For those interested, this thread is still very much alive in the Discord. 11 active players that have already drawn up locations on the map, collaborated histories, and world built some interesting plot arcs already.
Definitely deserves a click on the Discord link if you want to see Oz behind the curtain.
The room was pulsing with rage. Its dimly lit interior was surrounded on all sides by glass walls which played host to dozens of eyes. The figures outside of the room beat against its thick glass in an unorganized rhythm. But the pulse of their minds was unanimous. The Ozil were not adept psionics. Like most things they were too base, too visceral to have any complex use of it. But they could transfer emotions like voice. In this moment they were not quiet. The audience around the square was howling frantically. Inside the soundproof room only the surging pulse of minds could be felt. It was lust of many sorts.
Inside the slick black floor was covered in a slithering pool of blood. A gargantuan Ozil, open wounds accenting every rivet of fur and lard, stood proud with glazed eyes. Below him hovled a creature, perhaps dead except for the occasional rattling breath. The furry mass was unrecognizable. The fight had rendered it little more than greasy, torn flesh. The victor attacked once more, thrashing it with a blood-sodden cuddle. The club articulated with each thud of damp flesh.
A howl half-laced with laughter, half-laced with rage echoed against the walls. The Ozil goliath raised the weapon for all of the audience to see. It was an arm, the arm of the Ozil that lay before him congealing in his own fluids and defeat. Though the windows he could see the elation of his kin. He could feel them. Their chorus had grown to a frenzy. The males thrashed against the windows as females proffered their organs to him. Surely their needs would be fulfilled in the celebrations to follow. All of the Primacy’s needs would be met, because he would return to them as the Prime Alpha.
Ingar Brazhnik, the richest Ozil of his era, sauntered from the carnage like a king. In this moment, that is what he could claim to be. The presidency of Ozil Thermal was won in this way. The audience around him was the Primacy’s Shareholder Council members. Each fiscal year, after the earnings of all quarters were calculated, a rival to the Prime Alpha position was chosen to challenge him in unarmed combat. The victor took all, often including the opposition’s life. This contestor had been of weaker make, a benevolent choice for third quarter profits. Ingar’s victory seemed assured, but stranger things have happened in this system. Whether by choice or by force, Prime Alpha Ignar had reigned supreme nine years to this day.
A door in the room appeared. With one last thrusting fist and show of gnashed teeth to his adoring fans, Ignar slipped into a quiet hall out of view. The dark corridor was lined only by the dimly illuminated busts of Prime Alphas who reigned before him. Their stern vissages stared forward into space. They were a reminder of the soul of his people: hard, humble, and hungry for the past. At times he wondered if they would approve of him. If he would be capable of making Zakarov, Zediah, or Krankinov proud. This hall was lined with men who earned their place in the galaxy. They had torn apart worlds to make a home for his people and fuel the Iron Star. Ingar had done little more than play sides at the bartering table, trading terrawatts for treaties. His bloody paw caressed the half-mutilated face of Valdiketch the Great.
“Blood and profit, brother.” Ingar offered through gritted teeth. “I will finish your mission. I will bring the First Ones back to us. Mine will be a star that shines brighter than all in the galaxy.”
With a sudden, furious heave, Ingar tore the bust from its resting. He breached through the heavy sanctum doors and into the vibrant party that awaited. Hundreds stood at their grey cubicles. Papers and notes were strewn out amongst the smattering of office holocomputers. Head down, Ignar strode through the onslaught of praise. Hands reached out to pat him. Still others lurched their giant figures onto desks to get a better view. Yet he marched through the headquarters office without eye contact, bust of his ancient predecessor in hand.
Finally he arrived at the front of the room. A table with refreshments was fancifully arranged, at its center was the festering remains of a whole Terran narwhal, undoubtedly bought at gratuitous price from Rolvius. Above the splendor sat an even greater jewel: a window from their station on Travulous Lost looking out onto the great blue mass of a sun. It was beautiful. Ingar could scarcely stop himself from weeping when he looked at her. She was the deliverance to his people, their purpose, and today his prize for victory. But she was a fickle mistress. The sorrow of her drama ran through him as deeply as his lust.
The Forge, a dyson array that the First Ones had left behind was in disrepair. Few spacehabs even worked. Everything had to be done in retrograde, as the technology of that civilization was so far beyond their capacity. Engineers were actually linguists. Architects were archeologists. The path forward for the Ozil laid in the ability to understand the past; and not even their own past. They had been pets of these great creatures, now gone from the galaxy. What they were now and what the Iron Star was now, was an embarrassment.
She needed fuel. The current demands were pressing at the needs of their economy. Still more dire, they were pressing at the needs of promised exports. If the investors learned of this, they would be in stock free-fall. Though much of this fuel was intellectual, and thereby far more scarce, mineral resources were poured in from all over the galaxy to help reconstruct the lifeline of their nation. Amassed before the mental haze of the Push, many of the contributor planets and peoples had become unruly once more. Just last week three million had been slaughtered quelling an uprising on Divarpov IX. Labor was a hard pill to swallow, and the reactors needed more hands to sift, clean, and ship the profits and waste of the Primacy. They were stretching thin. They needed to expand their holds or default on their economic presence in the galaxy.
This expansion had been stifled by the Treaty of Detente. And yet, the treaty of Detente had saved them. Perhaps even to some degree Ignar knew this too. It had allowed them to survive in a world of much bigger fish. But to argue its necessity was semantics. Trade deals, the true expansion of the Primacy, would have been impossible without a signature. Embargos hurt harder than the coalition forces that occasionally glassed his mining projects when their ambitions had stepped out of line. Even now, the Primacy was likely to be throttled by another coalition incursion once the next round of Treaty observers was turned over. A cocktail of blackmail and bribery had held off most reports. But it was difficult to hide the expansive pre-construction projects underway in the Ozil sectors. Final assembly of these printed parts would be a trivial step into swelling the naval power of the Primacy exponentially. Now was the time to get rich or get caught.
A thin line of blue dust stood on a plate amongst the delicacies. Ingar inhaled it sharply before leaping onto the table. He began to pace atop it as a female nervously offered him up a microphone. Ingar snatched the device, a familiar glaze in his eyes.
He paced more as the room grew silent. Stifled coughs intermittently cut the void as the entire room waited. On each face was a mix of fear and exhilaration.
“Detente. Cute word. Cute idea... He liked it,” Ingar pointed a trembling finger towards the arena where a huddled mass still laid prostrate. “CUTE, if you are a bitch in heat offering yourselves to the galaxy at large.” Ignar held the bloodied bust of their venerated hero aloft to the still silent crowd. “What would he say? What would he say if he found us with our wrists tied to our ankles? What would he say if he found us in soda commercials rolling down hills of snow, giggling like the galaxy isn’t ours for the taking? Like we aren’t predators…” Ingar choked the last words as he launched the statue at a nearby soda can perched atop an office cubicle. The two objects dashed together in a shower of brown froth..
