"Mono/Dialogue"
'Inner thoughts'
Narration
[Message/communication apparatus]
Date: Winter 1919 NWC or 646 AU.
Location: Nova Eureka, Arganean’s leased zone.
POV: Narrator
There’s a saying that empires shall always rise and fall, but rivers and mountains will remain unchanged as men fall to their follies. Helicar had seen many such empires form and stake their cim on the venerable continent. A continent that had once been at the forefront.
This takes pce in an internment zone that is nearly the same as a detention area, specifically set aside for the Arganean and freed sves so they can find retive safety. It was done for both safety and security reasons, because even a few of their benefactors’ kind had seen them with unkind eyes. However, those who sought refuge can count their blessings that the Autarch of Eureka had ensured that no harm would befall them, provided they adhered to the strange and alien rules here.
Sounds of pencils and pens, marvels of innovation and technological skill, filled the room. A cssroom of some sort is holding a lecture, led by Baroness Narina whenever she is avaible. It has been a busy schedule ever since the pact was sealed. She takes on multiple roles, from interpreter and information provider to negotiator, working to smooth retionships with the locals.
While most are retively welcoming, even with an indifferent tone or gaze, there’s no denying that a handful of Regalian show nothing but suspicion. Narina herself was a victim of such a bullish attitude, something she could do only so much, and most of the time, she pretended not to understand certain Regalian words or slurs. Fortunately, confrontations had lessened in frequency as of te. No doubt Neumann had arranged for changes behind the scenes; he will not tolerate deterioration in public order, else he will have a problem or more.
“We must understand, humility is not weakness. It is a considerably useful method for us to not expend needless energy and time on an occasion that will prove fruitless. It is not, by any measure, a statement of complete submission; no. The era where we can only be reactive to changes is long gone.”
Her css is attended by the younger folks, most barely past her teens, but some adults have swallowed their shame to understand this new world better. Those who are younger are no older than in their teenage years, while the adults are those unable to fit in for the upcoming conscription effort, whose numbers can be counted in hands by comparison.
Her bck marker forms the traditional and elegant style of Termasen script, or in Cylene’s old world, reminiscent of a mix of Nordic rune script but following the rules of the Roman alphabet, a bizarre combination.
“It is with a heavy heart that I must admit that one such empire had solidified its cim on our homend. It is futile to deny that they are something we can defy at onset; the Empire’s might was too vast for us to anticipate.” Her style of education and lecture would have been frowned upon at best, for she fails to instill pride and desire to recim their homend.
There’s a reason for this method.
“We had been too drunk on our own perceived excellence and far too compcent. I, for one, thought that the failure against the Republics had shaken us from our stupor; even I was na?ve despite my travels.” A noticeable change, however, is how she no longer wears her gaudy robes decorated to the nines. She is now dressed in a very form-fitting, yet modest, white shirt and bck skirt. If Cylene were here, she would have commented that she looked like the stereotypical female teacher from an earlier era.
“We stalled reforms, curtailed the spread of knowledge, and fostered factionalism.” She doesn’t merely refuse, no, she is tearing down the fa?ade of serenity and superiority that pgued Arganea because of the Crown’s existence.
At first, her words were always challenged by the prideful and stubborn, but a single argument of ‘who feeds, clothes, and tolerates us at the moment?’ was enough to shut down any useless rhetorical voices based on nothing but pride and a blind or infted sense of purpose. Adults were especially responsive to her harsh rebuke. Occupying such rge amounts of nd for their use already made the pragmatic or paranoid nervous. Zorphal is the only one aware of how the repayment will be made, and that made them quite uneasy. Fortunately, a single fate was put to rest: svery.
Regalia abhors svery to their very core and is legitimized as an undisputed fact of life. Even a mere mention of such a word would often provoke a visceral and disgusted expression from those who can understand Arganean’s nguage. Yes, there is also their nguage.
Regalian’s nguage was admittedly barebones and cking in noticeable sophistication, so ughably dour and uninteresting that one might reasonably argue these people are uncultured. Damningly, a few veered perilously close to insulting them with ideas and mettle in archaic might makes right, no different than tribal people, but armed with something too dangerous for their feeble minds.
