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Catostrophy

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    Aetahir

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  1. NATION NAME: Kingdom of the Pouchlands RACE: Goblinoid (Goblin) MAGIC/SORCERY: The Pale Gods BRIEF DESCRIPTION/HISTORY: The newest vassal of the Empire, and a rather unexpected one. Goblins being known for little more than theft, raiding, and infesting Dwarven tunnels, the appearance of an organised and “civilised” Goblin host caught the Empire off-guard. Much to their surprise, rather than fighting the Imperial forces sent to stay their advance the goblins sent peaceful overtures. When “King” Grizzwit Pouch offered his vassalage to the Empire soon afterward, they were accepted out of curiosity. Thus entered into court King Grizzlewit Pouch of the Pouchlands, who ruled by the Emperor’s noble grace. Grizzwit began as many young goblins, raiding and burning isolated farmsteads and villages along the roads of the Empire’s edges. Always running and hiding from border guards, he and the bands he joined with rarely sat still for long. As he grew older, he watched band after band die wretchedly at the hands of local militias, he himself ditching and escaping at the first hint of danger. Soon there were few bands left, and he was left wandering and scavenging at the edges of pioneer towns for scraps. What he saw in the towns amazed him. Their people were all living in one place, with minimal thugs to enforce order. Most had hovels to sleep in, and gruel to guzzle each night. The children ran about cheerfully, with no fear of being eaten by wood-beasts or their parents! What was this paradise? How was it achieved? Why didn’t HE have any of it?! The more he scraped on the outskirts, the more covetous he became. He would steal day and night, and lined his cave with the luxuries of civilisation. Yet as time passed, it proved inadequate for his growing tastes. In his heart he desired a luxury neither silk nor gold could provide—Order. Prosperity. Nobility. Starting small by bribing goblin bands with his pilfered goods, he created a network of black markets in larger towns fencing his misbegotten wares. He traded for weapons, armour, and drink for his growing host. Soon he was leading sorties against goblin tribes, absorbing them into his growing horde while claiming their treasures and women. When he started conquering clan warrens, surrounding foes preferred to submit willingly. With enough time and his mountains secure he kidnapped knowledgeable people from civilised lands to educate himself and his growing throng of ‘nobility.’ He dragged the warbands away from Imperial lands and forced them into centralised guard, scout, and army regiments. Primitive farming and herding was encouraged, and whatever form of metal/stoneworking was available was patronised by Grizzlewit himself. All the while, goblins that couldn’t get with the new program were tossed into The Pits, enslaved, or killed. Grizzlewit would enforce polite society among his kindred one pogrom at a time. He would have the nobility and civility he craved-- he would have it all. LEADER/NOTABLE CHARACTERS: King Grizzlewit Pouch: He is GRIZZLEWIT, King of Goblins, Mighty General, Glorious Leader, Knower of Knowledge, Pacifier of the Stone-Head Tribes, Protector of the Pouchlands, Ineffable Sire, Husband to One-Hundred Goblinas, Father of Tribes, Builder of Warrens, Keeper of Coins, Mycologist of Renown, Breaker of Chains, Discoverer of Metals, Hunter of Great Beasts, Thinker of Mighty Thoughts, the Cunning, the Silk-Laden, the Rock-Shifter, Lord of the Shadowpeaks, Inheritor of Ancient Holds, Inventor, Master of Life and Death, Patron of Magics, Servant to the Gods, Victor of the Battle of Big Cliff, Consumer of Ogres, Thief of Maiden's Hearts, Stander of Stones, Appreciator of the Arts, the Glorious, the Deeply Green, the Generous, the Magnificent, Loyal Vassal to his Majesty, the Unchallenged Champion of Hissbleg, The Tall! Kingsclaw Zarkott "Greensleeves" urg Yunn. He got the name 'Greensleeves' after he shanked an elf that one time. National Idea: A Most Royal Perogative: (20% increase to a chosen standard/auxilliary resource, or double a rare resource [can be swapped to a different resource once per turn]) Unique Unit: The Exceptionally Large Ballista Undeniably of Goblin Origin (Elbugo Launcher): An excessively large ballista designed (assumedly) for cracking open underground defenses of dwarven holds, and possibly walls of conventional settlements. It has exceptionally long range which suits the combat averse just fine. While it can be effective as a field weapon, a prohibitively long reload makes difficult to wield without large sums of chaff troops to keep them at range. Any similarities to dwarven war engines are purely coincidental. (Big, powderful ballista-type thing with very, very long range) Point of Interest: The Great Pile of Royal Things: A vast pile of rightfully/legally aquired objects, money, and women undeniably of goblin origin. Often King Pouch receives goblin subjects/potential subjects in the vast chamber housing the pile. The women--his wives--are quite covetous of their position within the pile and are known to attack those who try to steal, or get too close. King Pouch finds this behavior acceptably regal and the pile-chamber also doubles as his bedroom. Goblins are known to be deeply awed by the sheer expression of wealth, and often goblins are far more ameniable and open to civilised discussion there (provided they're closely watched by his wives). Woe betide one who dares take something from the pile... MAP LOCATION (ONLY WITHIN OR NEAR TO ANDUVIA):
  2. Spirit Seekers (Sorry for the silence and shitpost. My sheet broke and I've been real busy) The Spirit Seekers continue to seek things spiritually. Hangups of the newly joined tribesmen aside, the horde continues to travel north toward knowledge and the Worrunt'e. Utu looks to his Spirit Guide (POI) to find the best route, and any lost treasures on the way. -1 Group of Miners are recruited (5000C, 2B) Stuff: C: 4000 C Stockpile: 1000 F: 30 F Stockpile: 23 B: 2 B Stockpile: 2 M: 0 M Stockpile: 0 Caravans: 2 Parties: 5 3 Light Horse Archers 1 Spooky Unique:
  3. The Spirit Seekers Deep in the northern wastes one would be forgiven for assuming there was no life at all. Yet even here humans had learned to thrive. Not all were strictly speaking ‘human,’ however. Nestled between two rivers a city of yurts and wagons spread as far as the eye could see, bustling with Goran folk even in the cold winds of the night. Clattering warriors whispered with shamans and storytellers, all cowering before the great red light that hung in the sky. Adon’s Comet had come, and its baleful glare unnerved even the strongest hunter. The storytellers recalled tales of the comet, and that it heralded the end of the Times of Good. It was the greatest and clearest of omens, and the shamans refused to read the winds of prophesy with it above them. Dark times were coming, and worry had gripped most of the tribesmen’s hearts. At the centre of the great encampment lay the largest yurt of all surrounded by the largest of the diminutive Goran hunters. Each hunter eyed their fellow tribesfolk suspiciously as the mass gathered around them and looked for the guidance of the Great Hierophant in this troubled time. The Hierophant too was seeking guidance. At the very centre of the darkened yurt, Utu Gruug sat cross-legged, surrounded by burning incense and hanging talismans to ward away malevolent poltergeists. He stared at a shard of light only his wizened eyes and learned hands were permitted to see and touch. An ancient tool still inhabited by the worrunt’e, its light cast strange shadows inside of the Yurt, responding to his touch as he gazed at the images upon it. What he saw were mountains that bordered the river’s fork as if observed thousands of leagues above. He could see routes through the crags and the natural paths that wound between their crumbling peaks. First gently touching each corner of the shard, he whispered his thanks for the spirit’s aid, and drew his finger across its smooth surface. The mountains slid away, and in their place were simple, blocky shapes of lines and squares. These symbols and the mystical runes that surrounded them indicated where once the Great Houses of the second age stood, when men could build wonders with the aid of the spirits. In such places were useful things, and sometimes, on rare occasions, tools still inhabited by their spirit... The shine from the shard began to fade, and Utu carefully placed it upon a soft, southlander cushion. The spirit was old, and needed rest each day, lest it fade like the worrunt’e of the past. He gave his thanks, bowed, and exited the yurt to speak his orders to the chieftains. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -Utu receives the two hermits, and permits them safety and sanctuary within the yurts as is the Way. He takes the former up on their offer, for the mind is always more important than material benefit. Sacred scriptures of the Second Age would please the Worrunt’e more than any shard of metal. Scouts are sent north to scrounge the site indicated. -A band of horse archers are recruited from the clans. (-3000C) The great horde travels and gathers the wayward peoples of the wastes. As gently as possible, but they are still gathered. (I am still a nomad faction, by the way)
