one of them yet?" His brother said, repeating the same line he said whenever they met, still making himself grin like the clever man he knew himself to be. Both men laughed the laugh of old friends just glad to be in one another's company.

His brothers wife watched them, smiling a soft empathetic smile, standing over a hot pan cooking over a fire. Smoke billowed dark and heavy from the wet kindling, making her eyes water. A thin pancake on injera cooked below, filling the air with its tangy sourdough scent, mixing together with the smell of the earth and the grassy scent of goat shit that wouldn't be appetizing to an outsider, but reminded him of home. The brother ordered the children to help their mother with the food, and the two men went inside. "I have something for your eyes" his brother said just as they left the red light of sunset behind and entered the musty hut.

The floor was made of the same red dirt outside, the simple handmade furniture peppered with dust and thatching. The walls were stone, and littered with small openings. A mosquito bit the runners neck. He swatted it and inspected his palm.

"Mosquitoes rule a great empire." his brother said, paraphrasing a Scottish missionary who'd visited their village when they were children. This quip about mosquitoes was all the elder brother had retained from those early theological lessons. He reached down and grabbed a piece of parchment from the table, handing it to the runner. "It is from our brother. I know his mark, I compared to the others. But I can't read the rest." The young monk looked down, scanning over the scribbled Amharic script.

"Brother." The young monk started to read out loud, his voice filling the small room, "I am in the Ogaden. My leader tells me that I cannot tell you where because it is an army secret. I eat well. The Somali women bring us food, and it is like what we eat at home, though just like all things in the Ogaden there is more sand in it than there should be. The wind blows sand everywhere, sometimes in big clouds, and we must cover our eyes. The other men are surprised I can write. I write for them sometimes. I wish I could write for the men from the city because their stories are so wonderful, but they already know how to write, so I only hear some. The country men pay me with parts of their rations. They say I will grow fat like a city writer! I do not grow fat though, because there is always work to do and patrols to walk on. I know our brother is reading this. He should come out here to be a priest. There are many Muslims who do not understand god, and he could teach them. I hope to see you when I am put on leave for Meskel. I pray for you."

The children came in with a stack of injera. Their mother followed holding aloft a pot of stew, bubbling and sticking to the container. The bread was served like plates and the stew piled in the center, a mess of greens and chili peppers with eggs poking up like lumps of marble. The brothers tore pieces of bread and used them to pinch the stew.

"What do you think? Is he useful in the Ogaden?" His brother asked, his wife slipping a wooden cup full of Tej, home brewed honey wine, next to him.

"I think his imperial majesty's service will make a man out of him." He said, a cup slipped next to him at well. It smelled heavy and dangerous, but he could vaguely smell that small nugget of sweet too, a mustard seed size of golden honey in a hive of bees, inviting him to drink despite the warnings.

"Maybe so, but what is there for him to do?"

"Fight shiftas? Or desert bandits?"

"There are big hairy wild men out there too, who used to fight naked for the mad mullah." His brother turned to the kids now and spoke in the mysterious voice of a traveling storyteller, "They tie knives to their manhoods and swing them at Christian soldiers, and grunt like monkeys like this." He puffed up his cheeks and made an apeish hooting noise.

The children laughed, but their mother did not. "This is not a story for children" she scolded. The runner smiled. "It is not a story for my ears either" he said. The others laughed. "Besides, the mad mullah has been dead for so long, his hairy wild men must be old now. Ras Hassan rules Adal now."

"The Mad Mullah's son! Just as mad!"

"I do not think so." The young monk said, unsure. "He is a subject of his imperial majesty".

"Impossible! Impossible! True subjects of the King Of Kings must be Christian. That is the law."

"These laws are too big for me." the runner surrendered.

"That is why you still have a brother! I am here to tell you these things!"

Their mirth carried into the night, when the darkness closed in and their village became a fortress against the dangers. The runner went to bed content, well fed, and happy to be alive.

--

He left when light first peaked. His sister in law was just waking. She handed him bread as he went out the door, into the fresh morning air, the smell of dew and goat shit strong. He inhaled deep, taking pleasure in the songs of birds and the solemn dignity of the red mountains rising up like monuments. And then he ran.

He ran non stop, past the forest where the old witch used to live, past a herd of cattle grazing along the road, past a babbling creek, and the smell of the village with all its pungent humanity. Fields went by, and rocky crags inhabited by goats. A troop of baboons sunned on the rocks and lazily watched him go by.

This felt more natural than walking sometimes. Stones and farms and trees went by. Fat baobabs acted like familiar markers. His breath reached a steady pace and stayed there. In the way a mariner might navigate by the stars, he navigated by the shapes of ambas he's passed hundreds of times before.

His arrival came mid afternoon, at the foot of a scrawny amba split by the flow of two small rivers. A dusty station seemed to lean against the incline. Further above, nestled in the rocky peak of the amba, was a serious of scrappy stone churches and houses. Here was Debre Melekot, his destination.

"You're going to have to wait your turn, young man." an elderly bent over debtera warned, shaking a weathered prayer stick. The old man was being helped into a basket by two young acolytes. Once inside, the old man looked absolutely ridiculous, like a baby goat stuffed into a satchel belly up. A long rope ran up the side of the cliff, which would be pulled by acolytes at the top once they got the signal, helping the old holy man up the sheer cliff. The runner made sure his satchel was secure. "I think I can make it on my own." he said. The debtera grinned like a devil, but said nothing.

So they went up together, a crazy pair, the old man in his basket, the young runner grasping for rocks as he climbed barefoot up the sheer face of the amba.

"I used to be able to do that too." the old man said.

"Yes, abba." the runner huffed, reaching for a rock.

"Old age is not kind to the body. It is a lesson we all must learn. You will learn it to."

"Yes, abba."

"Careful now, you'll fall. Now. When I was young, I climbed everything I could see. Ambas, mountains, trees. I don't know. It was easy."

"Yes..."

"Are you the young man the priests have been looking for?"

"What?" The runner stopped, hanging onto the vertical climb, watching the old man be jerked up in the swinging basket. The old man got above him and looked down at him like an ornery monkey from a tree.

"The government came looking. The King of Kings. You have an important summons."

"It's probably not me."

"You might be needed. Perhaps there is a princess in it for you. You will have to renounce your vow..."

"It's probably not me."

"Oh, we'll see." The old man looked up at the approaching faces of the acolytes looking down. He snapped at them as if they were machines that could speed up on command.

The runner was breathing heavy when he reached the top. Instead of running, he walked. Debre Melekot was a thin pathway along the edge of the amba, stone house dangling off the precipice, monks in cotton robes sitting folded up under rock-hangs watching him go by. The old debtera didn't seem to notice him any more, detained by an old friend he met among the monks, their creaking greetings falling behind the runner as he made his way to the church. It was a two-story building of stone and plaster, colorful crosses painted on the side. The runner pulled out his sealed message and went in.

Inside, a number of priests in black robes stood near the alter, talking to an ugly hunchback in military uniform. A new acolyte, unable to fit into army life?

"Ah!" the head priest said, "Ashenafi Werku". The runner smiled at being recognized and held out his message. The priest continued. "Let me introduce you to Tekwashi Girima, the great army hero! He is making his Imperial Majesty's Olympic team, and he heard about you!"

Ashenafi froze.

"You are a good runner?" the ugly creature said. For a second, the runner was reminded of that thing he'd seen so long ago when he was a child, that thing his brother had announced was a buda. A were-hyena.

"I run all the time." he said, surprised.

"Good. That is what his Imperial Majesty wants. You will come with me?"

"He will come with you." the priest beamed, "It is the will of God that brought you so far!"

