Insane_Panda
Deity
Orders sent.
NES2 VI - Last Semblance of Order.
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Stormbringer
The Brick and The Rose
The White Flakes
Outside the window the calm snow was falling down onto the streets and squares of Moscow, covering everything in its embrace. The white blanket spread over all the lands - forests, rivers, mountains. The snow was a pure white, and it seemed to wipe clean the dirt from the ground and the pain from the hearts of the people. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, ran outside and stuck their hands out, trying to catch the snowflakes as they fell slowly down to the ground.
The White Chancellor
Aleksei Bestuzhev walked briskly across the main square of the city. Over the last few years he has changed, a lot. He seemed much slimmer now, with his heavy coat hanging on his shoulders as if on a hanger. His face lost the charismatic glow it had once had, and instead gained many wrinkles. His cheeks fell in, making his face seem longer, and his hair, now completely grey, fell down to his shoulders, tangled in many places. Bestuzhev wore no hat and the white snow flakes landed gently on his hair.
Two gentlemen, dressed much better that Bestuzhev, approached him, but he simply waved his hand, and the two seemed content to follow him at a respectful distance. They knew better than to interrupt Bestuzhev while he was thinking. And they knew the Grand Chancellor had a lot to think about.
There were few people in the government who believed the war could be won. Even the optimistic Tsar had begun to grow skeptical, and had beseeched Bestuzhev to give the country the much needed boost so that the effort could go on. In public Bestuzhev never doubted the fact that Russia would emerge victorious from the war, but in private…in private he knew that given the present conditions Russia would not be able to win. He also knew that they had to win.
The guard opened the gate to the building that housed the Chancellery for Bestuzhev. Instead of the usual two officers there was a single volunteer, dressed in his own cloths, with only an arm band to show the fact that he was on government’s payroll. Bestuzhev smiled at him and nodded. The kid was at most fifteen, and Bestuzhev was glad that the boy was in Moscow, and not fighting somewhere for his life. Usually kids this young were not taken into the military, but the officers made exceptions for guard duty.
Inside Bestuzhev walked to his desk, leaving watery marks on the wooden floors. He looked at his good friend Lazorev who was waiting for him. Lazorev shook his head silently and Bestuzhev bit his lip. There was no money left in the treasury. The little gold that was saved up elsewhere would be used to pay the troops for at least another month of service and then…Bestuzhev was not sure what would happen then.
There was of course a possible source of gold – the nobles – but Bestuzhev did not see a way to approach them. Traditionally he had relied on their power to stay in office and there was little he could do to convince them to donate to the war effort. Most preferred to stay in their estates, far from the fighting, and await a peace agreement, even if the peace meant a disaster for the country. They cared little for the country and a lot for their purses.
As Bestuzhev bent over his desk, trying to think of something to do, Lazorev approached him from the back and took his heavy coat off. Bestuzhev looked at him with a weak smile, and then moved his gaze outside, where the snow was falling.
Old Enemies
Zemsky Sobor met rarely during the war years, many nobles left the city, and others were not inclined to spend time debating irrelevant issues. Slowly all the daily duties of the government passed to the Chancellery and eventually the Sobor went into an indefinite recess declaring that the Chancellor could do “whatever is necessary for the good of the Country” for the duration of the war. It was a tough compromise for Bestuzhev who had always supported the democratic process, but he put his principles aside in the interest of efficiency. After all, they had a war to fight.
Bestuzhev did have a plan for Russia. He had created the plan many years ago, before he even became Chancellor. He had a vision for Russia as a strong and democratic state where people of different ethnicities live together and prospered. There was no war, no excessive taxes, freezing winters that led to starvation, or martial law. That was long ago.
Since the day Bestuzhev became Chancellor Fate itself has done everything in her power to prevent him from putting his plan into effect. He was forced to compromise, cut corners, and give up some of his principles. He realized with horror during those years that the principles he swore by yesterday were forgotten and left behind in the name of slow, uneven progress.
But the plan still existed, deep in Bestuzhev’s mind, buried under piles upon piles of court intrigue, power politics, military strategy, and economics. And now Bestuzhev went back to it.
He had intended for the plan to be implemented over at least a decade, transforming Russia slowly and surely into his vision for a perfect society. He had three years to do it. The first steps were taken two years ago when the old system of governing was dissolved in Russia and the Tsar lost his power to rule directly over Russia, Lithuania, and Romania. Then the Russian territories of the Empire were divided up into Gubernyas, giving the Russian nobility a nominal stake in local government. Now it was time to finish what was started.