  4. Nation Name: The Spirit-Seekers Nation Government/Leader Rank: Tribal confederacy under the spiritual leadership of a Great Hierophant. Description of National/Provincial History & Culture: The once-mighty Gorans had changed their path from what the ancestors wished, and had forgotten - nay, cast aside – the path of the righteous warrior. It is this path that the Spirit-Seekers tread even now, and for all time, until their mission is complete. Long ago, men were noble and strong. They hunted great lizard beasts and survived the mighty colds and dreaded hots. The life-giving spirits – the Worrunt’e – saw their goodness, and chose to gift them great boons. They breathed life into metal and gave men living tools to destroy the great beasts and build stone houses for their families to live safe from the cold and hot. At first, men retained their goodly nature, but with idleness and weakness their hearts shrunk and they forgot their ways. They refused to honour the Worrunt’e, and took from them too much. The men used the tools for things they were never meant, until the Worrunt’e within them expired. Men fought over the remaining boons until all was dust. The last noble warrior, Shermani, tried to reclaim the last few living tools and did slaughter countless miscreants, but to no avail. His mission a failure, his great Goran tribe scattered and forgot the great mission. Not we! The Seekers of the Old Spirits must respect the Worrunt’e so that the living tools may be mended! We shall honour their gifts and retain the four virtues. Strength without villainy – we take what we need, not what we want. Trade without falsehood – what is offered is given. What is given is theirs. Honour without compromise – a knife in our back will be repaid with a knife in their heart. Journey without end – our way is to wander, to be idle is to invite corruption. We shall find the last Worrunt’e, and return the times of good. We shall respect them so our children may grow wise and safe. Ours is the path of nobility! -Spoken record of the tribe’s ‘history’ passed down by storytellers. Notable Characters; [VERY Important to have flushed out RP for vassals, politicians, w.e your government type is. Due to small scale of nations, characters with RP and Lore behind them will have more impactful actions, will get events, boons, etc: The Great Hierophant of the Spirit-Seekers, Utu Gruug An ancient man of fifty years, Utu has lead the tribe since childhood across the barren wastes. He is one of the longest lived of his position and is deeply respected by his tribe. His knowledge of the living tools is vast, having come into contact with the Guiding Spirit when just a child. In a dream, he was shown how to awaken the Guide, which elevated him to the position of Hierophant due to his sacred connection. In his early days he had charged across the barrens hunting like all men do. With Guide in hand, he always found valleys and oasis’ where game would mingle, and bring great plenty to his tribe upon return. Though many proclaimed his greatness for these acts, not once would he allow them to speak well of him without thanking the Worrunt’e twice over – determined as he was to remain humble. The Guide’s aid was ever more useful during the war with the violent Shatterpeak tribe, who would raid the Spirit-Seeker’s caravans and make off with their beasts and women. After spending a dozen nights communing with the Guide, he lead the Spirit-Seekers to the hidden yurts of the Shatterpeaks. Instead of ambushing or slaying them in the night, the Spirit-Seekers announced themselves loudly and boldly, demanding a duel with the Shatterpeak chieftain. The Shatterpeaks attempted to flee, but were caught and promptly killed for their cowardice. As was tradition, Utu was offered three of the Shatterpeak’s women for his yurt, but instead he gave one each to three of his strongest warriors. He had never taken a wife, and never would. Many times during the years he received cryptic dreams from the spirits, giving him visions and signs leading him to more artefacts. Following one such vision he found a great plain littered with living tools that had lost their Worrunt’e. The metal they were clad with was stronger and thicker than any ever encountered, and Utu ordered the metal-makers to arm his mightiest warriors with them. He dedicated the rest of his life to interpreting his dreams and seeking ancient lore, and left war to his trusted warriors. To this day he studies ancient tomes and tools devoid of Worrunt’e to learn how they may inhabit them again. Though he grows old his mind is sharper than most, and his wisdom legendary. Unique Military Units (One): Relic Warriors (Super Heavy Cav) Clad in thick metals taken from ancient tools, they thunder across the wastes impervious to most weapons. They may be slower than just about any other horseman, but the sheer inertia of their charge can shatter even the most hardened of settled folk. National Idea (nothing strictly mechanical): Seek, and you shall find: The Spirit-Seekers seek ancient machines and relics to bring about the times of good. They have a knack for finding and using 2nd Era artefacts, operable or not, and sometimes making them operable again... Player POI; The Spirit Guide: A mystical window that shows the world as if seen from far above. If one performs the correct gestures, the locations of the great stone houses are visible, and the many buried paths that lead to them. As such, it is difficult to hide from the tribe, and impossible to get lost on the vast plains.
  5. Altaire RP Cancelled due to invasion! :( -2,600,000C, 130M, towards 60 desroyers (God help me) -Errrr... -21I spent on something I guess.
  6. Greater Altaire 300,000C, 50M towards 2 trade depots. 200,000C, 20M towards 20 Commercial districts. 160,000C, 50NP, 10M, 6A, 10T towards 2 Onager-Class Battleships. 150,000C, 100NP, 30M, toward 5 Light Cruisers. 6I spent on.......... SOMETHING............
  7. Greater Altaire Grand Admiral Stilicho rubbed his forehead with a grimace. The invasion had gone relatively well, although Altairean casualties were higher than he had hoped. The planet beneath them had made the decision not to surrender which both gladdened and frustrated him. Supreme Leader Fumigalli, his deranged half-brother, would not accept the communist’s defeat without at least one planet being obliterated. Fratenelli had performed this task with all the emotion of completing a tax-return, yet their stubbornness irritated him. Some fanatics simply could not be reasoned with. Rolling migraines confined him to quarters more than he liked. He wasn’t sure why, but they always began when he was around large groups of people. He had ensured he was not being attacked somehow, and he initially assumed it was stress. However, uncomfortable feelings kept rising up within him almost foreign to his perceptions. Sometimes he thought he could hear quiet talking when his back was turned, only to see the usual silent guards or technicians marching by. Each day he feared the family sickness was taking hold. The three gentlemen now standing before him hardly helped his growing concern for his sanity. “Are you clear on your mission?” Stilicho rasped. “Yes sir.” Captain Maccus saluted. “In not a single way am I lacking in cognizance of your request, sir!” Snivelled Captain Fiblio. “I have been paid, and therefore my skills - and mind - are at your service, Admiral.” Smirked the ‘merchant’ Q’ohar Voa. “Any other questions?” the Admiral replied tersely, pouring a glass of ice-water into a towel. The room was silent for a moment, before Maccus piped up. “Why Vaka, sir? It’s very remote.” Stilicho waved away his words with a pained wince. “It’ll be in the written briefing, and Mr Voa will know more. I’ll have a shuttle prepped for your departure. Leave me.” The men filed out the door, and the Admiral locked it behind them, turned out his lights, and lay quietly with the towel over his face. As he slept, he dreamt of other people’s problems, and voices quietly whispering from the void... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ -74,250C, 99NP towards repairing several poor, smacked up warships. -125,000C, 50NP, 10M, 5A, 5T, towards refurbishing and repairing 1 dreadnought wreck. -80,000C, 25NP, 7M, 3A, 5T, towards 1 Onager-Class Battleship. -60,000C, 40NP, 12M, towards 2 Light Cruisers. -100,000C, 50NP, 18M, 4A, 4T, towards 2 Heavy Cruisers. -75,000C, 15NP, 20M, 5A, 5T, towards 5 Stealth Ships. -50,000C towards searching for battleship hulls. -20,000C towards a special friend. -3I towards...........SOMETHING.............
