TheLizardKing
Let's talk Michelle.
It's okay Communisto!
Six-Months War; Take 3
- Thread starter TheLizardKing
- Start date
My colonies are included in my overall income?
TheLizardKing
Let's talk Michelle.
Yes they are.
The author is half-white.)
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Half white isn't white enough to get away with racism. 
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
That's not racism
Orders will be in tomorrow.
Orders will be in tomorrow.
Half white isn't white enough to get away with racism.
Lol, I guess I'd have to be either Georgia or Korea.
Heraclius49
Emperor
orders sent
TheLizardKing
Let's talk Michelle.
I'm still missing orders from-
Germany, Japan, The Confederacy, The United States, and Brasil (though, Eltain, I have your.. er.. "emergency" orders)
Germany, Japan, The Confederacy, The United States, and Brasil (though, Eltain, I have your.. er.. "emergency" orders)
Eltain
Deity
Unfortunately, due to personal reasons out of my control, I have to drop this, and all other NESes for the time being. I'm not expecting to be back soon, so don't "reserve" Brazil for me. Best of luck to any who wish to play her- don't go crazy warmonger, though. :'(
I don't mind stepping in as Brasil. That'll let me fight before '45...
Any CDTA plans you wish to share with me Immaculate and Blackbard? PM me and I'll be quick to change my orders to follow them.
If we can't make it in time I can assure I'm quite familiar with 30s and 40s Brasil from Hearts of Iron III and have sent slightly extensive orders, and I've of course included a directive to coordinate with CDTA war efforts.
Any CDTA plans you wish to share with me Immaculate and Blackbard? PM me and I'll be quick to change my orders to follow them.
If we can't make it in time I can assure I'm quite familiar with 30s and 40s Brasil from Hearts of Iron III and have sent slightly extensive orders, and I've of course included a directive to coordinate with CDTA war efforts.
Amon Savag
The Great
My bad... I'll be sending orders pert damn soon. I had work today
Immaculate
unerring
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,623
In the Lightning Storm
Continued from Carlos returns from Seminário Missionário Bom Jesus and Spear-fishing at Montañita beach
The thunder cracked like the voice of God himself and Carmen’s ears rang like church bells. The rain swept up the mountain driven by the Pacific gale like a child’s toy during a tantrum. The wind pulled at her so strongly that she had to grab at the night just to balance herself.
Another flash of furious lightning turned the darkness, wind and rain, for a brief moment, into a pure white. In that moment Carmen saw silhouetted against distant mountain peaks and the ocean horizon Carlos shouting into his microphone. He looked less like a man and more like some wild beast. His eyes were wide and white, intensely alive in the lightning’s flare. He had raised one arm to the heavens in a gesture of defiance or anger and with the other gripped the steel microphone with a fury that drove his knuckles white. Even though he was less then five feet away, the wind and storm dragged his words away leaving only an indistinct voice screaming into the gale. As the lightning’s flare faded abruptly, she could still see his silhouette, burned into her retina for the briefest of moments by the intensity of the lightning’s brilliance.
It was not the first time that Carlos had taken to the airwaves at this secret broadcasting station, his fine voice, trained to teach of Jesus and God, of sin and the Devil from the alter or pulpit turned to peace and unity, politics and war, sin and the Devil over the airwaves. But tonight was special. Normally he strolled along the mountain path near the broadcast bunker, his eyes on the Pacific, serene and calm. But today his brother Julián had returned from distributing radios to the masses, so that they might hear the voice of Radio Libertad, wounded, assailed by what Carlos called ‘Banditos’, rebels who’s loyalty, in the absence of a true government was to themselves and their pockets, men such as Santiago Gomez or the pack of scavenging, honorless hounds that were once the leadership of Ecuador and who now led Paraguay, Bolivia, and Venezuela. Carlos, though once a man dedicated to God, had a temper like the devil himself and when the gale blew in from the Pacific, it only seemed to mount and mount, to gain new height of indignant rage. Carmen had been scared of that rage, of the temper she had not seen before…. but there was something in that storm, something of ancient spirits seducing her sense of restraint. A reflection perhaps of the chaos of Ecuador itself? And so she had, against her own conscience, stoked that rage, even seduced its emergence into a full fury from the man who had once been a seminary student. And now, in the midst of the storm, in the wind and the thunder, the lightning and the rain, in the very heart of the Pacific’s fury, that rage was terrible to behold. She put the headphones to her ear for a moment and heard Carlos’s voice, broad like the continents, deep like the ocean, berating the Ecuadoran people themselves, ordering them to organize themselves, to unite and to represent themselves, not to fall prey to the Banditos like Senor Gomez who only wanted to take their sweat and their blood as his predecessors had.