He knew full well that moving ahead with his plan, especially in such a short amount of time, would create problems for him personally. There were many people who’s power in Moscow would be undermined by the implementation of the plan since they would no longer be able to feed off of government money, and they would fight with all they had to oppose Bestuzhev. And Bestuzhev knew that he had to come out on top in this fight. Not for his career or even his honor or dignity, but for his Country.
Bestuzhev patted Lazorev on the back and then walked out of the building. He even forgot to put his coat on, and so the snow fell on his red suit, melting slowly. He walked very fast across the Kremlin, not feeling the cold, and walked into the small building at the opposite end. It has been many years since he had been in here.
Stepan Suslov, the previous Chancellor, looked up at his guest, and then moved his eyebrows together. He too had changed over the years. He was no longer as opportunistic as he had been a few years ago, and has long resigned himself to the idea that he would not become Chancellor again. He motioned for Bestuzhev to sit down.
The two bitter enemies begun to talk. At first slowly, not sure if they can trust each other, feeling each other out, always ready for a trap. But slowly both realized that there was no trap or intrigue to bring them down and the conversation begun to progress at a faster pace. Bestuzhev knew that Suslov was a patriot, a fierce politician and a fighter who put his Tsar and his Country above all else. Usually Bestuzhev’s and Suslov’s views on how to strengthen the country were diametrically opposing, but this time Bestuzhev needed Suslov’s help, and so he offered him his plan.
Slowly the day turned to night, and the two men still kept on talking over the table. A small light burned in the window of the building where they were discussing their plan for Russia’s future, and the snow flakes were visible as they passed the glowing window.
One Last Fight
In the morning the two men emerged from the house, tired and red-eyed. They quickly hurried off in different directions, stepping on the newly fallen snow. Both were seeking the powerful nobles of Moscow and the rest of the country who would be able to help them in their quest to save the country.
By noon they have assembled a small group of nobles. Most have turned them down, but some have listened and came to the Chancellery building. Bestuzhev welcomed them all individually and then begun to talk.
He talked in a solid, if somewhat monotone, voice. There was no charisma in his presentation that had carried him through so many votes in the Sobor, no kindness left in his voice at all. It sounded harsh, like a piece of metal and his words hurt the ears of those present. He was firm and resolute, and instead of dressing his proposal up and trying to sell it to the nobles he grimly went from point to point, explaining what the alternatives were. This lecture, during which the nobles felt as if they were sitting on needles, dragged on for seemingly ever, but eventually Bestuzhev was done.
And then they came. One by one the nobles denounced the plan. Those that lived in Moscow did not want to lose their power by any means, and they were the only ones present at the meeting. The rest were away, looking after their own estates. Over and over Bestuzhev was denounced as a traitor and a lunatic, and only a few people refrained from openly attacking him. After they have satisfied themselves the nobles stormed out of the building, still outraged at the proposal, and shouting everywhere they went.
Bestuzhev leaned over the table and looked at the backs of the nobles that were disappearing into the falling snow. And then a cold voice came from behind him. As he turned around he realized that the voice belonged to Sergey Smirnov, one of the oldest and most respected nobles in Moscow. When Bestuzhev looked at him he saw that Smirnov was surrounded by all of Bestuzhev’s friends – Denisov, Asimov, Vorontsov, Medvedev, and some others. There was a spark of satisfaction in Smirnov’s eyes as he coldly laid his plan out for everyone. When he was done all eyes turned to Bestuzhev.
Bestuzhev swallowed. This was indeed a tough call for him to make. He hesitated for a second, and then looked back up at all his friends in front of him. He then sat down and begun to write, and his friends joined him, helping him out, dictating to him, urging him on. In an hour all the documents were completed and signed. Bestuzhev enacted the reform “for the good of the Country.”
As the small group of friends huddled together around Bestuzhev’s table, trying to put the final touches on the orders they were writing the white snow hugged all of the cities and the countryside, leading them into a clear bright night.
Patriotic War
Varya stirred the soup that was cooking on the brick stove when Yemelya rushed into the cabin. He left the door open and so the snow blew inside and some of the snow flakes fell on Varya’s face. Yemelya begun to talk excitedly and after a few minutes Varya finally got the gist of what he was talking about. Their lord wanted the strongest of peasants to train with his militia and then to go and help the army.