  8. GREATER ALTAIRE Anuaut III was a world positioned at the centre of “Ran’s Road;” the trade lane that wrapped closely to the galactic core connecting the eastern, western, and northern galactic arms. It was Greater Altaire’s main source of credits and the planets on the ‘Road’ looked the part. Millennia of trade had turned each world into thriving ecumenopoli with towers piercing the stratosphere and under-towers tickling the world’s molten core. The teeming masses of humanity went about their business within inordinately cramped and claustrophobic conditions. Seeing the sun was a luxury worthy of a paid holiday—none but the wealthiest could see above the monolithic structures, and it wasn’t clear precisely where the surface began and sky ended. Deep beneath the towering wealth and hordes of humans lay kilometres deep of refuse, forgotten infrastructure, mutants, mythical creatures told in topsider tales, and secrets many thought lost. Beneath even that was where an ancient, decommissioned battleship was stored thousands of years ago. A team of historians had scoured a millennia’s worth of Imperial documentation and had located a “storage bunker” for an unnamed warship. With further research, and a lot of luck, an expedition of engineers found the bunker and the ancient machine housed within. Even after an eon of sitting beneath the lowest levels of a world-city, the outer hull was usable. Everything within the hull was another matter entirely. Several weeks were spent pumping air down from the surface, establishing a near-vertical supply line, and clearing locals from their squats and buildings above. Further months were spent repairing the kilometre-long, super-reinforced doors that would free the ship from its sarcophagus. Finally, work began on repairing the ship itself. The mission was clear—the vessel was to be placed in orbit in order for proper refurbishment to commence, which was a task far easier said than done. The journey down to the hull took days and supplies were often delayed. Still, work continued. Air filtration systems burned out multiple times due to the sheer pervasiveness of dust and rust, and even when it was ‘safe’ to breathe the air tasted thick and metallic. Injuries were common, as were resignations and occasionally deaths. Without power and functional thrusters the ship wasn’t going anywhere regardless. The team performing the repairs were more than three-hundred strong, although those numbers fluctuated with accidents. Even so, it was barely enough for the job at hand. Many, if not all, the engineers had cybernetic augmentations to better work in the horrible conditions--strength enhancers, artificial adrenal glands, sockets for exo-suits in their spines, and eye-mounted scanners just to name a few. It made many of the engineers appear like machines themselves, and some eccentrics took it as a point of pride to only leave their augs uncovered. Fashion was hardly in the mind of one particularly frustrated engineer all the way at the stern of the ship, whose artificial arms were quite busy. The engineer swore loudly as his comm-piece cheerfully beeped. He leant his body-weight on the enormous spanner he was hefting to keep it taut and one of his arms pressed the “receive” button on the little ear-mounted device. A voice crackled through in a polite drawl. “Morning, Fulpo. How’s the work going?” The voice received a loud flurry of curses from the engineer as he returned to manually tightening a two-metre seal on the enormous fuel-intake pipe. “Fair. Can’t say I don’t sympa-“ The words of comm-piece were cut off by the engineer as he roared. “Where is my support staff?! You took them away from me TWO DAYS ago, Derrum! I have been down here alone for TWO DAYS tightening bolts as big as my ******* FIST! You hear this?” The enraged man smacked his six-foot spanner on the side of a wall several times, eliciting a melodious clang that echoed throughout the cavernous space. “That’s a ******* WRENCH I found in here, since I still haven’t got the tools I requested a MONTH AGO!” Fulpo roared, a vein popping on his temple. “You little piece of shhhhh-...” He exhaled with a long sigh, and he flopped against the wall in exhaustion. “Where are my boys, Derrum? I can’t keep doing this alone.” If Derrum was unnerved by the outburst, he didn’t show it. “They’re preoccupied attaching support-boosters to the side. I did the math—we can’t get this hulk out of the atmosphere with the ship’s engines alone.” There was a brief pause, and then Derrum continued with a nervous lilt. “Have you checked the thrusters?” “Well,” the exasperated engineer sighed, wiping muddy, dust-filled sweat from his forehead. “I had a quick look. They’re intact I think, but I’ll need time to look them over and double-check pressure and output.” “How long?” “After I’m done with the fuel, I suppose. A week, maybe?” After a brief pause, Derrum pressed again. “What about the reactor?” “I fixed that first. It was in surprisingly good condition. The fellers who stuck this thing down here actually made an effort to preserve it.” Another pause, this one longer. “Derrum?” Fulpo queried as he dragged a cloth across his muddy face. “Fulpo I need to admit something to you.” He said, his voice shaky. “We need to launch today.” Fulpo blinked and chuckled. “Launching with what? Our hopes and dreams? It isn’t the best replacement for functional engines, I hear.” “We need to launch today.” Derrum repeated. The seriousness of his tone was beginning to clue in Fulpo that the little man on the other end of the comms was not joking. “Unless you want to explode, we aren’t launching today. What are you talking about?” “Fulpo, I promised the Admiralty that I would have this ship in orbit by year’s end.” Fulpo felt his stomach hit the floor. “I said all senior engineers agreed that it was doable.” Fulpo’s stomach metaphorically punched through several decks. “They’re bringing an attaché from OfPO,” he stammered, “to review our speed, efficiency, and political forthrightness for future contracts.” Fulpo staggered in place, as if in a trance. “Fulpo,” he continued, his voice cracking with every word. “They’re going to shoot us.” “They would have only shot you, you weasel!” Fulpo screamed, snapping out of his stupor. “Why did you include us?! I never would have made a promise like that!” “We’ve been down here for two years, Fulpo!” Derrum yelled back hysterically. “They’re going to make us dig up another somewhere worse, I know it! They won’t let us quit now after the last wave of resignations! We’ll be sent to the bottom of some other nightmare world and I’ll have to watch even more people die! I can’t do it anymore, Fulpo! The only way out is being promoted up the ladder!” Fulpo had dropped the spanner, and was now frantically pacing around the engine room. His bio-scanner was warning him of a sudden jump in heart-rate and was making diet recommendations. The feeling of fear and rage was now giving way to calculations. “Alright alright. When are they arriving?” Fulpo asked, quickly checking a portable scanner kludged against the side of the reactor. The readouts still claimed that the reactor was structurally and mechanically sound within 89% of minimum safety standards. “They were delayed by six hours, I just got the message. It’s why I’m telling you this now.” Six hours. It was do or die, or potentially slowly die. He slapped the scanner on the innermost side of the main thrusters, and the little yellow screen showed 62% structural and mechanical stability in flashing red letters. It’d have to do. The next two hours involved planning. The whole crew was informed (with some creative flourishes about who would be potentially executed) and began their own, terrified prep-work. A whole team arrived down to the stern, carrying a reaczap; essentially a giant battery that would deliver a massive jolt of electricity to the reactor, restarting it. A ship this size had its reactor running for years on end, only turned off at a drydock for maintenance. In modern ships there were more elegant ways to reactivate them, but for ancient, defunct models at the bottom of a planet’s cesspit, they required something a tad more archaic. As the specialist pilot for the launch was kidnapped and cannibalised by a local under-tribe, the honour of flying the hulk was handed over to Fulpo. He had previous experience in launching a small spacecraft from the surface once before, and was therefore most qualified professional. He was not thrilled at this decision. Launching ships from planet-side drydocks was very inefficient. Large-scale shipbuilding had moved entirely into orbit over several thousand years, but sometimes it was still necessary to get large spacecraft out of a gravity-well. Usually it was just commercial freighters that had to make emergency landings or small-scale