The silence was humid.
“WE’RE FUCKIN LEAVING!”
The crowd erupted in applause. Poorly stacked file drawers were tossed asunder. Bureaucrats hugged each other and still more began to find their way onto disorderly desks. Problematic dances were being performed. The subtle symphony of Song 1, the anthem of the Ozil began to murmur as chests were beaten in unison.
“THE SHOW GOES ON!” Ingar ejected again through pulsing neck veins and a slightly bleeding nose. The chorus of Song 1 unified and strengthened. “We’re going to take this GALAXYYY! Get every fucking inspector out!” Ingar was heaving with sweat. He grabbed a spare bottle of Lokoid spirit and began guzzling it like water on a burn. The few races other than Ozil in the room hurriedly left or were wrapped in black plastic bags by unmarked agents.
“Supply and demand…” Ingar offered with mock calm. “I’m going to find what the Ashtar left. I’m going to uncover the secrets of the First Ones. I’m going to walk down to that weak little planet they left behind and take it ALL!” Ingar surged, recollected himself before continuing. “Then when I have the galaxy’s balls in my claw,” he gripped in demonstration, “they are going to come to us. They will turn out their pockets and each one of you,” he pointed to various individuals in the crowd, “ you, my brothers and sisters, are going to be filthy fucking rich.”
--------------------------------
Beneath Agdemnar
The engine hummed as it sifted and drove through the soft Agdemnar earth. Service personnel clambered through the confines of the drill, lubricants and coolant sprays constantly firing into the dusty machine’s bowels. A nameless mook sat on the edge of this chaos, a small radar perched on spare ration boxes. Hand on chin and eyes heavy, he stared at the small blips of the screen. Outside of the tunnel was a sensory array which would tell the sappers of oncoming threats to their tunnel system. Of yet, nothing but spare debris from the orbital conflicts above had offered any amusement to the post. A half dozen of the mining party had tried to flee once, but he had personally seen three of them shot and assumed the others met a similar fate before reaching the entry of the 80km long tunnel.
He pulled up the greater global map array. Lights danced all around the planet. The galaxy was at war on this world, but children slept at night none the wiser. He wondered if they had offspring like him. Small tufts of fur that would never see their father again. When he was abducted for this post, he knew that fate. Overnight he had become a Sales Associate for Blue Milk LLC, the company this entourage was officially attached to. The business was one of many galactic ratholes for money laundering by the Ozil elite. This one had a VPN out of FedNat, but he knew spray painting that onto Ozil gear, tactics, and personnel could only fool the most banal of galactic liberal media. The small freighter this mining company had arrived on was even stolen, at least intellectually. It operated on some off-brand, aftermarket version of Kadath cloaking. Or maybe it was Utopian? He wasn’t sure, the reality was that it probably didn’t even work. The entire planet likely knew they were here; knew that they had landed in a small canyon and had begun drilling headlong under the shield covering Point Jakurna.
Suddenly, the soil around them shook fiercely, small scraps of dust and debris fell through the gaps in the tunnel’s propping carapace. Frantic eyes of maintenance personnel began to peer at him. Some reached for their side-arms (useless) still others began to slowly position themselves towards the tunnel egress (more useless). The Ozil grabbed his empty box of freeze-dried potatoes and peered at the sensor screen. Nothing was showing but a small loading bar in the upper corner. He pushed open the empty container which contained not starchy foodstuffs, but a detonator. He gripped the rusty device and unclipped the safety. The loading dial in the upper corner spun onward in torment. Perhaps it was a surprise assault. Maybe someone with stealth technology that actually worked. With his dying breath he would click that damn button. Neutron bombs lined the canyon entrance, nearly half the freighter’s weight of them. If anyone were to assault their position it would be scorched earth and salted fields of the worst variety. It may keep the enemy out, but it would also lock him and his crew in. They would have no other choice than to drill onward. They had to get under that shield or this tunnel would be their grave.
The loading icon vanished. Small red dialogue appeared on the screen in First One cryllic, which he somewhat knew.
ORBITAL STRIKE
ENEMY ON ENEMY
CASUALTY GENOME: HUMAN VARIANT
THREAT TO FRIENDLY: 9% PROBABILITY
PROCEED
“Proceed!” The Ozil cried out in parrot. Small rivets of joy cracked through his voice. The workers said nothing, but he could feel their relief. They continued on as they were bidden. The hiss of coolant tore onward into the deep.
More words appeared on the screen. These, however, appeared in basic Ozil. He assumed they were from the orbital fleet. They had been told a small flotilla was amassing near the system’s sun, soaking up her energy in wait to strike once the shield was down. If he did everything right, maybe he would see his seven dozen children once more.
“Orbital strike from Asrian Ascendancy on target above tunnel structure.
Do not detonate.
You are meters from Ashtar shield array.
Prepare for mining craft to proceed under shield threshold.
Vector will adjust to 30 degree angle for crust breech.”
He looked out over his laboring kin and knew they felt his euphoria. They would be rich. They would be famous. They would survive.
Thuddddchhhhhh
Smoke billowed into the tunnel. The mining craft came to a halt.
--------------------------------
In orbit of Agdemnar
Discount offer: 20% Use code: STEALTH CRUISER
“Attention Hermione crew:
Your vessel is unstable and will destruct. Immediate necessary repairs are purchasable at bargain price, through PsyPay or vetted financial conduit. Order now while offers and supplies last. We look forward to future dealings of mutual benefit.
-Blue Milk, LLC. Routing PIN: 0938402384”
The message was sent to the FedNat hospital ship from a small contingent of clearly Ozil naval vessels in close orbit of the system’s sun. The routing PIN was traceable to an account seemingly located on the Terran Cayman Islands. Local officials, however, would find this not to be the case.
We are assured that this missive finds you ever strong and steadfast. It remains our highest pleasure to attest the exemplary efficiency of Ozil Thermal at all levels we have had the fortune of observing, and it is our fervent desire that we may continue to do so in the continuation of our transactions.
It cannot have escaped the notice of your organisation that many of the galaxy's potencies are on the verge of rearmament, as evidenced in their formal rejection of the Treaty of Madrigasa. While less stable and confident authorities may see this as a risk, we trust that you will convene with the judgment of the Joint Commissions of the Harmonic Conflux that this state of affairs offers new opportunities to those ready to exploit them. As so many polities refuse to hold themselves accountable to the Treaty's terms, they cannot expect recourse against any measures of defense and retaliation adopted vis-a-vis their actions.
On behalf of the Harmonic Conflux, we thus extend to your organisation an offer of partnership and cooperation in ensuring that neither sovereign body be adversely affected by hostile interference. Our organs of Trade and Distribution are ready to offer partners affiliated with Ozil Thermal preferential pricing on exported stock, to be determined by the parties involved. In addition, you have our assurance that any similarly beneficent policies undertaken on Ozil Thermal's side will contribute to bolstering the Harmonic Conflux's ability in defending our common interests by any means necessary.
