Enigmatik — Roleplayer Guild

"I thought I could trust you." Hristov wiped his hands clean with a kitchen towel, massaging his dented knuckles as he did so. "Trust you to support a free and fair state, not marred by the democratic struggles we have had under Belzarov. Yet, still, you insist that these charlatans are the way for the future. The way to continue ourselves, to conduct ourselves." He continued massaging his knuckles, before wrapping the cloth around his fist, turning and laying a punch into the bound fellow's stomach.

"BUT YOU STILL REFUSE TO SEE THE RIGHT WAY." He roared out his words towards the other man, who could only weakly cough. "You're pathetic Mirkas. I'll make sure the soldiers enjoy your wife." dropping the cloth, he turned and nodded to the two soldiers behind him. In their trenchcoats, goggles and gasmasks, they were almost entirely inhuman. Perfect for the inhuman duties they carried out. They levelled IR-19s at the politician, and Hristov just had time to close the door before the twin reports barked out. All across Furremverke, there would be similar scenes carried out. There was no space for weakness in this civil war.

The BDAP would not fall into the gutter as the people rose up. Rolling his sleeves back down, Hristov made sure that they were buttoned neatly. Climbing into the back of his car, he nodded to the driver. "Take me to the city hall." Settling in, he folded his hands neatly over his stomach watching as the city began to speed past him. Checking his watch, he nodded in satisfaction. Bang on schedule. In just five minutes, three months of work- since the realisation that this was a revolution, not a mere revolt, was coming together faster than a freighter. The end of the line for Belzarovian democracy in Bravsaara was fast approaching. If you had told him this a year ago, he would have thought it nothing but wistful ideas. Yet, here he was. Positioned to become the ruler of a new nation. If he could steer it right. This would be a delicate time. Brutality was needed, yes, but tact was needed just as much. Not to mention precision. Now was the perfect time- Belzarov, as he had suspected, still was not responding properly. It seemed as if they would have a chance. Any later- any chance for the bureaucratic wheels to turn more, and the revolution would be crushed. Earlier, when there was no faith, this coup would be dismissed.

Stopping just outside the city hall, he disembarked from his car. "Jakob. Get away from here. Lay low for a while, I won't be needing your services for likely a week or so. Keep the wife safe." Pulling out his wallet- Zengravi horse leather, nice and sturdy, he slipped his driver a few hundred marks, and then straightened up. In the alleys surrounding the city hall, he could already see the soldiers assembling. Out of one of them ran out a shorter man, wearing a peaked cap and holding a small bag in his hand.

"Hristov. You're here. Here, you'll need this." He handed over the small bag. Inside, Hristov knew he would find the important things. His republiksrevolver, a few spare bullets for it, his bullhorn and a small bottle of schnapps.

"I appreciate it." Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Hristov slipped the gun and ammunition into a pocket, testing the weight of the bullhorn. Nice and light. "Are they still debating in there?"

"Yes, the executive order is forcing them into continuing well beyond normal operating hours. It's crazy in there, are you sure this is the right time? Why not wai-"

"I appreciate your judgement, but now is the right time. Most of the people who vehemently opposed us are either dead, or very shortly will be dead. If we don't consolidate our forces now, I might as well hand myself over to the police and await the dawn when they get their act together."

"Ah. I understand. Good luck Hristov. The men are with you. I'll be back at hom. The kids need me... I'm sure you understand." 

"Absolutely. Your work happens after I'm in control, after all. Enjoy your last quiet night at home."

"Oh, it's far from that. Not when I have little Anton..." Shaking his head, Hristov couldn't help but stifle a laugh as his friend dashed off. That was not important now however. He licked his lips slightly, and placed the bullhorn to his lips. "SOLDIERS OF BRAVSAARA. TO ME!"

It was as if the streets had come alive. It was not nearly as many soldiers as he wanted, but seventy good men were more than sufficient for a hall full of bloated bureaucrats. Each one was dressed the same, all marching in perfect precision. After all, appearance was very much important. "FORWARD!"

