das
Regeneration In Process
Yes, it does, now doesn't it? 
NES2 V - The Great Game.
- Thread starter das
- Start date
- Status
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
One Month Later...
Ardashir IV sat astride his horse. In a place that might have been called Southern Pakistan in another world, but was called Kalat in this one, an army was preparing for war.
The Shah looked out toward the plain. As the sun set bloodily, (as it did all too often these days,) he looked toward the former village of Kalat. Thousands of men were working on the plain before the Indus river, and the place had not seen a large army since the days of the Khan Tamerlane.
An immense line of trenches, razor wire, and erected fortifications was slowly emerging into being. Mockingly, many of the troops were already calling it Russell's Line, after the Federate official that issued the declaration of war against Persia.
Men in the gray and blue uniforms of the Persian Engineering Corps directed legions of sappers in erecting walls, redoubts, and miniature citadels. Engineers and architects argued over muddy schematics, and every now and then a keg of explosives got too close to a forge, or a welding pit...
Ardashir cringed as five sappers were blown into the air by the force of the explosion. Muttering a quick benediction, he turned to Suleiman, who was sketching a diagram in a notebook.
"What's that you're writing?"
"Oh! I'm glad you asked, my liege. Several of our researchers in Teheran are working on a prototype of the weapon we discussed earlier...the self repeating gun. We've run into an entirely new set of problems...especially after our top researcher lost his ear...In addition, we've yet to forge an appropriate metal that can hold up to the strain of repetitive fire."
"Well, my best wishes to his family. How are the fortifications at Karachi coming?"
"Admirably. I can't say more, as I am sure you know..."
"Yes, there are Federate spies in my staff, Suleiman. They have enough sympathizers here."
"Of course, but my lord..."
Suleiman's protests were drowned out by the approaching footsteps of a Royal Courier. Handing the message to the Shah, he bowed and left the hilltop.
"It seems that this...General MacMahon has started something like a coup, Suleiman. It seems that he has declared the end of the French Empire. The Provisional Government is undecided, but is leaning in favor of surrender. MacMahon, however, wants to fight on."
"What will you do, sire?"
"The side that Persia supports will gain all our allies support. In effect, I have the opportunity, right now, to decide the very fate of France."
"Indeed you do, sire."
"How ironic..."
Shah Ardashir made his decision. He picked up a piece of paper, and started to write...
From: Persia
To: France, HRE, Muscovy, China
As you may know, our powers are the remaining forces that stand against Federate domination. However, the nation of France is in a serious crisis, even now. We must, at this crucial time, marshal our forces against the enemy, and not each other.
That is why the Holy Islamic Kingdom of Persia supports General MacMahon and his government to lead the Nation of France.
We hope that the members of the Provisional Government of France will agree to grant full military powers to General MacMahon, and will attempt to cooperate. (OOC: Kal'thzar, you should take domestic affairs, and let Panda do military affairs) Failure to cooperate will result, we are sure, in the destruction of the Provisional Government.
We do not recognize any nation known as the Republic of France.
Persia calls upon it's allies to support General MacMahon in this troubled time for France, and join us in asking the Provisional Government to support said general.
Shah Ardashir IV
Back to the story:
Ardashir closed the envelope, and lit a match. As the blue wax dripped down onto the envelope, he pressed the Great Seal of Persia down upon it, imprinting the Falcon, holding the Koran and an olive branch in each claw, down into the wax.
He gave the envelope to Suleiman.
"Please, send this to Shiraz immediately. We need this delivered to all our allies. Make sure the Islamic Council gives this top priority."
"It will be done!"
Ardashir watched his second in command leave the hillside, and turned back towards the fortifications.
Yes, the defenses were really coming along now...and not just the ones on the Plains of Kalat.
EDIT: Das, this should give Panda a little more clout in the French government.
Ardashir IV sat astride his horse. In a place that might have been called Southern Pakistan in another world, but was called Kalat in this one, an army was preparing for war.