pleasure-craft. Anything larger than a cruiser was generally just resigned to rot on the surface, as the cost to raise it was simply too great to bother with. The issue was ultimately tonnage—the mass of a ship would require a greater amount of force to push it into orbit, and a battleship was several million tonnes. In essence, with the force necessary for the launch, a few of the towering spires above were likely going to melt. Despite being against it, Fulpo took some solace in that the launch would be (in theory) simple. There wasn’t any manoeuvring that couldn’t be performed by the ancient navigational AI. All he had to do was sit in a chair, press the button he needed to press, push forward the thruster’s lever to the appropriate level, and hope the G-force didn’t kill him. He was informed late that the inertia-dampeners didn’t quite cover the bridge, and since everyone else needed to be moving around, he got the short end of the stick. Entering the bridge, Fulpo was astounded at how badly the repair crew had torn apart the stations that dotted the camped space. Numerous old computer terminals were torn out and tossed unceremoniously into a corner, replaced with nothing but gaping holes. Open wiring was present everywhere with most of it snaking back towards the pilot’s station. The antique chair threw out a cloud of dust as he sat down and looked over the buttons. Next to the old console were hastily attached controls for the support boosters, but the original ship’s controls drew most of his attention. After a quick investigation, he came to the realisation that he couldn’t read any of the words written on them. “Derrum!” Fulpo growled through his comms. “What is this jibberish I’m looking at? After a moment of static, Derrum spoke back in a strained tone. “Yes, apparently the guys refurbishing the bridge didn’t write down what does what. We think the dialect is extinct so we couldn’t run an auto-translate. There should be a switch that reads like a coreworlder soup, or a drunk trying to hire a prostitute.” Fulpo glared at the controls for a moment. “You mean Engager Poussée?” “Yes that’s the one. You flick that, the one under it listed as Pause Gravité, push the big red lever on your right to its absolute limit, and then press the button Initier Brûlure. Got it?” “... Yes.” Fulpo hastily pulled a bottle of adhesive from his belt, and squeezed out a number next to each control in order. “Is everyone in position?” “Just about, they’re doing final checks on the support-boosters, and then we’ll leave it in the hands of fate. Could we go one more time over the plan, please?” Fulpo sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I engage the boosters which should take us directly upwards. At 15 kilometres the guys with the reactor will jump the power, at approximately 22 kilometres the support boosters will be out of fuel and will automatically disengage. I then hit all the soup-switches and we blast out of the stratosphere, where a team of tugboats will drag us into a stable orbit. Provided we don’t explode and die during any of the aforementioned steps.” “Yes, that would put damper on things.” Derrum remarked sardonically. “I’ll give you the all-clear soon.” For twenty agonising minutes, Fulpo sat in his dusty chair and stared through the greasy observation window. The tiny twinge of excitement he had for what he was about to do was crushed by the sheer weight of terror. The only emotion he felt stronger was pure hatred for Derrum and his infantile scheme. Something that he would have to address later... Derrum finally gave the all clear, and Fulpo personally comm’d each team around the ship, making last-minute checks/searching for any excuse to abandon the launch. When all hands reported their condition as ‘sufficient,’ he began the countdown. He prayed the G-forces wouldn’t break his fingers. He engaged the first-stage support-boosters, and felt his fingers break. His whole body was thrown back into the chair as the world violently shook. Pieces of the ceiling came cascading down to the ground, striking against dusty floor and shattering without so much as a bounce. The hull of the ship groaned angrily, trying to hold together despite the insides being torn apart. As he silently suffered his ribs bending inwards, all he could do was stare upwards through the observation window. The undersides of the towers flew past at frightening speeds. The engineers had cleared enough space through the chaotic metal tangle that was endemic to the lower parts of the towers, displacing monsters, gangs, and tribes while starting a few local wars in the process. What remained was a direct path upwards from the ground to sky, with enough extra space to ensure it wouldn’t crash against the edges on its ascent. What Fulpo originally assumed was rain from far above was actually tiny pieces of glass and metal from the cascading destruction. The pressure and power of the thrusters were shattering windows and tearing walls above them as they soared. In his comms he could hear the crew frantically reporting damage in their sections of the vessel and organising patching jobs before they hit the vacuum. All the while, Derrum calmly counted the kilometres passing. When they reached fifteen kilometres, lights on the bridge flickered on and quickly exploded afterward in a hail of sparks, while small electrical fires hissed into life within the botched wiring of the empty console stations. Out of the corner of his eye, Fulpo could see the lights flash on his console, and one or two working screens revealed very unfriendly looking words in red. A moment longer, and the his second job would begin. Derrum’s counting reached twenty-two, and Fulpo felt the pressure against his body quickly dissipate. Thankfully the switches didn’t require precise manipulation as his mechanical fingers were bent in a direction they were not made for. When the G-forces allowed it, he painfully swung his whole body over to the buttons. He flicked the first, and he felt the whole ship shudder. He slapped the next, and heard a dull roar someone deep in the vessel. With his limp digits, he pushed the red lever to its farthest extent, and listened to panicked yelling from his comms. Finally, he slapped his hand down on the button, and his vision went black. At least, his biological vision. Blood had apparently rushed to his fleshy eye, but his cybernetic eye was seeing things just fine. If the world shook before, a cruel god now took the vessel and rattled it around in a glass. Sparks flew from the screens in a heavy torrent, scorching his trousers and finally engaging his automatic adrenaline injectors. He would luckily get to experience every moment of agony as his ribs snapped one by one. A sudden pain twitched at the back of his throat, as he realised a false tooth had snapped out of his mouth and was now lodged there. The buildings raced past faster and faster, but finally a ray of light gleamed. The towers were beginning to spread out and grow thinner. The noxious clouds parted, and just as his ankles were about dislocate the pressure pushing down on him began to slowly dissipate. The sky went from brown, to blue, to starry black. Refuse began to float around the bridge, and Derrum’s voice confirmed that they were almost in orbit. Through the cracked observation window, Fulpo could see a few small ships gently float towards the hulk. He vowed on his mother’s ashes that he would transfer out of this division of the company, whether OfPO liked it or not. The celebrations in the comms were interrupted only by Fulpo begging for medical attention. He received it just after he joined the other senior engineers in throwing Derrum out of the airlock. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -125,000C, 50NP, 10M, 5A, 5T, towards refurbishing and repairing 1 dreadnought wreck. -80,000C, 25NP, 7M, 3A, 5T towards 1 Onager-Class Battleship. -40,000C, 16NP, 16M, towards 8 fighter squadrons. -40,000C, 16NP, 16M, towards 8 bomber squadrons. -120,000C, 60NP, 18M, 3A, 3T, towards 3 support carriers. -100,000C, 50NP, 18M, 4A, 4T, towards 2 Heavy Cruisers. -60,000C, 40NP, 12M, towards 2 Light Cruisers. -200,000C, 5M, towards an orbital defence station. -20,000C towards a very special friend. -50,000C towards searching for more battleship hulls. -50,000C + 1T towards a very special trip... -3I spent on....... SOMETHING....
  9. ALTAIREREEEEEE -160,000C, 50NP, 10M, 6A, 10T towards 2 Onager-Class Battleships. -19,500C, 26NP towards repairing 1 Dreadnought, -7500C, 10NP towards repairing 2 Dreadnoughts, -150,000C, 100NP, 30M, towards 5 Light Cruisers, -100,000C, 40NP, 20M, towards 10 Destroyers, -50,000C, 25NP, 9M, 2A, 2T towards 1 Heavy Cruiser -20,000C towards searching for yet more battleship hulls. -20,000C towards a special friend! -3I spent on..........SOMETHING!