Today, no longer would they be shackled by democracy. Now came fire, now came blood... Now came revolution, and with revolution, the independence that they deserved!

Gods above, this was going to be tricky. Or, perhaps not, if the new weapons proved successful. It was all prototype stuff, of course, thought Hauptkeronal Nandaron Zofiko. The new KMI mechs, along with prototype recoil-operated guns… It could all go horribly wrong. Especially on the outskirts of the cities. Yet, he had been given his orders. The soldiers knew what they were doing, and they were preparing for the assault. The idea was to push through three major bunker holdouts. The mechs were supposed to screen, allowing the engineering korps to push through with their flamethrowers and blast everything to the sky. 

The sun was beginning to rise. The preparations were over. Fire teams would be synchronising now. He just hoped that the Belzarovians weren’t expecting this. If they were… Well, he shouldn’t think of that.

Furremveke was a fairly important city for Belzarov. Not only was it one of their major industrial sites, but it also represented the last significant barrier before the chokepoint - that is, the contracted spit of land that, if lost, would make it exponentially more difficult to hold the Bravsaaran region with infantry forces.

T’was a good thing, then, that the Western side of the city’s defences were heavily reinforced. A full two battalions were present in force that day, many armed with the Guddlehad gatling cannon that had so far proven incredibly effective, albeit on both sides of the conflict. It was a clunky machine, unfortunately, and spewed metal like a hose, but it was also incredibly difficult to take out when fired from a mounted position, especially from within a bunker. All men were in their appropriate positions, be it in those bunkers or patrolling the streets for signs of enemy contact.

Then, the time came. Just under 500 men. 25 mechs. It seemed crazy, but that was high command had instructed. 

Mihail was but an unterzutteofficer, but it didn’t exactly take a tactical mastermind to know that this was insane. He, along with eleven other men, were supposed to assault one of the most dug in enemy positions this side of the northern wall, and push them out? At least they had the backing of the engineering korps. He had seen them practically collapsed under the amount of satchel charges they were carrying, and the flamethrowers… He didn’t think he had seen so many in one place.

His squad, of course, was no different. A P-Flame was hissing softly besides him, and they had two engineers alone. The new reinrigels to help soften up targets- every man was issued one of them. His republiksrevolver was clean and loaded. Only one Radom-Gerin, and that was for the marksman. The rest were dealing with the old guns, or the valgaron. Then came the allotted time. They had been blessed enough to be assigned one of the new mechs, and clearly the crew were happy to get moving, the spider-like legs rising up and beginning to clatter forward. From around him, he heard sharp notes sounded out on whistles, the unterzutteofficer following suit with his own little metal piece. “Forward! Bravsaara and victory!” He held up his pistol, and then pointed forward eagerly. If they won this, even he could realise they would have a major upper hand.

He just wondered why so few troops had been sent to such a crucial battlefield, and why in Idiea he had been one of the poor sods that was selected.

Captain Dosdros Adastani, current leader of the men and women stationed in this key city, frowned as the sound of machinery caught her ear. They didn’t have any tanks stationed here, and as far as she was aware, neither did their rebellious opponents... and those clanks sounded nothing like tanks to begin with.

It was only once they finally showed their ugly faces that she froze, just a little. Mechs. They had functional walkers now.

Shit.

‘Open fire, OPEN FIRE,’ she yelled into the radio system, ‘focus on the machines before they get in range!’ The sound of machine guns began to ring through the area, accompanied by the horrifying sound of bullets smacking off of the shells of the machines like so much rain. Even if the sheer volume of fire would take them down eventually, they’d still get close long before they fell - and crap, what about the men swarming around them?! Those damn flamers had proven the bane of many a bunker, but were they anywhere near as dangerous as the mechs? She hadn’t a clue.

“Hey! These things are pretty good!” The mech crewman snorted a little as rifle rounds ‘pinged’ off the cylinder of metal that encased him, the gunner lining up the shot against one of the smaller bunkers. 