The Shah looked out toward the plain. As the sun set bloodily, (as it did all too often these days,) he looked toward the former village of Kalat. Thousands of men were working on the plain before the Indus river, and the place had not seen a large army since the days of the Khan Tamerlane.
An immense line of trenches, razor wire, and erected fortifications was slowly emerging into being. Mockingly, many of the troops were already calling it Russell's Line, after the Federate official that issued the declaration of war against Persia.
Men in the gray and blue uniforms of the Persian Engineering Corps directed legions of sappers in erecting walls, redoubts, and miniature citadels. Engineers and architects argued over muddy schematics, and every now and then a keg of explosives got too close to a forge, or a welding pit...
Ardashir cringed as five sappers were blown into the air by the force of the explosion. Muttering a quick benediction, he turned to Suleiman, who was sketching a diagram in a notebook.
"What's that you're writing?"
"Oh! I'm glad you asked, my liege. Several of our researchers in Teheran are working on a prototype of the weapon we discussed earlier...the self repeating gun. We've run into an entirely new set of problems...especially after our top researcher lost his ear...In addition, we've yet to forge an appropriate metal that can hold up to the strain of repetitive fire."
"Well, my best wishes to his family. How are the fortifications at Karachi coming?"
"Admirably. I can't say more, as I am sure you know..."
"Yes, there are Federate spies in my staff, Suleiman. They have enough sympathizers here."
"Of course, but my lord..."
Suleiman's protests were drowned out by the approaching footsteps of a Royal Courier. Handing the message to the Shah, he bowed and left the hilltop.
"It seems that this...General MacMahon has started something like a coup, Suleiman. It seems that he has declared the end of the French Empire. The Provisional Government is undecided, but is leaning in favor of surrender. MacMahon, however, wants to fight on."
"What will you do, sire?"
"The side that Persia supports will gain all our allies support. In effect, I have the opportunity, right now, to decide the very fate of France."
"Indeed you do, sire."
"How ironic..."
Shah Ardashir made his decision. He picked up a piece of paper, and started to write...
From: Persia
To: France, HRE, Muscovy, China
As you may know, our powers are the remaining forces that stand against Federate domination. However, the nation of France is in a serious crisis, even now. We must, at this crucial time, marshal our forces against the enemy, and not each other.
That is why the Holy Islamic Kingdom of Persia supports General MacMahon and his government to lead the Nation of France.
We hope that the members of the Provisional Government of France will agree to grant full military powers to General MacMahon, and will attempt to cooperate. (OOC: Kal'thzar, you should take domestic affairs, and let Panda do military affairs) Failure to cooperate will result, we are sure, in the destruction of the Provisional Government.
We do not recognize any nation known as the Republic of France.
Persia calls upon it's allies to support General MacMahon in this troubled time for France, and join us in asking the Provisional Government to support said general.
Shah Ardashir IV
Back to the story:
Ardashir closed the envelope, and lit a match. As the blue wax dripped down onto the envelope, he pressed the Great Seal of Persia down upon it, imprinting the Falcon, holding the Koran and an olive branch in each claw, down into the wax.
He gave the envelope to Suleiman.
"Please, send this to Shiraz immediately. We need this delivered to all our allies. Make sure the Islamic Council gives this top priority."
"It will be done!"
Ardashir watched his second in command leave the hillside, and turned back towards the fortifications.
Yes, the defenses were really coming along now...and not just the ones on the Plains of Kalat.
EDIT: Das, this should give Panda a little more clout in the French government.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
It is my place, and only mine. Mine is the blood of kings; mine is the blood of the people. Mine is the rule of this land, mine is the call of the warhorn. Mine is this land. Mine is India.
As ever, the day was broiling hot in Delhi. Dust howled down the city streets, parched and dry, with cobblestones dull and brown in their places. The clopping of horse hooves mingled with the chatter of a thousand people, all of whom walked to and fro; down this street rarely intruded the carriages of the Raj. This street belonged to the people, people of all castes, and of all religions. This was India as it was supposed to be.
Nobody gave a damn if you were Hindu or Muslim; as long as you were Indian, you were one of the people. The British were the only ones who tried to force the dividing line on the people. Indians knew where the real division lay: between the occupiers and the occupied.