  10. Altaire Shitpost Week -200,000C, 100NP, 36M, 8T towards 4 Heavy Cruisers. -160,000C, 50NP, 10M, 6A, 10T towards 2 Onager-Class Battleships. -30,000C, 3M towards 3 farms. -15,000C, 3NP, 4M, 1A, 1T towards 1 stealth ship. -10,000C, 4NP, 4M, towards 2 fighter squadrons. -150,000C, 30AP, 40M towards 10,000,000 Regular First Wave Auxilla. -90,000C, 60NP, 18M towards 3 Light Cruisers. -30,000C towards searching for further battleship hulls. -20,000C sent to a good friend! -3I Expended on........ SOMETHING...................
  11. GREATER ALTAIRE --Inititate_application: Prepping>>MANDATORY_NEWSFEED>>--... ... ... ... <--Welcome, Citizen 348-981-999XR.--> Spooling MANDATORY_NEWSFEED according to Class B parameters. ALL DISCUSSION, COMMENTS, AND BROWSING ARE RECORDED BY THE OFFICE FOR POLITICAL ORTHODOXY. HAVE A PRODUCTIVE DAY, CITIZEN. ... MANDATORY_NEWSFEED BEGINS IN-- 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... ~~THE PATRIOT’S BUGLE~~ DEATH OF THE FWA: The End of an Era. Communist dreadnought “F.W.A. Death to Altaire’s Children” being annihilated by heavy fire from “A.A. Red’s Menace.” Under the command of Grand Admiral Fratanelli Stilicho, the final holdouts of the FWA have been crushed. The battle (still to be named) was the latest and final victory over the “Free” Worker’s “Army,” where their pathetic fleet has been vanquished and land armies decimated by the might of Altairean Arms. The common people of their worlds rose up in glorious rebellion against their cruel wardens when the heroic forces of Supreme Leader Fumigalli appeared, giving them the courage to finally throw off the chains of slavery and rise up. Supreme Leader Fumigalli personally lead the charge upon each of the twelve worlds liberated, slaying fifty communists himself with not a single loss among his divisions. The war against the FWA began nearly sixty years ago, with the final extermination delayed for decades due to communist infiltration and the betrayal of Altaire by the vile 4th Empire of the perfidious Tuakeo. To celebrate, citizens on all Altairean worlds will be allowed an early work day to take part in mandatory celebrations and parades. Supreme Leader Fumagalli has decreed that all citizens are to report to their local political officer to aid in organisation of the celebrations and parades. Now that the FWA threat has been ended, what is the next course for Altaire? This writer only knows more glorious victories await! Glory to Altaire! SUSPICIOUSLY SHAPED BUILDINGS SOUGHT: Is YOUR home a former warship? The Altairean Authorities have declared a need for further capital ships to suffuse the Armada. As such, information regarding old Imperial storage yards must be brought forward to your local political officer immediately. Outmoded Battleship models, despite not being a match for modern dreadnoughts may still serve Altaire. These ships have been stored for upward of two millennia and their locations may have been lost for equally as long, which leads us, dear reader, to the question this article poses: Is your home a battleship? Know the signs! A battleship may be upwards 500 meters in length constructed with reinforced super-steel that, to a casual observer, would be unusually resistant to rust and corrosion. Does your apartment complex have a basement with strange-looking machines that no-one seems to recognise? You may have been living above a warship’s engineering bay! Does your Political Administration Hall have parapets that look suspiciously like hermetically-sealed electrical couplings? You might be standing above a spacecraft’s reactor-core! Does your neighbour have a steel fireplace and chimney decorating their home, yet it appears oddly angled? They might be warming themselves with a forward battery! Report suspicious infrastructure to the Authorities, and those who accurately identify a battleship husk will be rewarded with a week’s worth of Amenities-Vouchers. Glory to Altaire! COMMUNIST PLOT IN UNIVERSITY THWARTED! The entire economics department of Central University have been arrested in a lightning raid by the brave forces of the Office for Political Orthodoxy. Professor Dunu Guo and his staff have been indicted for spreading politically unorthodox economic principles and corrupting Altairean education. He has been recorded on multiple occasions speaking positively of worker unionization and an unearned increase in work-vouchers per day for labourers. All the while he did not inform his students of the many successful ways the Altairean Authorities protect its working citizens. Luckily, obviously due to his guilty conscience, Professor Guo had already written a confession of his crimes against Altaire before being arrested and was submitted as evidence to the Office for Punitive Affairs. As he felt remorse for his actions, the Professor will be hanged before government witnesses tomorrow morning, as will all staff who also found to have pre-written confessions. For those who felt no remorse, their live impalement will be available to watch within the coming days (execution fans are advised to reserve tickets). The poor students unknowingly taking part in communist brainwashing have been sent to a precautionary labour and re-education camp for two years. Yet again the Altairean people have resisted another pathetic attempt to halt the crusade against anarchy. Glory to Altaire! Commentary Zone: The many voices of the Loyal Citizenry! Discuss current events with fellow citizens! (All messages/archives are recorded for future reference by the Office for Political Orthodoxy) Citizen 331-778-989MR: FlagBearer23 “ALTAIRE NO.1 ASLTAIRE NO.1 ALTAIRE NO.1!!!!!! **** YOU FWA YOU PIECE OFG SHIT **** YOU!!!!” -Citizen 676-889-010ME: --xXSteakjuiceXx-- Yo my grandpap died in the siege of Kellum 3 these guys had it too good for too long am I right? -Citizen 331-778-989MR: FlagBearer23 Hell yeah bro im so ******* pumped..... hope we send them all to labour camps -Citizen 676-889-010ME: --xXSteakjuiceXx-- rather they just get hanged tbh See 782,032 more comments -Citizen 343-883-001NA: ~~PloughEmAll;) Anyone know where I can get tickets to the execution? I’ve never seen an impaling before and I’d like my son to see his first live execution. Someone help out a dad in need, please! -Citizen 365-899-002NE: ()ThisIsMyRhythmStick() no luck for me so far :/ i think they’re trying to build hype for this one -Citizen 401-569-111MA: ANGER!!!!! Like they even need to. We haven’t even had a commie boiling for a year!! -Citizen 326-289-030ME: 000Dirty000Darren000 i prefer disembowlings fml See 54,362 more comments -Citizen 296-486-114DE: Ringlelet I’ve always wondered about that weird-looking shopping centre on Victory Street District 8. Anyone from there who thinks it might be a battleship? -Citizen 296-486-115DE: <Soglog> BRO YOUR CITIZEN ID IS LIKE ONE NUMBER OFF MINE!!~! :O --Citizen 296-486-114DE: Ringlelet Uh yeah so? -Citizen 296-486-115DE: <Soglog> BROOOOOOOOOOO :O:O:O:O --Citizen 296-486-114DE: Ringlelet I’m a woman? What? See 0 more comments -[COMMENT REDACTED] ............................................ -Citizen 309-776-434: \\RangaNuiBigFatPussy// Wait he was your teacher back then? You should probably report to OfPO. -[COMMENT REDACTED] ........................................... Citizen 309-776-434: \\RangaNuiBigFatPussy// Yeah sure buddy. If anyone’s reading this please help me report this guy. -[COMMENT REDACTED] ........................................... See 78,988 more comments ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ -300,000C + 200NP + 60M towards 10 Light Cruisers. -200,000C + 5M towards a Defence Station. -50,000C + 2M towards a Ground to Orbit battery. -50,000C + 3M towards an LSRB. -40,000C + 4M towards 4 farms. -Due to an ever-increasing need to expand the fleets, the Altairean Authorities look into old Imperial records for mothballed warship stockpiles. Not only that, they look around the larger worlds for ships that might have been repurposed into houses, novelty restaurants, freighters, and space-stations. Every hull is a goal! (15,000C + MOD)
  12. GREATER ALTAIRE 250,000C, 200NP, 30M, 10T towards retrofitting and repairing 2 Dreadnought wrecks. 40,000C, 16NP towards repairing and retrofitting 8 destroyers. 20,000C, 10NP, 5M, 1A towards repairing and retrofitting 1 Support Carrier. 30,000C, 12NP, 12M towards 3 squadrons of bombers and 3 squadrons of fighters.