“FIRE!” The mech commander let out a bark, and the report of the six pounder shook the battlefield as it opened up. Stonework went flying as the shell made contact, shortly followed by the almost zipper-like ‘ratatatat’ of a machinegun opening up.

“KEEP ANY GUDDELHADS IN THERE SUPPRESSED! SOMEONE GET A ROCKET ON THOSE BASTARDS.” Mihail was screaming to be heard over the gunfire, but, incredibly, they were succeeding. He watched as the loader fed more and more ammo into the gun, before instinctively flinching once more as the mech fired again. 

There was the distinctive wooshing-hiss of a reinrigel being fired, and then another explosion… Just in time for a flintstick to move up.

The lieutenant commanding the Eighth Belzarovian Infantry Battalion was, in a word, terrified. Those walkers didn’t seem to give a damn how much ammo was put into them; they just kept coming and coming, firing shot after shot. That last one had nearly taken his head off for shrapnel and flung him hard against a wall, let alone the people in the vicinity of the detonation.

Now he was pretty sure his legs were broken, and there was a hole in an otherwise perfectly good bunker. And an enemy flamethrower had just showed up there.

He failed to give an order before the flintstick opened fire.

If there was something more terrifying on his own side, Mihail didn’t want to see it. There was the sound of the valve opening, then the fuel jetting out, shortly followed by the roar of flames. The gas-masked flintstick operator wasn’t letting up- one second… Two seconds… Three seconds… Four seconds… “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, SAVE SOME FUEL.” The flamethrower shut off. The flames hadn’t stuck to the stone of the bunker, but already he could smell the horrible mixture of petroleum and burnt meat that was the remains of whichever poor sods hadn’t been able to escape the flames… And those that had would be cut down rather swiftly by the rest of the soldiers. “Jakobus. Satchel charge, here.” Holding his revolver out, the unterzutteofficer nervously proceeded into the bunker. 

The screams of her men being burned alive only lasted a few seconds before their radios burned with them. They would, however, haunt her for the rest of her life - however long that was. The mechs seemed unstoppable, and unless somebody had it in them to try and hit the walkers with a satchel charge, there was no way they were going to be taken out.

‘Eighth Battalion, send men to reinforce bunker seven!’ she ordered, rather considering that it wouldn’t do much good. Frankly, that position was as good as lost, for all the firepower the mechs had; they had to fall back, regroup, and pray that they’d be able to receive more powerful reinforcements before they lost the city entirely.

‘Satchel charge in bunker seven!’ somebody called out of the radio frantically. ‘Repeat, satchel charg-’

He was cut off as the aforementioned bunker seven exploded, obliterating it entirely and sending fragments of concrete in all directions for a hundred meters around, visible even from bunker one where Dosdros was situated.

‘...Eighth Battalion, retreat to bunker five,’ she murmured. She had a sinking feeling that there was no longer an Eighth Battalion, or at least that most of it was now gone, but whoever was left might at least survive a little longer. ‘All forces, prepare to retreat in full.’

Bravsaaran radio technology may be shit, but luckily this was a simple message to get through. “This is Hauptkeronal Nandaron Zofiko. Advance at maximum speed. Cut off the enemy retreat. We are not animals. Do not summarily shoot anyone, or I will personally see to it that a dawn glow is your last sight.”

Whilst Mihail was pretty sure he had just been made deaf by the satchel charge going off, an order was an order. The ringing in his ears made it hard for him to tell if he was actually shouting or not, but he gestured forward with his gun, firing a few shots for good measure. “BRAVSAARA AND VICTORY! BRAVSAARA AND ETERNITY! LONG LIVE BRAVSAARAAAA!” He kept a hand on his helmet, noting the p-flame operator who had almost emptied his fuel tanks ditching his cumbersome machine in favour for a IR-19 on a blue-uniformed corpse. 

The mechs continued to clank forward, the guns having temporarily fallen silent. He wasn’t sure if a single machine had actually gone down- had they truly not been expecting any armour? Incredible. 