But today, on this street, the occupiers were not in evidence. Here was a vision for a better life. Of a new life. One free of this... of this Federated Kingdom. Free of a foreign Raj who had no claim to the title he usurped.
It was on that day, looking down that street, that Ashoka Thangaraj knew his lifes calling. To free India.
******************
Two glasses through, and an unlimited supply left over. True, he would be a less effective persuader when drunk. But if he did not drink, the other would suspect it was something more than merely a friendly get-together of mild acquaintances. Which would not be good. He needed to operate under cover, as far as he could, before it went out in the open.
Indeed, good Hursh, indeed. He took a tiny sip of the drink in his hand. Enough to look nonchalant. He sighed somewhat theatrically, and looked like he was casting around for a subject to talk about. Making small talk, that was all. So what do you think of the British Raj?
Hursh blinked. I... Dont know that its safe to discuss such a thing.
Were in a tavern of good Indians. No British soldier would come here. He wouldnt appreciate the rather strong drinks. Or the fact that hed get his ****ing face knocked in. And any informants, as well.
Well, I suppose it cant hurt. Talking about the Raj isnt treason. I guess that Ive never really liked the fellow. A bit too...
Yes? he prompted.
Disrespectful. Of our people. Of our ways. Of India. He loves only the post, the fact that he can have people who are nothing more than slaves attend to his every need, and that he can relax in cooling baths while the people of India wallow in misery.
Hursh looked rather surprised that he had said so much. Ashoka was sympathetic. After all, Hursh was a company commander, like himself. It would not do for either of them to be heard thinking such things.
Indeed. Ashoka contemplated the dirty mug in front of him. He looked up. Say I were to tell you that there might be a way to get rid of the Raj.
Hursh raised an eyebrow. Is that so?
Yes. I have already gotten several commanders to agree with me on this. We shall rebel. Not today, no. Not even tomorrow. In a month, perhaps, or a year. But we shall rebel, and we shall drive the English out. What say you?
Hursh sat there a long moment, then stuck out his hand. I am with you.
******************
The sharp cracks of gunfire had filled the air for a night and a day, a racket that made the end of the Kali Yug seem near. But though it rang for hour after hour, pitiless firefight after firefight, eventually, as all things must, it came to an end. This garrison, small as it was, was free. Free from the occupation of the British. While it was not the only garrison in Delhi, while it was not the largest, while it was only a part of the greater whole, what happened here would (hopefully) be mirrored throughout India.
And with that dawn, it was done. The Union Jack had been lowered, and ceremoniously paraded over by a veritable regiment of rebelling sepoys. And now they assembled in the parade grounds, as Ashoka spoke to them briefly, before they moved on, to secure the rest of Delhi.
My comrades in arms. We stand here today, the bloodstained, dusty victors of a hard fought field. And thus this rebellion of ours beginswith a holy battle. I could declare this place a temple, if I so wished, and that would not make it any holier, for your friends and comrades who have shed their blood on this day for our nations freedom have consecrated this battlefield more than I ever could.
It is not for their sake that we fight, though. We do not fight to justify the deaths of our friends in arms. Yes, we do not fight for themthey have already justified their deaths a hundred times over, so that there is no doubt as to wether or not they have died in vain. No, what we fight for is something more tangible, yet less tangible. It is something that a colonial oppressor would fail to see even if we pointed it out to them.
Years and year ago, when I was a lad, I walked the streets of Delhi, and I reflected. This is India. Not the edifice that the European overlords have made it, no. This, he gestured broadly towards the spires of the City of Temples that glinted in the sunrise, This is India. Not an abstract portion of the British Empire. Not an arbitrary dividing line drawn in the sand. India is this, the people, the buildings, the land. It is in the rivers and the sky. This is India. This is what we fight for. This!
You have all heard of the atrocities the British have wrought. Their Raj is a puppet, a figurehead for greater machinations that loom. Theirs is an empire that loops around the world twice over. India is only a jewel. It is the crown jewel, but still only a jewel to them. A single gem. And I say that this will not stand, that I will not stand for it! A gem, pray tell me, is this the respect we deserve? No, I say, a hundred times no!