  13. GREATER ALTAIRE Red’s Menace, the flagship of the Altairean Armada, was in the midst of the hyperspace route pushing into FWA territory. The Altairean Heavy Fleet Mediolanum and Light Fleet Alpha were still waiting to disengage from subspace and drop into the border system. Such waiting had an excited anxiousness to it, and the crew brimmed with energy even during the monotonous tasks that maintained the mighty vessel. Admiral Fratanelli Stilicho at this time had retired to his personal quarters for his designated free time and sleep. After an hour examining some old curios and reading a report on a curious ship somewhere in the periphery, the officer’s chef walked in to deliver his dinner. Tonight was simple—Nu’mia bovine steak with roast yam and Ospri sprouts, covered in a class-J fungus sauce. He had some pleasant banter with the Chef Orbus before the gentleman left and the admiral sat down for his dinner. He inhaled the scent of his steak with a small smile, and sighed. It certainly seemed a fine meal, but before he could eat he needed to attend to something. Namely, the identity of the person who was attempting to poison him. Fratanelli had a personal menu of twenty-one meals that he knew intimately. Each one he had personally prepared dozens of times in a precise process using specific pots, pans, utensils, and ingredients. He knew each scent, the exact colouration of the meat and vegetables, and the firmness of each part when raw and cooked. If the one preparing the meal erred from the very specific instructions for preparation they were to start again. If they lacked the ingredients for a scheduled meal, they were to make another from the same menu—no swapping out one ingredient for another. If none of the meals could be prepared, the Admiral would subsist on nutrient blocks and other plain foods until said ingredients could be sourced. This admittedly pedantic system was designed for the purpose of avoiding poisons, which came in a worrying variety in Altaire. In this instance he could smell a distinctly alien bitterness in the sauce upon his steak. He was unsure who would have such gall to attempt this attack, as he had personally investigated the identities of every crewman before embarking and purged all those whose movements he could not account for ten years prior to their service. No reason to consider that now of course, clearly his system failed. Who could it be? The chef Orbus had been in his service for years and he never had any military or civil defence training, nor the physical prerequisites for it. Orbus knew the menu from memory and had the man noticed the slightest problem with the meal, he knew he could start it again without consequence. A late meal was often a safer meal, after all. As unlikely as it was he was the only suspect. Or, perhaps, the Admiral's bait. The man was well-loved on the ship, after all. Fratanelli picked up the plate, and walked calmly out of his quarters. He made sure to take the route that was in view of as many crewmen as possible. He passed through the bridge and gave a few orders requested clarification on some minor non-issues. He walked past the officer’s mess hall and requested and asked about the location of an officer currently on the bridge. He marched down multiple corridors near the crew quarters and engineering decks, asking about the condition of the small-craft and the functionality of the salvage bays. The crewmen gave him some odd looks on his stroll, but one does not question an Admiral--even one carrying a steak for no discernible reason. A good half-hour of wandering with his dinner and Stilicho arrived at the officer’s kitchens. Orbus, all alone, looked up from his cleaning with some surprise. “Sir!” He gasped with surprise, and the mildest hint of worry. “You’ve not come here since I was inducted! Was there... trouble with your supper?” He clasped his hands together somewhat sheepishly. His body language indicated nervousness, but that was not surprising given the circumstances. “No problems, Orbus. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to waste it so I was wondering if you could use something to eat.” Visible relief washed over the face of Orbus and he relaxed immediately with a laugh. “Me? Turn down an early dinner?” He slapped his protruding belly. “Banish the thought, sir! Everyone knows I’m always happy finish another man’s meal!” Precisely what Fratanelli was counting on. Orbus happily took the plate from the Admiral’s hands and sat himself down at a bench. Fratanelli made his excuses to mull around, raiding cupboards and storerooms for emergency snacks. After the chef added some extra spices and salt (“No disrespect to your tastes of course, sir!”) he placed the meal in an oven to bring it back to a delectable temperature. Suddenly, the door of the officer’s kitchen swung open and a man dressed in a pilot’s jumpsuit froze in the doorway. A man with no reason to be there, mild perspiration on his brow, and slightly breathless stood statue-still with his eyes on the Admiral. The two men regarded one-another for the briefest second, before Orbus spoke up. “Nouyi my lad, what are y-...“ Nouyi’s arm tensed attempting to wrench the door shut again, but it was already too late. The Admiral’s artisan sidearm was already in his hand, and four diamond-tipped rounds struck the young man's upper body. The weapon was an heirloom of Fratanelli's grandfather—a revolver made by the defunct Gallery of Fine Arms, and designed to punch through heavy armour. It was certainly a daft weapon to have on a warship, but adequate for the job at hand. The bullets did not stop in bone and muscle, but instead passed straight through the pilot showering the corridor behind him with chunky gore. His lifeless body was flung backwards into a ragged heap, landing with a wet thud. One last bullet spread the contents of his head in a thin grey paste a foot from his neck. He returned the gun to his holster and turned back to a pale Orbus whose back was pressed hard against the wall. “Sorry about the mess. The food's poisoned, don't eat it.” Fratanelli calmly made for the door, stepping over the ragged corpse of the pilot. This 'Nouyi' would be reported as a communist agent and orders for greater vigilance dispersed among the fleet. He could have captured him—questioned him certainly, but what good would knowing his handler be? Fratanelli didn’t need to know who wanted him dead. He didn’t want to know. If the wrong person wanted him dead and they knew he knew it would simply make their attempts bolder. Assassination was something he’d been preparing for since he obtained his command and title, but he could not fend off the galaxy. All that mattered now was someone wanted him gone, and it was only a matter of time before they managed it. The clock was ticking. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -250,000C, 200NP, 30M, 10T towards retrofitting and repairing 2 Dreadnought wrecks. -25,000C + 10NP towards retrofitting and repairing 5 destroyer wrecks. -30,000C towards hiring yet even more grugs to sift through the remnants of the shattered worlds for even yet more delicious ship bits. -50,000C + 5M towards 5 farms.
  14. Altaire I Guess -60,000C + 30NP + 10M + 2A towards 2x Salvaged Heavy Cruisers -80,000C + 40NP + 12M + 2A + 2T towards 2x Support Carriers -20,000C + 8NP + 8M towards 4x fighter squadrons -10,000C + 4NP + 4M towards 2x bomber squadrons -60,000C + 12NP + 16M + 4A + 4T towards 4x Stealth Ships -200,000C + 80NP + 40M towards 20x Destroyers -30,000C towards paying more grugs to loot old battlefields for delicious ship-bits. -10,000C is put up as a reward for unusual, unidentified artifacts and curios. Stilicho wishes to indulge in his hobby during the quieter hours of the invasion. The Altairean fleet stands on the border of the FWA. The invasion begins now.
