Eternity RPC Board
03-19-2017, 05:13 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-25-2017, 07:51 PM by Jamzor the Jaxxor.)
Quartyr 1520
A man walked down a crowded street in Nalkop, the capital city of the Mazaghean Socialist Republic. Like everyone else, he wore a thick overcoat and stuffed his gloved hands into its pockets, trying to hold on to whatever warmth remained in his body. Snow fell and wind blew harshly. There were no warm greetings of friends, neighbors, or coworkers in the street, as everyone kept their eyes downcast to the path directly in front of them, taking the quickest route possible to their destination. This was no time for anything warm and friendly, and it was more than the weather which brought about such a state. War was brewing. The man could smell it on the air, and he knew what it smelled like. He was a natural soldier, a Mazaghe warrior born to the wrong time, he liked to think. He liked to think that he would have been more suited for those old days when the Mazaghes answered to no one but themselves. With dagger in one hand and flintlock in the other, he would have defended his homeland before it ever even knew the feeling of oppression.
The man buried his face deeper into his big fur collar. Now was not the time to fantasize. He turned down a side alley, away from the street, and was suddenly alone. Walking farther into the alley, he could hear, above the wind, his footsteps echo off the walls. Turning a corner, he could see three ruffians huddling together and smoking cigarettes. The man furrowed his brow. He had thought that even the criminal element would not risk freezing to death on the off-chance of mugging some bastard who was just as poor as they were. One of the ruffians spotted him and said something to the other two, and all three started his way. The man’s pace never changed, and he kept walking straight forward down the middle of the alleyway, as if he didn’t even notice the ruffians walking to intercept him. Inside his coat, however, his hand gripped a small pistol. It was dangerous to go about armed for fear of arrest. If the local police caught him, he might be able to bribe or persuade his way out. If the secret police got a whiff, however, he’d be in trouble. Despite the risk, the man would not dream of going out without a weapon on him. What use is a weaponless soldier? One of the ruffians lifted up his coat with one hand and reached inside with the other. The man tensed and within a second he would pull out his pistol. Just then, a door just down the alley swung open and the alley was bathed in yellow light.
“Stop! He is good,” said a voice from within. The three ruffians jerked to a stop, the one that was reaching for something pulled his hand out of his coat, empty, and they all went back to their original position. The man gratefully went through the open door. Inside was a small room with a table and a few chairs. Several men sat or stood around smoking or drinking. They were warmed and given light by a fire in the fireplace. The man that was standing closest to the door greeted the newcomer once the door was closed, “Hatal, my friend! It is good to see you. I hope you are in fine health.” The two men embraced.
“Tiguan, comrade,” Hatal said.
“Please, come and warm yourself.” Tiguan gave Hatal a glass of alcohol, let him light up a cigarette, and sit by the fire. “Allow me to introduce you, so that you may know who all is here. Of course you know Berasby.” Hatal nodded. Berasby Manshak was Nolkop’s deputy police commander, a longtime ally. “Guka Hebizhov from the transportation commissariate. You know Sergey.” Hatal shook each of their hands as they were introduced. These were men with influence and power. They were a few of the foundation stones of the movement.
There was one last man. “Miza has traveled all the way from Zarka to bring us news from Kubaniza,” Tiguan explained. Zarka was on the Kubanizan-Mazaghean border. With that, Miza had the floor as the others watched him, silently smoking.
“It is good news,” he began. “You all know that Gregor’s purges wreaked havoc in the army, but in Kubaniza it is showing its full effects. Kubanizan militias have begun to strike against the Red Army, and there are many good results. My contact has told me that last month, over five thousand weapons were stolen from various armories and arms factories throughout the republic. There is word that similar raids have taken place in Calgarov and Balochia.”
Hatal grinned. “It is as I had hoped. Our neighbors have decided to throw off the yoke of Communist Severyan oppression. Now it is time that we did our part.” He turned to Sergey. “What is the feeling in the Supreme Council?”
Sergey was a political insider. He was deeply entrenched in the inner circles of Mazaghea’s government. Like everyone at this meeting, he was taking an extreme risk. If the MGB were to become suspicious, it could be the end of them all. They had taken many precautions, of course, but the thought of the MGB kicking in the door and arresting them all was always at the back of one’s mind. “Not favorable,” Sergey said plainly. “The Supreme Council is filled with timidity and cowardice. Even after the purges and the suspension of the Kubanizan, Calgarovan, and Balochian governments, they believe that the worst has passed. They do not understand that Gregor Perov will not stop and cannot be stopped through normal means. They have a naive hope that the Party will force a return to normalcy.”
Tiguan shook his head in disgust. “These fools have no right to call themselves Mazaghes.”
“We can expect no less. No man finds himself on the Supreme Council without being beholden to Severograd through blackmail, bribery, or even genuine loyalty.”
“There are a few on the Council that secretly sympathize with the rebels. A few more waver in their loyalty. The Unionists still retain an iron grip on the Council, however, and that seems unlikely to change for now,” Sergey said.
“We have no other option, then, than to continue our preparations,” Tiguan said. “How have your ‘recruitment drives’ been faring, Hatal?”
“Very well. I have now almost a thousand men in the vicinity of the city ready to take up arms when I give the call. Thanks to Guka’s cooperation, we have been able to equip them all with adequate arms and ammunition. Within six months–”
Just then, one of the ruffians from outside burst in. “We have to move,” he said.
“What?” Tiguan asked, surprised.
“There’s a police patrol headed this way,” the ruffian explained.
Everyone looked at Berasby. “There should be none,” he said. “I made sure of it. There are no patrols in this neighborhood.”
“There is one now, anyway,” Hatal said. “Leave now. We will meet again at the next scheduled rendezvous.”
Tiguan went over to a different door than the one Hatal had entered through. “This way.” All of them stood up and hurried out, quickly disappearing into the city.
A man walked down a crowded street in Nalkop, the capital city of the Mazaghean Socialist Republic. Like everyone else, he wore a thick overcoat and stuffed his gloved hands into its pockets, trying to hold on to whatever warmth remained in his body. Snow fell and wind blew harshly. There were no warm greetings of friends, neighbors, or coworkers in the street, as everyone kept their eyes downcast to the path directly in front of them, taking the quickest route possible to their destination. This was no time for anything warm and friendly, and it was more than the weather which brought about such a state. War was brewing. The man could smell it on the air, and he knew what it smelled like. He was a natural soldier, a Mazaghe warrior born to the wrong time, he liked to think. He liked to think that he would have been more suited for those old days when the Mazaghes answered to no one but themselves. With dagger in one hand and flintlock in the other, he would have defended his homeland before it ever even knew the feeling of oppression.
The man buried his face deeper into his big fur collar. Now was not the time to fantasize. He turned down a side alley, away from the street, and was suddenly alone. Walking farther into the alley, he could hear, above the wind, his footsteps echo off the walls. Turning a corner, he could see three ruffians huddling together and smoking cigarettes. The man furrowed his brow. He had thought that even the criminal element would not risk freezing to death on the off-chance of mugging some bastard who was just as poor as they were. One of the ruffians spotted him and said something to the other two, and all three started his way. The man’s pace never changed, and he kept walking straight forward down the middle of the alleyway, as if he didn’t even notice the ruffians walking to intercept him. Inside his coat, however, his hand gripped a small pistol. It was dangerous to go about armed for fear of arrest. If the local police caught him, he might be able to bribe or persuade his way out. If the secret police got a whiff, however, he’d be in trouble. Despite the risk, the man would not dream of going out without a weapon on him. What use is a weaponless soldier? One of the ruffians lifted up his coat with one hand and reached inside with the other. The man tensed and within a second he would pull out his pistol. Just then, a door just down the alley swung open and the alley was bathed in yellow light.
“Stop! He is good,” said a voice from within. The three ruffians jerked to a stop, the one that was reaching for something pulled his hand out of his coat, empty, and they all went back to their original position. The man gratefully went through the open door. Inside was a small room with a table and a few chairs. Several men sat or stood around smoking or drinking. They were warmed and given light by a fire in the fireplace. The man that was standing closest to the door greeted the newcomer once the door was closed, “Hatal, my friend! It is good to see you. I hope you are in fine health.” The two men embraced.
“Tiguan, comrade,” Hatal said.
“Please, come and warm yourself.” Tiguan gave Hatal a glass of alcohol, let him light up a cigarette, and sit by the fire. “Allow me to introduce you, so that you may know who all is here. Of course you know Berasby.” Hatal nodded. Berasby Manshak was Nolkop’s deputy police commander, a longtime ally. “Guka Hebizhov from the transportation commissariate. You know Sergey.” Hatal shook each of their hands as they were introduced. These were men with influence and power. They were a few of the foundation stones of the movement.
There was one last man. “Miza has traveled all the way from Zarka to bring us news from Kubaniza,” Tiguan explained. Zarka was on the Kubanizan-Mazaghean border. With that, Miza had the floor as the others watched him, silently smoking.
“It is good news,” he began. “You all know that Gregor’s purges wreaked havoc in the army, but in Kubaniza it is showing its full effects. Kubanizan militias have begun to strike against the Red Army, and there are many good results. My contact has told me that last month, over five thousand weapons were stolen from various armories and arms factories throughout the republic. There is word that similar raids have taken place in Calgarov and Balochia.”
Hatal grinned. “It is as I had hoped. Our neighbors have decided to throw off the yoke of Communist Severyan oppression. Now it is time that we did our part.” He turned to Sergey. “What is the feeling in the Supreme Council?”
Sergey was a political insider. He was deeply entrenched in the inner circles of Mazaghea’s government. Like everyone at this meeting, he was taking an extreme risk. If the MGB were to become suspicious, it could be the end of them all. They had taken many precautions, of course, but the thought of the MGB kicking in the door and arresting them all was always at the back of one’s mind. “Not favorable,” Sergey said plainly. “The Supreme Council is filled with timidity and cowardice. Even after the purges and the suspension of the Kubanizan, Calgarovan, and Balochian governments, they believe that the worst has passed. They do not understand that Gregor Perov will not stop and cannot be stopped through normal means. They have a naive hope that the Party will force a return to normalcy.”
Tiguan shook his head in disgust. “These fools have no right to call themselves Mazaghes.”
“We can expect no less. No man finds himself on the Supreme Council without being beholden to Severograd through blackmail, bribery, or even genuine loyalty.”
“There are a few on the Council that secretly sympathize with the rebels. A few more waver in their loyalty. The Unionists still retain an iron grip on the Council, however, and that seems unlikely to change for now,” Sergey said.
“We have no other option, then, than to continue our preparations,” Tiguan said. “How have your ‘recruitment drives’ been faring, Hatal?”
“Very well. I have now almost a thousand men in the vicinity of the city ready to take up arms when I give the call. Thanks to Guka’s cooperation, we have been able to equip them all with adequate arms and ammunition. Within six months–”
Just then, one of the ruffians from outside burst in. “We have to move,” he said.
“What?” Tiguan asked, surprised.
“There’s a police patrol headed this way,” the ruffian explained.
Everyone looked at Berasby. “There should be none,” he said. “I made sure of it. There are no patrols in this neighborhood.”
“There is one now, anyway,” Hatal said. “Leave now. We will meet again at the next scheduled rendezvous.”
Tiguan went over to a different door than the one Hatal had entered through. “This way.” All of them stood up and hurried out, quickly disappearing into the city.