Catostrophy

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):

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:

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)

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.

Altaire RP Cancelled due to invasion! :( -2,600,000C, 130M, towards 60 desroyers (God help me) -Errrr... -21I spent on something I guess.

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............

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.............

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....

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!

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...................

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)

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.

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.

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.

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]

GREATER ALTAIRE Few Stellarchies could claim that that lost their homeworld and came out stronger. What once was a place of art, wealth, and ambiguous wealth, was now a brutal, totalitarian dictatorship. Decades of running battles with its neighbours and purging itself of communist influences has left Greater Altaire a stratified, fascist aristocracy. Its people are Altairean only in name with the original Stellarchy occupied almost entirely by foreign entities. The only thing that appeared to bridge the cultural divide between the many worlds was an ingrained hatred and fear of communism. As the collapse began, the House of Naei tore what it could from the carcass of the old Empire. Tarau Naei, who had never once stepped out of Altaire space, found that the Empire was only as good as it could serve his interests. When Ran-ji disbanded the senate, he did not see a terrible spectacle, but countless opportunities. The Lord of a Thousand Stars offered him dominion over his smaller neighbours for his loyalty, and his request was obliged. As the civil war continued on, Tarau found himself managing the entire Fourth Empire’s war effort -- much to his consternation. All he desired, all he dreamed of, was the destruction of the communist horde. The resources provided by Tuakeo were the perfect boon for Altaire to seize the holdings of the communists and add to its own domain. His finest fleet commander, the war-dancing Admiral Stilicho, tore a bloody swathe through the Free Workers and seized countless resources from their Red Worlds. Abandoning Tuakeo to his fate was but a formality in the end, Tarau’s fleet never left the bounds of Altaire’s territory except to murder communists. This however was a poor strategic move, and the northern worlds of his Stellarchy – including the traditional capital world Mediolanum – were stolen away from him by similarly traitorous Fourth Empire stooges, and other strange groups filling the vacuum left by the chaos. Still, gains were made, and the new territories were flushed clean of their communist roots and returned to being productive members of society. With this growth, Tarau declared his territory to be ‘Greater Altaire;’ an act to declare his new and continuing independence. Decades flew by as Altaire gained, lost, and gained again. Alliances were brokered, betrayed, and broken. What remained now was core, tough territory, built to springboard Greater Altaire to greater heights. Yet, right at the moment when the next great conquest could begin, Tarau disappeared on an archaeological expedition never to be seen again. He left behind four children born from artificial means, and one born from his brief marriage. His only experience with a woman left him so disgusted that he never touched one again and divorced her immediately. This infuriated his father-in-law Admiral Stilicho who adopted the resulting bastard into his own family. In the years to come, Stilicho and Tarau both agreed to keep the sons and daughters close to one-another in order to avoid a crisis of succession in years to come. The estranged family were friendly all through their youth, but as the heir Fumagalli grew to adulthood his personality became more guarded and stern. He suspected plots around each corner, and saw conspiracy in every whisper and accident. He withdrew further and further into lunacy, preferring only the company of his similarly unhinged sisters. When Tarau disappeared on a fateful archaeological expedition, Fumagalli immediately took control and executed anyone who opposed his immediate ascension. Stilicho the Elder also passed away under mysterious circumstances having died in his sleep aboard his flahship. Fratanelli was given his grandfather’s rank by the newly inaugurated Altairean Stellarch, and only retained it through the Fleet’s respect of his grandfather and nominal talent in military command. Fumagalli’s eccentricities only increased, with random executions and cullings of higher positions robbing Altaire of much of his father’s talented underlings. Those left were either too useful to be killed, or too frightened to step out of line. So the situation continues. Order is maintained, but only through fear. It may only be a matter of time before something snaps... Onager-Class Battlecruiser -Battlecruiser- Having lost much of the original Altairean fleet in the endless border wars of the collapse, the current fleet is comprised of captured communist vessels, jury-rigged cruisers, and strange amalgamations of technology. One such unusual mutation was the Onager, a battlecruiser with massive ranged guns scrounged from communist dreadnoughts. New strategies to guard far-flung territories necessitated for these massive ships to fly fast, hit hard, and fall back to preserve ship numbers. In this manner, the Onager is central to many strategies employed by Greater Altaire. +Increased Range. +Increased Speed. First-Wave Auxiliaries -Regular Infantry- Veteran divisions experienced with planetary sieges and invasions. Blooded over and over in the FWA invasions, these soldiers have a history of being the first soldiers to place their boots on the ground of hostile worlds. They are trained for grueling battles and conditioned for meat-grinder campaigns. Long journeys through the void have robbed them of desire for personal space, and most are happy enough in claustrophobic pods. The first days of an invasion are always the bloodiest, and these men are prepared to get covered in the enemy’s and their own. +Attack bonuses for being in the first wave of a planetary invasion. +Two units can fit per transport. Characters of Note: Fumagalli Naei A man born from an experimental breeding program at the insistence of his father. Despite his genes being tailored to his father’s specifications, he and the rest of his vat-born sisters displayed numerous cognitive ailments that have greatly inhibited his ability to rule through anything but sheer terror. Often refusing to wear clothes, and having no close associates outside of his equally deranged family, Fumagalli has been drifting further and further into his paranoid delusions. Not enough, sadly, to cease ordering executions and keeping the aristocracy in check (violently). Little is known of his private interests, as the personal quarters of his palace are kept hidden from any and all. Fratanelli Stilicho. A bastard of the late Patriarch of House Naei, Stilicho advances himself in the military at the (very insistent) behest of his half-brother. He has kept his claws on the Altariean Armada through his skill with command and fear of the mad Stellarch. He has few friends, and trusts only those directly subordinate to himself. Known to have a deep love of antiquing, much of his spare time goes towards writing and learning. It is said he seeks the birthworld of the human race, but like all such ludicrous myths there’s likely little to find. National Idea: There WILL be order! Greater Altaire has spent decades putting down every filth-encrusted, mud-mouthed, uppity peasant it can find. Yet still it has not succeeded! Communists, rebellions, plots, and ploys hollow the strength of the state and is not conducive to the extermination of socialist thought. All denizens of Greater Altaire must recognise the fruitlessness of immaturely combating the state, and learn the strength of a united vision. Altaire must grow stronger! +Fewer uprisings, fewer rebellions, loyal-er citizens!