Carmen put down the headphones and strained her eyes in the night to find Carlos’s silhouette but despite his proximity, she could not see him for the clouds and the rain, the wind and the darkness- they were there, together, but she was connected to nothing… to everything…. She could not hear his voice and yet throughout their nation, his voice flew on electrons and radiowaves… to every corner. Her sense of having no body, of being unconnected was compounded by the ringing in her ears, the burning of her retinas, the hot rain on her sticking dress. Caught up in the chaos and the energy she whirled about, like some fevered dervish from an Ottoman fable. Her out-flung hand found Carlos’s and she drew him to her. Their faces inches apart, she could finally see him in the dark. He was raging, breathing hard… powerful and strong. He muttered something into the microphone and dropped it into the puddles and dirt, not bothering to switch it off. Etcetera.
Continued from Carlos returns from Seminário Missionário Bom Jesus and Spear-fishing at Montañita beach
The thunder cracked like the voice of God himself and Carmen’s ears rang like church bells. The rain swept up the mountain driven by the Pacific gale like a child’s toy during a tantrum. The wind pulled at her so strongly that she had to grab at the night just to balance herself.
Another flash of furious lightning turned the darkness, wind and rain, for a brief moment, into a pure white. In that moment Carmen saw silhouetted against distant mountain peaks and the ocean horizon Carlos shouting into his microphone. He looked less like a man and more like some wild beast. His eyes were wide and white, intensely alive in the lightning’s flare. He had raised one arm to the heavens in a gesture of defiance or anger and with the other gripped the steel microphone with a fury that drove his knuckles white. Even though he was less then five feet away, the wind and storm dragged his words away leaving only an indistinct voice screaming into the gale. As the lightning’s flare faded abruptly, she could still see his silhouette, burned into her retina for the briefest of moments by the intensity of the lightning’s brilliance.
It was not the first time that Carlos had taken to the airwaves at this secret broadcasting station, his fine voice, trained to teach of Jesus and God, of sin and the Devil from the alter or pulpit turned to peace and unity, politics and war, sin and the Devil over the airwaves. But tonight was special. Normally he strolled along the mountain path near the broadcast bunker, his eyes on the Pacific, serene and calm. But today his brother Julián had returned from distributing radios to the masses, so that they might hear the voice of Radio Libertad, wounded, assailed by what Carlos called ‘Banditos’, rebels who’s loyalty, in the absence of a true government was to themselves and their pockets, men such as Santiago Gomez or the pack of scavenging, honorless hounds that were once the leadership of Ecuador and who now led Paraguay, Bolivia, and Venezuela. Carlos, though once a man dedicated to God, had a temper like the devil himself and when the gale blew in from the Pacific, it only seemed to mount and mount, to gain new height of indignant rage. Carmen had been scared of that rage, of the temper she had not seen before…. but there was something in that storm, something of ancient spirits seducing her sense of restraint. A reflection perhaps of the chaos of Ecuador itself? And so she had, against her own conscience, stoked that rage, even seduced its emergence into a full fury from the man who had once been a seminary student. And now, in the midst of the storm, in the wind and the thunder, the lightning and the rain, in the very heart of the Pacific’s fury, that rage was terrible to behold. She put the headphones to her ear for a moment and heard Carlos’s voice, broad like the continents, deep like the ocean, berating the Ecuadoran people themselves, ordering them to organize themselves, to unite and to represent themselves, not to fall prey to the Banditos like Senor Gomez who only wanted to take their sweat and their blood as his predecessors had.
Carmen put down the headphones and strained her eyes in the night to find Carlos’s silhouette but despite his proximity, she could not see him for the clouds and the rain, the wind and the darkness- they were there, together, but she was connected to nothing… to everything…. She could not hear his voice and yet throughout their nation, his voice flew on electrons and radiowaves… to every corner. Her sense of having no body, of being unconnected was compounded by the ringing in her ears, the burning of her retinas, the hot rain on her sticking dress. Caught up in the chaos and the energy she whirled about, like some fevered dervish from an Ottoman fable. Her out-flung hand found Carlos’s and she drew him to her. Their faces inches apart, she could finally see him in the dark. He was raging, breathing hard… powerful and strong. He muttered something into the microphone and dropped it into the puddles and dirt, not bothering to switch it off. Etcetera.
TheLizardKing
Let's talk Michelle.
Two more hours until I stop accepting new orders, or revisions.
TheLizardKing
Let's talk Michelle.
Orders will no longer be accepted past this point.
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
Redacted
Immaculate
unerring
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,623
Why? What happened?
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
Nevermind
Immaculate
unerring
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,623
Carmen Visits the Ballet
Continued from Carlos returns from Seminário Missionário Bom Jesus, Spear-fishing at Montañita beach, and In the Lightning Storm
Although the box-seats were open to the theatre, the government official’s cigar filled the balcony with a thick heavy scent that Carmen did not find unpleasant; it reminded her of gentler times, of her childhood in Bagotá. She stood in the shadows, half-hidden by a thick velvet curtain as the official perused her report. He took his time, occasionally raising his eyes to the dance before him, drinking cognac steadily, grunting here, tsking there, never looking back at her, and always with a cigar at his lips. Carmen didn’t mind; she stood back and watched the elegant dancers.
Finally the official turned to her, “Agent, your report is really rather disappointing. We asked you to prepare a list of personnel associated with this Radio Libertad and instead you send us this report describing an English invention for recycling air for spear-fishermen. Your description of this Carlos fellow whom you are supposed to direct and train is woefully inadequate and this Julián character is almost completely lacking. Agent, you sought us out, offered to serve your country. Your enthusiasm and looks will only get you so far; these reports need much greater insight and detail.”
Carmen was taken aback. She had not expected her handler to break the silence, had been absorbed in the grace of the dancer portraying the heroine as she languished in the arms of a dancer playing a flying devil. Her reverie broken, it took her a moment to register what the cigar-smoking man had said. And at the mention of Carlos’ name, she blushed deeply, happy that her handler was not facing her and that her face was so deeply hidden in the shadows, “Señor Wences, I will do my best to provide what intelligence you desire. What do you want to know?”
The official, who’s name was not really Señor Wences grunted again, took a heavy sip from his cognac and still facing the dancers spoke to the agent hiding in the thick shadows behind him, “Well, tell me your personal opinion of this Carlos fellow. You write that he is a natural leader and I have heard him speak on the wireless, but what is your opinion?”
“Señor, he is very much a natural leader. When he arrived at Montañita, he was at first not widely accepted amongst the group but within only a month had naturally and without malice subverted leadership of the small group and had begun to direct the activities of the others according to his own design…”
Another sip of cognac, another question, “And what are his designs?”
“Well, Señor, he very quickly adopted the ideas of the previous leadership, one Rubén, whom I wrote about. Despite my very subtle attempts at manipulation, I have been unable to disenchant him regarding the idea of de-centralizing a greater nation. He does not want his people, or even any of the people that might form Gran Colombia to be directly answerable to or dependent upon Bagotá. He sees Bagotá as a sort of federal capital to the various provinces which would largely be independent in terms of their domestic laws and culture- I think, I am afraid, that Rubén had taken many of his ideas from the US and from the Soviet states. Unfortunately, Carlos built on many of those ideas.”
The official took a long time to consider this before posing his next question, “This changes things. Even within Colombia there is some movement for a change of government like this; it harkens to a historical debate we once had many years ago. Of course, there is no room for it within our constitution; what he suggests is nothing less than to rewrite our very nation’s identity.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed women kept her eyes on the dancers below, half her mind silently enjoying their pirouettes, arabesques, battements, and sautés. With her mind’s other half, she answered, “That is not all of it. He is also agitating for the formation of a republic. He claims that our representative democracy is an attack upon the minorities by the majority. He claims that without real minority representation, the people of Ecuador and what he calls ‘the provincia’, will never truly be free to represent themselves and live free of tyranny. He is calling for a Republic.”
“Hmm… he is not an un-thoughtful man, this Carlos. But our dreams of directing the ‘Radio Libertad’ may have been a bit hasty. Certainly we had hoped they would be more easily manipulated. Very well, we will have to be most careful. Perhaps there is another we can use? Tell me, agent, what is your opinion of Carlos, not of his philosophies, but of him as a man. Tell me, is he a tall man? A handsome man?”
Again Carmen blushed. Trying to steady her voice, she answered, “Yes, he is a tall man, very large, over six feet I would say… and very strong. He grew up in the mountains, herding goats and pulling firewood. He was smart and the parish priest noticed this and educated him in letters, history and theology. He was sent to seminary. He is a bit of a dichotomy; strong and hard from the mountains, intelligent and insightful from the seminary and education.
“And yes, he is a handsome man.” Carmen hesitated, not sure how to continue. Finally she spoke, “Women are drawn to him, want to please him. Men too are drawn to him; he is a leader.”
Cigar in hand, the official turned now, looking at her very closely, scrutinizing her face, “Isabella,” Carmen cringed, uncomfortable at being referred to by her true name and not the cover identity of Carmen she had grown so used to, “return to your family, your husband. You need to see what should really matter to you. Your husband will soon be dispatched to the Venezuelan front; he needs you more than your mark,” he stressed the word, “Carlos or we do.”