Swinging his valgaron down, he stormed forward, over broken glass, shattered stonework and scrap metal. The command bunker was up ahead- and it looked like his wasn’t the only squad trying to get there. He was shocked to see that indeed, one of the mechs had gone down, the crew having piled out, and now were hunkered behind the metal, one or two blindly taking potshots with their handguns. “Final push! Blow it all to dust!”

Minutes passed, the Bravsaaran offense pushed ever closer to bunker five, and ultimately Captain Dosdros decided they couldn’t wait any longer. There was likely nobody else left to arrive from Battalion Eight, and Battalion Six was starting to draw its own losses.

‘All units, fighting retreat due West,’ she commanded calmly, beginning to make her own way out of the bunker as she gave the order. ‘Never mind the walkers. Try and shoot down as many men as you can.’ The machines would take too many resources to defeat, and they frankly weren’t prepared for this fight. The best they could hope for was to avoid being taken out before they made their escape, and to maximise enemy losses to maximise the chance of retaking the city later on. High command desperately needed to hear about these things.

So this was their command bunker. You could see the radio antenna sticking out of the concrete, Mihail watching as soldiers began to pull out of it. “You heard the Hauptkeronel! Make sure they don’t escape!” His valgaron chattered in his hands, and he saw a patch distinct from the rest. That had to be the officer in charge. Oh no, he wasn’t letting her get away.

Dirt and stone puffed up as he blindly fired, the empty magazine clattering against the ground as he almost automatically loaded a fresh one. The slide made a satisfying clanking noise as he racked it back, and then he burst into a sprint, firing as he went. “GET THAT BITCH!”

Admittedly, Dosdros wasn’t one to suggest that her life was literally more important than that of any other soldier. As long as even one person escaped, Belzarov would learn how much power lay in these mechs and their armour, and act accordingly. That said, she did value her own life surprisingly much - and getting shot at by a traitor for too much longer wasn’t on her list of things to do. Reaching the nearest van alongside the rest of a squadron to make a quick escape certainly was, however.

As the guy reloaded and began to sprint in her direction, she drew her trusty Republikrevolver, halting for a moment just to take aim with both hands, then fired, half a second after taking a stray bullet to the arm. Damn it, that fucked up the shot that would have hit the man’s torso - but she’d still succeeded in taking out a leg, which was nearly as good.

And that, unfortunately, was all she could do. The mechs were drawing closer with every second, and a damaged leg wouldn’t prevent anyone from shooting their gun. Leaping on to the back of the van just as it began pulling away, she pressed a hand to the gushing hole in her limb. She managed to stay upright as the vehicle swerved to avoid the artillery fire of the walkers, and eventually left them behind in the city she’d failed to defend, at which point the medic on board could finally attend to her injury... but no matter. They’d take it back, sooner or later. No, she decided, she WOULD take it back. It was only a matter of time.

“FUCK! MEDIC!” He hissed in pain as he felt a bullet smash into the bone in his leg, crumpling down onto the ground. Looking up, he watched as his commendation went away with the truck, the only consolation being that they held the city. 

“You alright boss?” A dyed-white flat cap appeared over him, the medic turning him over. “Where’d you get hit?”

“Fuck. Leg.”  He gestured generally in pain, the medic nodding. “We got a field hospital in the back. Some of the chick nurses as well. You’ll be alright. Here.” Mihail felt himself being lifted up, the medic bracing him over his shoulders. Putting his weight on his good foot, he looked at the rubble and destruction. They had the city.

Hauptkeronal Nandaron Zofiko listened to the sound of a motorcycle engine rev, and then cut out. There was a pounding of feet, and a brief chatter behind the door next to him. Then, he heard the door open, and a soldier walk in, wearing the metal helmet and attached goggles of a motorcycle rider. “Hauptkeronal sir. The city is ours at last.”

“Casualty report?”

“At the moment, we don’t have full details. However, it seems we lost two fireteams and a single mech.”

“Two fireteams?”

“Yes sir- not accounting for those injured.”

