NES2 V - The Great Game.
- Thread starter das
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silver 2039
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Very well, then Dalanrossia will be payed in full.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
@Muscovy; We look forward to such an event, and hope to once more extend the hand of friendship to Muscovy, we will even reopen the borders. (So your EC shouldn't suffer)
@erez: Are you sure you need conscription?
@erez: Are you sure you need conscription?
i realy don't want to do still thought..
das
Regeneration In Process
They want to throw the Genevans out of French land, and stop it at that.
They probably won't accept conscription, however. But you will probably get some volunteers.
das
Regeneration In Process
Well duh. Who doesn't want that? 
ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE WORLD
On behalf of His most August Majesty King Rama the Fifth of Siam, I wish to announce the treaties agreed upon with both the independent states of Nepal and Tibet.
We wish to announce (to those too lazy to read the damn treaty), that Tibet and Nepal are under Siamese protection. An attack on them would equate to an attack on us.
Yours truly,
Chatichai Songbeem,
Foreign Minister of Siam.
OOC: Think India-Bhutan OTL
On behalf of His most August Majesty King Rama the Fifth of Siam, I wish to announce the treaties agreed upon with both the independent states of Nepal and Tibet.
Spoiler Siam-Tibet Treaty of 1870 :
Spoiler Siam-Nepal Treaty of 1870 :
We wish to announce (to those too lazy to read the damn treaty), that Tibet and Nepal are under Siamese protection. An attack on them would equate to an attack on us.
Yours truly,
Chatichai Songbeem,
Foreign Minister of Siam.
OOC: Think India-Bhutan OTL
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Curse your devilish penguin legal-fu! Making my treaties feel short in comparison now
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
OOC: Sorry about the payments, silver. I'd help you with that if I could. But you can have more weapons, if that makes you feel better. (and something tells me it will) 
From: Persia
To: Poland
Oh Land of Po, do you agree to peace or not? We'd really appreciate some sort of response.
From: Persia
To: Poland
Oh Land of Po, do you agree to peace or not? We'd really appreciate some sort of response.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
OOC: Nothing like finishing a good story arc.
Whispers in Mecca, Part Four
Riyadh, January 8, 1870
General Osman Mustafa, First Commander of the Persian Army in Arabia, and chief of the Supreme Persian Military Command, looked through his field glasses. He smiled. The Wahhabites were with him again, as shown by the fighting in the city center. They were fickle allies for sure, and Federate money had deluded them for a while, into thinking that the Persians were their enemies. But several Bedouin chiefs owed Mustafa a life-debt from the Turkish Wars, so he was able to call in some favors. The resisting pro-Federate militias were slowly being forced towards the north side of the city by the Arab irregulars.
Above the north side of the city was a ridge. Unknown to their enemies, who thought that they had a whole desert to retreat to, Mustafa waited there with three divisions of infantry, and the 4th Artillery, too. His grin grew wider as the retreating enemy columns came within range.
“Move the heavy artillery up to the ridge. And a score of sharpshooters, not enough to give us away. Use the tan Bedouin costumes, it might fool them.”
The hardened veterans (all snipers) crept over the ridge, slipping down into fissures in the rock. A few pebbles scrabbled down the cliff, and a gust of sand blew through the army. Mustafa held up two fingers for silence. He crept over to his aide, and whispered an order.
“They’re in range. When the Wahhabites retreat as according to plan, open the bombardment. Aim for troops and fortifications. And try not to destroy any shrines, we don’t want a repeat of Fallujah.”
“At once, General.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Wait until I give the command.”
After five more minutes, the Wahhabites retreated, according to plan. As their stunned enemies milled about happily in the square below them, Mustafa swaggered up to the top of the ridge. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled,
“Hello down there! Hope you like hell, because Armageddon’s coming early!” Turning quickly to the cannons and the sharpshooters behind him, he roared out the first command of the Second Battle of Riyadh.
“FIRE!”
---
Abban tried to look casual. He failed, but thankfully there weren’t any Federates on the street. That didn’t rule out Federate spies, though.
He’d just left his home, if it could even be called that, for perhaps the last time. It wasn’t more than a shack attached to the rear of his master’s house and smithy. Still, he’d grown attached to it. A pair of worn leather boots were the only thing his father had left behind. Though he despised both his father for leaving him, and the boots for not fitting him, they were never thrown away.
Before he left, though, he put on the boots. They felt soft, the soles worn down by years of walking. But surprisingly, they fit him. So he wore them. “Maybe Cornea will notice,” he thought.
The curfew passed, and he slipped into an alleyway. The Federates probably thought that a rigorously enforced curfew would keep people inside, but they’d forgotten to check their facts. Mecca had been crushed under the iron grip of the Ottoman Guards for several years, and a curfew was nothing compared to raids, torture, and complete brutality. In addition, any Meccan seen after sunset in the streets was shot on sight by the Ottomans.
