Jump to content


  • Content Count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won


Iverica last won the day on July 27 2018

Iverica had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

733 Excellent

About Iverica

  • Birthday July 10

Profile Information

  • Gender
  • Location
    Palá dei Primo, Intreimor City, Iverica
  • Interests
    #POTROI @wittier (Primo of The Republic of Iverica)


  • NS
  • Capital
  • HoS
    Franso Deitorr
  • HoG
    Abé-Juan Quenovi

Contact Methods

  • Website URL

Recent Profile Visitors

1,928 profile views
  1. A UNION DIVIDED | CHAPTER II, PART 1 0950hrs 17th of October, 2018 Vilvau Storm Drains "On my mark…", Santiago whispered into the headset. The chevron aim point on his scope already lay straight over the lead figure's centre of mass. The white-hot silhouette moved down the darkened field on the thermal picture. "three" He compensated ever so slightly, slowly panning his aim as the small party below ambled along. "two" His felt the resisting pressure of the trigger as he began a slow deliberate squeeze. "one--" --- "Teresa... Quiet." Teresa gave Kingfisher an annoyed look but halted her musings. "Break into flanks. I'll signal." She looked alarmed for just a moment, but then nodded and hissed as she relayed the plan to Tuna and Herring in front. Kingfisher turned back and likewise repeated the instruction to the guardsman, whose wounded shoulder hung limp. "ready…", he hummed, just loudly enough that everyone in the party could hear. "steady…" "now." --- "Púto! Fire-fire-fire!", Santiago roared into his radio. The party below tore into two flanks, each member sprinting for the cover, ducking and weaving through the concrete pillars. Santiago's shots went wide as he tried to redraw his bead on the running point man. "They're heading for the sump! Move, team by team, go!", Santiago shouted into his headset. "We'll have to climb down, not enough time!" Plover replied through the radio. "Then don't climb down to chase them, jump the gaps to the next pillar ledge!" Santiago spat back. "You're insane!" "You're a pussy!", retorted Santiago as he took a running leap and cleared the gap between the pillars. He landed on the opposite ledge and didn't break his momentum. There was a column of pillars ahead, he'd have to jump each and every gap. Reluctantly, Santiago's kill team partner followed. As the pair began to gain on the scattering prey, Santiago slipped a frag from his rig as he ran. The pin and lever went flying, followed shortly by the grenade as it plummeted below. The concussion of the blast from behind him was ear-rattling, even from his high. The flare from the explosion left after-images in Santiago's eyes. Santiago heard screaming. One down, four to go. --- The grenade went off just ahead of Kingfisher, the surprise of the blast knocking him down. Herring wasn't so lucky, he had been on point ahead of Kingfisher. Herring was screaming as he rolled on the ground, spots of blood blossoming all over his clothes where multiple pieces of shrapnel had peppered him. Cursing, Kingfisher stumbled to his feet and took off again, putting a burst of rounds into Herring as he passed the hopelessly injured man. He slalomed through the pillars, Teresa not far away on a parallel flank. He could see the sluice gate leading out of here, growing larger as he closed the distance, legs pumping furiously. Teresa shouted a warning and Kingfisher threw himself behind one pillar just as the cement ahead of him exploded into shards of shattering concrete. "Tuna! Forty-mike!", he heard Teresa shout. In the parallel aisle, Kingfisher barely made out Tuna duck out from behind a pillar to brace his 40mm grenade launcher against his shoulder. Tuna had the weapon trained squarely at the shooter standing directly atop their only exit. --- Santiago made his last leap. His carbine swinging from its shoulder strap. He took position just atop the arch that marked the sluice gate exit. Crouching but still panting, he raised his rifle and took aim. Multiple figures darted through the dark, their forms highlighted as snow white mannequins on his optic. He picked the closest one and let loose a burst, cursing as the figure dove behind a pillar just in time. Exhaling slowly, Santiago relaxed a notch to calm his hammering pulse. Though before he had even a moment to reacquire a target, he heard the unmistakable dry cough of a grenade launcher and felt his pulse spike again. Out of better options, Santiago leapt from the arch ledge. He landed on the concrete pavement of the sluice floor as the grenade detonated above him, showering him with concrete shards just as he skinned his palms on the landing roll. The carbine's