Moravia had such a beautiful countryside. Rolling hills, expansive woodland and fields upon fields of golden wheat dotted the coast of the fascist state. The warm climate of the region made it perfect for farming. Numerous plantations peppered the coast, taking full advantage of the wetter areas of Moravia for their rich soil and natural fresh water sources. One such plantation was owned by Bryan Williams II. Bryan was an aging gentleman who fretted over his increasingly gray temples and beard, and a farmer of a decade and three long years. He and his wife Elizabeth had raised twelve children together, home schooling them and giving them work on the farm. After all, Bryan could use all of free farm hands he could get, what with the newly developed ache in his back. The oldest of the Williams was Jennifer. She had turned twenty three two days. The second oldest, Timothy, was due to inherit the plantation whenever his father passed. Timothy was a bit of pain but he was reliable and hardworking. The kind of man Bryan could trust his land with. All 500 acres of it. 500 acres of rolling wheat and blossoming corn, watched over by ten local boys that worked as farm hands. They lived in the nearby market town of Yenia, a small town of only four hundred where local farming communities gathered to do their business. The town was recently connected to one of Moravia's many railroads, offering the farmers a much more efficient means of transporting their goods than trucks and trailers.

The sun was beginning to set. Bryan stepped out of his home and onto the front porch, ringing the bell to call in his kids from the fields. Mary and Martha rounded the corner, the first to arrive. "Mom's almost got supper ready, gals. Get washed up right quick." He told them. Mary and Marth were the Williams' nine year old twins. The girls rushed inside and upstairs to the bathroom, where they would get ready for supper and eventually bed. James was the next child Bryan spotted. James appeared over the edge of the roof of the barn, a book under his arm. "How many times do I have to tell you to stay off the roof?!" Bryan yelled up. James' head fell downwards as he shimmed down a pipe and jumped into a nearby hay bail. Farmer Williams scowled at his fourteen year old son once he reached the porch. "There's plenty o' other places to read, Jimmy. No need to break a hole in the roof and both yer legs. Now get inside. It's dinner time."

One by one, the rest of Bryan's children flocked to the house at the sound of the bell. Timothy was the most exhausted of the bunch. He'd worked pretty much all day with the farm hands to prepare the crop for harvest. They'd be perfect for harvest in a few short weeks; which is when the real work would start. "Nice job, boy." Bryan smiled and slapped Tim on the shoulder as he walked up the steps, covered in sweat and grime. "Thanks, pa. We'll be ready for harvest. I can feel it." Bryan nodded and followed James inside. "Oh yeah. No need to worry. You and the other boys are doing a fine job. A fine job indeed." Bryan paused. He was searching for the words he'd need for this next part. "Listen, Timmy, I was thinking. I'm startin' 'ta get old. Can barely lift two sacks of feed anymore. I was thinkin'-"

A sharp scream echoed over the quiet plantation. That was a sound Bryan recognized from anywhere. Papa Williams broke dashed toward the door, grabbing his shotgun out of the gun case nearby before sprinting outside and leaping off the porch. "Billy!" He cried. Timothy ran into the kitchen. "Jen!" He yelled. "Get the medicine bag! Somethin's up with Billy." Jennifer dropped what she was doing and tossed her apron to the side. She retrieved her medkit and Tim pulled a revolver from a nightstand. The two young adults moved as fast as their legs would carry them after their father, who was booking it. Tim was always surprised when his dad ran. You'd think someone his age would be slow; at least a little bit. But Bryan Williams could bloody run. Blood pumped through Bryan's arms and legs. His muscles contracted and retracted violently, threatening to tear under the stress. The old man's lungs' rapid rise and fall shot oxygen into his blood, keeping ol' Bryan moving at the pace of a cheetah. "Billy!" He yelled once more. His voice was more hoarse this time around. More sharp, too. It sounded of desperation and fear.

Billy was the only twelve year old in the world who wasn't afraid of anything. No snake or dog would make that boy scream; so whatever he'd seen, it was very real. And very, very bad. James was more the boy who cried wolf; but not Billy. There was no response to Bryan's calls. No more screams, either. That terrified Bryan even more. When his boy was screaming bloody murder, Bryan knew he was alive. He knew he could breathe. But the silence was utterly deafening. The farmer stopped in his tracks as he reached the woods. Bears and wolves were common in this part of Moravia. And things far more sinister were said to wander up from the south. Ogres, specifically. Bryan's father, the original Bryan Williams, had been eaten by an ogre. Those sadistic monsters could barely be considered people. The worst part? Bryan's shotgun wouldn't do much good against an Ogre. Buckshot couldn't knock down something that big. Not for very long.