The Federates were more civilized (or maybe just less intelligent) than that. If they saw someone running, they had to catch him, first. If the Ottomans saw someone running, they assumed that he was doing something wrong, and killed him at range.
So, Abban didn’t have that much to worry about. But it didn’t keep him from looking like someone with a secret. He wove his way through the tangled web of back-streets, half deserted souks, and empty plazas, heading towards the garrison on the southern side of the city.
The original owner of the palace was unknown, as the Ottomans had occupied the place for ages, it being the seat of the military government. After the governor was killed in the First Rebellion, General Allashir Kemal used the place as his command center, until he moved north to campaign against Mustafa in Palestine, and later Turkey where he died in the Battle of Constantinople. Ardashir didn’t want to rule over the Arabs with as heavy a hand as the Ottomans, so he put the Sharifs of Mecca in power, a delegation of rulers from the city itself, and the surrounding tribes. They technically had control over Arabia…and the Shah didn’t interfere, as long as the Sharifs agreed with his plans, that is.
While most of the Sharifs were quite loyal to the Shah, some even contributing troops from their militias for the war effort, several were corrupt. They took frequent bribes, and their spending of state money on palaces and harems was quite notorious. Last year, however, Federate agents approached the Sharifs with a plan…and a huge bribe to go along with it. So the Traitorous Six, as they were called, killed several of the pro-Persian Sharifs, and made sure that the defenses in the Sinai and on the coasts were weakened for the FK invasion.
Interestingly enough, the Persian garrison managed to kill five of the Six before they were slaughtered by the advancing Federate troops. So they took the palace for their own. There was a barracks, an Office of Colonial Intelligence, and a code-breaking office. Cornea was very interested in the last two.
But then again, Abban didn’t care about any of this backstory. What he cared about was destroying the people that burned his mosque, and killed his father. And that was another reason for wearing the boots…they concealed daggers quite nicely.
The meeting place was a ditch, actually. Rather inconspicuous, it was only half a mile from the garrison palace. Around fifteen men were crouched in it, and one woman. Cornea sat at the top, gazing through binoculars. When he saw Abban coming, he winked and motioned with his hands. Abban jumped quietly into the ditch.
“Ah, you came! I was hoping you’d get here in time. Everyone, this is Abban, Abdullah’s son. Abban, this is Retina, Choroid, Fovea, and Iris.” Abban was greeted with a variety of quiet smiles, winks, and pats on the back. “You see, most of us served in the same battalion as your father, and we’re glad you’ve come. Don’t expect to be treated differently…but know that we trust you.”
Abban smiled. His fear was of being treated like a child. This suited him just fine.
“You all know the plan,” Cornea whispered. “Let’s go. At my whistle, we move in.”
So the seventeen people, whether they were spies or freedom fighters, split up into four groups, each taking cover on a side of the building. Daggers were drawn, and Choroid loaded a crossbow that looked like it had been stolen from a museum. At Abban’s glance, he whispered, “It’s quieter than a gun, but still has a good range. Trust me.”
There were eight guards on the roof. Abban could see the silhouette of one against the moonlit sky, a black figure with a long rifle slung over his shoulder. There was a bayonet at the top, and it looked painful. As he started to really consider what dying would feel like, a low, quiet whistle echoed across the grounds.
Abban couldn’t see Cornea. He pulled out two daggers, holding them in each hand. Choroid raised his crossbow, and slowly sighed. “Well, this is it.”
“Allah protect us,” someone said.
“Hopefully.”
The crossbow fired. Its black bolt flew forward, quietly whistling through the air, to land with a thump in the chest of the Federate sentry. He sunk with a gurgle to the ground. On all four sides of the palace roof, daggers silently flew through the air. Six of the guards were killed, but then a crossbow bolt merely grazed the head of the seventh. He dropped to the ground, seeing his comrades all dead. He crept to the alarm bell.
Before he could ring it, three grappling hooks clattered onto the top of the whitewashed battlements. The unfortunate sentry crept to the side of the wall, and peered over. No one was there…damn, a decoy! Before he could react and finally ring the bell, everything went black. Another team had scaled the opposite wall while the seventh sentry was preoccupied with the hooks. The eighth, a Dutchman who was actually sleeping with a bottle of whiskey in his lap, woke up to a very unpleasant sensation, the cold steel of a knife at the jugular. Towering over him was the massive form of Choroid, cloaked in a black robe. He looked like Death itself. Grinning like a feral wolf, he uttered three words.
“Ring the bell.”
When the team of crack Federate troops arrived on the scene, they stormed the roof, guns blazing. The first up, a sergeant from York, saw something. No assassins or rebels, but a fuse. One that was slowly burning towards several large barrels of gunpowder, potassium sulfate, and blasting sticks* packed into a corner.
“Bloody he--
The local gossip said that the explosion could be seen from as far as Medina.** Several hundred Federates died that night, and the game had begun again.
*A precursor to dynamite, invented by the Engineering Corps. All historically accurate, of course.
**It's probably just a rumor. But then again, when the resulting collapse and fire ignited the powder magazine of the base, THAT could probably be seen from Medina.
Whispers in Mecca, Part Four
Riyadh, January 8, 1870
General Osman Mustafa, First Commander of the Persian Army in Arabia, and chief of the Supreme Persian Military Command, looked through his field glasses. He smiled. The Wahhabites were with him again, as shown by the fighting in the city center. They were fickle allies for sure, and Federate money had deluded them for a while, into thinking that the Persians were their enemies. But several Bedouin chiefs owed Mustafa a life-debt from the Turkish Wars, so he was able to call in some favors. The resisting pro-Federate militias were slowly being forced towards the north side of the city by the Arab irregulars.
Above the north side of the city was a ridge. Unknown to their enemies, who thought that they had a whole desert to retreat to, Mustafa waited there with three divisions of infantry, and the 4th Artillery, too. His grin grew wider as the retreating enemy columns came within range.
“Move the heavy artillery up to the ridge. And a score of sharpshooters, not enough to give us away. Use the tan Bedouin costumes, it might fool them.”
The hardened veterans (all snipers) crept over the ridge, slipping down into fissures in the rock. A few pebbles scrabbled down the cliff, and a gust of sand blew through the army. Mustafa held up two fingers for silence. He crept over to his aide, and whispered an order.
“They’re in range. When the Wahhabites retreat as according to plan, open the bombardment. Aim for troops and fortifications. And try not to destroy any shrines, we don’t want a repeat of Fallujah.”
“At once, General.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Wait until I give the command.”
After five more minutes, the Wahhabites retreated, according to plan. As their stunned enemies milled about happily in the square below them, Mustafa swaggered up to the top of the ridge. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled,
“Hello down there! Hope you like hell, because Armageddon’s coming early!” Turning quickly to the cannons and the sharpshooters behind him, he roared out the first command of the Second Battle of Riyadh.
“FIRE!”
---
Abban tried to look casual. He failed, but thankfully there weren’t any Federates on the street. That didn’t rule out Federate spies, though.
He’d just left his home, if it could even be called that, for perhaps the last time. It wasn’t more than a shack attached to the rear of his master’s house and smithy. Still, he’d grown attached to it. A pair of worn leather boots were the only thing his father had left behind. Though he despised both his father for leaving him, and the boots for not fitting him, they were never thrown away.
Before he left, though, he put on the boots. They felt soft, the soles worn down by years of walking. But surprisingly, they fit him. So he wore them. “Maybe Cornea will notice,” he thought.
The curfew passed, and he slipped into an alleyway. The Federates probably thought that a rigorously enforced curfew would keep people inside, but they’d forgotten to check their facts. Mecca had been crushed under the iron grip of the Ottoman Guards for several years, and a curfew was nothing compared to raids, torture, and complete brutality. In addition, any Meccan seen after sunset in the streets was shot on sight by the Ottomans.
The Federates were more civilized (or maybe just less intelligent) than that. If they saw someone running, they had to catch him, first. If the Ottomans saw someone running, they assumed that he was doing something wrong, and killed him at range.
So, Abban didn’t have that much to worry about. But it didn’t keep him from looking like someone with a secret. He wove his way through the tangled web of back-streets, half deserted souks, and empty plazas, heading towards the garrison on the southern side of the city.
The original owner of the palace was unknown, as the Ottomans had occupied the place for ages, it being the seat of the military government. After the governor was killed in the First Rebellion, General Allashir Kemal used the place as his command center, until he moved north to campaign against Mustafa in Palestine, and later Turkey where he died in the Battle of Constantinople. Ardashir didn’t want to rule over the Arabs with as heavy a hand as the Ottomans, so he put the Sharifs of Mecca in power, a delegation of rulers from the city itself, and the surrounding tribes. They technically had control over Arabia…and the Shah didn’t interfere, as long as the Sharifs agreed with his plans, that is.
While most of the Sharifs were quite loyal to the Shah, some even contributing troops from their militias for the war effort, several were corrupt. They took frequent bribes, and their spending of state money on palaces and harems was quite notorious. Last year, however, Federate agents approached the Sharifs with a plan…and a huge bribe to go along with it. So the Traitorous Six, as they were called, killed several of the pro-Persian Sharifs, and made sure that the defenses in the Sinai and on the coasts were weakened for the FK invasion.