Thankfully, no one was foolhardy enough to utter such insulting words. Which was ironically enhanced by their fear of having this deadliness on full dispy, given form through demonstration.
Of course, those who understand dialects or analyze too deeply may find another reason. This foreign colonial power is brutal. They care nothing about dressings and accessories, only pure efficiency. This is shown by how quickly they speak, often bordering on whispering. Those familiar with the culture see it as logical; their homend must have been a dangerous pce, demanding such simplicity in art, and delicate speech won’t protect them from a beast’s fangs.
What Regalian settlers, yes, it is an open knowledge that this is a newly reincorporated territory of a faraway nation, deemed as temporary, is luxury for them. Horseless carriage that can haul dozens of healthy men without tiring? Metal insects that cut the skies as they own it? Armed soldiers wearing strange armor and wielding small but terrifying arquebuses capable of mowing down an entire banner? What truly frightens them would be their iron wyverns and dragons that can move faster than even the finest of fireball spells.
Shocking them further when a popution consensus was readily avaible to show no less than 20.000 people had migrated over the past weeks. This clues them in that Regalia must be some sort of colonial power when their people show such deep enthusiasm to settle a new nd with nothing but clothes on their backs.
The more skeptical among them had made a preposterous cim that it might be the opposite sign; that this nation that tolerated them is under great duress. These fools hastily abandon such a cim after great ‘persuasion’ by none other than the King himself.
Luxury that cannot be fathomed by them is what Regalia considers a frontier frugality. Just how opulent and wealthy are they on the distant shore they might never see? It was difficult to admit how ships can travel through the Forgotten Ocean without being accosted by beasts known inside books and history. This, in turn, made the refugees fearful of what else Regalia is capable of, and thus her method of lecture.
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Luanaya y prone on the ground, her hands clutching her new weapon tightly as her eyes were open. She held her breath and pulled the trigger. A distinct plink of lead smashing onto metal rang on the field, signifying her hit. The target was pushed backward before looping back around.
The silver-haired knight pivots her sight to the next metal target, and once again pulls her trigger. Her soft trigger squeeze and not trigger pulling made it easier for reorientation and rexing aim to stay focused. It won’t do to squeeze too hard, and you will be gd that missing your target is the only problem you get.
She repeats the motions, hitting her target with practiced discipline and control. It certainly feels different than the cnging of bdes and shields, of pikes and spears being broken as formations collide. This is a new warfare, one where she will probably never see the face of a person she sent to the afterlife.
Hideous form of warfare that promotes efficiency above humanity and empathy. Where every single piece of a national output will be put to the test against the grinding gears of ever-hungry maws of war. Luanaya can’t deny that this leap in logic about war and logistics terrifies her. For all its faults, feudalism can expect smaller resistance because the nobility is donned in the finest equipment.
Then, the arquebus came and rocked that very status quo. A farmer that never seen combat, and most likely shaking in their boots as a metal-encased juggernaut on horseback charging at them, can suddenly fell a knight in one or a few shots with an aim that stays true. Such advancement provokes better metallurgy to withstand bck powder projectiles, a race she can no longer deny to be a losing one.
If the arquebus was that dangerous, imagine a mass of infantry in their thousands wielding these rifles; accurate and deadlier than everything except tactical and strategic level magic? Wouldn’t that be an outright sughterhouse? She loathes how easy it is to feel nothing in the heat of combat when your enemy is far away and unseen.
Her world is changing, and she has not a sliver of an idea whether the positives shall outweigh the negatives, or heaven forbid, the opposite shall truly be a manifested nightmare.
“Outstanding shots… 5 by 5 marks… I’d be recommending you as First Recon Detachment, shame we have no foreign legion to spare you all the trouble of citizenship.” Her Regalian drill master and interpreter mused as he inspected her hit through his binocurs, his words returned her senses to the present. Each of her targets could be seen bearing a scratch on its metallic body at center mass. Five shots, and five hits from just a week of training. Granted, she is lying prone, but that’s beside the point.