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

Okay, so after some discussion amongst the old-timers, we've made a decision about how we are going to do PoW Future State
1: From now on, new players will be limited to being a Russian break off state until its been determined they can handle anything else
2: Everybody who wants to gets one free chance to move to Russia if they wish. If they take this, they're previous history will be wiped clean and they won't be able to move out unless its determined they are top level
3: European players are encouraged, but not required, to make that move. Excepting Wyrm, who really really shouldn't move
4: Aaron's gonna try to recruit talent to fill in some spaces.
5: If we fail to get a viable Europe by September, we're going to start the process of wiping some of Europe from the map

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

He snuck between the marble columns, his bare feet quiet against stone. Moonlight filled the garden. He was Negus Negast and the city was his, every inch of it, and he could move anywhere he wanted. That feeling of ownership was familiar to the dreamer. But there was this one thing, this single thing, that he didn't own. For the King of everything, the forbidden fruit was a strange thrill, and he couldn't help but be drawn by it.

There, behind the fronds and flowers, in the blue of the moon, he spied a pool. A familiar woman let down her robe. Her red hair fell down over her body and concealed her secrets. Secrets! Such a thing could not be had from the Emperor of the world. He watched as she walked slowly into the glittering water, its dancing light playing on her milky skin. Though he could not see all of her, what he could see overtook him. He felt like a boy, watching with rapt fascination the movement of her hips and suggestion of breasts beneath the blanket of crimson. She sang a sweet song. His heart felt like it might tighten up and stop.

Well I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

She looked up at where he stood, her blue eyes piercing deep, and for a moment he felt terrified.

------------------------------------------
July 10th, 1960: Addis Ababa
------------------------------------------

The Emperor woke up, naked, covered in sweat, a woman he'd forgot curled around him. The room was heavy with that familiar scent, the mix of the pungent earthiness and rancid rot, reminding him he'd smoked the night before though the memory was hazy. His dream left him aroused, his manhood thrusting into his velour sheets. Her breasts were pressed against his hip, soft and warm, inviting. He woke her up, cautious not to speak in sentences that would require him to use her name, and she let him relieve his urge inside of her. It wasn't truly satisfying to him. Why couldn't she be Livy? The sweet American girl that tasted like strawberries in his imagination. He finished and jumped out his bed.

The room was tall, its ceiling twelve or so feet above, gilded in gold woodwork like the top of a cake. Thick blue and gold curtains blocked out the sun and protected the musty air. On a day like this where his head was foggy from the night before, the room felt oppressively large, like he could feel the weight of the air above him. He sniffed and went to his dresser, his limbs heavy, his flaccid manhood slick and cold.

"Do you have some more of those cigarettes?" the whore asked.

He plucked a joint wedged in the mouth of a pure-gold lion statuette, tossing it to her before putting on a robe. She produced a match, and that familiar pungent scent rejuvenated itself. He thought of joining her, of sharing her smoke, but that thought went out of his mind when he looked down at the envelope at the feet of the conquering lion. It had put him in a dark mood the night before, and looking down at it, those black feelings returned. He knew the essence of the contents, though he'd tried to put the exact words out of his mind. Livy was going back with her brother. They had family running in their American elections. Whatever else it meant, it meant she was going from his life. Probably forever. All the courtly whispers of the day before, about the collapse of the Spanish monarchy, the questionable fate of his fellow monarch, was eclipsed by the loss of the one simple girl

He went in the bathroom to clean up. The room felt like a marble tomb, the sink's gold handles deathly cold in his hands. He plunged his face in the water and looked up at the fogged mirror. His face stared back at him for a long while, the water running, the walls growing slick with condensation. It was like he'd fallen asleep. He was stirred from his trance by a gentle rap on the door. When he went to answer, he remembered what was happening in Spain, and his hand paused at the wet handle for a moment before he opened it. To his surprise, Desta was waiting for him on the other side, his small mustache pulled in by his tightened expression. "Something has happened." Desta said, curt and professional. "It's about your sister. Get dressed."

--

Sahle spared few thoughts for his little sister. Taytu had existed in his periphery for most of his life, part of another world in a sense, brought up for the female duties of nobility. He knew her as an introverted type, mannerly. Boring. Memories of her floated past his minds eye as Desta explained what had happened in some dusty part of America on the other side of the world. They were not good memories, or bad memories. They were just... there, accompanying him as he walked the lonely halls with his Minister.

"It would be best for the Emebet Hoy to remain distant." Desta said. "She needs time to work out her feelings."

"That's fine." Sahle waved, "I don't bring my mother to all my meetings."

"Very good." Desta said, "The situation is not so dire as the lady would have it. Taytu is recovering comfortably enough, so I am told. Circumstances like this are... delicate."

"So they should be." Sahle stopped in his tracks and grabbed the bridge of his nose. "God be merciful." he exclaimed, "I need a drink."

"Stay sober." Desta said curtly.

The palace went for ever and ever, footfalls echoing, passing men of the Mehal Sefari in dress uniform and pith helmets topped with plumes of lions-mane.

"Where are we going?" Sahle asked, suddenly taken by the pointlessness of what was happening. He longed for that stuffy room, to be swallowed by his blankets with his pleasures.

"The American Ambassador..." Desta started. Sahle stopped paying attention at some point. He'd heard this and forgot it when he was still processing the events of the morning.

They stopped at the oversized doors to some throne room or another. Desta turned to the Emperor and looked at him sympathetically. "This is a delicate matter." he said, "Take the Ambassador's apologies. Be courteous. Wait, and I will retrieve you." Sahle stopped like a dog that'd been told to heel. The doors opened and shut. Two Mehal Sefari stood stoicly at the the Emperor's flanks like statues.

"Your family has sins." a familiar voice startled the Emperor. He turned around and saw Blattengeta Sisay Makari. The old man was leaning on his prayer stick like it was a cane.

"I understand. We all sin." Sahle repeated childhood teachings as if they were a magical spell that would end this conversation.

"There are specific sins in your blood though." the old man said, "And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from off his bed, and walked upon the roof of the king's house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon. And David sent and inquired after the woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?"

"I know I sin with women, and I pray to god for forgiveness..."

The door opened, interrupting him. He turned and abandoned the old man, who started to say something. "Don't..." was the last word before the door closed Sahle away from him.

"His Imperial Majesty, the Conquering Lion of Judah, Sahle the First." a page announced. The room was empty save for a sad looking Jefferson Davis Bacon. The Emperor walked to his throne, the room a velvet and ebony nightmare of royal finery. A few unrecognized American attaches stood next to the fat ambassador like suit and tie wearing royal retainers.

"We are pleased to see our friend Jefferson Davis Bacon." Sahle said. The words came out naturally, but he did not have the peace of mind to praise himself for them.

"I deeply regret what has occurred" Bacon started, "I have heard nothing but praises for your sister in the State Department. I hope your majesty doesn't see the actions of a couple a' peckerwoods as representative of the whole United States of America."

"We understand Le'elt Taytu is recovering. This pleases us." Sahle started. He felt frozen for a moment, vaguely aware of Desta's approval right below his feet. Then the shadow of a thought crossed into his mind. Was it wrong? Surely not. It felt like destiny. Now he was a loose palm frond swept up by the wind, pushed on by fate, excited about what he didn't seem to control. "We cannot accept an apology. We demand satisfaction! Ethiopia demands the criminals who did this thing to our sister! We demand them sent here, alive if you can, so we can punish them!"

"That's... well, I apologize your majesty, but that dog won't hunt! We can't deliver American citizens to any other form of justice but our own."

"We demand it! And to prove this, we close our borders to you! No American can enter! No American can leave! This is my demand."

Desta pulled at the Emperor's robe as he marched out. It didn't matter. This was the way things had to be. It was the only way he could get what he wanted.

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

---------------------------------
July 8th: Beijing, China
---------------------------------

Yaqob woke up cold. The Ethiopian Embassy had once been the mansion of a Kuomintang general. It was built of stone and wood, decorated with complex patterns, and topped with a blue slanting roof. It was majestic, and certainly expensive, but it wasn't well insulated and let in a draft, something the young Prince hadn't experienced in his African homeland. His room had a dresser and a handful of empty bookshelves. That latter detail depressed him. Despite being so far from home, he was starting to feel like a royal prisoner again, the man in the iron mask, kept in a stone cage until he was needed for some official purpose.