Interestingly enough, the Persian garrison managed to kill five of the Six before they were slaughtered by the advancing Federate troops. So they took the palace for their own. There was a barracks, an Office of Colonial Intelligence, and a code-breaking office. Cornea was very interested in the last two.
But then again, Abban didn’t care about any of this backstory. What he cared about was destroying the people that burned his mosque, and killed his father. And that was another reason for wearing the boots…they concealed daggers quite nicely.
The meeting place was a ditch, actually. Rather inconspicuous, it was only half a mile from the garrison palace. Around fifteen men were crouched in it, and one woman. Cornea sat at the top, gazing through binoculars. When he saw Abban coming, he winked and motioned with his hands. Abban jumped quietly into the ditch.
“Ah, you came! I was hoping you’d get here in time. Everyone, this is Abban, Abdullah’s son. Abban, this is Retina, Choroid, Fovea, and Iris.” Abban was greeted with a variety of quiet smiles, winks, and pats on the back. “You see, most of us served in the same battalion as your father, and we’re glad you’ve come. Don’t expect to be treated differently…but know that we trust you.”
Abban smiled. His fear was of being treated like a child. This suited him just fine.
“You all know the plan,” Cornea whispered. “Let’s go. At my whistle, we move in.”
So the seventeen people, whether they were spies or freedom fighters, split up into four groups, each taking cover on a side of the building. Daggers were drawn, and Choroid loaded a crossbow that looked like it had been stolen from a museum. At Abban’s glance, he whispered, “It’s quieter than a gun, but still has a good range. Trust me.”
There were eight guards on the roof. Abban could see the silhouette of one against the moonlit sky, a black figure with a long rifle slung over his shoulder. There was a bayonet at the top, and it looked painful. As he started to really consider what dying would feel like, a low, quiet whistle echoed across the grounds.
Abban couldn’t see Cornea. He pulled out two daggers, holding them in each hand. Choroid raised his crossbow, and slowly sighed. “Well, this is it.”
“Allah protect us,” someone said.
“Hopefully.”
The crossbow fired. Its black bolt flew forward, quietly whistling through the air, to land with a thump in the chest of the Federate sentry. He sunk with a gurgle to the ground. On all four sides of the palace roof, daggers silently flew through the air. Six of the guards were killed, but then a crossbow bolt merely grazed the head of the seventh. He dropped to the ground, seeing his comrades all dead. He crept to the alarm bell.
Before he could ring it, three grappling hooks clattered onto the top of the whitewashed battlements. The unfortunate sentry crept to the side of the wall, and peered over. No one was there…damn, a decoy! Before he could react and finally ring the bell, everything went black. Another team had scaled the opposite wall while the seventh sentry was preoccupied with the hooks. The eighth, a Dutchman who was actually sleeping with a bottle of whiskey in his lap, woke up to a very unpleasant sensation, the cold steel of a knife at the jugular. Towering over him was the massive form of Choroid, cloaked in a black robe. He looked like Death itself. Grinning like a feral wolf, he uttered three words.
“Ring the bell.”
When the team of crack Federate troops arrived on the scene, they stormed the roof, guns blazing. The first up, a sergeant from York, saw something. No assassins or rebels, but a fuse. One that was slowly burning towards several large barrels of gunpowder, potassium sulfate, and blasting sticks* packed into a corner.
“Bloody he--
The local gossip said that the explosion could be seen from as far as Medina.** Several hundred Federates died that night, and the game had begun again.
*A precursor to dynamite, invented by the Engineering Corps. All historically accurate, of course.
**It's probably just a rumor. But then again, when the resulting collapse and fire ignited the powder magazine of the base, THAT could probably be seen from Medina.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Thlayli said:OOC: Sorry about the payments, silver. I'd help you with that if I could. But you can have more weapons, if that makes you feel better. (and something tells me it will)
OOC: Just a heads up, when we mean our borders will be closed until further notice, we don't arse around...and I doubt you'll have much luck getting through Poland or Sweden either
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Got it. We wouldn't be foolish enough to smuggle weapons through Dalnorossia. I didn't know that your borders with Persia were closed, though.
I didn't know that your borders with Persia were closed, though.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Don't worry...the deadline isn't until next week!
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Thlayli said:
I never siad that, its jsut that the borders with muscovy are...so how are you going to get in?
Also
Thlayli said:
Its either dynamite or it isn't
. Without the diatomite the nitroglycerin is unusable, and without the nitroglycerin the diatomite is just cat litter. There isn't any 'precusor' except fluid nitroglycerin...which you do not want to mess around with Grandmaster
Deity
Sorry Das, I'm out for a while. Hungary just holds no interest any more, and its getting to be crunch time for a major RL obligation.
- Status
