11-19-2023, 07:00 PM
-Karalēn, Karalēn,
Kuois vēs pasasva?-
Queen Katherina sat in her room, staring at the faded purple wall in silence. The Queen's dinner plate sat on her desk, completely untouched. Outside the window of bulletproof glass, Lumiere was quiet, almost as quiet as before the liberation. The city was recovering from a state of martial law, not that it would have mattered much. The country was in mourning, trying to get over the loss of one of the most resilient monarchs in Aurian history.
Katherina glanced through the windowpanes, noting the black banners draped from many of the windows, waving lightly in the wind. Every Aurian flag in sight had been lowered to half staff. And if the wind stayed silent for a moment, the Queen could've sworn that she heard the singing of an Aurian folk song. It was, by all accounts, a touching display.
But what use is a touching display if we still ended up losing something we held dear? The young monarch balled her fists, looking around to find something safe to punch or throw. That bastard knew he was going to die afterwards. He was disposable. Berenstein and that Xiomeran bitch traded his life for my mother's, because they want us to be weak. They think that they can cripple us permanently, so we aren't a major threat. Cowards, all of them!
She snatched the knife up from beside the plate of cold food and, in one fluid motion, planted it into the wall. Quickly grimacing at her rash action, she tried to pull it back out, only to find that it was solidly wedged in there. She let go of the handle with a sigh, slowly making a lap around the room. We might not be as strong as them, but we can still fight. We can still make their lives miserable. Katherina grabbed a black Halarei coat from her closet, putting it on and tying it tight. Let's give those two what's been coming to them.
She walked towards the door without a word, her wrath plain to see on her face.
-Lei Kronis es sere un plurē,
Nag kā mōs parterva.-
Former King Andrew Laurent-Ćordonnier stood in his makeshift war room in the basement of a restaurant in Kāp dei Rekēsei, pondering his next move. The Coalition’s forces had made their way up the northeastern peninsula, cutting off any method of escape that the disgraced noble might have had. His forces were dwindling, his supply lines were now non-existent, and the locals were starting to become even more discontent with his occupation of their city. The situation for Andrew was at its most dire.
The few high-ranking officers still with him stood around their battle map, watching the pieces that represented enemy divisions stood at the edges of the city. They hadn't made a proper push yet, but Andrew knew that when they did, it wouldn't be pretty. They're just waiting for reinforcements. Our days are numbered. He glanced at the officers. “Go oversee the fortification efforts. It’s not worth it just to stand here.”
The military leaders departed, leaving Andrew to his thoughts. There's no way we can withstand the combined forces of several nations. We’re even blocked from the ocean by an armada of Eirian ships. Loathe as I am to admit it, this is our last stand.
-Ain, mons Karalēn,
Rusiet ut mōs protegiet-
General Jean-Klaud Michelin sat in the back of an old transport truck, hidden behind a large pile of boxes. Every bump in the old, decayed road felt like a crater, and the General already had multiple bruises from particularly nasty potholes. Still, the truck had managed to sneak past Coalition roadblocks without a hitch, so all of the contusions were worth it in exchange for freedom.
He had left his northwest stronghold just before it fell, taking old back roads through the hills with a few decrepit transport trucks. Now, he knew that he couldn't go undetected for long on his own, and he didn't have enough troops with him to start a new occupation. However, that doesn't mean that he was without options. Before his evacuation, he happened to make a deal that would put all of his imported weapons to good use and that would guarantee him freedom (at least, temporarily).
The truck slowed down as it made a left turn, before stopping abruptly as the driver put it in park. Michelin got up on his feet, wincing slightly as he hit his leg on a crate of ammunition. He sidestepped piles of boxes as the back of the truck was opened, revealing a group of individuals dressed in all black. The man in front tossed him a makeshift rank badge, which Michelin quickly applied to his uniform.
“Good evening. What's your name, Major?” The general asked as he climbed down.
“Ričard, sir. Ričard Šenard.”
“Well, Ričard, call your soldiers over here and get these unloaded. These trucks are way too high-profile, and we don't want a battalion of Coalition soldiers and Aurian police at our door.”
“Yes sir.” Šenard extended his hand. “Welcome to the Commune, General.”