whoops lmao

A Statpost for Contamrol -Another city springs up in the wasteland. 30,000C + 10M + 1AP -Manufactory: 7500 + 1M -So it seems the theories of chemical-fuelled rockets are sound! Chemical reactions formulated into sheer thrust are not only viable, but a possible avenue for further research. The issue with a cannon shell, one might say, is that while it’s very direct and reliable, it is restricted in the size of its payload by the size of the gun itself. The rocket takes out the middle-man of the gun, propelling itself to the target. While it travels slower than a shell, were it to instead fire dozens, hundreds of smaller rockets, then surely they’d hit... something! Right...? (Research continues into small-scale rocketry, for war and fun!) -The attack on Parlamann was a devastating blow to the city’s morale, and the prolats were only kept from outright rioting through force of arms by the remaining warships. The Ministry was particularly concerned, as the attacking ships appeared as if from thin air, vanishing so high in the sky that even their own vessels could not follow them. The fleet confirmed two enemy vessels were shot down before retreating. Investigations begin in earnest to find the wreckage of these vessels for examination. (Mod Action) -Due to fears of further attacks the Ministry informs the Khan, requesting the protection of the Khan’s warships. As the destroyers seemed the most able to fend off the attackers, those are requested in particular. (Mod Action -Further investigations into the Domed City are underway. While the ancient city is considered the ruling seat of Contamrol and its Ministry, it runs deep beneath the earth. Much is still to be discovered in this place... (Mod Action, continued excavation of the Southern Domed City) Trade Power: Zero, lmao

Protectorates of Contamrol (A couple short story strings for myself. No-one else is allowed to read them, so you better not!!!!!) The winds of the southern wastes were different than that of a normal desert. Each gust tore a thin layer of rust from the sky-piercing monoliths that dotted the ruinous land, and expelled it into the air. These ‘rust storms’ were the bane of pilots and traders, being far worse for engines and breathing than a sandstorm. Some ships flew into these ‘Hakhbreezes’ only to be found months later buried in the rust—their mummified remains stained with blood from their ragged and torn throats. This land of sand and steel was the home of the part-tribal Contamrolites, who thrived in the epicentres of the world’s ruination. The Craters were a ‘natural’ barrier against the terrible storms, and the civilisation of Contamrol had gathered within them. The capital, Parlamann, was a mix between an old tribal culture, the surge of heavy industry, and the pervasions of a dictatorial aristocracy. A man dressed in a silk coat from Varnyn would commonly share the street with a woman in wormthread robes, and these anachronisms were nothing unusual. A shaman scribing runes of protection on factory equipment, an axe-wielding warrior and clerk arguingover taxes placed on salvage, and airship captains consulting soothsayers to predict the nebulous weather—all such things were commonplace in Contamrol. Story 1: The Warders. The streets grew denser as one ventured towards the centre of Parlamann. While the outer parts were shielded almost entirely from the Hakhbreeze, the centre saw rust-particles lazily wafting down like a poisonous shower. A perpetual mist of industrial smog and metallic mist pervaded the homes near the factories. It was here the small folk needed the aid of the Warders more than ever. Turning into a thin allyway were four men clad head-to-toe in yellow robes and metal breathing masks. They chanted monotonously as they walked, occasionally stopping to mark walls in holy unguents, speaking the words of warding. “The outer-circle, our home. The inner circle, the poison. North, south-west, south-east. The houses of the Hakh. We contain them, as did the forefathers. Only They can poison, only we can cure. The sacred sigils shall encase them.” “How much do we have left, Kisper?” The taller of the masked men queried. The second pulled out a map, and stared at it closely through glass goggles. “We must make it through the next hirelk. Yashna’s group will be waiting at the sled-lift.” Kisper grunted, and looked towards the work. “The dust peels the markings away too quickly. I fear that t-“ His voice was cut off by the shrill cries of a woman, trudging with surprising speed towards them. Her face was wrapped in wormthread cloth, but her uncovered eyes were welled with tears. “Yekhta! My husband! He isn’t well! The curse has gotten him!” She grabbed the hems of the forth warder’s robe, and pulled at him towards the direction she came. “Yekhta! Yekhta! The Ra-Ashan will eat him whole! He hears their stomachs growling!” Gentle words calmed the woman, who hastily told the warders of her plight. Her husband was very ill, and clearly beset by the ‘curse,’ a degenerative illness typical of contact with Hakh spirits. The group agreed to see to him, following the woman through the streets towards a house built from ancient iron buttresses and sheet-metal. “Kisper, my Mineath, speak truly—do you believe this home ticks?” “Yes.” Kisper answered gravely. “The pattern of the winds, behold!” He gestured to the swirling motes of dust above their heads. “The Hairless Ones are strong here. We must ward this place at once. I shall tend to the one within.” The tall one gently placed a gloved hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I am Doctor Ghomra. We shall do what we must for your man. This placed is now Irridad—Forbidden. It is cursed.” The woman fell to her knees, weeping into the hems of Ghomra’s robes. The other two Warders walked around the walls of the makeshift house, placing the sigil upon the walls and speaking their sacred words. “Your man shall be purified. His soul will rise with the morning sun and find peace in the Sea of Stars.” The woman’s weeping only intensified with Ghomra’s words. “We were s-supposed to be happy! We spoke to the oracles to be certain! He took the job in the... that factory, and we had so much! So much to eat and drink! This isn’t- it’s not-...” Her cries echoed in the sheet-metal streets. Ghomra’s gaze lifted towards the Nameless Factory. Its smokestacks were of unholy chrome, and from them wafted the white smoke as it always did. And despite its cleanly appearance, the whole structure filled him with dread. The blasphemy of its existence enraged him, and yet high above him and the smoke a vast airship hovered threateningly. It reminded him of his station, and who to blame for the suffering of innocents. Story 2: The Engineers “Do you smell it, Radoon? That sumptuous scent! Yekhta! You simply must!” Radoon, a man of 45 years, brandished a sledgehammer as he slowly crept towards the sound of the voice. Clad in a worker’s breastplate and face-covering steel helmet, his eyes were watchful of every movement in the quiet factory. Warily, he sometimes spun around to make sure no-one was behind him, and he would catch a flash of movement, or a half-heard whisper. Once, he saw a face. He still dreamt about it. He was currently searching for his friend, Kjyl. They had studied engineering under the Grandmaster Imo of Factory Three. It was here they learned to use the ancient equipment to reforge scrap-metal into perfect, flawless steel. The machine was intensely complex, so much so that the Grandmaster himself had only the vaguest concept of how it functioned. No-one truly knew how they were operational. No-one even knew what powered them. Regardless, he and Kjyl had been at the factory for 30+ years together, learning many of its secrets, if not their source. Only, Kjyl had disappeared a year ago, and now here he was calling out to Radoon - almost pleading - to remove his helm and partake of this 'scent.' His roach-wing gloves twisted against the steel handle of his sledge as he ducked carefully beneath an ancient chrome pipe. “Radoon, how slowly you walk, old shoemaker! Why won’t you speak? It’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice! Akhminah! Breath in, and call out to me! Breath in, and scream! Breath in! Breath in!” Rising from the tangle of pipes, he finally found his friend. Kjyl was squatting on top of a massive chrome valve. A perfectly cylindrical rivet had popped out slightly from its housing, releasing the barest, hair-thin wisp of white smoke. Kjyl’s face was buried in a plume of this smoke, obscuring his features save for a cheeky grin. “You’re too serious, Radoon!” Kjyl’s body shimmered like a mirage in the wastes, matching the lazy dance of the tuft streaming from the rivet. A moment more, and his body blew away formlessly like a mist. Radoon straddled a large pipe, and brought the sledgehammer down on the rivet over and over until it was pushed back into place. “Ah, my dear friend.” Kjyl’s disembodied voice sighed. “You can be such wormfood these days. Don’t worry, the scent always be here, as will I!” When the rivet finally sat flush against the valve, the voice stopped, and the factory floor was quiet once more. Those that worked in Factory Three were forbidden to speak of what they saw. Radoon kept his eyes low, not wishing to see another face watching him from the dark. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I am selling.... NOTHING! 30,000C + 10M + 1 Admin Point (Due to Domed City PoI) towards 1 city... ... here! [Mod Action] The Contamrolites send an emissary to the Khan. [Mod Action] 3000C towards an expedition! Research: The Contamrolites love them some SPEED! Perhaps chemical rockets would be properly fast? Or make good weapons. Who knows?! (1RP towards research into rockets)