Sometimes he met Akale Tebebe drinking coffee in the sweet smelling garden, going through paperwork. Akale was a busy man. He'd been tasked with working out trade agreements, particularly for coffee, the prime obsession of the Minister of Pen. Today he wasn't there, and Yaqob took his coffee alone while watching the sparrows flit on blue tiles atop the stone wall surrounding the property. He found himself counting the flowers painted on the wall when he realized he needed to take action. He needed books, right? Every other day he'd been meeting with a tutor to teach him Chinese. Wouldn't a book written in the language be study material of a sort?

He went inside, catching to musky scent of incense as he passed from room to room. In his bedroom he got dressed in a Zhongshan suit and boots, both a gift from the mayor of Beijing. He found Yuan, Chinese currency, and went to the garage outside, startling the Chinese driver and his mechanic, who were both smoking when the prince came in. In awkward Chinese he asked for a ride to the market. The uncertain driver obliged.

They went down the wooded road where sleepy mansions stood. The city became denser and the road straightened. Grey hutongs crowded under slender jujube trees as the people of the city went on by, barely noticing the car as it passed. They met the main street, crowded with cars and buses. Yaqob loved the feel of the city, how it was lively and bright. He was dropped off in front of an open-air market while the driver went to find what to do with the car.

The market was made of so many stalls lined up neatly under canopies. Yaqob, taller than anybody else in the market, had no problem seeing what was for sale. There were buddhas and other religious items, porcelain bowls and vases, incense wrapped in large bundles. He saw one large vase with the angelic image of Hou feeding some ducks, a serene smile on his face.

"Farmers are pouring into the cities celebrating this season's bounty!" a woman's voice stated in a joyous airy tone over radio speakers on wire-choked poles, "The Ministry of Agriculture reports that rice supplies have doubled within the previous two months! Good weather in Hubei, Zhegiang, Shanghai, and Anhui have brought forth a plentiful harvest over this year! More is yet to come as the provinces of Hunan, Guizhou, and Guangxi have yet to report in. It is Friday, July 8th. The temperature is 30 degrees. " It went on to play music, bombastic and optimistic, a singing choir proclaiming "The east is red, the sun is rising."

An old man with coke-bottle glasses sold books stacked in shipping crates. Yaqob entered his stall. The old man looked up and did a double take, not used to men of the prince's complexion. Yaqob perused as happily as if he were a housewife shopping for her friends.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" the old man asked politely.

"I don't know." Yaqob said awkwardly. He was self-conscious of his slow, bumbling way of speaking the language, sounding like a mental retard escaped from the asylum. The old man gave him an off look and left him alone.

The titles of the books were hard to read. He'd never heard of most of it, but he picked up three; a collection of Hou's later essays, a book he'd never heard of called Ziye, and a strangely out of place one called Miss Sophia's Diary. The book dealer wasn't communicative when Yaqob paid him, looking up and nodding at who he must have saw as a foolish near-mute dark skinned giant.

With books in hand, Yaqob continued his walk. He entered a part of the street where food was being sold. Amongst the fruits and spices wafted the smells of snacks being cooked on the street. Yaqob wanted to feel like a real authentic Chinese communist. With a set of Houist essays on top of his stack, he walked up to a cart and bought a pork bun. It tasted strangely sweet compared to what he was used to.

"Enjoying the town, your highness?" an unfamiliar voice, professional and polite, came from behind. He processed instantly that the voice was speaking Amharic. He turned around and saw an unassuming young Chinese man dressed in overalls like a mechanic.

"Who are you?" Yaqob asked.

The man pulled out a badge as nonchalantly as if he was showing a photograph of his family. Intelligence Bureau. "I am glad to see you enjoying our city. But, If you don't mind me saying, I could have been somebody dangerous. But you are lucky. I am your friend."

"Why would I be in danger?"

"The world is a dangerous place. Do you know what kind of strange people loiter the markets this time of day? And you are not exactly conspicuous."

"I am done anyway." Yaqob said.

The agent shrugged. "Well, no harm no foul, eh? I'll follow you until you are home. Make sure you are safe."

The agent walked him to his car, where the nervous looking driver who'd brought him there was waiting. The agent got in with them, and they started back toward the embassy.

"So I can't go outside?" Yaqob asked, almost pouting.

"You can go wherever you like, but please go with an escort." the agent pulled a cigarette from his pocket and offered it to the prince. Yaqob shook his head. The agent shrugged and lit it up himself. "And make sure your people get in contact with us. We want to know any place you visit is safe for you."

Yaqob's day out ended in the garage where it'd started. The mechanic was still there, leaning against the corner, smoking. Yaqob started to leave the car, but the agent grabbed him gently by the shoulder. "You remember what we talked about?"

"I'll do as you say." Yaqob said. They both got out. The agent walked down the street from which they'd just came, whistling 'The East is Red.'

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

-------------------------------------
1939: Salt Lake City, Utah
-------------------------------------

Pvt Saul Allred forgot how to pray after the fall of Salina. He wasn't sure why he was still alive anymore. As Federal armor plowed into the city of saints, he just went through the motions, taking his place in the barricade with his fellow survivors of the LDSA, their powder-blue uniforms tainted with ash and blood, pouring the last of their ammunition at an enemy they could not defeat. The road was cut off by a milk truck and a car pushed onto their sides, scrap filling the holes in the defense, in front of a small plaza around an obelisk. The Federal attack was slow but constant. The mechanical whine and rumble of motorized armor echoed ominously through the canyon of shops and manufacturers.

"The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney promised out loud for the third time that day. He was losing his mind. Saul sensed that everyone knew this, but nobody was willing to be the one that said it. It would be an admission of lapsed faith.

"Get down!" Lt Carson shouted as two screaming Jackrabbits flew low, strafing the tops of buildings behind the falling Mormon defenses, working to break machine gun nests. They braced for the big attack, but it never came. Night arrived. The fighting didn't stop, but slowed down, the roar of combat seeming to be muffled rather than silenced. The burning city cast dancing fire on the clouds above. Saul didn't sleep. He hadn't eaten in two days. Hadn't he already died? He wondered if men always go through this stage before death, fate's way of preparing the soul for departure, turning the body into a fading memory so that the victim met their end numb.

No food came for them that morning. They didn't expect it. Saul didn't care. Lt Carson led a morning prayer as bombs burst overhead.

"Father in Heaven. We thank thee for thy victories, for the truth thy church has proffered unto us, and thy temple which stands as a sign unto us to continue thy works on earth. Thou shalt triumph over the army of sinners before our gates, and deliver the saints to victory. Give us the courage to go on, and bless our families so they might take comfort in these trying times. Bless the walls of the Temple, so that the precious souls who take shelter in thy presence may be as safe as infants in their mother's womb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

"Amen" the gathered soldiers replied.

Each time a bomb blast nearby, Pvt Romney muttered "The angels are coming"

The attack came at mid-day. Federal troops laid down a field of fire. The Mormons shot back, but they were pinned. The triumphant obelisk between their two armies was chipped away piece by piece, stone flaking onto the ground. The sickly grumble of tank engines came closer and closer until they came around the corner, looking like large brown machines rolling off a factory floor, alive and possessing their own will.

"The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney stood up. The sergeant yelled for him to come down. Romney climbed onto the milk truck and planted himself there, waving his hands at the sky. The first shell took him squarely, blowing him apart, raining his gore onto his comrades. The second shot hit the car and threw it out of the way. Saul took a shot, but didn't see where it went. He felt like he was watching it all in a moving picture theater, himself a background character, not a real person.

Machine gun fire tore into the LDSA position. Two men went down, blood pouring for wounds. This place was no longer defensible. They started running. Saul fell back with them. He didn't know why he went. His legs fled and took him with them.

There hadn't really been a defensive line in Salt Lake City for several days. They'd been whittled down to a small number of stubborn pockets, those last few lumps as the masher came down, resisting the inevitable, hoping for angels.