Continued from Carlos returns from Seminário Missionário Bom Jesus, Spear-fishing at Montañita beach, and In the Lightning Storm
Although the box-seats were open to the theatre, the government official’s cigar filled the balcony with a thick heavy scent that Carmen did not find unpleasant; it reminded her of gentler times, of her childhood in Bagotá. She stood in the shadows, half-hidden by a thick velvet curtain as the official perused her report. He took his time, occasionally raising his eyes to the dance before him, drinking cognac steadily, grunting here, tsking there, never looking back at her, and always with a cigar at his lips. Carmen didn’t mind; she stood back and watched the elegant dancers.
Finally the official turned to her, “Agent, your report is really rather disappointing. We asked you to prepare a list of personnel associated with this Radio Libertad and instead you send us this report describing an English invention for recycling air for spear-fishermen. Your description of this Carlos fellow whom you are supposed to direct and train is woefully inadequate and this Julián character is almost completely lacking. Agent, you sought us out, offered to serve your country. Your enthusiasm and looks will only get you so far; these reports need much greater insight and detail.”
Carmen was taken aback. She had not expected her handler to break the silence, had been absorbed in the grace of the dancer portraying the heroine as she languished in the arms of a dancer playing a flying devil. Her reverie broken, it took her a moment to register what the cigar-smoking man had said. And at the mention of Carlos’ name, she blushed deeply, happy that her handler was not facing her and that her face was so deeply hidden in the shadows, “Señor Wences, I will do my best to provide what intelligence you desire. What do you want to know?”
The official, who’s name was not really Señor Wences grunted again, took a heavy sip from his cognac and still facing the dancers spoke to the agent hiding in the thick shadows behind him, “Well, tell me your personal opinion of this Carlos fellow. You write that he is a natural leader and I have heard him speak on the wireless, but what is your opinion?”
“Señor, he is very much a natural leader. When he arrived at Montañita, he was at first not widely accepted amongst the group but within only a month had naturally and without malice subverted leadership of the small group and had begun to direct the activities of the others according to his own design…”
Another sip of cognac, another question, “And what are his designs?”
“Well, Señor, he very quickly adopted the ideas of the previous leadership, one Rubén, whom I wrote about. Despite my very subtle attempts at manipulation, I have been unable to disenchant him regarding the idea of de-centralizing a greater nation. He does not want his people, or even any of the people that might form Gran Colombia to be directly answerable to or dependent upon Bagotá. He sees Bagotá as a sort of federal capital to the various provinces which would largely be independent in terms of their domestic laws and culture- I think, I am afraid, that Rubén had taken many of his ideas from the US and from the Soviet states. Unfortunately, Carlos built on many of those ideas.”
The official took a long time to consider this before posing his next question, “This changes things. Even within Colombia there is some movement for a change of government like this; it harkens to a historical debate we once had many years ago. Of course, there is no room for it within our constitution; what he suggests is nothing less than to rewrite our very nation’s identity.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed women kept her eyes on the dancers below, half her mind silently enjoying their pirouettes, arabesques, battements, and sautés. With her mind’s other half, she answered, “That is not all of it. He is also agitating for the formation of a republic. He claims that our representative democracy is an attack upon the minorities by the majority. He claims that without real minority representation, the people of Ecuador and what he calls ‘the provincia’, will never truly be free to represent themselves and live free of tyranny. He is calling for a Republic.”
“Hmm… he is not an un-thoughtful man, this Carlos. But our dreams of directing the ‘Radio Libertad’ may have been a bit hasty. Certainly we had hoped they would be more easily manipulated. Very well, we will have to be most careful. Perhaps there is another we can use? Tell me, agent, what is your opinion of Carlos, not of his philosophies, but of him as a man. Tell me, is he a tall man? A handsome man?”
Again Carmen blushed. Trying to steady her voice, she answered, “Yes, he is a tall man, very large, over six feet I would say… and very strong. He grew up in the mountains, herding goats and pulling firewood. He was smart and the parish priest noticed this and educated him in letters, history and theology. He was sent to seminary. He is a bit of a dichotomy; strong and hard from the mountains, intelligent and insightful from the seminary and education.
“And yes, he is a handsome man.” Carmen hesitated, not sure how to continue. Finally she spoke, “Women are drawn to him, want to please him. Men too are drawn to him; he is a leader.”
Cigar in hand, the official turned now, looking at her very closely, scrutinizing her face, “Isabella,” Carmen cringed, uncomfortable at being referred to by her true name and not the cover identity of Carmen she had grown so used to, “return to your family, your husband. You need to see what should really matter to you. Your husband will soon be dispatched to the Venezuelan front; he needs you more than your mark,” he stressed the word, “Carlos or we do.”
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