After much hugs and kisses Yemelya ran outside and towards the lord’s estate, leaving the door open again. Varya looked at him running, sending the snow on the ground flying into the air. Soon he was out of view.
The yelling and commotion that was coming from the estate could be heard all over the village that day. Rumors spread like wildfire until the clerk from the nearby town explained what was happening. Chancellor Bestuzhev granted the nobles a great extent of local rights and autonomy, and reserved even greater autonomy for regions with ethnic identities different from Russian. Now, instead of hiding in their estates with their gold the nobles quickly realized that they would be responsible for defending their own land and their rights. Ivan Medvedev, the local governor, had already sent a caravan of sleds full of his savings of gold to Moscow, and was now training the peasants and his militia.
In the evening of the same day, when the snow begun to cover the ground that the new recruits pounded all day, Yemelya and his friends gathered in one of the cabins. The talk quickly moved to the prospect of war. Much arguments were heard amongst the men while the women yelled at them to calm down. Eventually one of the peasants who did not like the prospect of war yelled out at Yemelya, “so, why are you going to fight? What are you fighting for?” The room fell quite as Yemelya looked at him and then answered in his deep voice, “for you. And for my wife, and for my house, and for all of this. I love my village and my friends and family, and somebody has to protect them. And you, what are you not fighting for?”
In the morning two dozen men, Yemelya amongst them, crowded the entrance to the estate, trying to keep warm as the morning snow fell and covered their heavy coats, and when Medvedev asked his servant what they wanted the servant explained that these men wanted to help fight.
The White General
The horses moved slowly and the road was barely visible, covered in pure white snow. The men following Orlov walked briskly behind him and here and there one could hear shouts from the officers. Bestuzhev and Suslov rode on their horses a little further back, observing how the newly created army was moving through the forest. About half of the men were trained professional soldiers and half were new volunteers, learning as much as they could from the veterans. At every stop Bestuzhev could see new and excited soldiers asking the older generation of warriors questions and learning what they could. But soon the stops came to an end.
Bestuzhev rode up to the front of the column to meet General von Lacy. Lacy showed him around the army and the positions taken up by both his army and that of the enemy. Bestuzhev didn’t say much as he looked on and absorbed the information. The two men were at the top of the hill from where they could see the small valley bellow and snow was slowly falling on them, covering their hats and coats. Von Lacy was quite for a few minutes and then inquired if Bestuzhev would like to lead the army.
Bestuzhev declined the privilege. He knew what he could do, and that was to get an army to defend Russia. Commanding this army was the destiny of others.
The Red Drops
In the forest the calm snow was falling down onto the branches of trees and the bushes under them, covering everything in its embrace. The white blanket spread over all the lands - forests, rivers, mountains. The snow was a pure white, and it seemed to wipe clean the dirt from the ground and the pain from the hearts of the people. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were riding their horses through the forest, guns at the ready, but still trying to catch the snowflakes as they fell slowly down to the ground.
Then came the cracking of branches under someone’s feet, the canter of the horses, the shouting, and the two shots.
And the pure white snow was sprayed with pure red blood.
Outside the window the calm snow was falling down onto the streets and squares of Moscow, covering everything in its embrace. The white blanket spread over all the lands - forests, rivers, mountains. The snow was a pure white, and it seemed to wipe clean the dirt from the ground and the pain from the hearts of the people. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, ran outside and stuck their hands out, trying to catch the snowflakes as they fell slowly down to the ground.
The White Chancellor
Aleksei Bestuzhev walked briskly across the main square of the city. Over the last few years he has changed, a lot. He seemed much slimmer now, with his heavy coat hanging on his shoulders as if on a hanger. His face lost the charismatic glow it had once had, and instead gained many wrinkles. His cheeks fell in, making his face seem longer, and his hair, now completely grey, fell down to his shoulders, tangled in many places. Bestuzhev wore no hat and the white snow flakes landed gently on his hair.
Two gentlemen, dressed much better that Bestuzhev, approached him, but he simply waved his hand, and the two seemed content to follow him at a respectful distance. They knew better than to interrupt Bestuzhev while he was thinking. And they knew the Grand Chancellor had a lot to think about.
There were few people in the government who believed the war could be won. Even the optimistic Tsar had begun to grow skeptical, and had beseeched Bestuzhev to give the country the much needed boost so that the effort could go on. In public Bestuzhev never doubted the fact that Russia would emerge victorious from the war, but in private…in private he knew that given the present conditions Russia would not be able to win. He also knew that they had to win.