“Thank you for your kind words.” Replying softly, she let go of her breath and pull the cocking handle of her bolt-action rifle back to eject the spent brass. This rifle is an old model as well, with a standard five-round clip being much easier to store compared to a pack of crossbow bolts and a quiver of arrows. The Knight had traded her armor for an old, but reliable, Kevr vest. Her Model 570 Infantry Rifle measured to be barely over a meter (more than three feet but less than four).
This bolt-action rifle had earned a respectable reputation during the 18th Global War, with more than a million pieces produced and shipped overseas. Post 18th Global War, the M570-IR became a reliable choice for marksman and sharpshooter, especially for town militias and even household heirlooms.
M570 uses the ubiquitous 7.62mm x 51mm round, the same round that the M11 series utilizes. This eases logistics, and they can relegate more factories to produce the old rifles without compromising other production lines hard at work on manufacturing necessary products, mainly consumer goods. Factories are being rolled back slowly, for there is still a lingering sense of wariness to not inducing panic from yoffs.
Before we forget, yes, Regalia allows and encourages possession of firearms through legitimate w. Reason being very obvious: SIEZ. There will be strict regutions in pce on what can and cannot be distributed to civilians, but that helps immensely in giving them a fighting chance when interdimensional horror comes knocking.
Unfortunately, the 20th Global War tarnished the self-defense policy because a lot of these weapons were used by the rebels. A moratorium on the w was enacted, but it only holds for a year since the ratio of the popuce turning traitors is negligible compared to the patriots.
Around her would be several other volunteers being trained in the ways of the Regalian military. Knights and their retinues are perfecting their craft of sharpshooting, with a bit of good old competition budding to motivate them further. This method of warfare truly surprises them because there are no pikemen to accompany them.
When they asked the instructor how to defend against cavalry, he was momentarily confused before realizing that their understanding was disjointed. So he answered simply with either a bayonet or volley fire. Warhorses need to be trained so they won’t flinch from gunfire, something Helicar should have started doing, yes, but if cavalry managed to get their close, then something had gone wrong.
Surprisingly, no one grumbled about honor or chivalry.
One might expect someone so steeped in tradition and hierarchy would balk at the idea of dishonorable ranged combat, but that was not the case. Perhaps they had learned how terrifying it was to charge from the fnks, only to be greeted with a haze of smoke from arquebuses’ volley fire. Perhaps it has to do because what’s left of these proud men and women had been beaten so badly that their thinking changed.
Regardless of why, Neumann certainly feels grateful that he can bypass an annoying problem. They are very enthusiastic the moment Gallenor announced that Regalian will supply them with a better version of the arquebus, the aforementioned Model 570. The Arganean marveled at how much easier it is to maneuver, and tactical flexibility is to die for. Their arquebus are heavy and not necessarily as accurate as their Imperial foe and puppets. By a rge margin, this rifle is a godsend.
As she prepares to line up her shot, now in kneeling position, Luanaya continues to score many more hits that would have nded her in a marksmanship course soon enough.
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“Training and learning of this strange new method of war was truly enlightening, Your Majesty. Appears we are on the right schedule for the upcoming spring… I merely hope our kinsmen be reasonable upon our return.” Gallenor voiced his thoughts while inspecting crates of weapons and equipment. Manpower is scarce, especially for those capable of writing or reading.
This whole warehouse has been allotted as part of Neumann’s investment, enough rifles and basic supplies to arm a whole division. He takes particur interest in the less bulky version of Imperial hand cannon, i.e., pistol.
“Indeed, our understanding of how war shall be fought was a truly grim prospect. It makes me wonder if this is all necessary.” Zorphal answered as he, too, is busy checking inventories. Manpower is precious, and because he will be expected to have little presence in the actual frontline, he threw himself into administrative work.
Around them would be several Arganean moving and helping with supply and logistics. Most of these helpers were made up of royal household maids and bureaucrats who chose to throw their lot with Zorphal. What would have been a showcase of truest desperation had been nothing but a boon.
These people are also those who shared deep resentment against Ionie, for the most part. Ask them a question about whom they had lost from her gross betrayal, and you will fail to find anyone without an axe to grind and grudges to settle. It goes in Zorphal’s favor when the majority of his retainers were his pymates; they merely grew up faster through the harrowing journey in the sea.