Should you wish to discuss the particulars of such potential defensive actions, we would be eager to assemble a representative committee for a direct conference.
Regards,
The Foreign Connections Administration,
Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis
Attn: Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis,
Your missive finds us well on this eve of Prime Alpha Ingar’s reappropriation as Chief Executive Officer and firm confidant in the fiscal opportunities levied by the Harmonic Conflux of the Innumerate Suns. Your words strike true to his heart, and the heart of the shareholders in his steadfast.
We see this time as an undeniable investment opportunity with unlimited potential benefit and very little risk of fiscal loss. At this very moment, Ozil Thermal is decreasing its monetary parity to allow further foreign investment at bargain prices. We trust the Conflux will strike hard and fast at this once in a lifetime opportunity to link interests with the Iron Star as she sees her rise in both power and share value. As an act of good faith, for your fiscal and political investment we are already adjusting for a limited time 0.4% price reduction per exawatt of goods labor. A true steal, and lasting mark of friendship between our polities.
Furthermore, we must openly appreciate the friability of public image in these uncertain times. Though we fully appreciate the cultural framework of the Conflux labor markets, it must be noted that potential investors have made themselves socially and financially malaligned with such business practices. As such, we must request that large scale dealings be handled in a publically amiable way, both clandestine and through proxy. We furthermore offer our services as an intermediary company for goods and services of the Conflux hitherto banned from lucrative markets at a bargain commission.
Your goods and services are always of esteemable quality, our own Prime Alpha once offering in private conversation, “I love their damn shoes, I don’t care what sweat shop they’re made in.” Surely these joyous comments will be on the lips of our many well-served customers. The doors and share holds of Ozil Thermal are always open to you, and we warmly invite you to link appendages with us in the forthcoming market boon.
V/R,
Olga Ironthigh Undersecretary of Marketing Ozil Thermal Primacy
Attached was an advertisement for a shill polymer business dealing mainly in humanoid boot markets. The advert was complete with exact location of the foundry and an encrypted discount offer code.
The thick, pungent smoke of a cigar writhed into the dim night. From the lonely window far above the cemented street, a cloud of similar shapes seemed to form. They trudded in a march through the fresh packed snow. Workers, hundreds of them, garbed in grey coats. Their faint silhouettes were clouded by the debris that fell from above. It was more than just snow. A grey ash filled the air and seemed to cling like a parasite to every surface and particle in sight. Waves of this ghostly filth whipped in the wind, lashing the workers as they marched below. Yet onward they trudged with armed guards at their sides. They were heading to the factory, the stifled glow on the horizon served as a poor replacement for a sky. On this planet, it was the only thing close to a sunrise.
Lyov took another great puff of his cigar, its fiery head treading close to his worn paw. He careened his head out to exhale once more into the billowing night sky. His giant white fur and ursine build were wedged sideways between the maw of the cement window; its architect not envisioning its use for such leisure. His rank afforded him some leeway. Lyov was a senior physicist in the Primacy. But in the Primacy there was no paradise for party members of any rank. His position did grant him a window, and he had every intention to make use of it.
A soft clicking noise droned in the background. The workers below seemed to walk to its cadence. However, with every gust of snow-laden wind, the metronome seemed to speed its incessant tick. The workers continued their slow trudge. With a long drag, Lyov burned his momentary escape down to its wick. The workers were close now. The searchlights of aircraft began to dance above their slumped figures. Lyov took this as his sign to retire.
He drew back into the small room. It was grey. Barren cement walls, a half eaten bowl of cold porridge, a scratchy sofa with chunks removed from it, and an old holoprojector on the wall. Lyov slid his giant figure onto the sofa and massaged what was likely an old injured shoulder. The little box perched on the seat continued to chirp. A geiger counter, its whispering dribble counted radiation in the air. It was a constant companion and only real conversation he had outside of the factory. The sofa he sat on had been refurbished by hand. Portions of padding that had absorbed too much radiation were torn out. He had tossed them out of the window, perhaps adding to the misery of the workers below. Perks of being on the top floor, and being worth something to Ozil Thermal.
The holoprojector cut on in a dash of flickering light. It had no on or off button that Lyov had seen. The device simply turned on when the party felt something worth showing, a rare event when work was to be done. Lyov immediately recognized the program, Galactic Talent. Perhaps it was a re-run but he could not be sure--all the performances were the same. At least all of the Ozil performances were the same. Song 1 was being performed. Though there were officially six state recognized songs, Song 1 was the only one exported for foriegn use. It was the theme, anthem, eulogy of the Ozil people. It was not real words, simply a complex and rolling howl that was meant to stir the emotions of every Ozil. It encapsulated their quest for self proving, mastering of the stars, struggle for survival in a forlorn universe, and ultimate destiny as dust in the cosmic sky. It was beautiful. Perhaps even beautiful to foreign ears. Moreover it was the only performance broadcast to the Ozil, a state-backed deal with the galactic entertainment network at large. Every performer, every broadcast, always Song 1 followed by a captured audience from around the galaxy and their thunderous--if after-tracked--applause.
“Soda 1. The taste of Paradise to come," read a dashing Ozil with a smile and a wink. He held the colorful Jalaryian beverage like it had been vomited into his outstretched hand. It was crudely filmed, out of focus. In the periphery of the shot could be seen the edge of a mic boom and the vague silhouette of a rifle muzzle. He greeted the viewer at the end of every Song 1 performance, an advertising byproduct for the only beverage sold in the Primacy. It undoubtedly made an Alpha bureaucrat somewhere rich.
The screen cut back to Galactic Talent. Lyov looked on in awe. The crowd clapped lazily as the Ozil contestant trudged off of the stage. This had never happened on his screen before. The next contestant was announced. Lyov could hear the beat of his heart begin to punch through his throat. A human with an instrument took the stage. The applause of the crowd echoed in his room as Lyov’s gaze searched frantically for a power switch. There wasn’t one, there had never been a power switch. He shouldn’t be watching this. One of the judges cut a dry joke, looking presumptuously onward at the contestant. The human replied meekly, the crowd whispering about her looking unfit for the part. Lyov’s grip tightened, claws cutting through the patchwork sofa. The human began to sing, amazing the crowd with how someone so ugly could have such talent. Lyov was pounding. He grabbed for something, anything. The bowl of cold porridge crashed across the cement wall which played host to the holoprojection. Onward she performed, dancing amongst the clumps of gray sludge.
He didn’t even hear the door open. The footsteps had settled into the beat of his pounding heart and the steady, penetrating click of the geiger counter. They were here, and they knew.
Blackness fell over him. A plastic bag sealed itself over his head. Paws from every angle dug into his fur. Once. Twice. Three times something hard belted into the side of his head splitting his vision into a kaleidoscope of colors and pain. They were dragging him as the unsanctioned holocast droned on with voice and instruments and song. He felt his body crammed through the narrow opening of his own window. He felt the harness around him catch by some force, hoisting him upward into the bowels of an aircraft. The audience of the holocast erupted in gleeful applause. It sounded, for once, genuine.