“I must have misheard you. We lost twenty men?”

“Yes sir.”

“Twenty men and a single mech.”

“... Yes sir. I’m not sure how else to put this, sir.”

“Tell high command we need as many of those mechs as is physically possible.”	

Hristov Kryvonis stood in front of three microphons, placed on a podium, the cogged star of the Bravsaaran military emblazoned on the front. His greatcoat, longer than the standard greatcoat that the soldiers before him wore, hung down low, and he cast his gaze over everyone before him. Civilians, behind canvas partitions. Soldiers, in the same uniforms that they had been wearing six years ago when he had taken control. But many more, and better equipped. The sheen of Radom-Gerins, bayonets glinting in the light. Officers with their shined caps, carrying the all-metal valgarons. Mechs hissing and crackling, guddehalds silently sitting atop them, or Beskrynosnovs soaking in the sun, bullet bandoliers wrapped around those wearing them. It was a cold, cold day, as would be expected for the middle of winter. Snow breezed down lightly, dusting everyone with a coating of white.

Civilians behind the soldiers, wearing ear mufflers, waving flags of the new nation. To his sides, stood not only soldiers of the the newly- established Arvenzutte Kompanie, each carrying the latest in weaponry, but also stood the government of this new country. Überzuttearven Imrikal Navon, leader of the army. Minister of Arts and Literature. Minister of Industry. Minister of a thousand other things that were not important to the average person. Slowly, the crowd quietened.

"People of Bravsaara."

"Today dawns a new year. But more than a new year, today dawns a new Brasaara. I know, people have thought that we are foolish for not declaring ourselves independent earlier. This is false. Until today, we have not been a new nation." The crowd seemed confused. This was expected. "You might now be confused. How have we not been a new nation? We have fought, have we not? We have struggled, raged, died for this nation. He placed his hands on the podium. "That is why I say until today. For today, we are more than a single nation. Today, I am assured by Zengrav, by Lavania, and by the Corax Dominion... He let the pause hang in the air.

"That the glorious Nation-Republic of Bravsaara is a full member of the Iron Pact! TODAY, WE HAVE BECOME MORE THAN JUST A SINGLE PEOPLES, STRUGGLING ON OUR OWN! TODAY WE HAVE BECOME OUR OWN NATION, WITH OUR OWN ALLIES, NO LONGER TO BE DISMISSED. TODAY, BRAVSAARA ASCENDS FROM A REVOLUTIONARY STATE TO A NEW GOVERNMENT!" His hands were flying animatedly, spittle out of his mouth. Crude video cameras recorded him as he gestured and gesticulated. "TODAY WE ARE A COUNTRY THAT CAN NOT BE DISREGARDED. TODAY, WE ARE BRAVSAARA! TRULY, AND FOREVER! TODAY WE DECLARE TO THE BELZAROVIANS, TO THE COMMONWEALTH, TO ANYONE THAT WOULD LIKE TO THINK WE ARE NOTHING BUT A STATE TO CUT THEIR TEETH ON THAT WE WILL NOT BE A STUMBLING BLOCK! THAT WE, AS A PEOPLE, WILL FIGHT! WILL WIN! FOR WITH THE BACKING OF OUR ALLIES, WE CAN NEVER FALTER, WE CAN NEVER FALL. BRAVSAARA WILL NOT BE QUASHED. OUR MESSAGE WILL NOT BE STAMPED OUT. BRAVSAARA AND VICTORY! BRAVSAARA AND UNITY! BRAVSAARA FOREVER!" He held his fist straight up into the air.

The crowd exploded.

Ah, unfortunate. He would not be interacting with the inquisitor any time soon. That... That did displease him, very much so. His job, the single job that he had been assigned, would not be able to be completed when he wished it to be completed. That was unfortunate, but for now, the sister would be an adequate travelling companion "Very well, Sister. It is, as always, an honour to serve alongside those who share my fervour in following the Emperor's wishes." He kept his tone neutral, and although he didn't fall into the squad, he made sure to walk besides them. He was not a sister, and he would never be a sister, but for now, Squad Victorine would be where he would make himself useful.