Protectorates of Contamrol History: The origins of Contamrol are conjecture. From the oral traditions of the Warders it is said their people lived in the land that would become the Great Craters before the cataclysmic wars of the first era. Dwelling within the craters afforded shelter from the razor winds and sandstorms that blew across the southern wastelands. The area was considered a footnote to most of the Southern powers of the earlier eras. In what few records were written, the craters were inhabited by tribes who eked an existence off of vermin and scavenging in the blasted ruins that surrounded their holes. At the advent of airship technology, the region suddenly became a place of some strategic importance, being an inhabited and relatively safe place to resupply and take shelter from unpredictable weather. As time went on the tribes slowly civilised in line with their visitors, and eventually industrialized at the behest of their chiefs and kings. The crater-dwellers recycled scraps and milled it into raw materials to sell to hungry traders and travelers during the prosperous times. The craters filled with the smog of industry as the land surrounding the craters was plundered of their marvels. The beginning of the Resource Wars saw less travel across the dangerous wastes, and civil unrest plagued the formerly prosperous crater-cities with rioting and even full-blown rebellions bringing the small civilization to the brink of collapse. Order was returned to the cities through force of arms by a union of airship captains, who violently suppressed dissent through aerial bombardment and threat. The local kings, chiefs, and aristocracy were considered too weak to keep control of the cities, and were thus removed from power by the “Reconstitution Plan of 1890.” To maintain order and an effective hierarchy, the people of the craters were divided up into three castes with ascension from the lower orders only possible through ownership of combat-ready airships and loyalty to their leaders. Although the new order brought “peace,” dissent bubbles beneath the surface of the cities. The angry populace waits for their new rulers to prove themselves worthy of their proclaimed autocracy, or weak enough to overthrow. The rulers themselves keep a wary eye on their subjects while looking farther afield for more resources. With resources and power comes a desire for more, as no true warlord is satisfied with merely their own lot. Culture: The people of Contamrol are tribalistic and family-oriented, caring more for their own issues than international/national ones. Their culture has warped in the craters of the wasteland and they have a natural discomfort living anywhere with a visible horizon. Although they have only recently been relegated to a caste system, the roots of such had been seeded long before in the hand-to-mouth lifestyle of the tribes. The Prolats, made up of labourers, tradesmen, and merchants, are at the bottom of the hierarchy. One can only rise from the lowest rung by commissioning and commanding a vessel for the protectorate forces. Upon doing so, and with permission and acceptance by the Ministry of the Admiralty, they are raised to the caste of Minwar. Only upon commissioning a Protectorate-standard Super-Carrier would they be accepted into the ranks of the Ministry of the Admiralty. Only Ministers can claim dominion over land in the Protectorate. The light of the Heiromars never touched the Contamrolites during the Second Era, and only contact with the civilized world allowed them to directly reject it. The people of the Craters do not believe in benevolent entities, but only malevolent spirits that must be kept at bay. ‘Warders’ are the equivalent of priests who perform ritualistic cleansing within cities and homes. Dressed head to toe in thick, yellow robes, they walk the streets spreading incense and inscribing holy symbols upon places seen as “cursed.” The edges of the craters are covered in talismans and fetishes to protect the people from evils. The spirits are known by many names depending on tribal affiliation: Raydan, The Hairless Ones, Hakh, and De-Ashun. The diet of the Craters is based on cultivating and consuming vermin. The breeding of hand-sized roaches (meat-roaches) and worm-farms provide the staples of their diets. The introduction of foreign food through trade was a boon for the dietary health of the Contamrolites, but they still find “grain,” “rice,” and “beef” to be at best strange and at worst disturbingly repulsive. Few visitors purchase provisions in the craters as a result. Unique Units: Protectorate-Standard Super-Carrier Small aircraft have been embraced by the lands controlled by the protectorate for decades, due to the lack of roads and infrastructure outside of the craters. The Protectorate constructed large airships to carry swarms of these small aircraft for combat purposes. These ships have become a symbol of the Ministry of the Admiralty and their iron fisted rule, with only Admirals being allowed to commission and command one. They hover ominously above the city the admiral holds dominion over, to both awe the prolats, and serve as a warning. They are large enough to carry triple the number of fighters as a standard carrier, while having armaments and armour similar to that of a battleship (Limited to one per city/two colonial cities). Protectorate-Standard Light Cruiser A ship affluent prolats often commission as their first command, they are such a common sight in Protectorate fleets that people often swear they’re seeing double when they appear. (Light Cruiser becomes size 2) Protectorate-Standard Bomber https://i.imgur.com/NgblOHP.jpeg Prolats who cannot afford a command often join as a small-craft pilot for the carrier fleets. The pay, extra food, and chance to network with other pilots is a boon few individuals can afford to pass up, although mortality is regarded as too high for most folk. Due to a general lack of ground forces (and any interest in creating any) the Protectorate prefers to build small craft that can attack ground and air targets effectively. The sleeker, faster bomber was the answer they sought. (Highly effective against airships and ground targets) National Idea(s): Wormfood: The penalties for lacking grain are halved. Deja Vu: Speed of all airships increased by 1. PoI: The Nameless Factories Cobbled together from First Era equipment, a series of manufactories ring the innermost parts of the city of Parlamann. They are highly efficient, and tended to by a cabal of engineers who revere the technologies with an almost religious fevour. No-one truly understands how the machines within work, or even how the engineers got them to function in the first place. They glow with strange, flickering lights, and metallic voices within them purr in strange languages none understand. The warders cover their walls in holy markings and talismans to protect the workers, but even so many people who live in the vicinity of the factories report headaches and poor health. Their usefulness is undeniable, but superstitions about them grow by the day. (Doubles the Steel and Luxury Goods available) Nation Traits: Naval Focus, Industrial Giant, Isolationist, Resource Deficiency: Textiles Army Doctrines: Air Power Naval Doctrines: Carriers Economic Type: Heavy Industry