No one may every again say to me "lurkmoar", for I lurk the most!
EDIT: Actually just noticed Helios' post count, he might win.
Hell yeah, I am the ultimate lurker. Sigma and I must have jumped the site respawn. I also did hop to a different server when the dark times struck. Been growing my neck beard on RPG since 2008.
Primacy- National colloquial Ozil Thermal- State run mega-corporation Thermals/Primals- Denizen colloquial Iron Star- Propaganda colloquial
General Information
Overview
A socialist corporate sate. The usrine Ozil govern their sector with a military junta that tastes slightly of armed occupation. Intergalactically renowned as unintelligent, unimaginative brutes, the Ozil prefer to see themselves as collective minimalist; at least its denizens are instructed that this is proper thought. Life under Ozil rule revolves around power output. Reactors dot every feasible inch of terraformed soil. The crown jewel of Ozil Thermal (the state power exporter and de facto head of government) is the dyson swarm which is harbored in the center of the nation. Derelict as the ancient structure may be, it is the Ozil’s lifeline to pertinence in the galaxy and perhaps it’s only hope from being swallowed by much bigger fish in the sea.
History
The race to the stars was a slow and arduous process for the Ozil. Some would even say it remains a feat beyond their capacity. However, it was by the grace of another race that the Ozil even became sentient. Termed only as “the First Ones” these avian forefathers bred the Ozil as loyal pets. Evolving with time and the guiding hand of gene manipulation, the Ozil found their sentience firmly in the collar of the First Ones. They became the menial labor, personal thugs, and star fodder of an early yet exceptionally advanced empire. What happened to free them of this grasp is unknown to the Ozil citizenry at large. However, the First Ones at their height of their power vanished; however, not as the Ashtar did years later with a puff of fairy dust. The First Ones were rent from the galaxy. Disease, uprising, and nuclear decimation from outside and within extirpated them at their root. Slaughtered wholesale, the fragmented remains of the First Ones empire was inherited by the servants they had raised from the mud.
Unknown millennia past. War, famine, and radiation remained the tapestry of the Ozil. It shaped them as the weak perished and the strong thrived. In the vacuum was forged a new empire. They became a people obsessed with power, in its rawest sense. It had been their steady guide through the reconstruction and their only weapon in the fight to claim the carcass of the old empire from outside forces. The Ozil surged the factories and reactors of their forefathers. Industry was the collective drive of the people. And at the center of this power was the Forge, a dyson swarm which shrouded the star of the Ozil’s capital system. Built by the First Ones, it was their lasting gift that brought the once barbaric nation into the fore. The once mothballed super generator was recently reborn. Though at a fraction of its output potential and ever teetering on its own destruction, the Forge has become the lynchpin for Ozil auto-manufacturing and military might.
The iron star surged quickly on the galactic stage. The Primacy, and namely the ursine Ozil, bullied and blasted their way through much of their neighboring systems. In a surge of galactically despised bloodlust, the nation seized a vast swath of territory. It was a crusade destined to fail. Though competent in battle, the regime was noticeably plagued by indigent statecraft and the empire soon found itself crumbling from within as occupations turned to massacres. But then the glorious day came when the prophecy of the First Ones was fulfilled. The Ashtar’s psionic scourge swept through the galaxy. The riots, the terrorism, the infidelity of mind all at once stopped. The conquered, grateful-- as they should have always been-- became pacified, complacent, and content. On the backs of smiling faces the great union (read: occupation) was made and cemented. Factories filled the lands and skies as the creaking pistons of apartheid droned on into the void.
Major Holdings
Travulous Lost- The cultural capital of the Ozil Primacy and headquarters of Ozil Thermal. This cold moon has been mined of every viable resource down to the core. One lake worth of clean water remains on her surface, and it is owned and possessed entirely by the Prime Alpha. At the oasis core sits the headquarters of various mega-corporations, Ozil Thermal chief among them. It is a carcass of a once beautiful world, sacrificed to sustain the looming complex on the horizon. The cement covered bastion orbits an equally harvested gas giant. At the core of this system sits the Forge.
The Forge- A dyson swarm which loosely enshrouds Karminus, a red giant star. It is suspected by the galactic academia that this project was very much in its beginning phases when the First Ones disappeared from the Ozil dominion. Furthermore, the general incompetence of the Ozil administration, technology, and frankly intellectual capacity has seen the dyson swarm fall into gross disrepair. Much of the empire's resources are funneled into the perpetual upkeep of such a costly system and contention lies beneath the surface of many forced funding palms.
Demographics
Population
The Ozil have a tendency to wipe out the sentience of areas they “colonize.” This transition does not usually take place in the form of wholesale genocide after the undoubted military onslaught. Instead this is a gradual rot as new lands are forged into factories, mines tear through crop yields, fusion reactors take the place of city hall, and all those who impede progress are “instituted” into labor which accelerates such ends. Conditions and life in this world are hard. Without the physiological-- and arguably psychological--fortitude of the ursine Ozil, seldom sentients are found up to snuff in such prolonged conditions. As such, the vermine Prikke and carrion Umman Manda are the only prolific species that has thrived in the cogs of Ozil rule. Species of other nations find it difficult to attain citizenship in the Primacy unless they are adopted in from colonization efforts above. Indenturing of “pirates” (those engaging in any unauthorized economic transactions in the area) often find themselves polishing reactor cores as well.
90% Ozil 8% Occupied species 2% International species, often indentured
Society
Labor and life are synonymous to the Ozil; quite literally, they are the same word. Each citizen is assigned to a Furnace, usually a fusion reactor, which literally is the city. Other economic ventures necessary to the survival of the Furnace such as mining, infrastructure, and carbon harvesting are governed by the local Furnace Alpha. The pyramid business model extends to planet, sector, quadrant, and national level at which the executive of the Thermal Primacy sits at his headquarters in Travulous Lost. Bureaucracy winds its way through every level of government and corruption is the rule rather than the exception.
Economy
The corporate state often appreciates its own inherent lack of innovation and subsidizes single economic entities to provide a heavily monitored goods or services to a captivated market. A single Ascendency soda, under contract with the Ozil government, is available as the only soda in the entire nation. Labeled as Soda 1. This use of alien technology has been a recent addition to the Ozil domestic market. For the foreseeable past, almost all products have been of a grey, heavy, structurally-unsound variety produced from the Autoprinters. These mass manufactured goods span the variety of food, appliances, clothes, vehicles, and... well that's about all you get in the Primacy. These recent surge of external products has brought some happiness to the polity, but also stirred contention among the more nationalist wings of the party. A red stripe and fancy letters on an otherwise perfectly good can has many pouring their drinks in the street, or worse.
Government
Prime Alpha: Ingar Brazhnik
Nine years as CEO. A fairly... excitable... guy.