  15. GREATER ALTAIRE --Inititate_application: Prepping>>MANDATORY_NEWSFEED>>--... ... ... ... <--Welcome, Admiral.--> Class Z Exemption applies to your rank. Would you prefer to skip MANDATORY_NEWSFEED today? Yes/No ... ... Your choice has been recorded for future reference by the Office for Political Orthodoxy. Please scroll to the end of this page to access your personal messages and/or archives. (All messages/archives are recorded for future reference by the Office for Political Orthodoxy) ~~THE PATRIOT’S BUGLE~~ SUPREME LEADER FUMAGALLI NAEI PREPARES FOR WAR: HOW MAY A LOYAL CITIZEN HELP? As an Altairean, we all feel the need to aid in the State’s destiny to bring order to the West. While many LOYAL CITIZENS have dreams of striking down the communist threat, there are many places even those of humble talents may... Read Further? DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE? REPORT TRUANCY TO YOUR LOCAL DISOBEDIENCE AUTHORITY! Truancy is proven to be the first step towards socialist thinking. According to the Office for Political Orthodoxy’s foremost insurrection expert Jowan Ma’Kathay, complacency towards such misbehavior may lead down the path of Communist... Read Further? THIS WEEK IN EXECUTIONS: Communist infiltrator and former Minister for Financial Affairs to be Boiled Alive in front of Live Studio Audience. Many execution fans are delighted to learn of the latest show to be prepared by the Office for Punitive Affairs. While information on the nature of the spectacle was leaked to the Patriot’s Bugle, we have reported the leaker to the Office for Punitive Affairs to ensure no further information breaches may... Read Further? “Are we too Cruel to Communist Prisoners?”: A Commentary on the Pervasiveness of Communist Thought in Academia. Where many see places of education, the infiltrator sees an opportunity. Our greatest minds are educated in universities to bring glory to Altaire, yet according to the Office for Political Orthodoxy, at least 12% of Academics have had a positive view of at least one communist policy... Read Further? Fratanelli Stilicho, Admiral of Altairean Armada, illegitimate son of Stellarch Tarau Naei, grandson of the famed Admiral and Conquerer Stilicho, gazed listlessly out the window of his flyer. Once more he was on the temporary capital of Crimson, readying himself for his quarterly-mandated terrifying ordeal. Taking part in The Meeting with his half-brother Fumigalli Naei was the closest he ever approached death. His brother was a lunatic—an absolute, raving psychopath. Questioning the single voice of authority in Altaire however was akin to suicide, albeit the most painful suicide possible. Perhaps it was a genetic error from the tyrant's origins, as he remembered the days when the five members of the strange little family to play together. Why had they fallen to such a state, and he had not? Perhaps he was merely waiting his turn to fall. Fratanelli closed his data-slate with a slight shudder as what felt like a stone hit the bottom of his stomach. He only barely skimmed the announcement of the boiling. He'd met that man many times. The flyer was on its third hour of transit, and in each direction Fratanelli could see nothing but the endless spires of the Red Palace. It was built by some Stellarch or another, possibly to one-up a neighbor during the early prosperous years of the Third Empire. The complex covered almost a quarter of the planet, with beauteous halls of the most decadent design to be seen outside of Kurmai (or what was left of it). Some parts hadn’t seen a human being in centuries, and overgrown gardens twisted around palatial estates. There was even a forest within the vastness of structures, large enough to support its own native ecosystem. Not that he’d seen it of course, he only heard rumors. Stray too far from the path dictated to you by the House Guards, and you would quickly be named a traitor and shot out of the sky by Anti-aircraft fire. The Palace felt like a tomb, with only the hint of birdlife flittering from the sound of the flyer to prove the world was not entirely dead. Yet even so, the adventurer within himself felt a pull to explore these ancient places, just to see what might have been left behind... The fifth and final hour of transport was always the most harrowing for Fratanelli. He practiced every statement he planned to make in his mind, and edited the internal script of anything that might sound vaguely threatening to a paranoid schizophrenic. It was a long list of things to edit. How fast should he walk to not appear like an attacker? How should he hold his hat, so to not appear to wield a secret gun? If he looked too hard at the palace’s upholstery, would someone assume he had planted a listening device? After an hour, the flyer passed between the final spires and entered the periphery of a vast, artificial valley hundreds of kilometres wide. In the centre, a modest (by the Red Palace’s standards, anyway) estate stood, surrounded by anti-aircraft guns, fortifications, trenches, soldiers, and patrolled by a trio of aircraft. He could see from the window how every gun on ground and in the air aimed at his flyer as it ambled to the ground as slowly and carefully as it could. Fratanelli shakily placed his hat on his head, and with his hands tactically positioned on the doorhandle and his headrest, pulled himself from his chair while allowing his hands to be completely visible to the dozen House Guard training their rifle’s sighs at him. This step was important—if it looked like he was vaguely reaching for a gun, the House Guard would kill him without a second thought. However, were he too obvious in showing his hands, it would imply that he didn’t trust them, which could be seen as the attitude of a traitor and they’d arrest him. He kept his face blank as he stepped through the group of guards, and approached the commanding officer. The man, a prim, short fellow in black armour, saluted Fratanelli stiffly. The House Guards were all foreigners; this one was a coreworlder judging by his hair and complexion. Their process of formal greetings was as clockwork. First, they started with the polite question... “Welcome back to the Red Palace, Lord Stilicho. I trust the journey was not too long?” “It was fine, thank you.” Fratanelli replied. He carefully adjusted his Admiral’s surcoat, causing the medals on it to jingle in the silence. Now the officer would move on the vague questions to check for something asinine. He always assumed they did it to knock their victim off-balance or make them flustered in future questions. “I do hope the wine on offer was to your liking?” The officer continued. Fratanelli wasn’t aware there was any alchohol aboard. Was this a trick? Would it be revealed that it was supplied by Fumagalli, and his loyalty would be put into question? The officer’s face revealed nothing. He was sure there was no alcohol aboard. Regardless, he would have to take a risk with his answer... “I prefer not to drink before meeting with Supreme Leader Naei.” Fratanelli calmly replied. “I find breath laden with alcohol to be disrespectful in important meetings, such as this one.” The left eye of the officer twitched, and he nodded slowly. “A wise perspective, your Lordship.” Riposte, you beady-eyed core-rat. The officer drew his hands behind his back and continued on. “Before you may enter, I must ask for a blood sample. We need to check your DNA—a new defense against possible infiltration through facial surgeries.” “I see. Do you have a previous blood sample?” “The Office for Political Orthodoxy sourced one from a doctor’s appointment you had last month...” “Very forward thinking.” “... for a twisted ********.” The man didn’t blink through the whole exchange. Fratanelli knew it was strange that doctor needed a blood sample. Why was the officer revealing this information, however? To see if he would change doctors—implying suspicion about the purposes of the State? That was clearly a long-term gambit. Fratanelli’s face didn’t even twitch. “Yes. It was quite painful. Is there anything further you require before I may enter?” Fratanelli felt a small prick on his left hand, but did not so much as twitch. A uniformed man (A very quiet one, clearly) tapped on a data-slate, before nodding to the officer. “No, Admiral. You may proceed. Glory to Altaire.” The stiff salute returned, and he marched away with his soldiers. Fratanelli adjusted his hat again, put pressure on the small puncture on his hand, and walked towards the main doors. The inside of the estate was opulent, but in a somewhat alien way. This part of the galaxy was not native to his culture, and the décor seemed to clash with his very presence. Gold leaf in floral patterns, frescoes adorning the walls, and wooden furniture made him slightly uncomfortable in his Altairean Naval uniform. The meeting room was a direct walk from the main door, and every five meters was another House Guard in full regalia, standing to attention. He felt their eyes on him as he passed. There was no privacy for visitors in this place. As he walked through the doors, he took his usual place in the long, 23-man line staring at the featureless wall in front of them. There were no furnishings anywhere; nowhere for anyone to sit or even lean. There were no windows or doors, save for the one that they entered through. There was no speaking among the other guests, only silent, parade-ground stillness as many uniformed and civilian men gazed blankly into thin air. Fratanelli did the same, and began the wait. It could take up to hours before the