The guard opened the gate to the building that housed the Chancellery for Bestuzhev. Instead of the usual two officers there was a single volunteer, dressed in his own cloths, with only an arm band to show the fact that he was on government’s payroll. Bestuzhev smiled at him and nodded. The kid was at most fifteen, and Bestuzhev was glad that the boy was in Moscow, and not fighting somewhere for his life. Usually kids this young were not taken into the military, but the officers made exceptions for guard duty.
Inside Bestuzhev walked to his desk, leaving watery marks on the wooden floors. He looked at his good friend Lazorev who was waiting for him. Lazorev shook his head silently and Bestuzhev bit his lip. There was no money left in the treasury. The little gold that was saved up elsewhere would be used to pay the troops for at least another month of service and then…Bestuzhev was not sure what would happen then.
There was of course a possible source of gold – the nobles – but Bestuzhev did not see a way to approach them. Traditionally he had relied on their power to stay in office and there was little he could do to convince them to donate to the war effort. Most preferred to stay in their estates, far from the fighting, and await a peace agreement, even if the peace meant a disaster for the country. They cared little for the country and a lot for their purses.
As Bestuzhev bent over his desk, trying to think of something to do, Lazorev approached him from the back and took his heavy coat off. Bestuzhev looked at him with a weak smile, and then moved his gaze outside, where the snow was falling.
Old Enemies
Zemsky Sobor met rarely during the war years, many nobles left the city, and others were not inclined to spend time debating irrelevant issues. Slowly all the daily duties of the government passed to the Chancellery and eventually the Sobor went into an indefinite recess declaring that the Chancellor could do “whatever is necessary for the good of the Country” for the duration of the war. It was a tough compromise for Bestuzhev who had always supported the democratic process, but he put his principles aside in the interest of efficiency. After all, they had a war to fight.
Bestuzhev did have a plan for Russia. He had created the plan many years ago, before he even became Chancellor. He had a vision for Russia as a strong and democratic state where people of different ethnicities live together and prospered. There was no war, no excessive taxes, freezing winters that led to starvation, or martial law. That was long ago.
Since the day Bestuzhev became Chancellor Fate itself has done everything in her power to prevent him from putting his plan into effect. He was forced to compromise, cut corners, and give up some of his principles. He realized with horror during those years that the principles he swore by yesterday were forgotten and left behind in the name of slow, uneven progress.
But the plan still existed, deep in Bestuzhev’s mind, buried under piles upon piles of court intrigue, power politics, military strategy, and economics. And now Bestuzhev went back to it.
He had intended for the plan to be implemented over at least a decade, transforming Russia slowly and surely into his vision for a perfect society. He had three years to do it. The first steps were taken two years ago when the old system of governing was dissolved in Russia and the Tsar lost his power to rule directly over Russia, Lithuania, and Romania. Then the Russian territories of the Empire were divided up into Gubernyas, giving the Russian nobility a nominal stake in local government. Now it was time to finish what was started.
He knew full well that moving ahead with his plan, especially in such a short amount of time, would create problems for him personally. There were many people who’s power in Moscow would be undermined by the implementation of the plan since they would no longer be able to feed off of government money, and they would fight with all they had to oppose Bestuzhev. And Bestuzhev knew that he had to come out on top in this fight. Not for his career or even his honor or dignity, but for his Country.
Bestuzhev patted Lazorev on the back and then walked out of the building. He even forgot to put his coat on, and so the snow fell on his red suit, melting slowly. He walked very fast across the Kremlin, not feeling the cold, and walked into the small building at the opposite end. It has been many years since he had been in here.
Stepan Suslov, the previous Chancellor, looked up at his guest, and then moved his eyebrows together. He too had changed over the years. He was no longer as opportunistic as he had been a few years ago, and has long resigned himself to the idea that he would not become Chancellor again. He motioned for Bestuzhev to sit down.
The two bitter enemies begun to talk. At first slowly, not sure if they can trust each other, feeling each other out, always ready for a trap. But slowly both realized that there was no trap or intrigue to bring them down and the conversation begun to progress at a faster pace. Bestuzhev knew that Suslov was a patriot, a fierce politician and a fighter who put his Tsar and his Country above all else. Usually Bestuzhev’s and Suslov’s views on how to strengthen the country were diametrically opposing, but this time Bestuzhev needed Suslov’s help, and so he offered him his plan.