“Our footmen, now infantries, and their more prestigious or nefarious cousins shall trudge the battlefield in blood and mud, to return home in one piece at best or shattered mind and body.” His mentor in swordsmanship spoke with weariness beneath all his determination. Killing imperials is much easier than shoving your bde into your once-comrade’s heart.
“…Their task will be grueling, harrowing, and more often than not becoming stuff of legend, be forgotten in a dusty corner of history, or worse, so unbelievable the tales need to be retold and watered down time and again.” The Exiled King mused, lips pursed in a rueful smile. Zorphal’s mind travelled far into the future, wondering, but with certainty, that the future would not look at him kindly.
He is on his way to potentially derail a glorious future worthy of songs. A future where Haumelchor shall be propped up as a symbol of unification and a hero who brought about continental prosperity. A morbid amusement at how achievement can be used to justify atrocities. Rewriting raw and visceral carnage as heroism.
As much as he wishes to avoid such a fate, there’s little a man of finite lifespan like him could do. Perhaps if he stays sane for more than a century, he can shape his legacy with better finesse. As, even the elves wither, millennia turn to centuries at best.
It reminds him of how Narina regaled a tale of schism between the elves far west.
‘Enough daydreaming, these papers won’t clear themselves.’ A chiding tone from his psyche, warning him that the child he was had been long gone. To persist in fruitless hypotheticals or worse, inconsequential far-off nds, will be a dereliction of duty.
“We can count our blessings, at least…” He turns his head towards an adjacent space to store Regalian’s war machines. “Tank… was it now? And vehicles shall roll over the earth, trumping and treading all daring to stand tall against doom.” Even knowing that these vehicles will crush the bones of his people, Zorphal raises an ample amount of fascination at their core ideas and design.
“Confidence that sted until those who stood against them understood that no such thing as true invincibility. They are hope wrapped in a metal coffin, and once swung, can shatter even the mightiest defenses… But once swung, and importantly so, the owner of such a siege weapon will find it challenging to cease the blow, even if the hammer would then be realized to bend or shatter upon impact.” The Lord Commander’s words cannot be refuted by the Young King, a King that was never meant to be.
“… How does the negotiation go? Our wyverns are no more, and Lady Narina’s magic is not suitable. It will be challenging to control the sky by my daughter and her lonesome. I had witnessed their horrible power, and perhaps intimidation can win us the war sooner. We do not need to prolong it, no time and money.”
“Pnes and aircraft will surely dominate the sky, dictating the course of war with a few well-pced… bombs? I need to continue my Regalian study and refresh my memory. Regardless, total annihition of a polity can leverage our stance on the negotiation table.”
“That is if they did not mistake a fg for the other, and send their brethren into fiery doom and sentence commanders to write heartfelt words of apology that will never truly soothe the dead.”
“… Must you always refute my words? Shouldn’t you be more receptive to giving me positive counsel?” Zorphal raised one brow, but his hands never ceased completing whatever dastardly papers were continuously shoved onto his desk.
“I am. This is my counsel, nothing but the harsh possibilities because soon you will have men dying in their young name.”
“… Fair. I was never meant to rule anyway… must have been hard to turn a boy who was busy daydreaming about an aqueduct to construct fortification, was it not?” Gallenor barked a ugh at his simple acceptance.
“That’s quite apt.”
“What about ships?”
“Useful tools, but I am afraid we have no such manpower to spare.”
“Entertain me with possibility while we finish this soul-crushing duty, won’t you?”
“Hah, you’re mimicking my Daughter more and more… luckily, Elinaar’s children are truly astonishing. Like ducks to water…”
“I was corrupted by the best, I am afraid. You would do well to witness how Lua reacted when given a whole stack of parchment to deal with. I swear by the gods, never had I seen my Lua go so pallid…”
“Then there will be stern talking coming her way soon enough.” He soon ceased his jokester manner to speak seriously. Gallenor looked outside the windows to observe the bay area where Regalian steel vessels were docked. Simplistic and effective, he even managed to confirm that those ships require far fewer sailors to operate something of that size.