Corruption; that is the name of the game. With the Prime Alpha and his testosterone-imbibed cabinet held up in the conference rooms of Travulous Lost, it is down to the individual planets and respective Factory, Solar, and Quadrant Alphas to scrape a living condition for the denizens they control. This duty to their people is--of course-- secondary to their mandate to produce a substantial power surplus and provide men and material to the needs of the Iron Star. Deals, both explicit and covert, are often brokered with other nations on an individual planetary basis. This “contracting” is used to stymie the Ozil’s incompetence in consumer goods, infrastructure, and anything requiring an ounce of sentient creativity. The muffled grumblings of discourse among the citizenry have steadily increased since the Ashtar vanished. To many, the empire seems to be bursting at the seams; its energy yearning to find a target to focus on or tear itself apart.
At its core, the world of the Ozil is a corporate state which serves the energy capital produced by the Forge. The power output of this solar monstrosity is the primary economic export of the nation by means of its state energy business, Ozil Thermal. Surplus energy of this structure and the subsidiary reactors on Primacy worlds is used to mass produce the goods and equipment of the nation. The Prime Alpha exercises complete control of the nation, though bureaucratic advisory boards exist and clog every rung of the party ladder. Control of the system is complete, and often ruthless. State held secrets and proprietary technology are deemed significantly more valuable than citizens, planets, and perhaps the Forge itself.
Technological Information
Inheritance is a blessing and a curse. Without the First Ones, the Ozil would never have made it off of their own frozen system. The remains of this once great nation are the skeleton that holds the Ozil aloft. The dyson swarm named the Forge is a primary example of this, too complicated to be fully repaired or built upon with laudable success. Entire cities, reactors, and weapon systems exist as refurbished inventions of this scavenged empire. The traditional mantra of “it was always done like this” is often self preservation from the Ozil inventing something worse. However, blueprints from the First Ones are numerous and as the Ozil continue to decipher information from their forefathers they often take paradoxical leaps forward in technology as evidenced by phases of the Great War and Detente.
This lurch forward by understanding the past is a driving vice for the Ozil. With the intellectual wealth of the far more advanced Ashtar waiting like a carcass to be won, many in the Primacy have set their eyes on the abandoned hoard. In their grasp lies the capacity to finish the Forge, to build more like her, to enshroud every star in the iron womb of the Ozil.
Major Techs
Autoprinters- Apart from the Forge, the autoprinters which dot the nation are the true lifeforce of the citizenry. Moreover, it is the only truly revolutionary technology that the Ozil can claim as their own invention (though the full truth of this is arguable). Clothes, equipment, housing and more are produced as grey assemblages of spare raw ore and waste from the lacing mines of every world. Food is even mass produced in these 3D generators. Harnessing the carbon from industrial waste products, a salty porridge termed “glog” is the staple in the diet of every citizen regardless of species. While apparently crude and emotionally lackluster, the autoprinters are an exceptional time, resource, and creativity efficient way to supply a territory that would otherwise be too costly and diverse to maintain.
Military Information
Military Overview
"Durable, dependable, violent."
The Ozil Primal Navy
Battleship 1- A battleship model that has been the staple of the Ozil since its inception. The ship has undergone multiple iterations with advances in political and technological realities, but the cosmetic and structural design has largely remained the same. These iterations are most notably 1a (Great War), 1b (Detente), and 1c (Modern). At each phase of these periods one could argue that the Boat 1 design is rather lacking compared to its contemporaries. Too heavily armed and armored to be maneuverable and wasting a good deal of space on redundant systems inherent to every ship. It is perhaps a “Jack of all trades” but the title of Jack is even a bit lofty nobility for this crude machine. What Boat 1 lacks in worth, it makes up for in cost efficiency and ability to mass produce. Its autoprinting facility located in the Forge system can crack them out at a rate most empires would find staggering. This model remains the only non-prototype ship-of-the-line produced in the Ozil empire, creating some obvious weak points in modern techniques of combined arms warfare.
Ex. solar foil deployment:
Corvette 1- A recent invention after prototyping in the Detente period proved cost efficient. Corvette 1 is a corvette model designed to fight in inter-atmospheric conditions. While it is amenable in an anti-strike craft capacity, the exceptionally close range weapon systems render it useless against distanced capital ship engagements. Often towing behind its larger companions in interstellar contact, Corvette 1 is set loose when planetary bombardment inevitably follows. Primarily relying on its gamma radiator, the vessel is used to sweep organic life off strategic planetary targets and deliver its ground force ordinance in a way that leaves the technology and infrastructure of the hostile force reclaimable.
Strike Craft
Interceptor 1- The strike fighter of the Ozil arsenal, interceptor 1 is designed to deliver a crippling pulse of electromagnetic currency to objects within its grasp. Fast and powerful, they harness the Ozil obsession with disposability serving equally as effective when destroyed in close proximity to targets. In capital and surface warfare they are punishing force against shield technology.
Marine Space-to-Soil ("MSS")
Vyhnyic: Gunboat 1- So integral and long standing in the Ozil military, this atmospheric gunboat is given a colloquial name that has lasted since its inception millennia ago. The terror of occupied territory, this vessel is capable of delivering versatile firepower and troop complement in any feasible condition. Maneuverable and durable it is perhaps the only exceptional piece of kit fielded by the Ozil.
The Ozil Primal Marines
Termed the “three sisters,” most fighting arms of the Ozil consist solely of Grosstraktors, Flaktracktors, and Raktraktors. Together they field a highly maneuverable team that can traverse extremes climates and terrain. Largely made up of scrap parts, these systems--like most things Ozil-- are sturdy, modular and expendable. Tempo is key to Ozil strategy. These small teams are responsible for getting the thermonuclear munitions inside the target zones of interest, moving the ball to the scoring court as they say. As such, they are short, stockey, and always looking to find a hole.
Hyperdread
Dichlovjic- The crown jewel of the Ozil fleet. This hyperdreadnaught was recently found in the bowels of a colonial gas giant. Undoubtedly created by the First Ones at the height of their reign, she sat in slumber awaiting the rise of the Iron Star. Not much is known of the capacity of this weapon system, many of its functions are still trapped within and still more are gravely misunderstood. What is understood, is that when placed adjacent to a solar powersource and given ample time to deploy, the system yields incredible potential as a fortress. Shields, munitions, even hot showers seem to recharge at a prodigious rate. However, en route it is slow and vulnerable. As such, the vessel lies in wait in the Forge system. Seldom targets have been found worth risking an open strike at their nation’s heart.
Primacy- National colloquial Ozil Thermal- State run mega-corporation Thermals/Primals- Denizen colloquial Iron Star- Propaganda colloquial
General Information
Overview
A socialist corporate sate. The usrine Ozil govern their sector with a military junta that tastes slightly of armed occupation. Intergalactically renowned as unintelligent, unimaginative brutes, the Ozil prefer to see themselves as collective minimalist; at least its denizens are instructed that this is proper thought. Life under Ozil rule revolves around power output. Reactors dot every feasible inch of terraformed soil. The crown jewel of Ozil Thermal (the state power exporter and de facto head of government) is the dyson swarm which is harbored in the center of the nation. Derelict as the old structure may be, it is the Ozil’s lifeline to pertinence in the galaxy and perhaps it’s only hope from being swallowed by much bigger fish in the sea.