optic was f*cked, Santiago had to cant the carbine at an angle and aim down the iron sights mounted on the tilt-rail. Santiago squeezed once, carbine kicking as it sent a burst down range. --- Tuna went down, as rounds tore through his unarmoured body in three places. Kingfisher cursed from his place behind cover. He leaned out, carbine at the ready. He scanned. But the lone figure was nowhere to be seen. Teresa had moved out of his line of sight too. Cursing some more, he ducked back and made a dash for the opposite pillar. There! Something flickered in the dark, a dozen or so metres to his right. Kingfisher dove, landing on his stomach just inside the wide sluice ditch. He fired over the lip of the ditch, saturating in an arc of controlled bursts. Somewhere to his upper right, he took flanking fire. Where the hell were they all coming from? Scrambling to his feet, Kingfisher wasted no time abandoning his position, taking off in a sprint for better cover. Just as he rounded to cover behind another massive pillar, a force picked him off his feet and onto his back. Kingfisher gasped like a landed fish as his lungs struggled to replace the air ripped out from them by the gunshot impact. Luckily, the rifle-resistant level 4 vest beneath his shirt hadn't given way. He heard footfalls pounding on the concrete somewhere ahead of him. Still sucking in breath, Kingfisher's body responded on pure instinct and adrenaline. The carbine had fallen somewhere, so his right hand dove for his sidearm at his thigh. It was single clean motion, his hand ripped the pistol from its holster, bringing the weapon to a two-handed grip above his belly, his right knee straightening itself on the ground to give way for a line of sight. Kingfisher fired instinctively, body aligning naturally from years of practice, joints slipping reflexively into accurate form. The pistol barked twice, sending rounds to the centre of mass of the charging figure less than two metres ahead of him. --- Santiago saw the man go down, his burst had been on target. He had out-manoeuvred the spook, using his head-mounted monocular to guide him through the dark maze of pillars. His quarry was struggling on the ground as Santiago closed the distance, ready to finish the spook off. He was almost upon the fallen man when two impacts ripped the carbine out of his hands. Santiago growled and kicked the pistol out of the fallen man's grip. As the man's face came into view, Santiago could not help but hesitate a fraction--a mix of surprise and satisfaction forestalling his coup de grace. Kingfisher clenched his abdomen and swept both his legs against the rear of Santiago's knee. The 185-pound man stumbled to one knee but did not go down. His opponent scrambled to his feet and launched his knee at Santiago's face. Santiago brought his forearm up in time as the blow connected, but was intercepted, staggering him regardless. Santiago took a passing step in retreat and pulled out his Ka-Bar from its collar sheath. Holding it outstretched, point threatening while his left arm was raised to cover his neck. Inside lunging range, it was a smarter choice than to risk giving his opponent an opening by fumbling for a pistol. Kingfisher on the other hand, did not have much of a choice. Lacking a knife on his rig, he lunged for the pistol lying a few paces back--but Santiago was too quick, closing the distance in a blink. The spook responded with surprising speed as well, blocking Santiago as he attempted a lunging stab. Kingfisher had pivoted his stance just in time, turning on a dime and thrusting one palm out to deflect Santiago's wrist. The palm intercepted the wrist and strong fingers constricted in a hold on the weapon-arm. In the bind, Kingfisher tried to shove Santiago while in control of his knife wrist. A mistake. Santiago was far heavier than the slim spook and easily held his ground, taking the opportunity to thrust his knee into Kingfisher's abdomen. The spook doubled-over as the blow connected solidly. Santiago followed up without hesitation, launching a roundhouse kick that connected with the side of doubled-over man's face. Kingfisher all but flew to one side, collapsing on the ground, semi-conscious. The SOAR Capitan took a moment to catch his breath. He wasn't expecting that much of a fight in close quarters. Footsteps, followed by a voice came up from behind. "Friendlies on your '6... Good work, Santiago. Now kill him and let's get out of here", Plover declared, as he walked over. He was followed by most of his men, two of whom were pulling a prisoner along. Plover had Teresa zip-tied and half-dragged by two of the kill team operators. "We got the last one too, the one in the Guardia uniform--now making 3 dead so far." Plover seemed half-relieved and half-cheery. "Well, what are you waiting for? Kill the bastard, we only need this púta", he continued with a slight note of impatience. Santiago looked at the half-conscious Kingfisher twitching on the ground. Picking up Kingfisher's fallen pistol, he levelled it at the crumpled man. ---
  2. A UNION DIVIDED | INTERLUDE I 0950hrs 17th of October, 2018 Somewhere South of Vilvau "You're awake. Good." The shack's room was spartan, holding only a small cot, a bedside table jammed with medical machinery, and a cracked plastic chair. A man whose skin was pasty with sweat and whose eyes drooped drunkenly lay on the cot, his breathing steady but rasping. Beside him, the speaker occupied the sole chair, with his hands around a strongbox the size of a microwave oven. The bedridden man's cloudy eyelids jerked slightly as his addled brains registered the speaker. He was a heavy-set man with a shaven head who smelled of expensive cologne mingled with body odour. Shrike. "What? Not happy to see me?", Shrike offered a slight smirk. "--I shouldn't have expected to gladen you, we were never really on the best of terms, were we, Godwit?", he continued, drumming his fingers on the polycarbonate shell of the strongbox. The bedridden man's eyes flicked towards it, lingering on the box. Shrike's smirk spread as he followed the bedridden handler's focus. "I remember when the both of us were last here, in Vasqqa, '89 that was. You were always a cocky shit, Godwit. You start strong and careful, but you get sloppy quick. That's why you're in that bed with a catheter jammed up your pisser getting 20 milligrams of Selensotoxin pumped out of you. While here I sit, in my tailored Armano, with all your drives and papers in this neat little box, just waiting to be used as evidence. Should have set the safe house up a little safer, no? It took one ugly bastard with a Biblia and four other guys to take down the little rat's nest." The handler just stared mutely. "Your Kingfisher got what he wanted--if that makes you feel better. I doubt Subiri survived, my people tell me the shot was clean", Shrike said almost placatingly. "--so what now, 'wit? Subiri's dead, the Vasqqans are at each other's throats. Martial Law will be declared soon, the Raqqans will escalate civil violence, the Vasqqans will just make it worse by mobilising and Verde will simply use that to legitimise their stonewalling of the referendum. Is this what you wanted? Narva and Galicia will get cold feet and go stick their heads in the dirt until the mess sorts itself--which will probably take a while, just like it did last time in '91". Shrike hummed, before continuing. "You're probably confused. What's my angle? Why is it me collecting the two of you? Actually, I'm a bit confused too, what is it you want to get out of killing Subiri apart from just making this whole bleeding mess worse?", Shrike said, chuckling to himself. Shrike sighed. Layers and layers of deception. Who wants what? "All I know is that you two are f*cking things up for my employer. We'll soon find out your play and what your bosses are trying to do", Shrike rattled the strongbox a little as he spoke. At those words, the man's hazy eyes seemed to widen a fraction, as though Shrike had said something that confused him. "Not much longer, we'll get a chance to talk this out when we get to our destination", Shrike got up from his seat beside the cot and walked out. --- Indeed, within the day, riots erupted wherever there was a Raqqan community, city streets would play host to riot and riot control actions. Government loyalists would engage in pogroms of reprisal killings and Raqqan seditionists would carry out several bombings on Vasqqan government buildings. Panicking at their loss of leadership and the escalation of violence among pro-federation and anti-federation groups, Vasqqa mobilises its armed forces. Wary of their national government's intentions and the possibility of an armed pacification, the Autonomous Region of Raqqa mobilises its own forces, all the while encouraging Raqqan communities outside of the Autonomous Region to arm themselves and form ad hoc militia units. The reaction of the Iberic Federal Coalition is immediate and rash. The Ducal Office of Verde immediately calls for a moratorium on the federalisation process, suspending their own referendum. While Narva and Galicia mobilise troops on their borders with Vasqqa and all but follow the Duke's example as they anxiously anticipate another Vasqqan conflict. ---
  3. @IPS Temp Admin was having a relatively nice day. He sat at his desk, sipping some strong black coffee and logged in to his terminal. Everything was going well, he had just topped-up on gas, that cute receptionist at the building's lobby smiled at him as he came into work today, and he had just finished a rather tasty panini. Briefly scanning through his work agenda, he decided to dive right into the first item, a help request from a user named "Orioni" on a particularly strange domain named "Europans.com". Shrugging, as he dealt with the world's anti-social weirdos pretty much every hour of his work life, he clicked the link and dove through the hundreds of text and graphic based files. Which is when everything started to turn pear-shaped. The window on this floor shattered with a resounding crash, sending shards all over the stunned occupants of the Invision Free office floor. A millisecond later, men in black fatigues and balaclavas abseiled down, swinging into the office and shouting at the screaming panicked masses to get down or be put down. IPS temp admin vaguely made out the roars of "SSO IVERICA, NOBODY MOVE. DO NOT RESIST OR YOU WILL BE SHOT", being shouted repeatedly. The team systematically tore through the cubicles, zip tying people and clubbing any resistance down with the stocks of their carbines. IPS temp admin slowly sank to the floor of his cubicle. He couldn't make heads or tails of this. Who were they? Why would they come here? What did Invision Free do? His thoughts were suddenly interrupted again by a bang from the fire escape door as it was blown clean off its hinges, several strangely dressed bohemians stormed into the office space, sashaying down the space between cubicles like one would a fashion show runway. The leader, dressed in a tastefully sexy leopard skin leotard accented with sterling silver spiked studs twerked his/her hips and swept two Varinco PDWs held akimbo around the room. "If any of you want to get out of this with an intact orifice, you'll do as we say. This office is now under the fabulous Het Apparth @Variota protection." The lead SSO element looked like he was about to say something in protest when the ceiling came down, showering them all with insulation bits and asbestos. A flash grenade dropped to the floor and suddenly, the room was bathed in a wash of blinding white. When the noise cleared and the afterimages left his eyes, IPS temp admin made out a shout of "TAL DIAN! Burn those @Rihansu f*ckers" as the already wrecked ceiling was torn by an exchange of automatic fire. Suddenly, IPS temp admin, now cowering on the ground in confusion and shock was lifted, more like dragged, out of his cubicle. "Come with me if you want to live.", said the figure, his voice deep and resounding over the chaos of the firefight raging around him. IPS temp admin still couldn't make out more than a silhouette as his eyes burned from oversaturation of light and sheer tropey Michael Bay action. "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE??!" IPS temp admin screamed, his voice cracking under the strain, coming off as something between a shriek and an injured cat's yowl. "You accessed the wrong files, saw the wrong plans. You put a hole between our worlds, worst of all for your world...", there was a dramatic pause. "You're all Elves". There was a damning finality to the man's tone, as if it were a judge sentencing a man to death row. IPS temp admin understood none of it, yet still, he managed to muster a terrible wailing scream as he sobbed in mixed confusion and terror. "HEY! One of them is getting away!", cried a voice. Suddenly, all the guns in the room were turned towards the figure dragging IPS temp admin down the aisle. The figure broke into a run, hefting IPS temp admin in a fireman's carry... and jumped out the window. TBC?
  4. A UNION DIVIDED | CHAPTER I, PART 3 0932hrs 17th of October, 2018 Vilvau City, The Free State of Vasqqa Everyone in Santiago's SUV heard the single booming report. As they rounded the corner of Elissando and Capitol, the crowds of demonstrators clogging the avenue in front of them went from chanting and marching in one moment--to a hurricane of confusion and violence in the next. The sound had been two notes blurred into one. Santiago recognised it all too well. There was a snap like a snare drum in an empty concert hall, then a single crack like a thunder-clap. It was most definitely high-calibre, probably a .50. The effect was almost instantaneous. Screams and shouts, some in the back dispersed and ran, yet Santiago saw some in the fore charge. Bottles were thrown, exploding into inferno where they hit. Shots rang out as police fired rubber rounds. Trails of smoke arced through the air as riot-control gasses were deployed. "Mér! Get us out of here!" shouted Santiago as a few rioters began to take notice of the SUV. The driver didn’t need to be told twice as a brick landed squarely on the SUV's hood, placing a sizeable divot on the thin metal. They were too late, the Raqqans had made the shot. Subiri was likely dead. Vasqqa was going to shit. The SUV roared backwards in reverse, sending Santiago, Plover and four members of the SSO kill team rocking in their seats. Santiago heard a dull smack as a rioter was rundown by the driver's reverse drift. "We need to regroup with Shrike!" shouted Plover over the screaming and shouting outside. A stone slammed against Santiago's shotgun seat window. The glass spiderwebbed, but didn't shatter. "That's a hard Neg, birdie-boy", retorted Santiago. The driver slammed on the horn, making a few rioters jumped aside, though one was too late. Santiago felt him go under the wheels. "--we have one shot at this, I'm not leaving until we feather that turncoat f*cker. Shrike can take the handler and our intel back to Intreimor, we stay here and we get this done!" "You don’t mean--" Santiago nodded. "I'm positive those papers had his egress" --- 0934hrs 17th of October, 2018 Vilvau City, The Free State of Vasqqa 2 minutes since the mark. Kingfisher raced down Via Elissondo's back alleys. He tore down the alley, crashing into haphazardly stacked piles of trash. Close to the exit, he ripped his shooter's jacket off, leaving it crumpled on the pavement behind him. He slowed as he emerged into the next street, ducking into and down a closed off subway staircase. There was a man in the Guardia Civil's uniform waiting in the stairwell. They nodded to each other. The guardsman picked up two carbines from the duffel bag at his feet and handed one to Kingfisher. They both continued down the deserted staircase as Kingfisher checked the chamber and flicked the safety off. 5 minutes since the mark. Even as they reached the deserted station they could hear the muffled wail of sirens from above. The civil guards were widening their patrol routes already. There's wasn't much time. Kingfisher signalled to the man and they took off in a sprint down the empty tracks. Kingfisher's companion lit his torch and the beam bounced around the subway tube's walls as they raced down, their heavy footfalls sending rats scattering in the darkness. The pair ducked into a service passage in the side of the tube and quickly dove through a hole smashed into the wall. They emerged into another tunnel, much older than the first. The guardsman grabbed a spade left lying against the wall and began clogging the hole with rubble. 15 minutes since the mark. Suddenly, a light hit the pair of them. Teresa. She was followed by two other cell operators, Tuna and Herring. Though Teresa was supposed to have another two in tow. "It was a good shot, I'll congratulate you later." Something was wrong, everyone was tense naturally, but they were short two cellmates and the mood was almost manic. "Is there an issue?", began Kingfisher. Teresa didn't wait, she just signalled the group and they began pulling two motorised carts onto the tracks--old service wagons with a small two-stroke engine used by maintenance crews. She started one of the engines, pulling the ripcord as the motor sputtered to life. "The guardsmen responded faster than we thought. Sval and Olin didn't meet us, I think--" Suddenly, a clatter of footsteps, followed by shouts came from somewhere down the line. "Mér." They boarded hurriedly and sent the pair of wagons down the tracks. They were maybe 20 metres down the tunnels when several beams of light hit them from behind. Kingfisher didn't hesitate, he dove to his belly and into a firing position. The carbine, chambered in .280 roared in the tight confines of the old tube. He sent rapid, tight bursts down the tunnel. The guardsman joined him, firing from a seated position, carbine between his legs. Teresa's PDW spitting 5.7mm rounds down range as she fired from a crouch on the other wagon. Muttering curses, Tuna reached into his backpack and pulled out a thin black tube. It was an Argic War era grenade launcher. He was pulling 40mm rounds out of the bag when a sudden bump in the tracks sent the case of grenades scattering. Rifles from the other side were quick to answer, their crashing echoes blurring into one thrum of noise as tracers streaked down the tunnel. Incoming rounds ricocheted and spanked off the gravel base and concrete walls. The fury of noise made everyone's ears ring as the drumroll of gunfire was amplified by the tunnel walls. The guardsman was sent sprawling, catching a bullet to his shoulder. To his credit, the man didn't scream. Kingfisher shuffled over to his position, continuing to fire the carbine one-handed. Finally, Tuna slammed the break-barrel launcher closed. Flipping