Freeholder’s Republic. Culture: Colonial Australian History The heavily wooded, wild region inhabited by the Freeholders goes by many names; ‘Bandit Woods,’ ‘Black Trees,’ ‘The Bush,’ to name a few. There is no particularly agreed upon name, but the land is known better for its reputation as a haven for criminals, exiles, and ne’er-do-wells. The woods are known to be particularly poor in resources, and few nations have ever bothered to lay claim to the territories. As such, gangs of outlaws and bandits often fled there to evade justice. With habitation comes business, and with business comes civilisation. Ranches, villages, and forts sprung up within the woodlands funded by the illicit activities of ever larger gangs of raiders. Come the advent of gunpowder, permanent, organised towns had taken root (heh) in the woodlands. Bandit gangs had become small armies ruling over their own fiefdoms, and terrorising the borders beyond the forest. What passed for civilisation was ruled by kleptocratic laws of criminals, but the common folk idealised the freedom from the rule of kings and tyrants. ‘Freedom’ was a romantic notion to the common folk rather than a constitutional right, and each man and woman seemed to have a different idea as to what it precisely was. In this strange backwater bushland there was a town known as ‘Bakery Hill,’ and here is where the hero Bob “Bobby” Kellum was born. Gunsmith by trade and alcoholic by passion, Bobby made quite a name for himself as the most pleasant, fun-loving drunkard around. It was said that he could forge a gun barrel perfectly, even when half-blind from rum. He was a venerable pillar of the community, happily offering to help those on hard times, and organising the infrastructure of the town itself. He was so useful that many considered him the mayor of the town, and this made the local ‘law’ somewhat mad. The gang that ran the town was known as Shorty’s Shivs, and they didn’t much care for Bob being seen as the higher authority. Shorty herself was often put into a rage whenever Bob was brought up. Furious of the perceived ‘lack of respect,’ but unwilling to confront Bob directly, Shorty sent some of her men to demand he "pull his bloody head in." Unfortunately, Bob was utterly ****-faced, and slurred/roared a number of unpleasant things, namely that of the consanguinity of Shorty’s parents. After a brief scuffle, Bob shot one of the Shivs, and the struggle over Bakery Hill had officially begun. Shorty and her Shivs laid siege to Bob’s smithy, occasionally shooting at its barricaded windows and doors. Despite this, the sounds of Bob’s hammer could be heard ringing from within, unperturbed by the ruckus without. After three days the door swung open, and Bob stepped out. He had forged himself crude iron armour, and wielded a revolver in each hand—revolvers he proceeded to start firing at the Shivs who had forsaken their cover for more comfortable sitting positions over the past few days. In the mighty battle that ensued, not a single Shiv was killed, and while Bob’s torso and head remained unharmed, he obtained several bullet wounds in his arms and legs. After ten minutes of shooting, slowly reloading, and shooting again, Shorty called a ceasefire. The two had a long chin-wag outside the smithy and struck a deal. Bob would be in charge of the town, and Shorty would be his second-in-command (the town would lynch her if she killed him, ‘law’ or not). With some hard working and hard drinking, Bakery Hill became a prosperous and happy little town, with the gang transitioned into ‘guards’ and ‘nightwatchmen’ rather than ‘thugs’ and ‘muggers.’ Frankly, Bob had a bloody gut-full of violent gangs, and with the people organised and happy, he deemed it high time to bring justice and peace to the rest of the bushland. He formed himself an army of former outlaws and armed them with iron plate, revolvers, and grenades. Every bushland gang had two options: join up, piss off, or fetch a bullet in the gut. Most joined. It’s been five years since the foundation of the ‘Freeholder’s Republic,’ and truth be told it’s not much to look at. But with some honest work and a bit of time, even this sorry land could be something more! Unique: Bobby’s Boys (Heavy Infantry) Regiments of heavily-armoured, duel-pistol slinging, grenade-toting, hatchet-wielding soldiers. They’re armoured in thick iron “cuirasses” (or something vaguely similar), iconic bucket-like helm, and crotch-plate to protect their outlandishly large genitalia. They fight in an organised manner in the spirit of Bobby Kellum’s stand, pushing close to their enemy while blasting away with their pistols before lobbing grenades and, finally, closing in with hatchets and axes. Their armour is bulletproof, but its weight slows them down. They’re especially effective in difficult terrain, such as woods, mountains, and swamps (You’d think they’d sink in swamps, but no!). Buggerisers (Light cannons) Triple-barrelled, revolving light cannons with a large metal shield out front to protect the gunners from small-arms fire. No-one is certain how they came to be, but it’s rumoured that Bob won the design in a drunken game of cards. Perhaps it originated from one of the many dead kingdoms that litter the lands, or the product of a mad engineer? Nevertheless, the three barrels can be fired quickly in succession, and their light weight makes them easier to carry through rough terrain. While they often use regular ammunition, they have been known to charge forward with the infantry in order to deliver devastating volleys of grapeshot directly into line infantry and fortifications. Characters: Bob “Bobby” Kellum Founder and ‘First Citizen’ of the republic, husband of Shirley. Avid drinker and all-around good fella. Shirley “Shorty” Woldendorf ‘Second Citizen,’ Chief of Police, Field Marshal, Interior Minister, wife of Bob. Terrible cook. Richard ‘Dicko’ Dunkin. Science Officer, Chief Accountant, Minister of everything Bob can’t be bothered with. Has a peculiar smell.