History
The race to the stars was a slow and arduous process for the Ozil. Some would even say it remains a feat beyond their capacity. However, it was by the grace of another race that the Ozil even became sentient. Termed only as “the First Ones” these avian forefathers bred the Ozil as loyal pets. Evolving with time and the guiding hand of gene manipulation, the Ozil found their sentience firmly in the collar of the First Ones. They became the menial labor, personal thugs, and star fodder of an early yet exceptionally advanced empire. What happened to free them of this grasp is unknown to the Ozil citizenry at large. However, the First Ones at their height of their power vanished; however, not as the Ashtar did years later with a puff of fairy dust. The First Ones were rent from the galaxy. Disease, uprising, and nuclear decimation from outside and within extirpated them at their root. Slaughtered wholesale, the fragmented remains of the First Ones empire was inherited by the servants they had raised from the mud.
Unknown millennia past. War, famine, and radiation remained the tapestry of the Ozil. It shaped them as the weak perished and the strong thrived. In the vacuum was forged a new empire. They became a people obsessed with power, in its rawest sense. It had been their steady guide through the reconstruction and their only weapon in the fight to claim the carcass of the old empire from outside forces. The Ozil surged the factories and reactors of their forefathers. Industry was the collective drive of the people. And at the center of this power was the Forge, a dyson swarm which shrouded the star of the Ozil’s capital system. Built by the First Ones, it was their lasting gift that brought the once barbaric nation into the fore. The once mothballed super generator was recently reborn. Though at a fraction of its output potential and ever teetering on its own destruction, the Forge has become the lynchpin for Ozil auto-manufacturing and military might.
The iron star surged quickly on the galactic stage. The Primacy, and namely the ursine Ozil, bullied and blasted their way through much of their neighboring systems. In a surge of galactically despised bloodlust, the nation seized a vast swath of territory. It was a crusade destined to fail. Though competent in battle, the regime was noticeably plagued by indigent statecraft and the empire soon found itself crumbling from within as occupations turned to massacres. But then the glorious day came when the prophecy of the First Ones was fulfilled. The Ashtar’s psionic scourge swept through the galaxy. The riots, the terrorism, the infidelity of mind all at once stopped. The conquered, grateful-- as they should have always been-- became pacified, complacent, and content. On the backs of smiling faces the great union (read: occupation) was made and cemented. Factories filled the lands and skies as the creaking pistons of apartheid droned on into the void.
Major Holdings
Travulous Lost- The cultural capital of the Ozil Primacy and headquarters of Ozil Thermal. This cold moon has been mined of every viable resource down to the core. It is a carcass of a once beautiful world, sacrificed to sustain the looming complex on the horizon. The cement covered bastion orbits an equally harvested gas giant. At the core of this system sits the Forge.
The Forge- A dyson swarm which loosely enshrouds Karminus, a B8 spectral main sequence star. It is suspected by the galactic academia that this project was very much in its beginning phases when the First Ones disappeared from the Ozil dominion. Furthermore, the general incompetence of the Ozil administration, technology, and frankly intellectual capacity has seen the dyson swarm fall into gross disrepair. Much of the empire's resources are funneled into the perpetual upkeep of such a costly system and contention lies beneath the surface of many forced funding palms.
Demographics
Population
The Ozil have a tendency to wipe out the sentience of areas they “colonize.” This transition does not usually take place in the form of wholesale genocide after the undoubted military onslaught. Instead this is a gradual rot as new lands are forged into factories, mines tear through crop yields, fusion reactors take the place of city hall, and all those who impede progress are “instituted” into labor which accelerates such ends. Conditions and life in this world are hard. Without the physiological-- and arguably emotional--fortitude of the ursine Ozil, seldom sentients are found up to snuff in such prolonged conditions. As such, the vermine Prikke and carrion Umman Manda are arguably the only prolific species that has thrived in the cogs of Ozil rule. Species of other nations find it difficult to attain citizenship in the Primacy unless they are adopted in from colonization efforts above. Indenturing of “pirates” (those engaging in any unauthorized economic transactions in the area) often find themselves polishing reactor cores as well.
90% Ozil 8% Occupied species 2% International species, often indentured
Society
Labor and life are synonymous to the Ozil; quite literally, they are the same word. Each citizen is assigned to a Furnace, usually a fusion reactor, which literally is the city. Other economic ventures necessary to the survival of the Furnace such as mining, infrastructure, and carbon harvesting are governed by the local Furnace Alpha. The pyramid business model extends to planet, sector, quadrant, and national level at which the executive of the Thermal Primacy sits at his headquarters in Travulous Lost. Bureaucracy winds its way through every level of government and corruption is the rule rather than the exception.
Economy
The corporate state often appreciates its own inherent lack of innovation and subsidizes single economic entities to provide a heavily monitored goods or services to a captivated market. A single Valerius soda, under contract with the Ozil government, is available as the only soda in the entire nation. Labeled as Soda 1. This use of alien technology has been a recent addition to the Ozil domestic market. For the foreseeable past, almost all products have been of a grey, heavy, structurally-unsound variety produced from the Autoprinters. These mass manufactured goods span the variety of food, appliances, clothes, vehicles, and... well that's about all you get in the Primacy. These recent surge of external products has brought some happiness to the polity, but also stirred contention among the more nationalist wings of the party. A red stripe and fancy letters on an otherwise perfectly good can has many pouring their drinks in the street, or worse.
Government
Corruption; that is the name of the game. With the Prime Alpha and his testosterone-imbibed cabinet held up in the conference rooms of Travulous Lost, it is down to the individual planets and respective Factory, Solar, and Quadrant Alphas to scrape a living condition for the denizens they control. This duty to their people is--of course-- secondary to their mandate to produce a substantial power surplus and provide men and material to the needs of the Iron Star. Deals, both explicit and covert, are often brokered with other nations on an individual planetary basis. This “contracting” is used to stymie the Ozil’s incompetence in consumer goods, infrastructure, and anything requiring an ounce of sentient creativity. The muffled grumblings of discourse among the citizenry have steadily increased since the Ashtar vanished. To many, the empire seems to be bursting at the seams; its energy yearning to find a target to focus on or tear itself apart.
At its core, the world of the Ozil is a corporate state which serves the energy capital produced by the Forge. The power output of this solar monstrosity is the primary economic export of the nation by means of its state energy business, Ozil Thermal. Surplus energy of this structure and the subsidiary reactors on Primacy worlds is used to mass produce the goods and equipment of the nation. The Prime Alpha exercises complete control of the nation, though bureaucratic advisory boards exist and clog every rung of the party ladder. Control of the system is complete, and often ruthless. State held secrets and proprietary technology are deemed significantly more valuable than citizens, planets, and perhaps the Forge itself.