“No denying that these dies of the seas ruled the waves, coaxing the tides to their wills and watching over brave warriors under their care.”
“Their guns range from modest and quiet against the vastness of the sea, to the brash and bold might of cannons housed on those floating castles, and its test addition of weaponry is sted to rule surface and sky; submerged or shy otherwise.”
“Yet those same, beautiful and powerful dies are fragile and quite the bore to satisfy. They ferry armies and sink the other meddlesome wenches, but when they fall victim to something greater?” The Old Swordmaster put his papers down before pulling a different model of rifle off a wooden crate. Reminiscent of Model 570 but much older.
“Cold and dead, their many children will soon make bed with the sea. Metallic skins count for naught when waters corrode them and turn their corpses into reefs for fish. Whatever caught between her demise will be a nice addition for the upcoming underwater community’s feast.”
“Mhm… when you put it like that, we truly have no pce to try and coax our benefactor to spare a… what was it again… frigate? An odd name, but I suppose that’s just a difference in theory.” They continue to work quietly. Every bit of equipment must be accounted for because these are debts to be paid.
Ordinary Regalians, some of whom could be asked to converse normally, noted that they call such a form of military aid as lend-lease. A funny name that cannot be truer. This also made Zorphal eerily suspicious; the sheer difference in mentality makes him develop thinking that was once unthinkable.
No matter how harsh and different people are, there’s little to no trace that might be simir to his people. As in, these Regalians develop a culture so far removed yet so eerily close to old anecdotes. Scarce recollections, he listened as Narina told him of those coming from worlds beyond.
As he grasped upon that unknown thread he stumbled upon, his Lord Commander spoke, prefaced with an apology.
“… Forgive me, truly, Your Majesty.” Zorphal was stumped, and he raised his head as Gallenor inspected and checked the crates filled with different models of rifles. He exhaled a soft sigh before raising his hand, signaling everyone else to leave. His people obeyed, and the pair stood still as the rest exited.
“… There’s nothing to forgive, Old Man. You will never leave out such a btant oversight otherwise.”
“That I do wish for naught to guide to the best as I could, but it cannot absolve my guilt that I must raise you to become something you won’t ever imagine to be. Call it… guilt-stricken revenge… or… an old man’s grudge.”
“I am well aware. I may not have been the most adept, but I had snuck once or twice in that horrible counsel session… It is only natural for us to have personal ambition, I do too.” Gallenor smiled thinly, eyes heavy as he caressed the barrel of an old rifle in his hand.
“Aye, when this war is done for good, I shall resign and travel to the Ivory Gde. Mayhap our paths cross by then, I will be more than gd to offer you solemn advice.”
“…” The Young King had no answer to that. He envisioned many scenarios, quite a few where he realized he could turn him back to support his rule. That’s exactly why he detests the weight of the crown. Zorphal cannot fathom anyone wanting to sit where he was forced to be, but that might just be personal bias. Then again… this is a test, too.
“… Our homecoming and war take precedence, Lord Commander.” Zorphal sidestepped the issue, and he noticed his mentor’s quiet but remarkably amused chortle. He follows suit with a small one of his own, a small levity as they prepare a march to damn thousands more to the bde and hungering maws of war.
Call it justice.
Call it revenge.
Call it a natural outcome.
Call it whatever.
War doesn’t care what it would be called in some history books of which average students will read half-heartedly. Men die, men suffer, men make peace, and men then die some more after forgetting peace.
Date: Winter 1919 NWC or 646 AU.
Location: Empire of Halciadon, Acadras, Seat for the Council of Lords.
POV: Narrator
“Western Arganean Lords had been a real thorn in our side, but sending them away to deal with the east was merely a half-measure. It would do well that they understand the weighs and honor will never be equal to the lives of men.”
“That may be so, but I must remind you that we have little use for them ourselves. They are the ones who turned their backs on the First Empire, cavorting with lesser beings to boot.”
“Lesser beings they were, there’s not a sliver of assurance how the First Empire shall even withstand the cataclysm, I for one thought them clever.”
“You dare to praise their treachery? Do you have a death wish, Archduke Molnh?”
“Say what you wish, Lord Raegas. It won’t deny them their survival up to this point, one cannot simply survive by honor alone… or were you superimposing your failed branch survival?”
“You wretch!”
“Enough.” A voice silenced the council, raised by a man who was barely past the prime of his life. This man is none other than Haumelchor I, the First Emperor of Halciadon. His poise and bearing are that of a man who had grasped a continent with such bzing fervor that they were left reeling. He was known by many as once a very docile and patient diplomat, but that was then.
His golden hair mimicked a lion’s mane, his armor gleamed and beat with arcane might no amount of jewels can buy. The bde of the sun and moon rested in its sheath, ready and alert for any potential danger lurking in the dark. He is as tall as one would expect a man who was blessed with a virile breed, for he is perfect as both ruler and warrior who lord over the realm brought to heel.
“There’s much to address, and I wish for us to focus on the topic at hand… are we in agreement, dies and gentlemen?” The nobles nodded at his words, and they quieted down as a servant brought forth a parchment. Haumelchor’s brows knitted in concentration, and then he sighed with visible consternation.
“It appears the subjugation of the Southern peasantry had faltered. I expects little of those scums whom failed me… but this much failure? I fear a few more reminders are in order.” His fingers rapped the table, pausing and recollecting his mind.
“Lady Asgarthia, how much longer were we required to be patient?”
“It is uncertain, Your Imperial Majesty. The Crown had proven an enigma, my people found too far a delight and abject misery to unravel. I daresay a drastic move must be.” Her words were cut when a noble raised his hand.
“If I may?” She turned to him irritably, but with a charming smile on her face.
“Of course, Lord Molnh.”
“It had come to my attention that all these… what? Witchery and traditions so stifling…”
“Stifling it might be, our prowess was never trifling, Lord.” A sharp jibe leaked through her voice. Molnh gave her a graceful grin in return.
“My apologies then, but our Empire has no more need to rely on mysticism. The Hero had been a real boon to our design.”
“And yet that same hero has nothing else to offer. Sharp mind she might be, but sharp mind alone barely compounds her worth.”
“Oh? Of course! Surely, your men had learned?”
“… You dare mock me?”
“Enough! I do not deign your passing over the ruby gate to bicker and baying as children!” The Emperor’s voice made them straighten up, and his hand smashed the table to create quite a visible dent. The council when cmmy, and Haumelchor’s restless, disappointed sigh cut deep.
“It is quite clear that further drills are of no use. Lady Asgarthia, I expect your report on my desk, and Lord Molnh to proceed with the continental trade network. Meeting is adjourned.” As the lords and dies saluted, he fell back on his throne. The initial gravitas and poise melt into nothing as he cradles his face.
“What a shame that these power-hungry fools are capable.” His compint was swallowed by the wind. These nobles, when they are not trying to usurp the other, have been vital to Acadion’s reign.
‘What a shame that the halves are sacrificed… We could stand to gain much from them, but time is fleeting. The promised time is at hand, and I do not know how much longer I can bear it… Heavy is the crown indeed.’ His mind turns to that Hero his Empira had… ‘Persuaded’… in aiding this conquest.
It pains him to admit that what the hero endured has been a rather ungrateful posturing from them, but that is how it is. When one is given a tool, there is be reason to use it. Care is naturally necessary, under any normal circumstances, but does if said tool work as well as it should? There’s little to compin about, and guilt could still be quantified and justified.
“What a wreckage of a man I am… Appears I do need my wife’s warm touch and encouragement… Hah, how unseemly of me to hope for Darelio’s success...” When he stands, his body sways with cold sweat breaking out of his pores, his hands grip the table hard before one swung over his mouth.
He coughed, hard, and proceeded with a nasty retch. Erratic breathing, and yet his body appears hale as ever. After some painful coughs, Haumelchor heaves breath after breath. A rueful smile on his face.
“Goodness, what a cruel mistress had fate become… no matter, with this… legacy is assured.”
[END OF CHAPTER]
Author’s Note:
Yo there, this is me, myself, and I, the author who had gotten busy as of te
I don't have much to say other than the next chapter will include some combats.
Update whenever or something.
Ciao