BYTHAE Bythae—the land of iron walls and iron wills. Here dwelled the men who defied the greatest empire in history, and stood firm when punishment came. The cities of Bythae were fortresses themselves that blended the civilised and the barbarous, and were famously unyielding to even the strongest of aggressors. At the very western edge of the nation stood the city-state-turned-capital of Argolid, the home city of the legendary hero and unifier Ajax. As decreed by old concordat, in exchange for abandoning the cities in the north and west, Argolid would always and forever be the first line of defense against the Empire. The only bridge across the Midax River passed through the city itself, and the Ajax—a name turned title—would meet the enemy himself. Thus the great Citadel stood defiantly at the very edge of the river’s fork, awaiting the Dragon to rear its head once more. Of course, trade and relations with the Empire had returned during the lengthy peace, pleasing the river-drinking merchants and peasants. Though the mud men’s opinions had cooled with coin, the blooded ones and old families of Bythae remembered the eternal threat—all the more reason to keep peasants far away from control. Looming over the city of Argolid, sitting on a massive plateau of shimmering iron plates, stood Ajax Rest. A monolithic citadel, the structure housed dozens of artillery pieces, an armory, barracks, smithy, library, palace, and court. All the defenses were built to ward off invasion from the Elriac Empire, or whatever gibberish they coined for their perfidious kingdom. It was here the various despots of the Bythaen civilisation met, bickered, and saw their needs met by Ajax Celos II. The Hall of Marni was the meeting place for the leaders of Bythae. It was named such for its status as both court and temple, so to keep Gerents from killing one-another over disagreements. Nowadays, most fights remained markedly non-lethal, though older court-goers lamented the loss of such good entertainment. The Gerents and varying nobility dressed as warriors-- mostly armed and armored as both a show of strength and fashion. Their glittering breastplates and gem-encrusted scabbards were mostly for show, but no Bythaen dared to be caught in mere ceremonial armour for fear of mockery and challenges. At the end of the hall atop a rudely-cut stone throne sat perhaps the only unarmed man. He was naked to the waist, and sporting a long, curly black beard. In his right hand he grasped the handle of a beautiful steel greataxe, and his left hand fiddled with a goblet of wine. His lack of armour was a symbolic gesture of trust to his subjects—but no true man was without at least a weapon. The Ajax and the court were all glaring excitedly at the central dais, where two burly, naked men were beating each-other into unconsciousness. It looked, however, that the bout was almost over. One of the fighters was barely able to stand, flapping his fists rather than throwing them as he should. The other, though looking worse for wear, still moved with purpose and speed. The gnarled fist of the bruised and bloodied warrior struck the insensate fighter with a meaty crunch. The stunned man fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, lying still with shallow breaths, and eliciting excited cheers from the onlookers. The ornate chamber was filled with jeers and laughter as the loser of the bout was dragged away to the healing women for care, but a call from the great throne silenced the revelry-- “Irmos of Orchomemnos, and Kardon of Gla, come forth!” Called Ajax Celos, and two armoured men approached the throne. One happily patted the winning fighter on the shoulder with a laugh, and the other shook his head with bitter resentment. “As is tradition, the deed of the town of Kispa and its surrounding lands and subjects are hereby ceded to Gerent Irmos. At the god’s will and Irmos’ strength, I deem this feud over. Should either man act with dishonour, may he be cursed by Marni.” Spoke the Ajax in a practiced and reverential tone. Irmos grinned at Kardon, the latter spitting on the ground with a grumble. “Furthermore,” Celos continued calmly, “should Kardon’s champion die from his injuries, Irmos will pay double the blood price for his life.” The grin on Irmos’ face was swept away, and he looked to Celos in confusion. “But, Ajax, I must protest! It was a fair bout! Is it my fault that Kardon’s man was a weakling?” The deferential tone left the Ajax as quickly as it came, and he leaned forward to glare at Irmos with greater intensity. “Don’t give me that flowery bullshit, Irmos. The man was properly beaten for a long while, and I won't have someone die here because your oaf of a champion wanted to hit someone for longer. A breeze could have knocked him over by the end.” “The **** he could! The man was standing and throwing fists!” Roared Irmos. “I suppose all men of Orchomemnos prefer beating those who cannot strike back?” Jeered Kardon, sneering at his rival impishly. Irmos, without even a first glance, turned to Kardon and struck at his face with his fist. Likely having predicted this action (and likely intending to elicit this action) Kardon stepped quickly out of the way, and struck Irmos in the cheek with a quick jab. It devolved into a brawl soon after, with the nobility quickly gathering around and cheering as they did before. Celos roared at his Holdguard to break the fight up, and the two bruised men were dragged to opposite sides of the crowd. Much laughter was had by the court and calls for more drinks erupted from the gathered throng. Celos eyed a concerned-looking warrior standing at the doorway of the hall, and tapped his goblet on the arm of his throne as a signal to the serving girl. “Wine.” He grunted with a sigh. After she skittered away, Celos gestured to the Warrior at the back, and the Holdguard lead the man towards the throne. The warrior removed his helm, and kneeled before the Ajax respectfully while Celos’ goblet was filled. “Mighty Ajax Celos, second of his name, blood of the first Hero, Gerent of Argolid, master of war, master of men, first of Bythaens, greatest warrior...” Celos took a long drink from his goblet, and gestured to the warrior to move on. “...er... w-we were raided, Great One.” Stammered the warrior. “We fought them off, but we thought you’d want to know.” This quite clearly caught the Ajax attention. “Who, where and when?” Celos leaned forward, his Gerents and nobles mirroring his interest. “Tribesmen from the southern marshes, in the holdings on the southern mashes and er... a few days ago, now?” The man shifted uncomfortably on his knees. Celos leaned back on his throne, relief quickly passing over his features. After a moment of silence, his stood from his throne and strode towards the warrior. “Those savages have not dared attack us before.” He mused as he walked around the chamber. “Punishment! They must be punished!” Called a nobleman in the back. Many yelled support, and clattered their swords against the pillars of the hall. “We cannot be seen as weak!” Roared Gerent Irmos, still nursing his busted lip. “The Dragon will sense it!” “Slaughter them! Bathe in the blood of their men, and take their wives and children as slaves! The Gods will punish us for anything less!” Roared Kardon. “Then, brothers, I will deal with them myself. As any Ajax should! Rally your fighting men! These cowards will pay the blood price, one way or the other!” The Ajax raised his greataxe above his head, and roars of support and clattering swords echoed through the chamber. They continued still as Celos left the hall and made his way towards his personal quarters. As he began ascending the great staircase towards the palace proper, a wild-bearded, hooded man called to him, and scurried up behind. “Great One! Celos! I heard of a raid! Was it-...” “No, Cephalon.” Grunted the Ajax as he marched up the stairs. “The Dragon still sleeps for now.” Cephalon’s shoulders sagged as he breathed a sigh of relief. The old Magi had been a close confidant of Celos since his youth, and the Ajax counted on him for his wisdom and the support of the Arch-Masons. His long white beard reached to his stomach, but no-one was quite sure just how old he was. He moved with youthful vigor and had a stubbornness rivaling that of a Corebreaker. “Thank goodness.” Cephalon whispered hoarsely. “I assumed they had begun a war when you were leaving. It was the tribes to the south, then?” “Probably. It needs to be dealt with quickly, and before the Empire acts.” Celos took a quick turn, and pushed open the doors of his personal armory. Mail, plate, and weapons in varying states littered the room, and the Ajax grasped a long-sleeved shirt of chain-mail. “If these idiots are the same ones raiding the Empire, it’s only a matter of time before the Elraics march. We need to secure a foothold in those marshes and keep the Dragon out of the lakes. We can’t risk them bypassing Argolid.” “Then why didn’t we do this sooner?” Cephalon said as he handed Celos his helm. “Because it would look like we were expanding aggressively in their direction. Now it just looks like us fighting some mud-brained tribesmen. Perfect excuse for their frilly nobles to not bother with it. Provided that we begin dealing with it first.” “I’ll fetch Grum, Great One.” Cephalon bowed. “I hear he’s bored, I’m sure he’s pining to hit something.” Celos nodded, and hefted his axe onto his now armoured shoulder. He would not be the one to allow Bythae to be threatened. For it's continued safety it needed a small sacrifice to Aganon, and these raiders would suffice. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The great Champion, Grum the Grim (who is actually quite friendly despite the name) is sent out ahead of the gathering army in order to convince the locals to the south to willingly become subjects of Bythae. Though he will no doubt tell of the strength, protection, and peace Bythae could offer, he is not above threats or personal combat to gain the assent of the proto-savages. Should he fail, Bythae's warriors will see that the unwilling submit by the axe. (tl;dr: Grum will approach each area marked in red in order to convince the population there to join Bythae. Upon failure, the troops will come in and deal with the problem head on) -3000 medium OH infantry, 1000 slingers, and 1000 heavy spearmen will be the 'compliance enforcers' lead by Ajax Celos II (L:12, M:5, A:2, C:3) Grum will personally lead a force of 500 heavy spearmen to impress the local grugs. (Grum Stats: L:5, M:12, A:4, C:7) An envoy is sent to the Kingdom of Parajaghandar @Z3r05t4r to the north, for the purposes of diplomacy. Total Spenderinos: 77,680 gold Bythaens have great respect for stone, and thus more must be gathered for the many cities, fortresses and temples. -15,000g on two quarries. The horn is sounded, and Bythae calls forth its most brutal and savage warriors. Barely considered civilised, the Beserkers of Bythae represent the most ancient of Bythaen warrior traditions. It is said they perform blood sacrifices to Zok the Man-eater, vicious god of the untamed wilds, in order to gain his favour and strength. Frightening to many commanders, they are still a welcome addition to any warband. -12000g on four units of Bezerkers. The accumulation of resources far exceeds what Bythae is able to use, and four vast warehouses are commissioned by the 'Iron Authority' to house iron and stone surplus. -20,000g and 4 stone on four warehouses. Local trade is prized far higher than the foreign equivalent, and local industries flourish when few buy outlander baubles. -30,000g and 4 stone on four manufactories. 680 gold is sent to the mad coin-hoarder Gabaras deep beneath Ajax Rest, where he sleeps soundly upon it each night, and counts each coin every day.

Discord Name: You have it. Nation Type: Kingdom Nation Flag: Nation Name: Bythae Are you in the Elraic Empire?: Never. Nation Culture (Brief Description): (You will get a long description, nerd) Class Divisions: The people of Bythae are a hardy lot with civilisation and savagery melded into a cohesive whole. Over the centuries, their societies have evolved into an informal caste system. Though it is not officially recognized by any ruler, it permeates the nation. The common folk (often referred to as ‘stone-men,’ ‘mud-men,’ or even ‘river-drinkers,’) are looked down upon by the higher echelons of Bythae. Serving mostly as labourers and merchants, they have little input on the running of their cities, and therefore have adopted a sardonic attitude to their betters. Despite this, much of the nation’s wealth passes through their hands. So ubiquitous is wealth to the commoners much of ‘polite’ society prefers not to discuss money or business, being that it is such a ‘muddy’ issue. Pious, passionate, rude, and hard-working, their celebrations and festivals can last days, and there is often reason to celebrate. After all, light is the head without a crown. Warrior families (or ‘Blooded Ones’) – those who have several generations of fighters in their bloodlines – are the core of society. Warriors and former warriors from these families are the only ones to occupy higher positions of responsibility in the Bythaean hierarchy below the nobles. The reasons for this are twofold: The Bythaean nobility being warrior stock themselves do not trust commoners to run things properly, and they assume their soldiers are loyal to the state. As one might imagine, it is unlikely that men of honour and war take well to the sedentary life. As such, fighting pits are set up in many sections of Bythaean cities so that disagreements (or general boredom) may be settled in combat. The Blooded Ones are brave, proud, and unwilling to be insulted without reprisal. Their strength is Bythae’s strength, and their weakness is equally Bythae’s weakness. The learned men (or ‘Knowers,’ ‘Scribblers,’ ‘quill-lickers’) encompass the majority of academia within Bythae. Their occupations include stone-masonry, architecture, medicine, geomancy, and the natural philosophies. Most are directly employed by the cities they occupy, but a lucky few enjoy the patronage of noble families. The scholars have divided themselves into two competing institutions; the Scriptom, and the Society of Arch-Masons. The former contains much of the contemporary artisans, mathematicians, engineers, historians, and architects of the nation, whereas the latter houses the doctors, magical practitioners, and master smiths. The rivalry between them is intense, and they compete with one-another for influence within the nation. They also have a habit of spiteful acts towards one-another. For example, the Arch-Masons refusing to lend their skills in smithing for a Scriptom project, while the Scriptom leaves out the influences of sorcerers in Bythaean historical texts. The Old Families (Or ‘Fort-suckers,’ ‘Oldbloods,’) are the rulers and nobles of cities. Their family names stretch back to the formation of the written word in Bythae. Sufficient connection to an old bloodline gives one a host of advantages over regular Bytheans, including potentially high positions in the bureaucracy and military. Old Families guard their bloodlines strongly, disallowing those within the Learned and common castes from marrying up. The opposite is true for powerful warriors, who often find themselves approached for marriage contracts. All members of the Old Families must be fighters first and foremost. A nobleman who cannot wield a falx or mace is a grave dishonor to their family. Law and Order: Laws in Bythae are simple and entirely punitive. Steles of Law are set up within a community upon which is written the basic codes of law in plain language for all to read. Common crimes are listed as well as Ajax-sanctioned punishments. For instance, should a man cut off another’s hand, the same should be done to the offender as punishment. On the other hand (heh), the offender may offer to pay ‘blood money’ in recompense to avoid physical harm, but whether it is accepted depends on the victim. The cost of the blood-money payment is determined by a local judge. Perhaps a holdover from old tribal conventions, judgement on lawbreakers is undertaken by community elders. Select members of the city district/town/village pass judgement on wrongdoers at the scene rather than having a dedicated bailey or courthouse. In turn, only elders from the appropriate caste may pass judgement, thus a warrior may only judge a warrior, and a commoner a commoner etc. The positions are considered to be very prestigious and draw much respect. Religion: Bythaens have three principle Gods that rule over innumerable minor deities. Aganon, God of life and death. He is often depicted as a warrior and considered the patron of fighters and wars. Marni, Goddess of earth, hearth, and home. She is often depicted surrounded by children and carrying a golden shield, and considered the patron of families and fortresses. Lagmanon, God of Crafts. Depicted with a wild beard and holding a hammer aloft, he is considered the patron of craftsmen and invention. There is no organised priesthood to the Bythaen Gods. Instead Elders from the community act as celebrants for rituals. Temples themselves are commissioned by the nobility and tend to vary wildly in size and style. Magic: Magic is not considered divine within Bythae society, but rather a field of study. The practitioners of Bythaean sorcery are known as ‘Arch-Masons,’ and often involve themselves in the construction of fortifications and architecture. All magic is deemed by the Ajax to be in service to the state, and all magical institutions answer only to it. The Arch-Masons are split into two schools, the Lagmanon School and the Marni School, which specialize in metal and stone respectively. History: Scroll within the 'History' Section of Ajax' Rest's Library. The origins of Bythae are tribal and violent, as is common for most early nations. The area now inhabited by the Bythaens was originally the home of settled agricultural peoples that grew barley and maize up and down the Midax River. Here these ‘Midaxites’ developed pottery and early trade along the waterways of the river using simple barges. The earliest examples of their craftsmanship are two pots discovered in the Midaxite’s titular ‘Stone graves,’—large piles of rocks that cover grassy hills on the eastern shores of the river. First of two Stone Grave pots. Further investigation has been barred by Gerent Armon, and the grave sites are now off-limits to researchers from the Scriptom. This society flourished from between 1200 - 800 years past. Dating estimates are vague, but due to lack of any written record or reference to these people, they must have lived long before the first Stele of Law. Samples of stonework from this period indicate that metals were not developed in any meaningful way, and excavation sites show no samples domestic or military. Flint spear and arrowheads, on the other hand, are very common among sites especially around the old city of Argolid. Iconic broad-headed spear tip of the Midaxites. Shown sample was found in the river mouth north, and identical to other samples found elsewhere in Bythae. It is assumed these people were a prosperous—yet vulnerable--society with widespread trade, government, and standardized religious rituals. Midaxite dominance was challenged by the proto-Bytheans, who migrated into the region. It is assumed the migration was a violent one, as many proto-Bythaen bronze and copper weapons are found among and around Midaxite towns in considerable numbers quite suddenly in the depth-record. This initial conquest and settlement of the proto-Bythaens end the Midaxite period, but not their art and pottery. The current theory of scholars among the Scriptom is that the Midaxite culture was subjugated then integrated into the Bythaen whole. Everything on this topic is, however, conjecture. The beginning of the Early City Period (approximately 800 years ago) occurs at the raising of the walls of Orchomemnos, which is subject of the legendary tale of Gilidon’s Climb. Said city dominated the region for a period of 100 years and gives a possible name of the first recorded City ruler (although the spoken record is difficult to verify) Lacmone. “Lacmone, you shrivelled cur, your great stone fence will not I deter! These hands made hard with each sharp crevice, shall fall upon your daughter’s bodice!” Quatrain 43 of ‘Gillidon’s Climb.’ Other important Citadel-States of this period include Gla, Chrysso, Dimini, Kalydon, and Lerna. Judging by art from that period, war between these cities was commonplace as each competed for farmland and metal deposits. Little more is known, save for geomantic practices appearing on pottery (whether it was a holdover from the Midaxite culture or arrived with the Bythaeans is unknown). The Scriptom apologizes to the readers of this work, as there is precious little information on this period. Were we given permission to excavate the Stone Graves of Gla, we would likely have more, but his most venerable Gerent Armon has so far rebuffed our attempts. The Late City Period begins with the sudden appearance of writing among the Bythae elite. The oldest Stele of Law is erected in what is now Argolid’s Old District by the Gerent Cissnmo ‘The Mindful.’ It is assumed it was imported through trade with coastal city states and the early Elraic Empire and it spread throughout our region rapidly. It is marked by a dozen wars and confederations between the cities too petty and pointless to comment on. This state of affairs is beneath the notice of the Ajax, but further information can be gleaned from Atonnon Autos’ seminal work ‘Wars of Late Period Bythae and their Impact on the Greater Bythaen Polity.’ Our current era, and ostensibly the end of the Late City period, begins with the approach of the Elriac Empire. Their merchants and diplomats were at first received happily within the old Northern cities, but it is unwise to assume a kingdom that size gained it through purely honorable means. It clearly appeared to them that we had grown fat and prosperous on their trade and therefore, logically, would prefer to be a subject rather than neighbor. When our cities refused, they attempted force. In this dire time, the Bythean cities unified in a grand confederation and threw off the invaders. The leader of this union was the great orator and warrior Ajax (your title’s namesake), Gerent of Argolid. A second attempt was made after the Empire’s humiliating defeat two years later and was repelled by a second grand Bythean army. Ajax himself joined the melee, and shattered the bones of their cowardly leader, sending the soft Elraics running back to their womenfolk. After this victory, a permanent Confederation was organised between the river-dwelling Bythean cities to fend off further conquests. Ajax the Indomitable headed the confederation for 22 glorious years of strength and prosperity. After his death, the Confederation collapsed almost immediately. This in turn attracted the attention of the cowardly Empire who marshalled a great force to subjugate our people. The ensuing twelve year war saw the total destruction of four Bythean cities and the death of thousands. The cities looked to Argolid, the pre-eminent Bythean city, and begged for aid. On the condition that all the cities recognized the rulers of Argolid henceforth as Ajax, king, and marshal of all Bytheans, the armies finally rejoined confederation and resumed the fight. Ajax Celos, seeing the breadth of the Imperial forces, ordered the cities and towns on the western side of the Midax river to be abandoned, much to the anger of the Gerents. To appease them, Celos ordered all bridges across the Midax were to be destroyed, with the exception of the bridge that lead to Argolid – his own city – so that only his lands would be endangered by the invasion. The Elraics marched to this bridge, and were defeated in a titanic battle. After the Bythean army torched their camps and lacking local farms and cities to pillage for supplies, the invaders quit their campaign and a peace treaty was offered. This peace holds to this day, for no Elraic would dare march across the Midax again. The cities of Bythae are safe beneath your wise rule, and its people stand in its defense! Glory to the Ajax, and glory to Bythae! -Abridged History of Bythae, as requested by Ajax Celos. Nation Race: Human Special Characters: Ajax Celos II: While still only a few years into his reign he has pushed for standardization of Bythaen law, military organisation, and religious cohesion. Not all of these things have ended in success but he still commands respect among his Gerents. He is known for being a warrior-poet due to his quill-licking proclivities. He sees no shame in being among the learned men of Bythae, provided he can best any man to enter the ring with him. Cephelon the Red-Nosed: Always with his nose buried in parchment, Cephelon is the representative of the Arch-Masons in the Gerent’s Hall. Although a close confidant of the Ajax, little is known about the peculiar little man, save for his large nose and penchant for hoarding knowledge. It is assumed he learned in the Lagmanon School, but none have seen him practice his art. Grum the Grim: An enormous man wielding an equally enormous hammer. He is considered to be the mightiest warrior in all of Bythae, having never lost a duel in any form of combat. His name is actually a misnomer as he’s no grimmer than any regular man. This makes him very angry. Primary Magic: METAL Secondary Magic: ROCK POI: Ajax’ Rest: A vast citadel that looms within the capital city of Argolid. In the last war with the Elriacs, Ajax Celos declared that all cities and towns north and west of the Midax river were to be abandoned. As this created great anger among the Gerents, he had all bridges crossing the river be destroyed with the exception of the one that lead into his own city of Argolid. It is still the only bridge across the Midax, and as such the city is heavily defended. Several layers of walls bristling with watchtowers, artillery, secret sally points and garrisons dot the city, all eventually leading to the central citadel. A monolithic structure that functions as a fortified bunker, castle, lighthouse, palace, and seat of government, Ajax’ Rest dominates the skyline above the city of Argolid. It is the one place any would-be invader from the West could cross. It is the first and last layer of defense against the Elriacs and is a symbol of Bythaen pride and stubbornness. Boink funni hehe