But his son was in there, damn it. So Bryan sucked in his gut and shuffled between the trees. He moved as quickly as he could while still checking his corners, his finger on the trigger. "Billy?" He said softly. Not too far ahead, the farmer noticed a clearing. He picked up the pace, stepping between bushes and entering the clearing. His heart dropped into his stomach as he stopped in his tracks. There, a hulking mass of scales and teeth stood hunched over his son. The creature's mouth was stained red, a hole torn in the middle of Billy's chest. Bryan let loose a wordless cry, lifting his shotgun to his eye. Moments before he fired, however, a huge hand wrapped around his throat. The farmer felt himself being effortlessly lifted off the ground and his body thrown into a nearby tree. The troll rag dolled the smaller human, beating him into the soft dirt until Bryan's face was nothing but crimson mush.

A pair of Troll sentries gunned down the approaching Jennifer and Timothy, hitting both the humans between the eyes with pinpoint accurate rifle fire. Captain Thraggzon Teefnet jumped out of the trees, landing with a thud in the clearing. He scoffed in disgust at Specialist Torgal Redheap, the Troll currently devouring the body of Billy. "I can't comprehend how you find raw human flesh edible, much less delicious." Torgal stood from the body, wiping his face with his sleeve. "What can I saw? I'm a traditionalist." Torgal chuckled. The Trolls marched silently out of the woodland, entering the open for the first time in three months. "Ah, open air. I forgot what you tasted like." Sergeant Garz Nugg said with a smirk.

Captain Teefnet pushed his way to the front, resting his machine gun over his shoulder. "Torgal. Throgg. Jekk. Grab your torches and get to pillaging. I want all these fields ablaze in two hours. We hit the next plantation in six. Garz, take your squad and wipe out the rest of those Machakans before they can get away. Lieutenant Yawe shoulda cut their power by now anyway; so there's no way they got a call out. Staff Corporal Thrag, get over 'ere. Tell Lieutenant Kipnad to take third platoon further north n' hit the farms over there. I want news soon as fourth and second platoons reach Yenia. Tell 'em to hold position in the forests 'till third and first can regroup with them. We shouldn't be more than ten hours if things move smoothly." Torgal, Throgg, Jekk and Garz put their hands on their hearts and stood at attention. "Praise Doyia!"

Princess Miruna stepped off the train, with her second-in-command Cladiu Puturea beside her, along with the rest of the OICP delegation. Miruna was actually quite exhausted by the long trip from Zenovia to Ventium, and it could be seen somewhat in her appearance. Nonetheless, Miruna was happy to be here, to meet with the Tsar of Ventium. Miruna knew, as far as was possible to know, that he was a peace-loving man. He had lived what were known as the Frost Wars, and he should know better than any of the unnecessary cruelties of war.

Miruna, along with the others in the delegation, stepped towards the Tsar about with reverence in the Zenovii manner.

“Your Majesty, Tsar Voltus,” Miruna began. “I come to you not as a Princess of Zenovia, but as the Chairman of the Organization for Internation Cooperation and Peace, or the OICP. Great Tsar, I only ask of you of you something simple, and that is to support the status of peace across the world. War is an ugly thing, and it is terrible when it happens, and I fear that it may happen soon once again, if the nations are not careful.”

Cladiu Puturea approach Tsar Voltus and held a piece of paper in front of him.

“Your majesty,” Puturea said. “What we ask is that you sign this paper, which would prove that you are committed to the cause of world peace. While, your majesty, it would give you certain obligations in the future, it would be nothing much in name of peace. It would make you a member of the Council for International Cooperation and Peace, yet to be founded. As for OICP, its membership is open for all nations and peoples. Considering we are a non-governmental agency, we do not require our member-nations to give us manpower, but all additions are welcome. Other than that we only ask of your support.”

Miruna eagerly awaited his answer. Although she actually expected him to accept her proposal, she remained nervous. There was still that thought in her mind, the possibility that he might refuse. She wondered if the Tsar would think there was not enough that was beneficial for him. This was not a military alliance, but a nation’s assurance that they would support the struggle for peace around the world. She eagerly and nervously awaited Tsar Voltus’ response.



Stelian Lahovary was a fifty-three year old MP of the Radical Party, who had served fourteen years in the House of Commons. In his years of service he had been a rather orthodox and mainline member of the Radical Party, who had been noted for his championship of causes of social justice which had relatively ignored by the more prominent two parties. However, what was notable from his peers was his support of the PRK. However, the more important aspects of his relationship with the PRK was kept secret.