Slowly the day turned to night, and the two men still kept on talking over the table. A small light burned in the window of the building where they were discussing their plan for Russia’s future, and the snow flakes were visible as they passed the glowing window.
One Last Fight
In the morning the two men emerged from the house, tired and red-eyed. They quickly hurried off in different directions, stepping on the newly fallen snow. Both were seeking the powerful nobles of Moscow and the rest of the country who would be able to help them in their quest to save the country.
By noon they have assembled a small group of nobles. Most have turned them down, but some have listened and came to the Chancellery building. Bestuzhev welcomed them all individually and then begun to talk.
He talked in a solid, if somewhat monotone, voice. There was no charisma in his presentation that had carried him through so many votes in the Sobor, no kindness left in his voice at all. It sounded harsh, like a piece of metal and his words hurt the ears of those present. He was firm and resolute, and instead of dressing his proposal up and trying to sell it to the nobles he grimly went from point to point, explaining what the alternatives were. This lecture, during which the nobles felt as if they were sitting on needles, dragged on for seemingly ever, but eventually Bestuzhev was done.
And then they came. One by one the nobles denounced the plan. Those that lived in Moscow did not want to lose their power by any means, and they were the only ones present at the meeting. The rest were away, looking after their own estates. Over and over Bestuzhev was denounced as a traitor and a lunatic, and only a few people refrained from openly attacking him. After they have satisfied themselves the nobles stormed out of the building, still outraged at the proposal, and shouting everywhere they went.
Bestuzhev leaned over the table and looked at the backs of the nobles that were disappearing into the falling snow. And then a cold voice came from behind him. As he turned around he realized that the voice belonged to Sergey Smirnov, one of the oldest and most respected nobles in Moscow. When Bestuzhev looked at him he saw that Smirnov was surrounded by all of Bestuzhev’s friends – Denisov, Asimov, Vorontsov, Medvedev, and some others. There was a spark of satisfaction in Smirnov’s eyes as he coldly laid his plan out for everyone. When he was done all eyes turned to Bestuzhev.
Bestuzhev swallowed. This was indeed a tough call for him to make. He hesitated for a second, and then looked back up at all his friends in front of him. He then sat down and begun to write, and his friends joined him, helping him out, dictating to him, urging him on. In an hour all the documents were completed and signed. Bestuzhev enacted the reform “for the good of the Country.”
As the small group of friends huddled together around Bestuzhev’s table, trying to put the final touches on the orders they were writing the white snow hugged all of the cities and the countryside, leading them into a clear bright night.
Patriotic War
Varya stirred the soup that was cooking on the brick stove when Yemelya rushed into the cabin. He left the door open and so the snow blew inside and some of the snow flakes fell on Varya’s face. Yemelya begun to talk excitedly and after a few minutes Varya finally got the gist of what he was talking about. Their lord wanted the strongest of peasants to train with his militia and then to go and help the army.
After much hugs and kisses Yemelya ran outside and towards the lord’s estate, leaving the door open again. Varya looked at him running, sending the snow on the ground flying into the air. Soon he was out of view.
The yelling and commotion that was coming from the estate could be heard all over the village that day. Rumors spread like wildfire until the clerk from the nearby town explained what was happening. Chancellor Bestuzhev granted the nobles a great extent of local rights and autonomy, and reserved even greater autonomy for regions with ethnic identities different from Russian. Now, instead of hiding in their estates with their gold the nobles quickly realized that they would be responsible for defending their own land and their rights. Ivan Medvedev, the local governor, had already sent a caravan of sleds full of his savings of gold to Moscow, and was now training the peasants and his militia.
In the evening of the same day, when the snow begun to cover the ground that the new recruits pounded all day, Yemelya and his friends gathered in one of the cabins. The talk quickly moved to the prospect of war. Much arguments were heard amongst the men while the women yelled at them to calm down. Eventually one of the peasants who did not like the prospect of war yelled out at Yemelya, “so, why are you going to fight? What are you fighting for?” The room fell quite as Yemelya looked at him and then answered in his deep voice, “for you. And for my wife, and for my house, and for all of this. I love my village and my friends and family, and somebody has to protect them. And you, what are you not fighting for?”
In the morning two dozen men, Yemelya amongst them, crowded the entrance to the estate, trying to keep warm as the morning snow fell and covered their heavy coats, and when Medvedev asked his servant what they wanted the servant explained that these men wanted to help fight.