I will not stand for being a cog in the imperialist machine! This cog refuses to turn! We are the wrench in the workings, we are the stopper in the door! We are India, not they, not some lordly Raj, corrupt and bloated. We are India, the cog that will not turn! We are India, and thus is an empire destroyed!
OOC: Joining as a sepoy/peasant rebellion in India.
As ever, the day was broiling hot in Delhi. Dust howled down the city streets, parched and dry, with cobblestones dull and brown in their places. The clopping of horse hooves mingled with the chatter of a thousand people, all of whom walked to and fro; down this street rarely intruded the carriages of the Raj. This street belonged to the people, people of all castes, and of all religions. This was India as it was supposed to be.
Nobody gave a damn if you were Hindu or Muslim; as long as you were Indian, you were one of the people. The British were the only ones who tried to force the dividing line on the people. Indians knew where the real division lay: between the occupiers and the occupied.
But today, on this street, the occupiers were not in evidence. Here was a vision for a better life. Of a new life. One free of this... of this Federated Kingdom. Free of a foreign Raj who had no claim to the title he usurped.
It was on that day, looking down that street, that Ashoka Thangaraj knew his lifes calling. To free India.
******************
Two glasses through, and an unlimited supply left over. True, he would be a less effective persuader when drunk. But if he did not drink, the other would suspect it was something more than merely a friendly get-together of mild acquaintances. Which would not be good. He needed to operate under cover, as far as he could, before it went out in the open.
Indeed, good Hursh, indeed. He took a tiny sip of the drink in his hand. Enough to look nonchalant. He sighed somewhat theatrically, and looked like he was casting around for a subject to talk about. Making small talk, that was all. So what do you think of the British Raj?
Hursh blinked. I... Dont know that its safe to discuss such a thing.
Were in a tavern of good Indians. No British soldier would come here. He wouldnt appreciate the rather strong drinks. Or the fact that hed get his ****ing face knocked in. And any informants, as well.
Well, I suppose it cant hurt. Talking about the Raj isnt treason. I guess that Ive never really liked the fellow. A bit too...
Yes? he prompted.
Disrespectful. Of our people. Of our ways. Of India. He loves only the post, the fact that he can have people who are nothing more than slaves attend to his every need, and that he can relax in cooling baths while the people of India wallow in misery.
Hursh looked rather surprised that he had said so much. Ashoka was sympathetic. After all, Hursh was a company commander, like himself. It would not do for either of them to be heard thinking such things.
Indeed. Ashoka contemplated the dirty mug in front of him. He looked up. Say I were to tell you that there might be a way to get rid of the Raj.
Hursh raised an eyebrow. Is that so?
Yes. I have already gotten several commanders to agree with me on this. We shall rebel. Not today, no. Not even tomorrow. In a month, perhaps, or a year. But we shall rebel, and we shall drive the English out. What say you?
Hursh sat there a long moment, then stuck out his hand. I am with you.
******************
The sharp cracks of gunfire had filled the air for a night and a day, a racket that made the end of the Kali Yug seem near. But though it rang for hour after hour, pitiless firefight after firefight, eventually, as all things must, it came to an end. This garrison, small as it was, was free. Free from the occupation of the British. While it was not the only garrison in Delhi, while it was not the largest, while it was only a part of the greater whole, what happened here would (hopefully) be mirrored throughout India.
And with that dawn, it was done. The Union Jack had been lowered, and ceremoniously paraded over by a veritable regiment of rebelling sepoys. And now they assembled in the parade grounds, as Ashoka spoke to them briefly, before they moved on, to secure the rest of Delhi.
My comrades in arms. We stand here today, the bloodstained, dusty victors of a hard fought field. And thus this rebellion of ours beginswith a holy battle. I could declare this place a temple, if I so wished, and that would not make it any holier, for your friends and comrades who have shed their blood on this day for our nations freedom have consecrated this battlefield more than I ever could.