Mr. Lahovary had in the past tied close relationships with those in the PRK, so that they knew who he was. The PRK often gave funding to the Radical Party, especially when they thought there was something they could make a difference in. This was on a whole quite surprising, since the Radical Party’s actual ideology saw itself as the alternative to socialism. Mr. Lahovary was the MP who was given the Premier’s money, and he in turn gave it to the Radical Party’s ruling funding body.

As Mr. Lohavary sat rather comfortably in his apartment, he heard his phone ring. He picked it up.

“Hello?” Mr. Lohavary said.

“Hello, Mr. Lohavary,” a familiar voice said. “This is Vlad Craiovesti.”

It was Vlad Craiovesti, the leader of the Radical Party.

“Mr. Croiovesti,” Mr. Lohavary said. “I wasn’t expecting a call, but how can I help you?”

“Well, Mr. Lohavary,” Craiovesti said. “It’s about this funding. You’ve been sending in large donations again and again, from a third party, as you have reported. You wouldn’t mind elaborating where this money has been coming from, would you?”

“We do not deny donations from any source, correct?” Mr Lohavary said. “And I have made sure the money is put to good use, as well.”

“Yet what is the source?” Craiovesti said. “You wouldn’t mind telling me where it came from, would you?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Lohavary said. “In the end I am only a receiver. Perhaps I have done much to promote the cause. If you must know, then it came from the Premier herself. It is indeed funding from the PRK, much like the Party of the Left receives.

“I had my suspicions, of course,” Craiovesti said. “Thank you for confirming it, Lohavary.

“Yet you mustn’t be concerned,” Mr. Lohavary said. “We should be more accommodating to the PRK, and we must accept this funding.”

“Yes, that will be all, Mr. Lohavary,” Craiovesti said.

Then Vlad Craiovesti hung up to phone. Sitting in his chair, Vlad turned towards his visitor, fellow Radical MP Stefan Lupul.

“Well, it seems that our suspicions were right,” Croiovesti said.

“It is only surprising that he managed to hide it for so long,” Lupul said. “Yet it does raise the question. We take donations, wherever they come from.”

“Yes, it is common policy for us to take any donations,” Croiovesti said.

“But I do hope that the PRK realizes that their funding is not greatly necessary for us to win,” Lupul said. “The grievances of the state are now realized to be even deeper than the factory fires, and a great victory in general for our party is ensured.”

“This election is of utmost importance for our party and the nation,” Croiovesti said. “Yet you still insist on dividing the party by running against them.”

“Well, if you insist on speaking like such,” Lupul said. “The party needs new lifeblood. Although you have done well in your past leadership, the party of the past is not the one we need for today.”

“I see,” Croiovesti said. “There’s no convincing you otherwise, is there?”

“No,” Lupul said.



The Cabinet was once again having a meeting, just as they had done for every day. They seemed to be going through their daily responsibilities without too much trouble. However, there was one notable difference to which Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti could not help but notice. There was an awkward and noticeable tension between several of the members. Due to previous encounters, War Minister Adrian Brasab and Interior Minister Vali Radmridreu had not been as friendly as they had been with each other in the past. However, the aristocratic member of the cabinet had no irregularities in their behaviors.

After some time had passed by in their meeting, Nikolas Cinsti said, “While I realize we have had some differences in relation to policy recently, I think I need to remind the cabinet that there are more important things to attend to. Scratch that, Adrian and Vali, I expect that this little ideological spat of yours shall not extend any longer.”

“Very good, sir,” Brasab said sincerely. “I will try to have feelings calmed.”

“And I agree,” Vali said disingenuously, which Cinsti noticed.

Cinsti turned to the other members of the cabinet and said, “The other, aristocratic if I may say, members of the cabinet have had little concern about the event which seems to have transpired.”

“Aristocrats are always calm, you know,” Lord Dragomir Fierfa, Minister of Law, said. “Besides, it does not affect us too greatly.”

“Furthermore, I think we have other, more important things to be worrying about,” Minister of Finance, Lord Alexandru Gheata said.

“As Mr. Brasab is aware, there are more attunements that are necessary to our military budgets,” Lord Boris Perigord, Foreign Minister, said. “Moravia remains a concern, as the Caesar’s army is very large, and his brain is very small.”

“As Moravia continues to build up, so do we,” Brasab said. “We will of course continue to increase the military budget as costs increase. The economy is strong, and our budget can handle it. General Karescu has been doing a number of things, tactical reorganization of the army, which I have already belatedly welcomed and approved.”