Technological Information
Inheritance is a blessing and a curse. Without the First Ones, the Ozil would never have made it off of their own frozen system. The remains of this once great nation are the skeleton that holds the Ozil aloft. The dyson swarm named the Forge is a primary example of this, too complicated to be fully repaired or built upon with laudable success. Entire cities, reactors, and weapon systems exist as refurbished inventions of this scavenged empire. The traditional mantra of “it was always done like this” is often self preservation from the Ozil inventing something worse. However, blueprints from the First Ones are numerous and as the Ozil continue to decipher information from their forefathers they often take paradoxical leaps forward in technology as evidenced by phases of the Great War and Detente.
This lurch forward by understanding the past is a driving vice for the Ozil. With the intellectual wealth of the far more advanced Ashtar waiting like a carcass to be won, many in the Primacy have set their eyes on the abandoned hoard. In their grasp lies the capacity to finish the Forge, to build more like her, to enshroud every star in the iron womb of the Ozil.
Major Techs
Autoprinters- Apart from the Forge, the autoprinters which dot the nation are the true lifeforce of the citizenry. Moreover, it is the only truly revolutionary technology that the Ozil can claim as their own invention (though the full truth of this is arguable). Clothes, equipment, housing and more are produced as grey assemblages of spare raw ore and waste from the lacing mines of every world. Food is even mass produced in these 3D generators. Harnessing the carbon from industrial waste products, a salty porridge termed “glog” is the staple in the diet of every citizen regardless of species. While apparently crude and emotionally lackluster, the autoprinters are an exceptional time, resource, and creativity efficient way to supply a territory that would otherwise be too costly and diverse to maintain.
Military Information
Military Overview
---
The Ozil Primal Navy
Boat 1- A battleship model that has been the staple of the Ozil since its inception. The ship has undergone multiple iterations with advances in political and technological realities, but the cosmetic and structural design has largely remained the same. These iterations are most notably 1a (Great War), 1b (Detente), and 1c (Modern). At each phase of these periods one could argue that the Boat 1 design is rather lacking compared to its contemporaries. Too heavily armed and armored to be maneuverable and wasting a good deal of space on redundant systems inherent to every ship. It is perhaps a “Jack of all trades” but the title of Jack is even a bit lofty nobility for this crude machine. What Boat 1 lacks in worth, it makes up for in cost efficiency and ability to mass produce. Its autoprinting facility located in the Forge system can crack them out at a rate most empires would find staggering. This model remains the only non-prototype ship-of-the-line produced in the Ozil empire, creating some obvious weak points in modern techniques of combined arms warfare.
Boat 2- A recent invention after prototyping in the Detente period proved cost efficient. Boat 2 is a corvette model designed to fight in inter-atmospheric conditions. While it is amenable in an anti-strike craft capacity, the exceptionally close range weapon systems render it useless against distanced capital ship engagements. Often towing behind its larger companions in interstellar contact, Boat 2 is set loose when planetary bombardment inevitably follows. Primarily relying on its gamma radiator, the vessel is used to sweep organic life off strategic planetary targets and deliver its ground force ordinance in a way that leaves the technology and infrastructure of the hostile force reclaimable.
Boat 3- The strike fighter of the Ozil arsenal, Boat 3 is designed to deliver a crippling pulse of electromagnetic currency to objects within its grasp. Fast and powerful, they harness the Ozil obsession with disposability serving equally as effective when destroyed in close proximity to targets. In capital and surface warfare they are punishing force against shield technology.
The Ozil Primal Marines
---
Vyhnyic: Gunboat 1- So integral and long standing in the Ozil military, this atmospheric gunboat is given a colloquial name that has lasted since its inception millennia ago. The terror of occupied territory, this vessel is capable of delivering versatile firepower and troop complement in any feasible condition. Maneuverable and durable it is perhaps the only exceptional piece of kit fielded by the Ozil.
Hyperdread
Dichlovjic- The crown jewel of the Ozil fleet. This hyperdreadnaught was recently found in the bowels of a colonial gas giant. Undoubtedly created by the First Ones at the height of their reign, she sat in slumber awaiting the rise of the Iron Star. Not much is known of the capacity of this weapon system, many of its functions are still trapped within and still more are gravely misunderstood. What is understood, is that when placed adjacent to a solar powersource and given ample time to deploy, the system yields incredible potential as a fortress. Shields, munitions, even hot showers seem to recharge at a prodigious rate. However, en route it is slow and vulnerable. As such, the vessel lies in wait in the Forge system. Seldom targets have been found worth risking an open strike at their nation’s heart.
Bawelna was once a land of agrarian tribes vying for ebbing power. Dappled by mosquito infested lakes and a vicious volcanic chain to its south, it stayed the eyes of many would-be conquerors. The chief example of this being Verenjost “the Vile” a hegemonic empire which had swept the land’s river tribes to the West. With luck, or perhaps lack of, this modernizing force found colonizing further further past the river Ruére and into the bowels of the Wyoski mountains to be a frivolous task. Instead the infamous scourge swept northward into the lands of the desert heathens. Here the western plague was defeated, as much by the land as by the inhabitants, and driven back from the lands of Sorace.
With the survival of the eastern world secured by this unlikely of saviors. The will of god took the mighty Verenjost in sickness. Seeing their freedom as won by no other than divine intervention, the head religious figure of the free tribal holds and a former nobleman of the river confederacy, Duke Gulac, took the holy crown. Afterall it was through his prayers that the great and peaceable folk of Bawelna were saved, though penniless and malaria ridden they may be. Fueled by their position as the only free heirs of the river folk, the clans of Bawelna were forged into a competent--if slightly autocratic-- government for centuries to come.
Though united under a tattered flag, the region’s economy soon exploded with agricultural advances. With sustenance in plenty, the vast majority of lands were turned over to cash cropping. Cotton became king and ruled every facet of Bawelsh life. Cotton barons became so wealthy that their power often supplanted the crown ten times over. The government became a puppet state for these mercantile interests, but remained an important part of cultural life for the proletariat.
At the turn of the industrial era, a new force emerged on the Bawelsh landscape. Textile. The southern mountains, unprofitable for crop yet well nestled in the coast and mouth of the Ruére river, became overrun with factories to refine the produce (cotton in particular) of the north. Timshuk Trading Co. became an international name overnight.
Profits were massive, and with such new money came new eyes hungry for their take. Sorace, the once saviour of the westfold, became its captor. Twenty years ago the northern menace launched an invasion into Bawelna, tearing through her northern reaches with brutal efficiency. The border once level with the Confederacy, was rapidly battered southward. The armies sent to counter the incursion tattered under the command of the young recently crowned Duke. A boy of twelve he was slaughtered in combat during the opening days of the war. Without another heir to inherit the throne, the monarchy had vanished with a blood filled wimper.