The White General
The horses moved slowly and the road was barely visible, covered in pure white snow. The men following Orlov walked briskly behind him and here and there one could hear shouts from the officers. Bestuzhev and Suslov rode on their horses a little further back, observing how the newly created army was moving through the forest. About half of the men were trained professional soldiers and half were new volunteers, learning as much as they could from the veterans. At every stop Bestuzhev could see new and excited soldiers asking the older generation of warriors questions and learning what they could. But soon the stops came to an end.
Bestuzhev rode up to the front of the column to meet General von Lacy. Lacy showed him around the army and the positions taken up by both his army and that of the enemy. Bestuzhev didn’t say much as he looked on and absorbed the information. The two men were at the top of the hill from where they could see the small valley bellow and snow was slowly falling on them, covering their hats and coats. Von Lacy was quite for a few minutes and then inquired if Bestuzhev would like to lead the army.
Bestuzhev declined the privilege. He knew what he could do, and that was to get an army to defend Russia. Commanding this army was the destiny of others.
The Red Drops
In the forest the calm snow was falling down onto the branches of trees and the bushes under them, covering everything in its embrace. The white blanket spread over all the lands - forests, rivers, mountains. The snow was a pure white, and it seemed to wipe clean the dirt from the ground and the pain from the hearts of the people. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were riding their horses through the forest, guns at the ready, but still trying to catch the snowflakes as they fell slowly down to the ground.
Then came the cracking of branches under someone’s feet, the canter of the horses, the shouting, and the two shots.
And the pure white snow was sprayed with pure red blood.
Harleqin
Hippo Power
Very nice Storm, very nice indeed 
Symphony D.
Deity
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MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, OUTSKIRTS OF INNER MONGOLIA, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, AUGUST 6, 1752 AD
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MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, OUTSKIRTS OF INNER MONGOLIA, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, AUGUST 6, 1752 AD
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It was starting to get dark. But even as the sun set in the west and the sky grew blood red, it didn't mean the shells were going to stop falling. Every so often on either side of the trenches one would come hurtling in, spraying dirt and mud into the trench systems, splattering the clothing of whomever happened to be inside. A new type of full length coat, nicknamed the trench coat, had long since become the standard article of clothing for those guarding the perimeters. The Russians weren't really being serious lately, it seemed. They'd only send token forces and often just lazily shelled the fortifications. They did not seem particularly interested in taking them, though occasionally, they did try and breach them.
Arisawa Tatsuki was slumped down on a bench within the trenches. To either side were countless others, all in a similar state. They did not seem the proud figures of soldiers so heavily propagandized back home. Of course, they were not the average soldiers, as evidenced by the occasional bulge of a bust visible upon the trench coats. The 451st Brigade was an all-female auxiliary supply unit, part of a new initiative to diversify the soldiery by including recruiting peasant women. It had been a highly unusual move, but the Emperor had been unwavering in his support of it, which meant it was likely the Shogun's doing. Opposition had been meager.
Now the 451st found themselves stuck out on the front. They were not supposed to be here, but High Command had become mightily proficient at shuffling around soldiers to deal with the Russians when they did come, and so while on a supply run they had been told to look after this sector. Orders were orders. Not a single one of them flinched from the minor assorted rubble which rained upon them. All was quiet except for the distant sounds of gunfire, the occasional shell, and the wind. That, and Mutsumi Otohime's singing. She always sang when she got worried, and they were always weird little songs.
"Hitotsu kazoete susumeba ii
Futatsu kazoete yasumeba ii
Mittsu kazoete kagaeba ii..."
Tatsuki generally ignored it. The weaker ones had gotten past crying a few days prior after the first few hours of shelling. Now it was generally a waiting game. Suddenly there was the sound of someone approaching, gravel and dirt crunching under boots. They were moving at a pretty good clip, and there were two of them. Suddenly, several rounds could be seen hitting the dirt on the burm above the side of the trenches opposite the enemy, making pff noises as they buried themselves into the earth, and spitting up sprays of dust and earth. Tatsuki and several of the others rose to their feet. Suddenly into the trenches came flying Mitsune Konno and Matsumoto Rangiku, narrowly avoiding knocking over Gunsou Ise Nanao as they evaded fire. Both sat up, panting, and Matsumoto said "They're coming; we spotted one of their skirmishers and barely made it back."
