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Southern Ambitions(Organic RP)


Frankia
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Aral
 
Through initiative by Frankian colonists and capital from Neustria, the Aralian project was edging closer and closer to the requirements of Grand Duxdom of the Realm. Such a solid base of support would allow the Frankians to wage war on either nature or on their neighbors on the cheap. However, the Samarkandian Assembly of Guildiers had proved reluctant to vote for the latter, save when it dealt with the matter of the Persian Realm to the south.
 
Persia had long been coveted by settlers since the arrival of the colonization fleet, even more so than did the great mountains of Afghanistan. Here was a region with great promise, and would grant the Aralian Colony an outlet to the sea for the export of finished wares produced by the great workshops scattered across the colony. Finished wool, holorecords, books, hardy alloys, high grade munitions, solid furniture, children's toys, manufacturing equipment, mining stations, and the like could be exported in exchange for wares demanded by the dexterous hands of Frankian guildiers.
 
Territorial divisions had been stationed to the south to shield Aral from the potential of a rising Persian state to the south, now they were being steadily reinforced with regulars fresh from the Neustrian-Gerwannian interversal route. The territorials were in for a culture shock as they were roused from their beds by officers of the regular army, and given over to drill after drill to guarantee their dexterity in arms. Some had written the Soldier's Guild and the Governor to protest, but their pleas would get nowhere with army brass whose oaths had been made to the King and the Realm. 
 
In time, the stragglers would be weeded out and the Frankian force on the Aralian-Persian border would be shaped into a proper fighting force if ever the Frankians should cross the border. Such a prospect seemed to be becoming more and more likely as armor and the grand batteries of the army were brought up in ever increasing number. Wylus Campbell, an officer in the 89th Territorial Division, sincerely hoped that such an order were not to be given in his life-time; the Persians were a fine folk, despite their adherence to a lowly Arab prophet.
 
As he looked over his shoulder as a squadron of Francisca killercraft flew overhead he felt a certain uneasiness. Their markings were too far away to make out which squadron they belonged, but he had seen many of their like on the newsreels pounding the hell out of the Afghans in retaliation for their raids against colonials.  
 
Afghanistan
Captain Grex Snyder lit a cigar as his dropship lifted off from the tarmac and ascended into the heavens. The initial jolt had shaken the new lads in his unit; lads that had come to replace old hands that had died in the lofty mountains of Afghanistan. One of the new faces coughed as Snyder's rich cigar smoke filled the shuttle; a bad sign, as most in the company indulged in much heartier strains of tobacco than their commanding officer. 

First Sergeant Drekmall offered the lad a drink; naturally, the lad refused as army regulations, unlike the Fleet, had cracked down on the consumption of spirits over the last ten cycles. Such regulations were for the army, not the Frankian Light Infantry that he had pledged his body and soul to. Drekmall looked in disgust, and then took a quick swig of what Snyder presumed to be brandy. 

Over the intercom the shuttle pilot's voice came over the air.

Ladies and gents, we have penetrated Afghan airspace... 

Man shouldn't have bothered to announce that; one could tell one had left Aral by just looking out the window. From orderly pastures, farms, forts, and Drietarchs that they had passed along the frontier they had entered a barren, primitive wasteland. How anyone could eek at a living here boggled Snyder at first; he had been fresh out of the Academy and assumed that the natives would be expending more energy on making ends meet than proving a nuisance to the prosperous colony. He had been wrong; hard climes brought forth hard men.

He had seen that on countless raids meant to give these fanatical Zunnis a taste of the King's Justice; no matter how hard the FLI knocked them down they always sprung back up to try again. Some in Samarkand had recommended a xenocide to solve the problem once and for all, but they had been dismissed once word had reached brass. Xenocide was the coward's way out, and brought nothing but eternal shame for all who perpetuated it. 

Yet, Snyder had come to wonder whether the entire conflict was an elaborate scheme by the Grand Shah to direct Frankian resources elsewhere. Studies had shown that Persian Muhammadans and Zunist Afghans were not particularly fond of one another, but weapons of Persian or foreign sort had turned up in ever increasing number. A recent investigation of what had been known as the Abdalar incident had shown that a Francisca Killercraft had been shot out of the skies from weaponry that was definitely not of Orbis make. 

Where the Hell had they gotten it?

Suddenly, the pilot's voice came up over the intercom; excitement and panic gripped his voice.

Inbound munitions at 70 meters!  

The Jektarr shuttle jerked upward, and then swung itself hard to escape another Abdalar. PDLs and gattling turrets came up at once, but the munitions were not something they could easily be shot down. Snyder heard the grotesque sound of the impact; the ship's hull had been breached. By what, he did not know; but he saw many of the men that he had fought with for years be either torn apart or blown out of the Jektarr as though a strong gust had caught a pile of fallen leaves.

Training took over as he raced towards escape pods; it would only be a matter of time before the NM Drive of the aged Jektarr erupted with Atkane's fury. The survivors of the 87th Royal Light Company followed; they had been halved in number in a microsecond. More still would likely perish from grotesque wounds by nightfall; that is, if they chanced to live that long.

Already, the Jektarr's scans were feeding him reports of growing Zunni activity in the area; mechs, artillery, and hordes of fierce tribesmen that thirsted for Frankian blood. A nasty business awaited them down there on the surface, but then that was what the job usually was. As the escape pods ejected one by one from the dying Jektarr Snyder made the sign of Atkane and sat beside by the aged First Sergeant Drekmall.

Blood trickled down his beard, but he seemed as lively as usual. The young lads around him were shaken, but Drekmall had doled out Frankian courage somewhat liberally to them while Snyder was making his way. 

Captain, seems those gods of yours only answer the damn Zunnis.

Fate will be what it will, but Atkane's light forever guides me. 


Drekmall chuckled at that, and relayed to his superior the condition of his squad. They had sufficient rations for two days, enough ammo to put down as many Zunni dogs that might come round to try them, and some equipment salvaged from their engineering detachment for them to dig proper fortifications. Enough to give them a chance; even though it was precariously slim. 

"Soldiers, exactly at three o'clock, the enemy is to be crushed by your fierce charge, destroyed by your grenadesand bayonets. The honor of Belgrade, our capital, must not be stained. Soldiers! Heroes! The supreme command has erased our regiment from its records. Our regiment has been sacrificed for the honor of Belgrade and the Fatherland. Therefore, you no longer need to worry about your lives: they no longer exist. So, forward to glory! For the King and the Fatherland! Long live the King, Long live Belgrade!"
-
Major Gavrilović

 

 

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