However, vitalized by the sacrifice of their boyhood martyr (and inflowing sums of mercantile interests at home and abroad), the Bawelsh defences became feverous. With their retreat across the land and the destruction of its infrastructure and crop in their wake, Bawelsh forces began to stall their superior foe. Sparse victories were won against outstretched Soracean forces by defeat in detail. From the fray a military hero of the Bawelsh people emerged, Szymon Montague. The sizable cotton baron (fit with his own army and means of financing them), was at the helm of most of the pyrrhic victories Bawelna saw. Seizing the opportunity of a Soracean political change and stall in their advance, the historic metropolitan trading hub of Barakburn was amassed with grain and troops to last the winter. With their flank secured by the neutral border with the Confederation of the Ruére, a last stand took place here that changed the fate of the war. With its strategic importance and ability to launch massive strikes from the area, it was a city that could not be ignored. And as such, Sorace poured millions of rounds and men into the makeshift fortress of flesh. Envelopment after counter envelopment. Weeks turned into months. Thousands of casualties turned into tens, hundreds, nearly a million as the western front was consumed by the stagnant cyclone of steel and mud.
To the East Soracean advances progressed, but with most of their resources focused on the city of Barakburn, Colonel Szymon Montague “The Crop Fox” was able to hold much of the Soracean advance at bay. With mounting naval victories (heavily funded by Timshuck Trading Co.), as well as the unleashing of U-boats in the Bay of Sorace, the Eastern front became a meddlesome place to supply across millions of acres of burnt and shelled land. With ever increasing political pressure from home, the Soraceans were consigned to armistice. A heroic victory was won! Its cost: ~half a million men, women and children dead, thousands of square kilometers annexed and occupied, a thousand year monarchy extinguished, billions of dollars in lost revenue, sacked trade routes, and refugees fleeing to Confederation of the Ruére in droves. But momma didn’t raise no bitch.
The Bawelsh civilization survived and has hustled its way back onto the center stage of international commerce. Reeling from the losses of its able bodied workforce, the cotton fields (now dotted with cement machine gun pits, anti aircraft guns, and a smattering of howitzers) have now been supplemented with the able hands of those abroad. Some prisoners of war on lease from warring neighbors, Soraceans captured in the War of Northern Aggression, and still more from uncivilized colonies of the East. It is, of course, best not to ask the origin of such rabble. Rather ungentlemanly. Much better to sip mint juleps and oil the guns should Northern invasion return again.
--- Government ---
The lands of Bawelna were once held by a negligible monarchy. Though their rule was modest and altruistic, their power parity in the region was never to the snuff of their neighbors. In fact, their kindred ties to the river kingdoms westward were often the crutch which kept their impoverished fiefdom intact. To their south, the mountain communities of Parowy became the suzerain of the distant Kolbarite for centuries. Their holds on the city-state only being relinquished under the mounting political pressures of the Ruére, and general inconvenience of the land.
However, in this weak government there was allowed to burgeon a second type of rule: those who owned the crop. With vast swaths of private land under the control of excessively rich barons, the scene was set for an economic revolution. That tide came with the advent of cash cropping. Entire provinces became devoted the the output of luxury goods, chief among them cotton. With the industrialization of the newly reclaimed region of Parowy, goods were able to be processed and shipped the world over. The wealth of this second oligarchy soon surpassed even its beloved, if feeble monarchail line.
After the invasion of Sorace and the complete evisceration of the monarchical line, the vacuum of power was readily seized by the cash oligarchy. Some even suspecting foul play in the convenience of this arrangement. Never the less, the arch barons of their respective enterprises became de facto dictators of their respective holds. The chief of these men being Szymon Mongegue, a man who held nearly half the northern cotton crop and has only increased in power since. To his south, in the billowing smoke stacks of Parowy, lies the only man who could rival his coffers; the infamous superintendent of Timshuk Trading Co., Claminy Timshuk.
As it stands, the Grand Duchy of Balwena is a land under mercantile, autocratic rule. With all guns pointed north, she stays afloat by men who have seized her reins to protect her with full strength. Ideal is not a word that can be cast on this land, but survival certainly is; and by the grace of god it will remain.
--- Quick Glance ---
1) Free to Practice Religion?
Technically, yes. The north certainly retains a much greater variety, but it is unwise to mark oneself as too much of an outsider in this political climate. Citizens/laborers/dreks of the southern city-state of Parowy nearly all follow the teaching of the Goddess, in line with their centuries of foreign influence and the many places of worship wedged between smoldering piles of coal.
2) Freedom of Movement?
No. With the looming threat of subterfuge from the north, all papers are thoroughly checked by military personnel or the foreman incharge of the citizen’s supervising plantation. Men and women of higher standing are--of course-- not bothered by such frivolities.
3) Freedom of Speech?
No. While subtly in the form of song or prose is often allowed with a callowed smirk, it remains heavily monitored. Less gentlemanly versions of descent are often met with a noose.
4) Freedom of Assembly?
Men and women are welcome to assemble in the market, welcome to assemble in the field, welcome to even assemble at a soul-filled pig roast; but if you get caught with a sign in your hand, it will be considered a fancy-worded target.
5) Freedom of Press?
No. With fake news filling the air, and propaganda finding its way from the north, all media is tightly controlled by the government. Literature, music, scientific articles, though often groomed by “authorities,” are generally accepted and encouraged.
6) Right to a fair trial?
When gentry are at fault, they are often awarded a grand trail with audiences and even radio broadcasts. Celebrities to their own right.
Commoners are walked out back and given a birdload to the head.
--- Military ---
Though technically conscripts, the Bawlesh army and navy has existed in a nearly feudal system since the War of Northern Aggression some 20+ years prior. Most able bodied citizens are impressed to arms in some capacity. As such, the bulk of the agricultural workforce has become subsidized by mechanization and foreign labor of often tenuous acquisition. Still, due to a disproportionate propaganda and decimation of anti-nationalist journalism, the moral of the forces is at an all time high with frequent suicides of citizens deemed “unfit to serve.”
With the shattering defeat of the Bawelsh cavalry brigades in the opening volleys of the war (the crown monarch falling amongst the butchered hooves), the navy has become the crown jewel of Balwelna. With u-boat festered strike-groups, victories against both Soracean military and civilian targets was a major turning point in the onslaught. Now, the ground forces focus on the meat and potatoes of established defensive positions with the true innovation and financing being siphoned to the marine arm of the Bawelsh Amphibious Strike Group.
Scared, hungry boys.
--- The Land ---
--- Men and Women of Fine Standing ---
Colonel Szymon Montague “The Crop Fox” - Current Regiant of Bawelna - Most profitable cotton barron of the northern plain, became a war hero in the invasion of Sorace. Current dictator of the rebuilding state. Highly educated and well traveled.
The Honorable Claminy Timshuk - Founder of Timshuk Trade Co. - Industrialist of the South East making his money off of textiles and trade of Bawelsh processed goods. Financer of its navy. Rumored to have consorted with Sorace invasion decades ago for the political and economic gain of his business.
Snowdrops
Andreyich
Noctis