A startled whisper of "Nani," shot down the line. The pair had been on recon patrol just incase, for some reason the Russians did decide to strike this part of the line. Apparently their foresight had not been unwarranted, as the Russians had apparently correctly guessed this was indeed one of the weaker parts of the line.
"Tsh, I hear those kusoyaro white Cossacks rape any women they capture," spat San'i Hibiki Ryoko. She knew if combat was fast approaching she'd have to get them riled up; none of them had seen action up close. All the other girls had heard the horror stories too. Gunsou Aoyama Motoko suddenly spoke up "I'd sooner die than let some filthy white man put his hands on me."
"You might get that chance," came a voice from behind the group. They all turned, several of them saying "Sansa-sama;" all of them saluted, Matsumoto and Mitsune scrambling to their feet to do likewise.
Indeed, there stood Sansa Kusanagi, she saluted back, and then dropped her arm; all the other troops followed suit. She looked at the scouting pair, asking flatly "You're sure they're coming?"
Both nodded and gave a curt "Hai, Sansa-sama."
Kusanagi nodded and glancing up and down the line said "Get everyone ready then."
The lines became a center of frenetic activity over the next couple of minutes. Ammunition was doled out by the quartermaster, bayonets were fastened, knives secured, what cannon they had readied. The one benefit of being a supply unit was they had no want for ammunition. At last it came, perhaps some seven minutes later. The battle cry of the Russians as they opened up on the line with artillery. They were sending in a combined attack of cavalry and infantry, the spotter said. "Wait for it," growled San'i Ryoko, followed by several repetitions. The sound grew closer and closer. Finally when it seemed it was about to crash upon them like a tidal wave a single voice cried out "UTE!"
In unison a forest of sharp, knife-tipped rifles sprung up from the trenches, the bare steel reflecting the angry crimson blaze of the sun, before from each firearm came the spout of flame as it was fired. Several rounds impacted the Russian line, which was by now incredibly close. Countless men fell, the range far too short for any of the rounds to miss hitting something of importance. Several grenades also tossed out tore ragged, gory holes in the advancing wave of soldiers. But they were too close to reload, and so at that moment came the infamous command:
"OVER THE TOP!"
From out of the line arose several tan-clad forms, some brandishing bayonet-capped rifles, others knives, occasionally there was an entrenching spade being wielded, and amongst the officers were pistols and, in the case of the San'i and Sansa, katana. The battle was vicious, bloody, but mercifully quick in its brutality. When it was over, the ground before the defenses was littered in corpses.
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REGIONAL HIGH COMMAND, MUKDEN, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, AUGUST 20, 1752 AD
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REGIONAL HIGH COMMAND, MUKDEN, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, AUGUST 20, 1752 AD
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All stood silent as Shoushou Saotome read out the list of names. It seemed endlessly long.
"[...] Sansa Kusanagi Motoko, San'i Hibiki Ryoko, [...] Gunsou Aoyama Motoko, Gunsou Mitsune Konno, Gunsou Matsumoto Rangiku, [...] Gochou Arisawa Tatsuki [...] Ittouhei Mabiki Kiyone [...] For your meritorious deeds far above and beyond the call of duty, and exceptional bravery in the face of the enemy, we are pleased to announce the elevation of your unit to the first all-female combat unit of not only the Imperial Japanese Army, but the Ikkitousennōnimusha. When I read your name, please step forward to receive the mask of the oni in accordance with the mandates of your new uniforms [...]"
Symphony D.
Deity
Orders sent.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Ahhh, computer crash ate some of my orders! Rewriting now ETA 10-15 minutes after the deadline 
Symphony D.
Deity
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REGIONAL HIGH COMMAND, MUKDEN, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, NOVEMBER 23, 1752 AD
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REGIONAL HIGH COMMAND, MUKDEN, MANCHURIA
18:52 LOCAL TIME, NOVEMBER 23, 1752 AD
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"You know, zey are already calling ze Battle of Ulleung-do one of ze greatest naval battles in 'istory back in Europe," said Pip, stamping out a cigar into the ashtray on the table between himself and Isshou Ikari. It was perhaps not quite the truth, maybe not even true - Pip himself hadn't been to Europe for quite some time now - but flattery never hurt. Ikari only faintly smiled but nodded a little before carefully switching the subject "You are certain France has no problems with our strategy?"
Pip shrugged a little and leant back, propping himself up by splaying his hands out behind him "Why would ze, as far as zey are concerned - no offense intended of course - zis is a mere zideshow to ze greater war."