With the recent events of what had happened to the factory girls, the urban squares and centers of the city were far from quiet. The normal bustle among the streets was exasperated. Gangs armed with clubs went around to the textile mills, where girls still had to work, and made sure that there were no locked doors. Many of these men skipped worked in order to do their good deeds, to the annoyance of their wives. It relieved the fears of the textile girls somewhat, but naturally they were still apprehensive with the fear of death. It had annoyed big business, who acted as if they were somehow under threat. Perhaps they were, as the people were now less likely to allow their cycle of abuse to continue.

So the factory owners and companies were now sending out their own gangs as well, hiring private police forces which were not at all legal. Men, numbering usually from ten to twenty, each armed at least with their own bolt-action rifle, were sent to factories and mills in order to scare off what the industrialists saw as rabble-rousers, troublemakers, and other people who would lessen profits. As one factory owner put it, “these are simply company contractors.” And so these company contractors, upon being hounded and surrounded by small mobs armed with clubs, who wanted to ensure the safety of the workers, shots were fired, literally. These “company contractors” fired at these mobs, who then were forced to retreat. Dacius Tesator, the steel mogul, approached Adrik Milesciu, the chairman and owner of Milesciu Arms Manufacturing, asking for solidarity. Milesciu proceded to chastise him for, accusing him of behaving like a tin-pot dictator.

This happened a number of times, until Vali Radmridreu and the Minister of the Interior stepped in. The anger with the industrialists and capitalists was only growing, and the populace, at least of the capital, was organizing itself in the town hall, and in other meeting places. They had no weapons, but it would not be hard to acquire them. The central government declared that these government contractors were not only paramilitary forces, but mercenaries, and they were too be dispersed immediately. Some businesses were “accommodating” after this pronouncement, but many, not used to the government not immediately side with them, were very slow to move. As a result, the Interior Ministry collaborated with the War Ministry, and called in a battalion from the army, led by Captain Guiyes O’Palamer. After this, big business was more willing to cooperate, except for one.

Marku Lucrare, who owned a large corporation of clothing manufacturing, was one of the greatest offenders of hiring mercenaries. However, the source of his historical was yet to come. Claiming that he was merely doing what the constitution had allowed him to do, he refused to back down. So O’Palamer’s battalion saw no choice but to forcefully put down his private army. With a battalion numbering seventy-fifty against a force of about one-hundred and fifty, the army triumphed with no casualties against the mercenaries, who proved to be cowardly paper tigers who easily dispersed. Marku Lucrare was arrested for treason, and now sits in jail, waiting for his upcoming trial.

Meanwhile, in the Trollish district things have been going similarly. However, there was a development which did not occur in the human part of the city that appeared in the Trollish district. With a history of grievances greate than that of the human Zenovii, radicalization among certain numbers of the Trolls occurred. Although the dilapidation of the 1930s was done away with surprising proficiency, the Trolls remained the poorest and most ignored group among all in Zenovia.

Men had appeared, spouting radical ideas and socialism, yet there was also something more in their thought that was more original. Among the cluttered, dirty streets of Troll Districts, separate from the rest of the city, men went to see a preacher, and not for his religious ability. Indeed, he now had two professions, administering rites and rituals in the temple, and lecturing to the Trollish youth to rise up, to fight back against the oppressive system. His name was Qalog Bravom. He lectured of the Zenovii’s hatred and continued hatred against them, and how radical and revolutionary measures was what was necessary in order to change them.

No section of society was spared in his acerbic and visceral lectures, from the aristocrats, who care for little as long as they have the ability to continue their slave-driving, and the industrialists, who, in their many abuses, wish to emulate the aristocrats, to the Zenovii Church, which Bravom says is but a puppet of the ruling class, to the middle classes, who wish to emulate their sinful and richer cousins but don’t have the money for it, and the poor masses, brainwashed with hate and bigotry, which is why the working class Zenovii who never sought the companionship of the Trolls. His lecture went further than that, advocating the disbandment of the government, the constitution, and the parliament through a revolution, and only then could the oppressive system could be challenged. It would not happen easily, nor peacefully. The Trolls should not expect the help of the Zenovii masses to help them, as they have never done so before, and cannot even help themselves. He claims that the Trolls will have the lead this revolution, and can only count an elite section of the Zenovii, the revolutionary vanguard, to represent the Zenovii when the revolution comes.

As young men came to listen, others who had already heard his name had started to arm themselves. Where they came about their weapons was then unknown. They were led by a man named Zavrog Amvragan, a mysterious figure indeed.