Besides, he had certainly found himself with an interesting group of individuals. The mysteriously silent confessor, leaving his nose slightly irritated at the sweet perfumes wafted near him. He was much more use to smells not nearly as pleasant. The sister that had introduced herself as Alexandra, to which he curtly nodded, a if to show his appreciation for the gesture... Of course, the giant of the sister that had been standing next to him, and the Celestian.

It wasn't long before a cutter landed down. Once again, he found his hood being blown back, and decided to leave it where it was. There was no point in pulling it back up constantly, if it was only going to fall back over. That was a distraction that he did not deem as necessary for him to spend time on. Boarding the ship, he fastened himself in, and settled in for takeoff.

The ship had been breached. A young man had burst in, breathless, and then had dashed out again, leaving Marcus alone to process the information. That didn't take very long. He pressed a hand to the commsbead in his ear, allowing it to sort through the frequencies, and to that of the ship's vox system. Standing up from the position he had been kneeling, he walked over to where his carapace armour lay, the armour sitting over a short robe that allowed the maximum amount of movement, whilst using the bare minimum needed to cover his modesty, and for the armour to sit comfortably. His room was even more barren than any of the others, at his personal request- with the cot and alter having been removed. Instead, the bedding was directly against the floor, and the only reason the weapon rack had not been removed was because it was bolted to the floor of the ship.

His request to remove the shrine was not, as some might think, from any heretical desire, but simply because he thought that private worship was a luxury he simply did not require. The ship had a room entirely for worship, why did he need another shrine in his room? Picking up his storm shield, he made sure it was strapped in securely, and then hefted his lance, and let the end of it crackle with power. He knew that it could cleave through armour, bone and anything else it was called to destroy.

"A spiritu dominatus,

Domine, libra nos,

From the lighting and the tempest,

Our Emperor, deliver us.

From plague, temptation and war,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

From the scourge of the Kraken,

Our Emperor, deliver us.

From the blasphemy of the Fallen,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

From the begetting of daemons,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

From the curse of the mutant,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

A morte perpetua,

Domine, libra nos.

That thou wouldst bring them only death,

That thou shouldst spare none,

That thou shouldst pardon none

We beseech thee, destroy them."

He stepped out, having finished the prayer, and was suddenly faced with the raiders. "Sister." He said, hoping he had keyed in to the correct frequency. "Those boarding the ship have apparently breached close to my location. I will fight my way to you." As he spoke, he slammed forward with his shield, letting his training kick in. 'The lance,' he remembered Clemitus saying, 'Is not a weapon for whelps to be using. Keep your distance with it. Keep your focus on it. It is not a sword, where you can swing it about and still have effect. Precision! PRECISION, do you hear me?' He remembered the older man smacking him every time he lost focus on the end of the spear. he had learnt from that.

With the raider on his feet, he was made aware that there were a number more raiders also near him. Right then. This would be a challenge. Rapidly backpedalling, he kept his shield up, the wall of force surrounding it crackling as it absorbed projectiles. The raider on his feet had rapidly gotten back onto his feet, and he was made suddenly aware that it was a xenos. Kroot. By the Emperor, he was not letting his body be defiled by that creature.

Another hymn, this one spoken at an even tone, as if he was simply discussing theology with a priest. "I tread the path of Righteousness. Though it be paved with broken glass, I will walk it barefoot; though it cross rivers of fire, I will pass over them; though it wanders wide, the light of the Emperor guides my step." He finished it, continuing to backpedal, and then added an additional line to the hymn. "And although it is filled with those who would stop me, I will cut through them." His spear darted out, and he was rewarded with a scream. Good. Let them be cautious. 

He really did hope he would have backup soon however. As proficient as he was in combat, odds so heavily stacked against him were not favourable. If he died before actually meeting the inquisitor... He would be a disgrace.

Enigmatik Member

Overly-Caffienated Thembie Supreme

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts