Eternity RPC Board
04-18-2017, 01:26 AM
For nearly a year now, tan cloth-covered truck caravans came streaming into Eastmarch through Ustyara. Carrying the badge of the Red Lion aid group, these A'sirian supplies passed swiftly through the porous border, protected from local harrassment via "lucrative" payments to a certain startegic warlord or two. ALmost immediately their presence was felt in the east, center, and south of the region as they delivered much-needed food, water, medicine and other medical services to the Rojadavi and Akhadic areas in most dire need from this long, bloody conflict. All made possible from the bleeding hearts and pocketbooks of Zargistani and A'sirian philanthropists so moved by the suffering of the people.
Or so the propoganda goes.
Amrun gave thanks to the creator for their gift. One of the many injured in the Rojadavi push for Madavi, the A'sirian doctors of the Red Lion had saved his life...or at least his arm, which was close enough; in either case, he'd have been forced to give up his fight.
As it was, his arm still in a sling, Little Amrun became very familiar with these Red Lion aid workers as he helped to unload shipments of food for his village in between training his own new recruits (such as they were). Imagine, only barely a man, and teaching those twice his age how to fight! It all sometimes felt rather surreal for someone who'd just joined the fight less than two years ago, but the realities of war often make quick work of turning boys into men.
All this time away from fighting had given him a chance to learn about his own boss and tutor, Shapur Rostami. His own hunch that the hawk-like man wasn't Rojadavi had been correct; a former A'sirian Revolutionary Guard, SHapur had been a highly trained and skilled amrksman, often sent to train Akhadic fighters in the craggy south of his country. That was, until an accident in live-fire training cost hima foot, and his career.
"Some people shouldn't ever be fighters," he'd smirk. But, he was given a new lease on life and a new purpose with the outbreak of hostilities in Eastmarch, and he readily volunteered for the job of training a then-ragtag group of fighters into an effective force. Maybe life wasn't so terribly cruel, after all.
Today, as they watched another sunset from atop a ruined masonry wall, another caravan of Red Lion truck pulled up to their camp, though this time it wasn't simply passing through. As Amrun walked over to make his routine check of the caravan's contents, the driver angrily shouted at him in some language he could not comprehend. Shapur immediately and calmly shouted back in an alien display of debate before the driver grumplily conceeded with a nod and waved Amrun to carry on, but his A'sirian counterpart reached past him before he could and unfastened the truck's canvas backing and let it slip away.
"The latest and greatest in A'sirian rocket technology," Shapur laughed in an almost sarcastic way as he took a can of spray paint and liberally hid the stupidly visible flag of nationality on the missiles. Amrun couldn't speak to the truck being particularly advanced as it looked much like all the other half-used beasts that somehow still lumbered across this arid landscape, but the missiles...the launcher...he couldn't say he'd seen anything more cold and mechanical in all the Rojadavi arsenal. From the deadly pointedness of the missiles to the sleek lines of the launcher, the entire assembly spoke of a lethality not seen outside the Alsacian army. As he stood there, Shapur uncovered another deadly beast with back-mounted missiles, and another one hiding several sets of mortars, and still another filled with boxes of guns, ammunition, and other ordnance.
While Amrun still struggled to take in this turn of events and the good fortunes it brought, SHapur and another man came waddling over, struggling to carry an unmarked metal case between them. Opening it, the aged A'sirian produced a shoulder-fired rocket and held it out to his compatriot. "You see, my friend, there are many people counting on us to see this war through to victory, who hear your prayers for a homeland of your own, and we will repay their kindness by being prepared. I will teach you to use these, and you will teach others, and when the time comes for the oppressors' aircraft to return, we will be ready, and they will be rudely welcomed, yes?"
Amrun took the deadly tool in his free hand; he almost dropped it, the weight throwing him off-balance. He nodded dumbly as his thoughts raced at the possibilites he now held in his hand. With new tools, enemy armor no longer possed the lethal threat it had been, and their air strikes could finally be punished and blunted. With these new tools, and the righteous god-given cause of a Rojadavi homeland behind them, the boy just knew they finally had a real chance of winning this war.
Truly there was a god, and he was indeed very great.
Or so the propoganda goes.
Amrun gave thanks to the creator for their gift. One of the many injured in the Rojadavi push for Madavi, the A'sirian doctors of the Red Lion had saved his life...or at least his arm, which was close enough; in either case, he'd have been forced to give up his fight.
As it was, his arm still in a sling, Little Amrun became very familiar with these Red Lion aid workers as he helped to unload shipments of food for his village in between training his own new recruits (such as they were). Imagine, only barely a man, and teaching those twice his age how to fight! It all sometimes felt rather surreal for someone who'd just joined the fight less than two years ago, but the realities of war often make quick work of turning boys into men.
All this time away from fighting had given him a chance to learn about his own boss and tutor, Shapur Rostami. His own hunch that the hawk-like man wasn't Rojadavi had been correct; a former A'sirian Revolutionary Guard, SHapur had been a highly trained and skilled amrksman, often sent to train Akhadic fighters in the craggy south of his country. That was, until an accident in live-fire training cost hima foot, and his career.
"Some people shouldn't ever be fighters," he'd smirk. But, he was given a new lease on life and a new purpose with the outbreak of hostilities in Eastmarch, and he readily volunteered for the job of training a then-ragtag group of fighters into an effective force. Maybe life wasn't so terribly cruel, after all.
Today, as they watched another sunset from atop a ruined masonry wall, another caravan of Red Lion truck pulled up to their camp, though this time it wasn't simply passing through. As Amrun walked over to make his routine check of the caravan's contents, the driver angrily shouted at him in some language he could not comprehend. Shapur immediately and calmly shouted back in an alien display of debate before the driver grumplily conceeded with a nod and waved Amrun to carry on, but his A'sirian counterpart reached past him before he could and unfastened the truck's canvas backing and let it slip away.
"The latest and greatest in A'sirian rocket technology," Shapur laughed in an almost sarcastic way as he took a can of spray paint and liberally hid the stupidly visible flag of nationality on the missiles. Amrun couldn't speak to the truck being particularly advanced as it looked much like all the other half-used beasts that somehow still lumbered across this arid landscape, but the missiles...the launcher...he couldn't say he'd seen anything more cold and mechanical in all the Rojadavi arsenal. From the deadly pointedness of the missiles to the sleek lines of the launcher, the entire assembly spoke of a lethality not seen outside the Alsacian army. As he stood there, Shapur uncovered another deadly beast with back-mounted missiles, and another one hiding several sets of mortars, and still another filled with boxes of guns, ammunition, and other ordnance.
While Amrun still struggled to take in this turn of events and the good fortunes it brought, SHapur and another man came waddling over, struggling to carry an unmarked metal case between them. Opening it, the aged A'sirian produced a shoulder-fired rocket and held it out to his compatriot. "You see, my friend, there are many people counting on us to see this war through to victory, who hear your prayers for a homeland of your own, and we will repay their kindness by being prepared. I will teach you to use these, and you will teach others, and when the time comes for the oppressors' aircraft to return, we will be ready, and they will be rudely welcomed, yes?"
Amrun took the deadly tool in his free hand; he almost dropped it, the weight throwing him off-balance. He nodded dumbly as his thoughts raced at the possibilites he now held in his hand. With new tools, enemy armor no longer possed the lethal threat it had been, and their air strikes could finally be punished and blunted. With these new tools, and the righteous god-given cause of a Rojadavi homeland behind them, the boy just knew they finally had a real chance of winning this war.
Truly there was a god, and he was indeed very great.