They stood in the foothills to the west, overlooking Parley's canyon and the Lincoln Highway, among the sagebrush where they could catch their breath. The smoke rising from the defeated city blotted out the tops of the Wasatch mountains. To the east was a city wreathed in destruction, an image of Sodom and Gomorrah, abhorrent to the true believer who couldn't help but think of the lake of fire. The Temple rose almost triumphantly midst the calamity, a flower in hell.

An ashen air blew up from the city when the echo of the big guns reached the survivors. Shells burst on that holy temple, and its Gothic spires tumbled to the ground. Lt Carson dropped to his knees weeping like a child. Saul Allred had been raised a Mormon, had lived and breathed the lives of the saints, but seeing it all crushed into the dust by the secular armies of man... it didn't seem to matter. He turned, abandoned his comrades, and walked into the Wasatch mountains alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 5th, 1960: Masindi Port, Swahili People's Republic
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marcel paced onto the ferry dock, looking at the mirror-like river, the clouds reflecting from its surface. A flock of brown-orange ducks bobbed on the water. It was peaceful. So many other places in the country were burning right now, but not here. The fires in Mombasa and Kampala, the blood spilled in the Nabakazi river, none of it seemed to affect this place.

Behind him, his Force Socialiste stood patiently in their faded blue uniforms. The small village behind them didn't come out to attend them. Marcel received warm smiles and gifted food from his many admirers here when he arrived, but they remained solemn and reserved. Worried, he knew. The arrival of armed men is a bad omen. But also, they knew who he'd came to meet, and the mad preacher of the Freedom Army of God struck fear in more Ugandans than anything else.

"Do you think we should have met him here?" one of his Force Socialiste said, pointing to the mosque in a copse of nearby trees. It was a small building, white plaster, its Islamic roots only made visible by the spindly minaret.

"Do you think he will burn it, Laurent? With us here? No, he is practical, he will not do this thing."

The first sign of their visitors was a thin column of steam to the north. A beat-up old steamboat came chugging down the river, a makeshift wooden platform built above the deck acting as a simple second level. As it came closer, the layer of vague humanity that caked its two decks become distinguishable. They were a ragged crew, hardly discernible from pirates. Half of them looked like children, grown hard-faced by the trials of combat, boys who'd killed men before they had hair under their arms. Their leader, standing like Washington crossing the Delaware, was a middle aged man in Askari fatigues and a pith-helmet, a big pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes. It was unnerving, like watching a supernatural beast swim slowly up to shore, but Marcel kept his resolve and stood up straight. From the dock they heard the low moan of the steam engine, the slosh of disturbed water, and the manly battle cry of the men on deck. Marcel's men prepared to fight, but Marcel held his hand out for them to pause.

At the sign of triumph
Satan's host doth flee;
On, then, Christian soldiers,
on to victory!

Hell's foundations quiver
at the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices,
loud your anthems raise!

The grimy crusaders roared like Zulu warriors when the hymn was over. The boat slowed down, and the hard-faced preacher looked straight at Marcel.

"Why should we talk?" he said monotoned.

Marcel smiled. "You came so far, bwana. Tie your boat to our shore, so we can learn to be friends."

"We will not be friends."

"The Communist armies have reunited. They will murder both of us."

"God will protect us." the preacher replied. His eyes completely hidden behind his dark glasses, and his face as placid as the still waters, he didn't seem to react to anything Marcel said. He felt like he was talking with a stone statue. Then something came to him.

"Do you know the story of the old man who broke his leg while working his field, bwana?" Marcel asked innocently enough.

"I am a weapon of the lord. I did not come for gossip." the preacher replied.

"His son came to him, looking really worried, and said 'Pa pa, I will pick you up and take you to the doctor so you will be better', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to carry me' And so the son ran off to find help. He brought back a local healer, who said 'Let me set your leg and administer herbs so you do not get an infection', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to heal me'. The wound became infected, so the village elders came, and they offered to have the farmer transported to a big town where there was a hospital. But the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to save me'. And then the farmer died."

"Do not mock..."

"The farmer met God, and he asked him 'My lord, you saw my suffering, why did you do nothing?' and God said 'I sent your son, and you sent him away. I sent the healer, and you sent him away. Then I sent the village elders, and you sent them away. If you would not accept your neighbors, why would you accept a miracle?'. Don't you see this, bwana? If the Communists wanted to, they could walk into your lands and lock your entire flock in prison until you all starve and die. And they will do this thing too. We should not be friends, you are right, but I offer you my friendship anyway. If you take it, there will be many of us, and we will be strong."

"You know how to preach a sermon, Comrade Marcel." the preacher said, "You almost make us forget that you are a communist too. But my flock hasn't forgotten." Behind them, the glaring rabble whooped and shouted. The preacher held out his hand up and silenced them. "You don't let my true believers practice their work in your territory."

"Your arsonists." Marcel said.

"They have their work, given to them by the lord. You hunt them down like rats."

"Like criminals."

"Do not persecute my saints. That is our conditions. Let righteousness follow its natural God-given course, and we will fight our common enemy together."

Marcel bit his tongue. It crossed his mind he could draw his gun now and get rid of this monster.

"You don't have to say anything. I will bring the Freedom Army of God south, into the land of the Philistines, and we will fight with you until we hear of you abusing the believers. Do you understand, brother Hondo-Demissie?"

"I understand, brother Allred" replied Marcel.

"We will fight together then." the preacher snatched a sack out of the bottom of the boat and took something out. It was black and organic looking. Allred threw it onto the deck. "Remember the promise you made. The lord certainly will."

Marcel bent down to pick up the object. It was black and wet, a mess of char and ruined flesh. It looked like the head of a small dog, but it was too disfigured by fire to properly make out. Marcel held onto it as the preacher's boat left the shore.

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

@EveryMemeAKing

Okay, so about "New Ninevah". I figured that name is bland as dollar store oatmeal, so I did some digging. Assyrian is a harder language to dig info on, so I stole from Aramaic, which actually has a few mostly biblical translations you can piece together. What comes out of this scanty research isn't grammatical, and I wouldn't swear by it, but it feels better than "New Ninevah"

So first what I got is that the Aramaic rendering of Ninevah is "Ninawa". Starting there, we have...

Dakia Ninawa "Pure Ninevah"

Nihga Ninawa "Dawn Ninevah"

Zhara Ninawa "Glory Ninevah"

I used this shoddy dictionaryto come up with this shit, and wiki's info on the name Ninevah itself. If you can dig up something better, go for it. I just suggest a change like this to create the right ambience. English renderings for place names can get boring. Lord help us if I called my capital "New Flower"

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

Okay, here's my assessments an' shit.

Most Interesting Character

Hou
@Dinh AaronMk

Hou probably cheats his way into this category by virtue of how long he's been around, but I always liked the psychological image of the character and how he breaks out of conventional dictator norms. He's not power hungry, megalomaniacal, or scheming. Nor is he august or god-like. Hou is a man who's career is driven by something human and sincere, even if it isn't quite in focus. Whereas most of us write our character's value to their society through events and mechanical reaction, Hou seems like the most believable 'Great person', who's greatness lies within himself first and without only second, like a Chinese Marcus Aurelius. He shows the importance on writing personalities over events, and how much can be done when you are subtle with details.

Best Collaborative Post

The Berlin Conference
@Chapatrap, @Shyri, @Wilted Rose, @Mihndar, @Pepperm1nts

Though the technical details of PoW writing has significantly improved since 2012, I feel like the one thing we lost in the transition is the relationship between the nations themselves and how the personalities of each nation can come to life through interaction. The Berlin Conference was a taste of the old PoW, having all the better parts of good ol' international events like the American Wars while leaving out the problems that used to come with those. You can make an interesting post in a conference, but to do it you gotta draw out the personalities involved, and this is a great example of how it can be done. Plus, really, if you wanted to explain to an outsider why PoW Europe seems to be so impotent, this post shows it off.

Best Solo Story Arc

Sara Reicker
@The Wyrm

It's difficult to make comments on arc completion this early on, so quick constructions are going to be the order of things. You introduced this character in, what, three posts? And by the apogee of that introduction you'd already made her out to be the next Gang Gouji. It was a very well done short turn-around.

Best Post

The Most Dangerous Game
@The Wyrm

Spaniards doing evil things in North Africa. This is classic PoW style. I like how you are willing to go a little bit further, not for the sake of your own self gain, but for the sake of hitting that note that is a little too high and creating that dissonant sound that makes PoW what it is. PoW isn't about recreating HOI playthroughs or making realistic facsimiles of world politics, its about taking old genre tropes from so many different genres and sewing them all together. This post is a perfect work-up of that system.

Best Character Development

Aurelia Dizon
@Letter Bee

I feel like Aurelia has been the closest thus far to filling the kind of villain role once held by Sotelo. She is openly aggressive in here style of politics and selfish in her goals, which detaches her from the national-avatar problem so many leaders have in NRPs. I like reading a good hand-ringing villain speech now and then.

Best Nation Development

United States of America
@Byrd Man

The US has probably been the most fleshed out country in the RP since you took it over. The reason is obviously because you focus on civilian and mid-level political leaders over executives and soldiers, allowing for the system and society to shine rather than the decisions and battles. I think everybody should look to your examples when working out how to make their countries into actual countries. I've definitely been trying to.

And I don't say this just because you are the United States. I think what has especially made your US vivid is the fact that you've broke from RP America in some ways and came up to it through a new history. Part of making a faction in PoW is knowing how to verge from the real course of history. Any monkey with a few youtube history videos and a keyboard can mimic the real world history of a country, but it takes true skill to confidently verge from the real-world version without landing in some hollow trope. You've nailed that.

Best Creative Idea

Assyria
@EveryMemeAKing

Okay, so it's probably controversial to chose somebody who hasn't posted yet as the most creative idea... but imma do it. I am a sucker for unique shit, and going with an independent Assyria is right down my alley. I really want to see you thrive in this RP. Post, keep on posting. Don't be shy about making what might feel like silly references to the ancient kingdom of the same name BTW. I really really encourage light anachronism.

Best Use of Alt. History

Armenia
@TheEvanCat

It is easy to fall into certain tropes in 20th century alt-history. I feel like PoW has, even if by accident, avoided a lot of the worst stuff due to the weird distribution of our interests. Armenia as a significant player on the world stage is a great example of this. What alt history digs up a country as random as Armenia and turns it into the military powerhouse? Let the Wehraboo's have their stahlhelms and Prussian drilling, but in PoW, let the taraz and the unibrowed Armenian sergeant be the symbol of potent militarism.

PoW MVP (aka The Prime Preciprick)

Aaron
@Dinh AaronMk

There isn't a PoW without Aaron running the show, even today. None of the rest of us have the stamina to keep track of the newbies and lapsing oldbies. We lose Aaron, PoW dies. Don't think there is anybody else that could be said for.

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

-------------------------------------------------
June into July: Las Vegas, Nevada
-------------------------------------------------

It didn't take them long to reach Nevada. Dawn broke when they arrived at Hoover Dam, red morning light washing over the martian landscape around the Colorado river. They stopped at a small spot overlooking the dam and got out of the car, walking like the undead, stretching their cramped limbs, brushing the dust off their old clothes. Both of them looked scruffy, as they hadn't found time to change or wash up since Sun City. It was chilly. The desert nights vanquished the last day's heat, leaving the sun with catching up to do. Taytu pulled her arms tight against her breast to keep warm. There, overlooking the dam, was a simple monument of red rock.

"The Battle of Hoover Dam, September 3rd - September 15th, 1938."
"Site of the only victory won by Nevada State forces against the United States Army."

It was simple and to the point. Taytu knew nothing more about the event than what the monument said. She suddenly thought of her little brother, and the memory of home warmed her from the inside. Yaqob would know more about what had happened here. He'd probably read a book about this battle. Maybe several.

"Nevada." He said. She nodded. They got back in the car and started on their way.

Noh kept the top down, betting on the cold air to keep him awake. Neither spoke as they crossed the dam. Part of it was they were too scarred from what had happened in Sun City, but mostly they were just tired. One of the rocky ridges overlooking the road was crowned by the roughly hewn statue of a man with a cowboy hat and a rifle. Taytu stared at it as they went by.

The first town they reached was Boulder City, where they were disappointed to find no hotels or motels or anywhere to stay for the night. Boulder City gave the impression of a work village, only houses and basic amenities available. They filled up the tank at a small self-serve gas station and went on past. The red rock gave way to open desert as they went through an even smaller worker's village called Magnesium, and they were disappointed again. Just past Magnesium, the static on their radio came alive. "We must be coming to a bigger town." Noh said as the lyrics became audible.

To the town of Agua Fria
rode a stranger one fine day

Hardly spoke to folks around him,
didn't have too much to say,

No one dared to ask his business,
no one dared to make a slip

The stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip,

Big iron on his hip.

They saw the radio tower before they saw the town. Las Vegas was only somewhat bigger than Boulder City, its tallest structures the radio tower, after that the bell tower of a catholic church. They passed several hotels, but a newly found paranoia kept them going past, hoping to find something less conspicuous. The biggest was a casino made to look like a barn, the words "The Bloody Knoll" glowing in red illuminated letters. They finally stopped at The Sands: a series of rentable bungalows on the edge of town.

Taytu couldn't feel her fingers, and her legs seemed like jelly as she stepped out of the car again. Noh was quiet but determined. They both went into the first bungalow, a sign saying "Management" above the door. A bell ringed when they entered.

"Good morning!" an old man with a broom-like mustache looked up from behind his desk. "You need a room this early?"

"We didn't have the chance to stop." Noh said stonily, "One room."

"A bungalow will run you fifteen dollars a night." Noh produced the money and the man handed him a key. "Third one down to your right." The walk to and into the cabin was a blur. They collapsed almost as soon as they arrived, and slept dreamless until midnight.

When Taytu awoke, it was dark. She felt drowsy, her eyelids heavy and strange. She struggled to sit up and fumbled for the lamp-switch. The room filled with bitter light so suddenly that it hurt her eyes. She squeaked when she saw Noh sitting on the edge of his bed, his body drooped as if he carried a bag of grain on his back.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"After midnight." he said, "You sleep well?"

She nodded.

"Good." he looked at her, and she saw resolve in his eyes. "We need to leave. I do not trust these people. They let wild dogs run loose."

"I was thankful for those men in the suits, back at the casino. We owe them something."

"But what were they?"

"The owners" she said meekly, knowing what he was getting at.

"Gangsters. Criminals! They saved us because 'nigger' corpses are bad for business!"

She was looking down at the floor now. She hadn't realized it before now, perhaps she had just been too tired, but somehow the experience at the Lucky Gent had been worse for him then it had been for her. "I understand where you are coming from, but we are strangers here. We have to accept enough about this place to survive."

A knock came at the door. Taytu and Noh looked at each other with wide eyes. Noh grabbed his gun from the drawer and leaned against the door. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Just wantin' to know if you'd like something to eat?" a familiar old voice replied from the other side, "I don't have much, but there ain't many meals out there at this hour, and I wouldn't mind the company."

There was a silence. Noh looked uncertainly back at Taytu. She nodded toward the door. He opened it a crack, revealing the friendly face of the elderly manager. "That sounds good, if we aren't too much trouble." she told him. All the tension in the air let out right then. Noh opened the door fully and they followed the old man into the starry night.

He led them back to his bungalow, and they sat on stools pulled up against the counter. A radio blared from time to time. The room was very small, but as she looked at the mess on the caretaker's side, it dawned on her that he lived there.

"All I have is grapefruit, and some bacon I cooked up on a hot plate, but a meager meal is better than none. I got coffee too."

"We'll take what you can spare." she said. He served their meals on paper plates, the coffee in old stained mugs, and the three of them started to eat. The radio was playing some sort of cop drama. She looked at it as she tried to figure out what was going on, struggling to make out enough words to form cohesive ideas. The old man caught her gaze and explained. "There was stabbing down at The Bloody Knoll. Some fella and his friend got crazy on dope and the bigger guy slashed the other one wide open."

"That's the news?" she asked.

"Police radio." he said. She looked at him with a question in mind, but he guessed it. "No, I'm not a cop, but I like to know what goes on in this town."

"So that's really happening? Right now?" Noh said, giving Taytu a knowing glance.

"Fraid it is. World's goin' to hell on a fast train."

"Do you know where I might buy a gun?" Noh asked the old man. The question startled Taytu with its frankness.

"Why, what do you need another one for?" the old man said. Taytu and Noh both were startled by that. Taytu felt she'd adopted the qualities of a tennis ball, slapped from one side of the conversation to another.

"How did you know I am armed?"

"I've been around a while, I've picked up a thing or two. Now tell my, why another gun?"

Noh sulked a moment before he spoke. "We ran into trouble in Sun City. I couldn't draw in time..."

"That's you, not the piece." the old man interrupted.

Noh bristled, but responded in the same tone he had been using. "I'd feel safer."

"What kind of trouble did you two get into anyhow?"

There was an awkward pause. Noh looked down at his half-eaten fruit. It was Taytu that spoke up. "Racial trouble."

"Oooooh." the old man understood all at once, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. Well, you might find someone willing to sell, but Pete down at the gun store don't like to sell to out-of-towners. Too many gangsters come through here, we being smack between Reno, Sun City, and Los Angeles. But if you want to practice drawin' behind the cabins, well, I won't mind. Just put a distance between that pea-shooter and the horses."

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think we'll be here that long." Taytu said, "We're going to get a flight to Los Angeles as soon as possible."

"And leave that car behind?"

"The embassy will take care of that. We just want to get back home."

"Embassy?" the old man's interest was peaked.

"We're Ethiopian." Taytu told half the truth.

"Oh. Well, I'm even more sorry about the trouble you had. Hate that my countrymen have to go make a bad impression."

"Your hospitality makes up for it." Taytu said, "By the way, I don't think I got your name."

"Norbert Noonan." he said, "Call me Bert."

--

"The next flight to LA takes off in two weeks." the ticket agent said, standing in a glass booth inside the nearly abandoned terminal of Oddie Airport just south of town. Noh despaired, in the Goya sense of the word, his face contorting for a split-moment in agony. The woman behind the glass looked frightened for him.

"One week?" Taytu spoke, "Are we in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes you are, ma'am." the agent croaked, "This is Las Vegas. Only people come here are people looking for work. Do you want to purchase tickets on the next flight?"

"We'll think about it."

"Don't matter much to me." The agent seemed to have recovered from Noh's unhappiness. "It isn't going to fill up. You can come in the day of the flight and I betcha we'll have tickets."

They stepped away, toward the wooden benches on the other side of the room, sitting beneath a bulletin board advertising job listings, second hand appliances, and the like. "We'll have to drive." Taytu said. "I thought we might need to."

"I have seen the map." Noh replied, "The desert between here and Los Angeles is long and barren. I did not know the desert highways were dangerous, but now I do, and I cannot take the sister of his Imperial majesty through such a place. What bandits may we find out there?"

She bit her lip. She wanted to tell him it was fine, that they should go on. She wanted to be the strong one. But the incident in Sun City stuck in the back of her mind. She'd never been threatened before, not like that, and it instilled a feeling of uncertainty. Vulnerability. In a place like this, they really were weak.

"Is Las Vegas less dangerous? This place is a desert village."

"We have a place to hide." he said stubbornly. "And we know there are authorities here. Plus, did you see Bert's gun?"

"Gun?" she asked.

Noh nodded. "He has a Martini–Henry rifle. I know it, my grandfather had one from his time in the war, and he passed it on to my father. That is a good weapon. Mr Bert makes us safer."

Taytu smiled. "You don't hate all these people anymore?"

"I don't hate anybody." Noh looked forward, frustrated. "I do not know what to think."

They drove on to the bank, where Noh used a payphone to check in with the embassy and have money wired to them. Taytu stayed inside and watched the few trucks and cars ply the sleepy western town. It seemed peaceful, idealistic. Even a small village like this lacked the grime that could be found everywhere in her home country. America seemed perpetually fresh. But now, after Sun City, that image was tarnished by a foreboding. America was not the a perfect fruit she'd always thought of it as. It was the deceptively waxed apple, its outside shiny, its inside as rotten as any broken society in the world. Americans hadn't perfected life, they'd perfected advertisement, and they used that skill to gloss over their societal ills. They'd learned better than any other people in the world to lie to themselves. For an outsider, this was as dangerous as the camouflaged predator.

They returned to the bungalow before noon. Taytu found Bert and told him they'd be staying with him a little longer. The old man's face was sympathetic, but his eyes lit up. She knew that he really did want their company, and for a moment, she felt bad to be working so hard to leave.

"I'll give you a weekly rate then. Last night will be included."

"You don't have to go through the trouble." she said, smiling.

"No trouble at all. You are good people, I don't mind having you around. It gets quiet around her."

"I'm sorry for keeping you up last night." she said, "We don't want to be a bother."

"No bother at all." he waved the apology away, "I don't sleep much at night. Mind keeps me up. It was good to have somebody to talk to for a change. If you two want to come over tonight, I'd be glad to have you."

"We will do that." she smiled. "Maybe not so late..."

"Of course, of course. You'll want your sleep. Hey! It's past noon! It's probably late for you now."

Taytu laughed. "I don't feel tired, but that will probably change when I see a bed. I'll see you later." She left the old man and caught up with Noh in the bungalow.

She hadn't really looked at their room before, having only rushed in and out of it until now. She realized this when she walked in for the third time since they'd rented it and noticed there was a painting of a wagon wheel hanging on the wall. This prompted her to look around, seeing the old desk, the hardwood floor, and the mirror that looked like something from another century. It felt decorated like an old woman's house. It was cozy, a small cave to hide from the world.

Noh left the bathroom. Taytu's mood had improved, she'd even grown calm, until she saw him. He was a broken man. It hurt her, scared her even, reminding her in a gut-punch way the things they had to worry about. But did they? Why did they see bikers around every corner now? How much did they really have to fear, and how much of it was their emotions, overworked since that one incident? She thought of the native woman in the desert, and the warning about the Ranger bar. Hadn't that been a close call? Her heart roiled. She wanted to put it all back out of her mind.

"I need you." she said. It felt like somebody else was talking. She grabbed him, pulling him to her like a safety blanket, the feel of his muscles writhing beneath his skin making her feel small and protected, each point of skin-on-skin contact a promise that everything would be fine, a promise she was insatiably hungry for. She began undressing him, and he slowly started to do the same for her. They fell into bed, their love making dream-like in her mind. When they were finished the darkness inside the cabin swallowed them up. The last thing Taytu was aware of was the chirping of a bird outside.

Suddenly, she was in an empty casino, its walls made of wood, all the empty chairs pointed toward the stage in the middle. She was aware that she was naked, though she did not see herself. She felt small and vulnerable, a hare cornered by a jackal, nothing to do, helpless. A stage light went on, so that nothing else but the stage and a standing microphone could be seen. A man walked into the light. He was a highway ranger by his appearance, a patchy beard on his face, his leather jacket almost rags. A feeling of dread welled up inside her as the man began to sing slow and sad.

"Some prayers never reach the sky"
"Some wounds never heal"
"They still say someday the South will rise"
"Man, I want to see that deal"

A second man joined him in ratty grey fatigues. He was old, his hair greasy and thin. Taytu was the only one in the room, but they didn't look at her, instead acting as if they were performing for a packed audience. The old man sang alone in a voice that was soft and strained while the second man stood by.

"I don't want to grow old gracefully"
"I don't want to go 'til it's too late"
"I'll be some old man in the road somewhere"
"Kneeling down in the dust by the side of the Interstate"

Then suddenly a dozen voices came together, men and women, highway rangers, aging soldiers, impoverished dirt farmers.

I am a renegade
I've been a rebel all my days
I am a renegade
I've been a rebel all my days

We were hopelessly outnumbered
It was a lost cause all along
But when we heard the bugles call
We swore we'd stand or fall together right or wrong

At the last line, all their eyes turned to her, and the music stopped. The sheer horror of that moment woke her up in a cold sweat, and it took her a panicked moment to get her bearings in their dark bungalow. As her eyes adjusted to the room, she saw Noh sitting at the desk, naked, cleaning his gun in silence. When he looked up at her she saw the wet glint in his eyes.

--

Over the course of the week, their circadian rhythm hammered their days back together, and they bided their time at the Bungalows, eating meals with Mr Bert, Noh practicing by shooting old sarsaparilla bottles behind the last bungalow in the back. Each shot echoed long and heavy across the lonesome desert. Taytu went out from time to time and watched, until the repetition bored her and her eyes started to wander over the desolate Mojave until she found herself watching Bert's horses. One day Bert himself came out and asked to see Noh's gun. Taytu stood there in the summer heat and watched as a reluctant Noh obliged the old man.

"Walther." Bert said, staring interested at the weapon in his palm. "Are these common in Africa?"

"We get them from Ostafrika. They are very common." Hearing the two men talking now, Taytu became conscious of Noh's accent.

Bert nodded, his bald head gleaming in the sun. "Nine millimeter. I can get you something for this when I go into town" Shortly afterward he went away in a beat up truck, and Noh returned to sniping c ans. Bert returned with ammunition, which he gifted to Noh, buying his trust. When they ate together that night, Noh was more animated than usual.

"Where did you learn so much about shooting?"

The old man chewed on a piece of bacon fat and look down at his shoes. "Used to shoot jack-rabbits where I grew up outside of Tonopah. That's up north a ways." he paused for a moment and smiled weakly, "It's good shootin'. That's where I learned the most of it."

"Oh. With that rifle, I thought you'd been in the army."

Bert laughed. "They wouldn't accept me in the army. No, that gun is from a different time. I keep it clean, but it never gets used. Doesn't need to be."

"Giving the jack rabbits a rest?" Taytu said.

"My jack rabbit days are over. So are you kids going tomorrow?"

"Our flight should be here."

Bert leaned back. "It'll take some time getting used to the quiet again."

When they went back to the bungalow later that night, Taytu felt a strange sadness in leaving this place. It'd been a refuge for the last two weeks, and it was starting to feel like a home. It was a kind she'd never had before. This world was closed in, simple, comfortable, lacking any of the complex rules she'd grown up with in the world of royalty. That warm, wishful feeling, nostalgia for something she'd never had, all went away when she heard the strange putter of small engines on the road. Her blood froze in her veins when she looked around and saw three lights, all spaced apart. Motorcycles. She watched them go by, disturbing the supreme desert darkness. She fled inside only when they had passed.

--

"Delayed!" Noh shouted at the frightened woman in the glass booth, "It is the only one for weeks! How can it be delayed? What can we do!"

"Calm down, mister, or I will have to call the police." the woman on the other side threatened, "It is not my fault. It's going to be another week. The airline made the decision."

"We cannot stay here that long!"

"Drive to LA. It's only a five hour trip. Won't take you that long at all." The agent said. Noh left the booth in frustration and returned to Taytu. That thought about how stupid it was for them to wait for a plane had crossed her mind a few times before, but she'd accepted caution. She might've eschewed that acceptance just now if it wasn't for the motorcycles the night before. They made it easier for her mind to build bandit camps in the Mojave, belching out bands of redneck pirates on the hunt for anybody who wasn't white. "What are we going to do?" Noh asked her, but she just sat there frozen as a statue, unsure of anything. An idea came to her. "We should return to Bert." she said, "He'll know what to do."

The drive through the town was silent. They kept the top down, the breeze reprieving them from the desert heat. Taytu watched as banks, dime-stores, and cafes passed by as pretty as a picture. Her heart felt burdened, ready to drop out of her chest. What could they do? Perhaps they could call the consulate! It seemed foolish they hadn't before. An airplane could be sent for them. Taytu was going to tell Noh to pull over at the next gas station so he could make the call when she saw the three men mounted on their motorcycles. They were grimy, unshaved, and leather-clad. She sat perfectly still, hoping they wouldn't see her. They gave no indication that they had. It wasn't until further down the road, when she saw them trailing far behind them, that she knew for certain they were in trouble.

"Go faster." she said. Noh didn't look back. He'd saw them too.

They reached The Sands and peeled onto the dusty ground. Bert came out and watched bewildered as Noh drove their car behind his bungalow. They waited, hearts in throats, as the sound of small engines came up the road. It needed to pass them, Taytu thought. She began to pray, though she didn't realize that was what she was doing. The world seemed to fall apart when the engines slowed down, and they heard them pull into The Sands. One of the rangers yelled something, but they didn't take the time to hear it. Noh hit the gas. They charged through the rough desert, spinning around Bert's bungalow and back onto the highway. Taytu looked behind. The chase was on. They barrelled through Las Vegas, rangers on their heels, and turned south toward California and freedom.

"You drive" Noh asked. She grabbed the wheel as he maneuvered into her place. Her eyes went wide when he drew his gun. He fired at their pursuers, who weren't ready for it. She saw the rangers try to widen their formation. They couldn't fire back, or didn't try to at first. Taytu felt joy explode in her heart, more than she'd felt before. They were going to win! They were going to win!

A ranger shot at them. The bullet hit a back tire, blowing it out, sending them careening sideways. Noh was thrown from the car. It came to a screeching stop on the shoulder of the road, and the sound of approaching motorcycles spelled their doom. Taytu tried to accept death, but didn't know how to.

An arm reached up and opened her door. She squealed until she saw Noh, his arm bloodied, his face covered in dust. He grabbed her and took her running into a nearby shack. The rangers pulled up and took places hiding behind the rental.

"Give up, Niggers! This ain't your country!"

Noh peaked out the window. There was nothing in the building beside a piece of tumbleweed. They were already caught. "Let us go home and we'll leave your country to you" he offered.

"Too late for that." another man called out. "You done wrong by livin' here, now you gotta take your punishment."

A shot rang out. It peeled straight through the dry wood. They weren't safe. This was a death trap. Noh fired back, the painful sound ringing in her ears. Taytu couldn't look. She curled herself up in a ball and lay prone on the floor, her eyes closed, her mind suffering from the knowledge that this was her last moment on earth. She wept into the dust.

"Boom boom!" one of the rangers taunted. The gunfire went back and forth slowly. She felt like a gazelle being toyed with by a lion. If it had to end, couldn't it just... end? None of this torture?

Wood splinters flew by, old planks cracking every time the Rangers took a shot. It kept going and going, until it suddenly... stopped. Then she heard that same voice. "Boom... BOOM" the last word came as a grunt, as if it had been said with great effort. Something landed softly near the door. Then the sky fell down. A great big explosion lifted up the ground, sending splinters everywhere. Noh was knocked on his back. She was showered in dust and wood. She peaked up, and to her horror, the entire front of the building had disappeared. They were outside again, shielded only by a fading cloud of debris.

Noh stood up, his gun in his bleeding hand. "Show your faces, cowards!" he said, his voice almost a squeal. The gunfire started up again. She saw Noh grab his shooting arm in pain, his gun falling to a floor. Then a bullet struck her. She didn't completely understand it at first. It felt like she'd been punched in the side. She looked down and saw that she was bleeding, then unreality seemed to take her. Noh was on the ground, but the gunfight was still going on somewhere, heavy and hard.

--

Taytu woke up on a table. It wasn't in a hospital, but rather seemed to be in a bar. Music played from a nearby radio.

It was over in a moment
and the crowd all gathered 'round

There before them lay the body
of the outlaw on the ground

Oh, he might have went on livin'
but he made one fatal slip

When he tried to match the ranger
with the big iron on his hip,

Big iron on his hip

She was in pain. She felt it all over, but it stabbed worse at her side. "What happened?" she begged, "Where's Noh?"