Ikari nodded silently. There had been some concern that continued utilization of the defenses would simply lead the Russians to do nothing. However, it had been argued by some members of the Ippanbaku that that was precisely where they wanted the Russians. If they attacked, they would suffer terrible losses. If they left, ground could be gained. If they simply did nothing, they would be wasting valuable manpower that could be used elsewhere. France, it seemed, agreed, and the Ippanbaku received no real requests on how to proceed from its allies, nor was it really forced to present any. Some argued that with the current situation, it would be prudent to eliminate the Portuguese colonies further south, since Portugal was fighting for its life elsewhere, and they would likely be poorly garrisoned. The strategic value of this seemed fairly moot, however, and many insisted that, even with the tumultuous events elsewhere, the Russians would invariably redirect toward Japan and crush it, and so Manchuria had to be hardened at all costs.
Pip had been allowed some input into this given his status. In fact, said status had changed in the years since he had first arrived. Ikari was uncertain of the specifics of the man's past, but enough could be discerned to tell he was ex-Foreign Legion, turned Mercenary. He seemed to have been an officer, which explained why there had been reports of French soldiers actually saluting him. As to his service record, none could say, though given his knowledge he had clearly been to some very exotic and varied locations. They had never approached the French on the matter. He had proved exceedingly useful in their dealings with said French too. After some wrangling by Shoushou Tendo and Saotome, and assistance from Kurosaki Isshin, they had managed to convince the Shōgun to take the somewhat unprecedented step of commissioning him as an officer of the Imperial Japanese Army. Though his influence was closer to that of a General, he was inducted in as an Issa. He had been reluctant, but had agreed. Most of the Ippanbaku considered it to their benefit, as it meant that his abilities were more directly under their control - he was one of them now, and would have to act accordingly.
Rumor had it that after the 451st Brigade's performance, and the moves made to select the better women of the Auxiliaries and place them into combat units that his wife was being eyed for a similar "induction" to lead one of them. Ikari had heard some of the horror stories of the legendary "Gaijin Oni-chan" and, though never having met her, wasn't sure he wanted to either. Certainly, if the reputation was true, someone like that would prove rather terrifying on the battlefield. It was demonstrative though, of the increasingly radical moves the Shōgun was making. Some in the old guard said he was going too far. Those same people, mostly the particularly vocal ones, tended to wind up dead too. The successes which the Shōgun had brought about also made it difficult at best to question his wisdom. The same rumor-mill also had it that Kurosaki and the others were up to something in Kyoto, though particularly what, Ikari had no idea.
If anything he was glad he was stationed in Manchuria, far away from the intrigues of the court. As he sat here now, seated across from a gaijin subordinate, and having now female combat units being sent to him, he reflected on the fact that even so removed, he was not immune to the strange changes that were occurring. He recalled the old Chinese proverb and curse: "May you live in interesting times."
He found that he, and everyone else on the whole of the planet, indeed must be doing so.
Wubba360
Emperor
orders coming
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Orders sent. Those stories I mention in my orders won't be for a while das - I have to rewrite them
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
Free Spanish Army orders sent, that'll atleast make sure we go down with guns blazing.
I'll write a few stories soon...
I'll write a few stories soon...
Symphony D.
Deity
OOC: Random Thought of the Hour - Working on a cure for smallpox in the middle of a war for national survival isn't terribly clever, and Stalin has a history of developing superweapons. Odds are "Hope" is some sort of crude biological weapon that will destroy most of humanity, making the "Central Powers" rather evil. Join the Alliance! 
das
Regeneration In Process
The deadline is here, btw.
Symphony D.
Deity
Erg, hope that last minute edit gets counted. Knew I was forgetting something. Oh well, stuff happens.
Oh well, stuff happens.
Icmancin
WSNR Pte
Crap. Oh well, Kanem-Bornu doesn't matter that much. Just expand.
Swissempire
Poet Jester
Your killing my legacy!!!Reno said:
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
Swissempire said:
On purpose too, as having Irish people leading Spanish isn't good. I'll make sure that the current leader is as Spanish as he possibly can be.
To tell the truth it annoyed me greatly to see Spain fall from the maps and see it replaced by weak vassals such as Gallicia, now I'll attempt to fix this mess by recreating Spain.
No offence, of cource.
das
Regeneration In Process
He still is three-quarters Irish, though, no matter what language he speaks.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Botp'd.....