call was made, but it was mercifully short at only 10 minutes. Somewhere, hidden, a woman’s voice called through a PA system. “The visitors shall turn around.” Each man in the room pivoted on their heels, and stared back towards the doorway. Clattering metal, footsteps, and the all-too-familiar sound of guns being cocked and loaded echoed in the room before the woman spoke again. “The visitors shall turn back.” Again, a heel pivot, except this time furniture had appeared in the room as well as a large, leather chair. Lounging in it was a long-haired, heavily bearded man with sunken eyes and sallow skin. Behind him, three women stood in similar condition, their hair wild and black rings around their eyes. Each one had a rifle or shotgun, aside from the wild man who held an ornate revolver-style handgun in each hand. They were all pointed squarely at the waiting line of officials, shakily switching targets at the slightest movement. All four of them were naked, head to toe. The man in the chair was Fumigalli Naei, the Tyrant of Crimson, the Supreme Leader, and the Stellarch of Greater Altaire. His blue, stern eyes darted between the men gathered before him, and his lips twitched with anticipation. “You are all here, then. It is time for the report. Reports are for loyal subjects, yes? You are all loyal, of course.” He hissed the final sentence, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself. “But first,” he rasped. He shifted his weight in his seat, and his fingers wrapped around the triggers of his guns. “You must all be hungry. It’s not polite to leave a guest hungry after a long trip.” He gestured over to a table in front of himself, with a small tray of assorted muffins and tea-cakes. “Would any of you care... for a snack?” He forced the words out shakily, a look of anger spreading across his face. Fratanelli did not hesitate a moment. Hesitation was always more dangerous than accepting Fumigalli’s request. “Thank you, Supreme leader!” He said with an energetic lilt. He stepped forward (not too quickly) and placed his hat under his arm (not too suspiciously) and smiled at each person before himself while looking at them in the eye (not looking at the chair, the guns, or the cakes themselves). Fumigalli’s eyes narrowed at him, although his sisters smiled back. What quickly followed was each man in the room copying Fratanelli’s actions, movements, and tone precisely. After each had returned to their place in the line, Fumigalli appeared to slightly relax, and took his fingers away from the triggers. “Good. We have performed the host’s rightful duty. We shall now proceed... with the report. You shall all speak your reports in order, from that side of the line.” He waggled his revolver to the man on the very end of the row. Fratanelli’s heart sunk. He was at the very opposite end, and would likely be standing here for hours. “After your report is done, leave." Fumagalli continued. "Speak to no-one on your way out! Not a word!” He glowered at everyone in the room. “Not a word. Not a word! Not a word!” He repeated, hammering the handle of his pistol on the arm of his chair. Fratanelli could feel the sweat building on his forehead. Fumigalli, vibrating angrily, pointed his gun directly at the first man in the line. “Speak!” He roared. The next three hours was a series of men attempting to convey complex socio-political, economic, and military concepts to a group of naked psychopaths who were currently staring them down with loaded weapons. Fumigalli gave eccentric responses to most requests, but did, to an extent, address what needed to be addressed without anyone being shot (although there were some close calls). One by one, the ministers exited the chambers, until all that was left was Fratanelli, who was thirsty, desperate for the toilet, and suffering from terrible leg-cramps. As the second-to-last minister closed the door behind him, Fumigalli and the three women all stared. “Brother, dearest.” Fumigalli and the sisters left the chair behind, and slowly approached Fratanelli. “It has been... too long.” The wild-haired stellarch almost sounded angry, but there seemed to be some sort of genuine feeling beneath it. “You never visit us anymore, Fratty!” His half-sister, Tulea, giggled. “Why do you only visit when it’s report-time? You always liked to play with us before!” “He doesn’t play anymore, Sister-Dearest. Fatty Fratty was always too serious! Always buried in his books! Always too good for us!“ His second half-sister, Yegha, hissed. “He’s not fatty anymore Sister-Dearest, he’s a soldier-boy now! So tall and... strong... handsome boy...” The third half-sister Diwa whispered, bringing a hand to his shoulder, and slowly, delicately, drawing it towards his chest. Fratanelli did everything he could to not strike away the creature that was once his sister. The only thing that was left in those wild, hollow eyes was depravity, and recently this abhorrent perversion. Their psychoses appeared to worsen upon every visit. “I apologise that I cannot spend more time with you, my family, but as Admiral my duties are many. I must protect Altaire.” The other sisters joined Diwa in touching Fratanelli. Their closeness and nudity inspired a revulsion that could not be expressed in words by the Admiral, but Fumagalli's fierce gaze stuck him in place. “The Communists, Brother-Dearest.” Fumigalli hissed. “They’re everywhere. Even those supposed “loyal” men here today harbour communist sympathies. I know it! I can smell it in their breath! In their blood! Their thoughts float around their heads like birds!” He too approached Fratanelli, and placed both his hands upon the Admiral’s shoulders. “I need you to kill them, Fratty. I need you to kill them all. They’re going to kill us otherwise, Brother-Dearest. It’s only a matter of time! A matter of time! A matter of time!” He leaned so close that Fratanelli could smell the rot in his teeth, and the acrid smell of unwashed hair and urine. “Outside this room, you are the only one I trust, Brother-Dearest. I made you the Admiral because I needed you to be there, to keep our family safe.” “Keep us safe, brother-dearest! Keep us safe!” The three circling sisters chanted, still grasping at him with clammy, unwashed hands. “You’ll promise, won’t you Fratty?” Diwa whined. “You’ll protect us from the most evil people in the galaxy?” Long, dirty fingernails stroked his cheek, as the Admiral stared on impassively. “I promise.” He whispered. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ To the Freeholders and Lords of the 'Realm' of Xiao It is apparent that the rightful lands of Greater Altaire currently lay in the hands of usurpers, invaders, and miscreants. The House of Naei has long since ruled from Mediolanum, its splendor and prosperity an achievement to all who saw it in the days of the Empire. Yet, at this time, much of it exists outside of the Authority of its rightful rulers. The Xiao Bloodline is known to Stellarch Naei, as it remains on the registrars of Altairean Nobility. As you are a noble house of Altaire, what was once seen as an act of usurpation has instead lead our gracious Lord to a glorious realization--the Xiao have not, in fact, betrayed Altaire and their rightful Stellarch, but instead have acted as custodians to Altairean territory. This realization has greatly pleased his eminence, as betrayal would lead to dire, violent consequences for House Xiao. As such, the following treaty to renew your continuing obedience to House Naei has been written for your convenience. 1. The House of Xiao will not pledge allegiance to any other House, political entity, or political concept without the express permission of Greater Altaire. 2. The House of Xiao shall lend its military assets to Greater Altaire should it be requested, used at the discretion of Greater Altaire. 3. The House of Xiao shall accept Altairean traders and military forces access through their space without tariff or tax. 4. The House of Xiao is, was, and always has been united with Greater Altaire. Denying such will be recognized as an act of betrayal, and the ravaged corpses of all members of House Xiao shall be tethered to the hulls of the Altairean Armada to be scoured into dust by the radiation of deep space. As House Xiao's rightful liege, Greater Altaire assures: 1. The House of Xiao shall receive recognition as the rightful custodians and rulers of Northern Altaire, save for the ancient capital of Mediolanum and its surrounding systems. 2. Greater Altaire pledges its support in all defensive measures against aggressive entities, and will aid in military campaigns against the true usurpers of Northern Altaire. 3. Greater Altaire shall lend wealth for the purposes of repairing infrastructure and building local defense fleets and fortifications, including offering captured worlds to the authority of Xiao, should materials be sought. 4. Greater Altaire shall forgive any proclamations of independence as simple misunderstandings. We await your recognition and pledge of loyalty with much anticipation. Written on behalf, and with the authority inherent, of: Stellarch Fumagalli Naei. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 20,000C, 20M, 20NP Towards 20 trade vessels 37,500C, 15M, 30NP Towards 15 Freighters 100,000C, 16M, 32NP towards 10 Destroyers 60,000C, 12M, 40NP towards 2 Light Cruisers 30,000C, 12M, 12NP towards 6 Fighter Squadrons 20,000C, 8M, 8NP towards 4 bomber Squadrons [MOD] 30,000C spent on hiring grugs to excavate old battlefields for delicious ship bits. [MOD]
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