It is not for their sake that we fight, though. We do not fight to justify the deaths of our friends in arms. Yes, we do not fight for themthey have already justified their deaths a hundred times over, so that there is no doubt as to wether or not they have died in vain. No, what we fight for is something more tangible, yet less tangible. It is something that a colonial oppressor would fail to see even if we pointed it out to them.
Years and year ago, when I was a lad, I walked the streets of Delhi, and I reflected. This is India. Not the edifice that the European overlords have made it, no. This, he gestured broadly towards the spires of the City of Temples that glinted in the sunrise, This is India. Not an abstract portion of the British Empire. Not an arbitrary dividing line drawn in the sand. India is this, the people, the buildings, the land. It is in the rivers and the sky. This is India. This is what we fight for. This!
You have all heard of the atrocities the British have wrought. Their Raj is a puppet, a figurehead for greater machinations that loom. Theirs is an empire that loops around the world twice over. India is only a jewel. It is the crown jewel, but still only a jewel to them. A single gem. And I say that this will not stand, that I will not stand for it! A gem, pray tell me, is this the respect we deserve? No, I say, a hundred times no!
I will not stand for being a cog in the imperialist machine! This cog refuses to turn! We are the wrench in the workings, we are the stopper in the door! We are India, not they, not some lordly Raj, corrupt and bloated. We are India, the cog that will not turn! We are India, and thus is an empire destroyed!
OOC: Joining as a sepoy/peasant rebellion in India.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
From: Persia
To: India
We recognize your independence.
OOC: And so, the cracks in the Federate domination of the world began...
To: India
We recognize your independence.
OOC: And so, the cracks in the Federate domination of the world began...
Insane_Panda
Deity
The CDN recognizes the new Indian nation.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Wow there is some pretty damn effective international comminication going on here I must say 
Story:
The Burnt Man
Dezhnev strode into the nursing house, followed by his adjucants in a loose swarm. The old Bear thundered past a few bewildered surgeons and nurses on his way in, through the main hall and up the wide wooden stairs, the thread of his boots resounding off them. Arriving at the topmost floor he found the way barred. At well over six foot and heavy with muscle despite approaching the middle of his sixth decade, Mikhail was not used to being eye to eye with a woman. If a woman this was of course; the dress and hat of the matron being the only concessions to feminity on this person seemingly carved from granite.
"Let me past, I have much else to do today" He growled, and put on his best frown, the one honed by years of practice.
"No Perviy Prikaznik" She replied, her voice surprisingly high, "He is too weak to see anyone"
"I was told he received vistors this morning, If he had time for then, then he has time for me!", The Matron and the Politican-Soldier stared at each other in clash of wills, the adjucants milling uncertainly, unsure who to come to the aid of, or indeed who would win if this escalated to blows.
Eventually however the formidable woman yielded, "You can speak to him, but the rest stay!". Dreznev, like any commander knowing when to pick his battles, quickly agreed. He was ushered along the corridor of the top floor, and was admitted to the room at the far end. This, undoubtably the largest room in the house was at once sparsely decorated and brillently lit. in the darkest corner next to a fireplace was a small bed, and on the other end of a wide wooden floor was a heavy writing desk in front of the wide glass windows.
Sitting at the desk, blazing in the light of the direct sun through the window, was a figure carved out of white and dark, like some sort of strange statue. When his eyes had adjusted from the darkness of the corridor Dreznev could see that this absract figure was instead a man clothed in soft black trousers below, and shrouded in white bandages above. The bandages, which covered his head except for his left eye, seemed to impede the mans hearing, for he did not look up as they came in.
Dezhnev stomped over to the desk and looked over the mans shoulder at what was being read; last weeks newspaper from Khlopushensk, specifically the headline story of a refugee ship sunk by chinese squadrons within sight of the Ezochi territorial waters. The mans heavily bandaged hands seemed to have trouble with turning the pages. After some consideration the matron started scolding the man, "You should not be out of bed like this!"