-Sakriat ser Krōnis, Karalēn
Nē toi voilam kaset…-
Kuois vēs pasasva?-
Queen Katherina sat in her room, staring at the faded purple wall in silence. The Queen's dinner plate sat on her desk, completely untouched. Outside the window of bulletproof glass, Lumiere was quiet, almost as quiet as before the liberation. The city was recovering from a state of martial law, not that it would have mattered much. The country was in mourning, trying to get over the loss of one of the most resilient monarchs in Aurian history.
Katherina glanced through the windowpanes, noting the black banners draped from many of the windows, waving lightly in the wind. Every Aurian flag in sight had been lowered to half staff. And if the wind stayed silent for a moment, the Queen could've sworn that she heard the singing of an Aurian folk song. It was, by all accounts, a touching display.
But what use is a touching display if we still ended up losing something we held dear? The young monarch balled her fists, looking around to find something safe to punch or throw. That bastard knew he was going to die afterwards. He was disposable. Berenstein and that Xiomeran bitch traded his life for my mother's, because they want us to be weak. They think that they can cripple us permanently, so we aren't a major threat. Cowards, all of them!
She snatched the knife up from beside the plate of cold food and, in one fluid motion, planted it into the wall. Quickly grimacing at her rash action, she tried to pull it back out, only to find that it was solidly wedged in there. She let go of the handle with a sigh, slowly making a lap around the room. We might not be as strong as them, but we can still fight. We can still make their lives miserable. Katherina grabbed a black Halarei coat from her closet, putting it on and tying it tight. Let's give those two what's been coming to them.
She walked towards the door without a word, her wrath plain to see on her face.
-Lei Kronis es sere un plurē,
Nag kā mōs parterva.-
Former King Andrew Laurent-Ćordonnier stood in his makeshift war room in the basement of a restaurant in Kāp dei Rekēsei, pondering his next move. The Coalition’s forces had made their way up the northeastern peninsula, cutting off any method of escape that the disgraced noble might have had. His forces were dwindling, his supply lines were now non-existent, and the locals were starting to become even more discontent with his occupation of their city. The situation for Andrew was at its most dire.
The few high-ranking officers still with him stood around their battle map, watching the pieces that represented enemy divisions stood at the edges of the city. They hadn't made a proper push yet, but Andrew knew that when they did, it wouldn't be pretty. They're just waiting for reinforcements. Our days are numbered. He glanced at the officers. “Go oversee the fortification efforts. It’s not worth it just to stand here.”
The military leaders departed, leaving Andrew to his thoughts. There's no way we can withstand the combined forces of several nations. We’re even blocked from the ocean by an armada of Eirian ships. Loathe as I am to admit it, this is our last stand.
-Ain, mons Karalēn,
Rusiet ut mōs protegiet-
General Jean-Klaud Michelin sat in the back of an old transport truck, hidden behind a large pile of boxes. Every bump in the old, decayed road felt like a crater, and the General already had multiple bruises from particularly nasty potholes. Still, the truck had managed to sneak past Coalition roadblocks without a hitch, so all of the contusions were worth it in exchange for freedom.
He had left his northwest stronghold just before it fell, taking old back roads through the hills with a few decrepit transport trucks. Now, he knew that he couldn't go undetected for long on his own, and he didn't have enough troops with him to start a new occupation. However, that doesn't mean that he was without options. Before his evacuation, he happened to make a deal that would put all of his imported weapons to good use and that would guarantee him freedom (at least, temporarily).
The truck slowed down as it made a left turn, before stopping abruptly as the driver put it in park. Michelin got up on his feet, wincing slightly as he hit his leg on a crate of ammunition. He sidestepped piles of boxes as the back of the truck was opened, revealing a group of individuals dressed in all black. The man in front tossed him a makeshift rank badge, which Michelin quickly applied to his uniform.
“Good evening. What's your name, Major?” The general asked as he climbed down.
“Ričard, sir. Ričard Šenard.”
“Well, Ričard, call your soldiers over here and get these unloaded. These trucks are way too high-profile, and we don't want a battalion of Coalition soldiers and Aurian police at our door.”
“Yes sir.” Šenard extended his hand. “Welcome to the Commune, General.”
-Sakriat ser Krōnis, Karalēn
Nē toi voilam kaset…-
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