To her surprise, the face came into view wasn't some hairy ranger, but rather the kindly expression of Mr Bert. "Noh is fine. He was only scratched." Bert Noonan wore a cowboy hat and had a rifle strapped to his back. Another man she didn't know stood next to him, but he didn't speak. "We went through your stuff, to see who we should contact. I... I didn't know. Your highness." Bert said.

"Am I going to live?" she asked.

"Yes. It just bit you in the skin. Your highness, if you please..."

"Don't talk like that" she struggled.

"This is Tom Bedford. He's the bartender here in Goodsprings, but I used to know him in a different time. He knows a thing or two about how to mend a bullet wound." The bartender said nothing. He only looked at her strangely, like a curiosity in a museum that'd just appeared from thin air onto his table.

"The Feds have arranged an escort. You'll be safe now."

"Thanks" she sighed. "But the pain... do you have something?"

"Here" Tom said, handing her a bottle of whiskey.

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

-------------------------------
July 4th: Addis Ababa
-------------------------------

Gebi Iyasu was spilling over with guests, the overflow pouring into the courtyard where Sahle sat on a velvet throne that'd been moved out into the grass for this occasion. His lions sat attentively at his side as well wishers approached one by one.

"Your Imperial Majesty, I bring a gift for your birthday, wishing you many many many more!" Fantaye Joas, the fat Mesfin of Hararghe, bowed after he spoke. His jowls gathering beneath his mouth like a hound's. He was an Amharic, and a professed Christian, but he dressed in the soft long robes of a Muslim sheikh. With two claps of his meaty hands, he summoned four men with a litter carrying some strange piece of technology; a bulky wooden box with a small pane of glass just north of its center, looking like a foggy mirror. "Americans call this the television" the fat Mesfin said in a mystic tone, "It delivers images from far away and shows them right in this window."

"Images?" Sahle was intrigued. So far his birthday had been dull. "From anywhere We might like? Could you summon an image from, say..." he thought of naughty things and struggled to say something correct, "Jerusalem?" The Emperor commended himself mentally for such a good choice. Mesfin Fantaye looked panicked, though Sahle hardly noticed until he began to talk. "The images must be sent by radio waves to this box. I am afraid we don't have the technology to do that yet. But one day." the fat man perked up, "One day we will build the towers that send images to this television!"

"Ah." Sahle was disappointed. He knew he showed it on his face, so he tried to save the situation. "We look forward to that day. What amazing things the modern world can make for us."

The Mesfin seemed content and stepped aside. The next comer was the pomegranate face of Jefferson Davis Bacon, America's Ambassador.

"Well slather me in butter and call me corn pone!" Bacon greeted the Emperor so ecstatically that Sahle felt the sudden fight or flight alarm of a person under attack. His lions lifted their heads lazily and watched the newcomer with dull interest. "You didn't tell me your majesty had the same birthday as the U S of A! Oh." he bowed real slowly, his forehead turning purple in the effort. When he came up he was out of breath, giving Sahle time to think of a response.

"We are happy to share our day with America. Your people celebrate with, ah, fireworks? We have decided to celebrate this day with fireworks too."

"That puts the home fire in this ol' southerners heart." Bacon said. "I also gotta thank you for the birthday present you gave America."

"Oh?" Sahle was taken aback. What present? he wanted to say, but held his tongue.

"The Carnahans are back from the jungle and safe in civilization. They are here right now thanks to your majesty's good government."

Sahle sat up sharply in his seat. A smile crept over his face. "I will be happy to see them!" he said. Bradford Carnahan marched out in a new suit, a sailor's hat on his head. Livy followed behind him. The second Sahle saw her face, she became the solar center of all his attention. The Sidamo sun had brought out her freckles, making her cuter than before. She wore a sunflower yellow dress of the American style with a matching hat. They both bowed.

"It is good to see you well." Sahle said.

"We had a splendid time, majesty, we really did." Bradford said confidently, "But tomorrow I will take my leave. The homeland beckons." he put a toothy giggle after the last sentence, as if he had said something witty. Sahle became worried. He didn't want Livy to go. "So soon?" he blurted out, looking sincerely concerned. The Emperor's expression seemed to touch something in the two American men, Davis looking warmly satisfied, Bradford looking surprised. Livy stood behind them unchanging.

"I have business in the states. The Carnahan name trades dearly, I'm afraid. Livy will stay behind, before she finishes her world tour." Bradford said.

"Of course." Sahle sunk back in his seat, feeling relieved. "We are sad to see you go, but your sister is welcome as long as she likes. We think she'll find Ethiopia a good land to explore on her tour."

Squeals and cheers of delight came from the direction of the kitchen and where it opened up into the courtyard. Everybody's attention was drawn toward the commotion, hidden in the shadows by the last glow of twilight. When he saw it, he just about burst out laughing, though his mood was clouded when he noticed that Davis and the Carnahans had faded back into the party. His servants wheeled out a great big cake, sculpted meticulously from edible material to look like him. There was something off-putting and slimy about the face, but the likeness was striking, and it delighted everybody as it passed by. Putting himself back into the moment, drinking up the positive mood, he hopped from his throne and faced his cake-self. "It should be the Imperial body double, shouldn't it?" he asked to the gathered dignitaries.

"Yes!" they shouted.

He faced the almond-scented statue. "I name you Liquamaquas!" he said. Laughter rippled through the night. Somewhere from inside, another clamor rose up, but Sahle didn't have time for it. "We should bring everybody out to see." he announced, and went around the cake toward the door. His guards snapped to his side. The moment he stepped onto the colonnade, however, a commotion erupted out from the building. They seemed to come out all at once: Desta, a guard, and a man in the fine robes of nobility.

"Your uncle has made war against me!" the last man accused the Emperor. The courtyard seemed to exhale as people made space for what was going on.

"What?" was all Sahle managed to get out.

"This is the Issayas Seme, the Mesfin of Begmeder..." Desta threw in before the angry Mesfin continued his tirade.

"Armies belonging to your uncle came over the border and attacked a band of citizens in my jurisdiction!" he shouted, "They had help from the air force. Your air force, your majesty! This is an outrage against my privileges!"

"What do you want me to do?" Sahle responded.

"Fire them! Banish them! Whatever you can do. This is an attack..."

"They were bandits." Desta interrupted, "Were they not?"

Issayas turned his raging broadside in new direction. "They were not judged as such."

"The evidence is clear as day. Everbody knew there were bandits in Begmeder, bandits that you haven't made much effort to bring to justice..."

Sahle snuck away, his guards following him. He went to an opening between wings, where a gap in the palace allowed him to go to the outer colonnade without going indoors. From there he could see the eucalyptus grove at the side of Gebi Iyasu, and where the hill sloped away toward the sparkling city. He was pleasantly surprised to see Livy Carnahan leaning against the railing, and he approached her confidently, the ugly incident in the courtyard put out of his mind.

"Where's the world tour taking you next?" he asked.

She looked up at him, blue eyes shining. "Oh, I'm still thinking about that. I suppose I might see other parts of Africa while I'm here. Maybe Rhodesia."

"There is more in Ethiopia to see, if you're interested."

"Oh?"

Sahle had to think for a moment. "Lake Tana. It's the source of the Nile River."

"That is interesting." she looked back out, toward the city. "Maybe I will see that before I go. Though I don't know if Mr. Bacon would approve."

"You are a free woman, aren't you? Americans always talk about being free. Can he stop you?"

"Maybe..."

"You are free in this land so long as we are friends. Maybe we can go together."

She turned and looked at him a long while. "Friends. Of course. Though you are busy here, aren't you? Governing an Empire cannot be easy."

"I get by with a little help from my friends."

"You do have a lovely home." she said, looking back out at the city. "Someday I hope to have a view as gorgeous as this." The puffing sound of rockets being shot into the sky was followed by the explosion of colorful fireworks over the city. They stood together in silence, soaking up the glow, while Sahle's mind went to work.