The man started and turned to the intruders, he eyed Dezhnev for a second before turning to the enemy he knew, "I needed...to see...the sky". He Dalnorossian was good, but his voice had obviously been wrecked by whatever had required the bandaging; it was a deep, rough, and scratching thing, like tombstones being piled and smashed.
Dezhnev's raised hand quieted the matrons reply, "Enough of that, you know who I am I assume? You spoke with Skoropadsky earlier after all..."
"Even...he...could..not quiet...matron...must...Old Bear...himself" the man wheezed in reply and his visible eye seemed to smile coldly.
"That is indeed what I am sometimes called. Now, I felt I needed to meet with you in person, guage you myself. After all so much might be riding on you in a few years"
"I will not break...Prikaznik" The burnt man replied, forcing out the sentance at the cost of a coughing fit. Looking into the single dark eye, Dezhnev nodded.
"No I believe you won't", Turning to the Matron he ordered, "Make sure this man survives, we will need him later"
As he left he patted the coughing man on the shoulder absent-mindedly, in a paternal fashion. Beneath the bandages he could feel a blazing heat seeming to come from the man; slightly superstitious, he wondered if it was the heat of the torments the man had undergone, of the blaze of his desire for revenge.
Either would serve, to tell the truth...
Story:
The Burnt Man
Dezhnev strode into the nursing house, followed by his adjucants in a loose swarm. The old Bear thundered past a few bewildered surgeons and nurses on his way in, through the main hall and up the wide wooden stairs, the thread of his boots resounding off them. Arriving at the topmost floor he found the way barred. At well over six foot and heavy with muscle despite approaching the middle of his sixth decade, Mikhail was not used to being eye to eye with a woman. If a woman this was of course; the dress and hat of the matron being the only concessions to feminity on this person seemingly carved from granite.
"Let me past, I have much else to do today" He growled, and put on his best frown, the one honed by years of practice.
"No Perviy Prikaznik" She replied, her voice surprisingly high, "He is too weak to see anyone"
"I was told he received vistors this morning, If he had time for then, then he has time for me!", The Matron and the Politican-Soldier stared at each other in clash of wills, the adjucants milling uncertainly, unsure who to come to the aid of, or indeed who would win if this escalated to blows.
Eventually however the formidable woman yielded, "You can speak to him, but the rest stay!". Dreznev, like any commander knowing when to pick his battles, quickly agreed. He was ushered along the corridor of the top floor, and was admitted to the room at the far end. This, undoubtably the largest room in the house was at once sparsely decorated and brillently lit. in the darkest corner next to a fireplace was a small bed, and on the other end of a wide wooden floor was a heavy writing desk in front of the wide glass windows.
Sitting at the desk, blazing in the light of the direct sun through the window, was a figure carved out of white and dark, like some sort of strange statue. When his eyes had adjusted from the darkness of the corridor Dreznev could see that this absract figure was instead a man clothed in soft black trousers below, and shrouded in white bandages above. The bandages, which covered his head except for his left eye, seemed to impede the mans hearing, for he did not look up as they came in.
Dezhnev stomped over to the desk and looked over the mans shoulder at what was being read; last weeks newspaper from Khlopushensk, specifically the headline story of a refugee ship sunk by chinese squadrons within sight of the Ezochi territorial waters. The mans heavily bandaged hands seemed to have trouble with turning the pages. After some consideration the matron started scolding the man, "You should not be out of bed like this!"
The man started and turned to the intruders, he eyed Dezhnev for a second before turning to the enemy he knew, "I needed...to see...the sky". He Dalnorossian was good, but his voice had obviously been wrecked by whatever had required the bandaging; it was a deep, rough, and scratching thing, like tombstones being piled and smashed.
Dezhnev's raised hand quieted the matrons reply, "Enough of that, you know who I am I assume? You spoke with Skoropadsky earlier after all..."
"Even...he...could..not quiet...matron...must...Old Bear...himself" the man wheezed in reply and his visible eye seemed to smile coldly.
"That is indeed what I am sometimes called. Now, I felt I needed to meet with you in person, guage you myself. After all so much might be riding on you in a few years"
"I will not break...Prikaznik" The burnt man replied, forcing out the sentance at the cost of a coughing fit. Looking into the single dark eye, Dezhnev nodded.
"No I believe you won't", Turning to the Matron he ordered, "Make sure this man survives, we will need him later"
As he left he patted the coughing man on the shoulder absent-mindedly, in a paternal fashion. Beneath the bandages he could feel a blazing heat seeming to come from the man; slightly superstitious, he wondered if it was the heat of the torments the man had undergone, of the blaze of his desire for revenge.
Either would serve, to tell the truth...
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
The Anti-Federate Alliance is well organized.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Indeed, able to send messages near instantly across thousands of miles of unfriendly land and sea 
(refering to the Frence commincations of course, not Persia knwoing about india)
Also, my god das how late/early up are you?
(refering to the Frence commincations of course, not Persia knwoing about india)Also, my god das how late/early up are you?
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Hey, it did say "One month later..." in my story.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
But still its pretty darn vast...maybe I should check my borders more strongly...
Also
You really must be thinking of a different people this is the French after all; a muslim foreigner in the 19th century will not have a great deal of influence on how they organise things...
Also
Thlayli said:
You really must be thinking of a different people
this is the French after all; a muslim foreigner in the 19th century will not have a great deal of influence on how they organise things...
Insane_Panda
Deity
I think I already have more clout. French people weren't really big supporters of socialists you know 
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Well, except for the Paris Commune...
*shudders*
Regarding clout, Persia's decision of who to support influences it's allies decisions, effectively giving the most political power to which party it supports. A simple matter of geopolitics, really. And it certainly influences Algeria especially.
*shudders*
Regarding clout, Persia's decision of who to support influences it's allies decisions, effectively giving the most political power to which party it supports. A simple matter of geopolitics, really. And it certainly influences Algeria especially.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Oh I agree Panda, I'm just pointing out to Thlayli the Eurocentric condition that prevails in the 19th century
Insane_Panda
Deity
Omg, I should call myself the commune for national defense to throw you all off.
A new batch of recruits for the army arrived under heavy rain at the elite training grounds of Karlskrona, a military base for the extreme training of the elite Berserker divisions. It was a privlage, and an honor to be placed in the Berserker Divisions. They were quickly processed, given their uniforms, and marched out into the training grounds by stern looking drill sergeants. The young faces of the various ethnicities recruited into the force looked back at the stern faced Drill sergeants.
Northern Germans who fled Prussia to Sweden to escape the Holy Roman Empire opression gladly would serve in the Swedish military to free their people. Fins from Swedish occupied Finland steeled themselves to free family and friends from Muscovite opression. Russians in Sweden wondered if they should fight for their freedom, or their country men. And finally, the Swedish troops fought to preserve their nation from foriegn enemies, and preserve their democratic empire.
All these faces looked back at the Drill sergeants under the heavy rain. The General of the base stepped forward, his rimmed hat doing nothing to protect him from the rain. The gathered recruits stood straighter at his precense.
"My name is General Rutger von Ascheberg," the man began, "and I am the General of this Military base. This is Karlskrona, and you boys will be broken, created, and molded here on these fields. You will cease to exist as a ethnic group. You will no longer be Russian, you will no longer be Swedish, you will no longer be German and Finnish.
You will become one thing, and one thing only: a soldier of the Kalmar Union. Your sqaud mates will become your brothers, and it will not matter that you do not share the same mother, but the fact that you trained together here, at this isolated military base. This army will become your family, because you will eat, sleep, and live with these boys for the duration of your military service."
The newly recruited soldiers pondered the Generals words, sometimes agreeing, other times disagreeing (mostly with the fact of ignoring their ethnicties). Yet, before they could fully digest the generals words, he spoke again.
"Now, boys, its time to get you ready for the days ahead. Drill Sergeant Augustin Ehrensvärd will be taking you boys on a lovely romp through the rain to physically prepare you for the rigors of being a Berserker."
Several protests were raised at the order, among which were 'We just got here', and 'Its raining!', but at a stern glance from the drill sergeant, they began running.
It would not be the last time, and at this isolated military base, these troops of various ethnicities were remade into one: a soldier for the Kalmar union. They were given the choice to leave if a war against their own nationality was unsettling to those who were Russian and German, but many refused. The bonds they formed at the training camp would transcend war, and would become the building blocks for true unity in the Kalmar Union.
Northern Germans who fled Prussia to Sweden to escape the Holy Roman Empire opression gladly would serve in the Swedish military to free their people. Fins from Swedish occupied Finland steeled themselves to free family and friends from Muscovite opression. Russians in Sweden wondered if they should fight for their freedom, or their country men. And finally, the Swedish troops fought to preserve their nation from foriegn enemies, and preserve their democratic empire.
All these faces looked back at the Drill sergeants under the heavy rain. The General of the base stepped forward, his rimmed hat doing nothing to protect him from the rain. The gathered recruits stood straighter at his precense.
"My name is General Rutger von Ascheberg," the man began, "and I am the General of this Military base. This is Karlskrona, and you boys will be broken, created, and molded here on these fields. You will cease to exist as a ethnic group. You will no longer be Russian, you will no longer be Swedish, you will no longer be German and Finnish.
You will become one thing, and one thing only: a soldier of the Kalmar Union. Your sqaud mates will become your brothers, and it will not matter that you do not share the same mother, but the fact that you trained together here, at this isolated military base. This army will become your family, because you will eat, sleep, and live with these boys for the duration of your military service."
The newly recruited soldiers pondered the Generals words, sometimes agreeing, other times disagreeing (mostly with the fact of ignoring their ethnicties). Yet, before they could fully digest the generals words, he spoke again.
"Now, boys, its time to get you ready for the days ahead. Drill Sergeant Augustin Ehrensvärd will be taking you boys on a lovely romp through the rain to physically prepare you for the rigors of being a Berserker."
Several protests were raised at the order, among which were 'We just got here', and 'Its raining!', but at a stern glance from the drill sergeant, they began running.
It would not be the last time, and at this isolated military base, these troops of various ethnicities were remade into one: a soldier for the Kalmar union. They were given the choice to leave if a war against their own nationality was unsettling to those who were Russian and German, but many refused. The bonds they formed at the training camp would transcend war, and would become the building blocks for true unity in the Kalmar Union.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
From: Persia
To: Nouvelle Gaulle, Algeria, Madagascar
We sincerely hope that you declare for MacMahon, as this would garner you all the help we and our allies can provide. You will, of course, receive no such help if you declare for the Republic.
To: Nouvelle Gaulle, Algeria, Madagascar
We sincerely hope that you declare for MacMahon, as this would garner you all the help we and our allies can provide. You will, of course, receive no such help if you declare for the Republic.
Stormbringer
The Brick and The Rose
I am very uncomfortable with NK taking a rebel faction in the FK considering he knows the UU and lots of other stuff about the FK that a rebel faction should not know
silver 2039
Deity
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2003
- Messages
- 16,208
What the hell do you people think you're doing?
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Stormbringer said:
Yes. I know your UU. Other stuff about the FK a rebel faction should not know?
Yes, I guess I know the troop dispositions... from five turns ago. Honestly, it's something anyone could find out about. Hell, people should have figured out the UU by now, especially with Stormy's liberal usage of it. I also know what rebel factions you aided five turns ago, and the plan for the military campaign plans for Turkmenistan.
Honestly, if das disqualifies my playing India because of that...
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Not to be rude Stormbringer, but after war began between us, I told almost everyone the nature of your UU.
Can't say we didn't warn you.
It's not like it's incredibly difficult for anyone to figure out, if they read the past few updates, and see what's similar with almost EVERY campaign the Federates participate in.
Also, the fact that it was being done to the French in California was what tipped me off that there was a UU there.
Can't say we didn't warn you.
It's not like it's incredibly difficult for anyone to figure out, if they read the past few updates, and see what's similar with almost EVERY campaign the Federates participate in.
Also, the fact that it was being done to the French in California was what tipped me off that there was a UU there.
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