Okay Guys, Seriously. Time to Volunteer. We are no Longer Asking. The roboids... wait. A new day comes, but it will take much time and investment. The data-piles outside of the Vault pulse with information pouring across their screens. The number of robots standing guard outside the Great Door is increasing, though why is anyone's guess. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -25 more protectrons march from the great door and silently go to work. (2E + 2M) -A group of protectrons begin constructing a scrapyard within viewing distance of the still-derelict cathedral. (7500C + 2B) -15R towards T4 lvl 1 servitores (total of 30R invested) ((There's so little to do when saving money!!))

Haha! Guys, we REALLY want you to Volunteer! xD 😛 Starting to think you guys aren't actually INTERESTED in Volunteering... 😉 Repairs on the cathedral come to a sudden and inexplicable halt. While the building is in a far better shape than it was, the piles of scrap that surround the structure have dried up and ceased arriving. The volunteers are shepherded away to perform labour elsewhere in protocol territory, but always return to the cathedral to sleep. The protectrons return to general maintenance and grid repair, while others take to patrols around their territory and sweeping through abandoned buildings for computers, electronics, and robotic parts. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -Generators are set up around the Cathedral in an effort to increase ancillary power. (10000C + 2B) -25 more protectrons march from the great metal doors and get straight to work. (2M + 2E) -15R towards T4 Lvl 1 Protectrons. (Not much being done RN but I've run outta money and supplies, so...)