the tall sights up, he lined up his trajectory. The tube coughed once. A moment passed as the explosive was hurled down the tunnel. There was a rush of displaced air that passed like a wave before a resounding explosion followed a millisecond later. Every one of the group briefly went deaf as the round ignited. The explosion in such a confined space was devastating and shook the tunnel supports, sending dust raining down. The hostile fire seemed to stop abruptly, vague sounds of screaming echoing down the tube, barely heard over the ringing in their ears. 18 minutes since the mark. Kingfisher exhaled as he treated the guardsman's wounded shoulder. No more enemy fire bothered them as they reached the end of the line. Quickly dismounting, Kingfisher took stock of his surroundings. The rail tunnel abruptly broke off, separated by a cyclone-mesh fence and some rail buffers from a wide cavernous expanse of massive pillars and sluice ducts. It was a dark gaping maw of concrete, he figured they could stuff jets and small apartment buildings down here. Tuna and Herring grabbed a pair of bolt cutters they had left here from before and began wrecking the cyclone fence. Teresa unpacked the rest of their emergency kit and threw one of two ballistic vests the cell possessed at him. It was an exceptionally good piece, light-weight hard fibre laminate, but rated level 4 rifle-resistant. He put it on and slipped a molle rig over it. The Vilvau storm drains. The city was so prone to flooding that the Vasqqan government poured billions into a massive sprawl of underground ducts, drains and sluices. The whole network ran around and between the city's metropolitan area, built to hold enough water to fill a large lake. Tuna and Herring were finished. Throwing the cutters aside, they picked up their arms and flicked on the torches duct-taped under the barrels. As the small group advanced through the central aisle, Kingfisher felt a twinge of apprehension. Something didn't feel right. He couldn't shake the feeling that the air felt... off somehow. Teresa broke his train of thought as she came up behind him. "Almost there, Joaquin. We'll be heroes when we return to Raqqa. This is exactly the sign the Raqqan people need. We won't put up with spayed Iverican puppets like Subiri. When the loyalists come for Raqqa, they'll find us ready. We'll take the Marches and the Riverlands, we'll forge a border and Raqqa will be free. We'll win this time." He could not bring himself to respond to Teresa as a growing sense of unease built. Wind. There was a draft down here when there wasn't before. This was a closed section, bricked off. There should be no draft here. It was too much of a coincidence, no work was being done in the vicinity, it could not be ignorant maintenance crews. Someone had been here... Or still was. --- Santiago lay prone in the darkness, watching carefully as 5 figures entered the white-hot display of his rifle's optic. From his vantage atop one of the pillar ledges, he could observe the wide sluice aisle the group was coming down. The kill team had been positioned around the cavern's pillar ledges, in three pairs triangulating the unsuspecting herd below. Santiago trained his sight on the lead figure, he couldn't make out Kingfisher from the thermal image, but he knew, as he slowly thumbed the safety off, that he would put one between his traitorous spook-eyes even if it meant having to personally end each and every one of his scummy friends. "Get f*cked, bird boy", Santiago whispered to himself, as he breathed in and lay his fingertip on the trigger, This one's for Hel-Rus, for three-SOAR. ---
  5. A UNION DIVIDED | CHAPTER I, PART 2 0930hrs 17th of October, 2018 Vilvau City, The Free State of Vasqqa "What is your favourite colour?", came a voice from the shadowy confines of the townhouse. Standing on the doorstep, the man to whom the question was addressed to paused and pondered for a moment. He seemed more intent on scratching a particularly big itch on his backside. It wasn't a pleasant street to be on, the peeling townhouses were old, made from poor cement laying and on lots that were so cramped together that hardly any sunlight made it through to illuminate the pot-holed pavement strewn with plastic wrappers and shattered beer bottles. After a moment the man on the doorstep beamed through his ball cap and shades, as though remembering the punchline to an old joke. "My favourite colour is Blue... No. Wait. Yellow!" There was a silence for a moment, but then, the rattling sound of multiple locks and chains being undone signalled the success of the elaborate passphrase. The door creaked inwards slowly, revealing the dim interior and peeling dry walls. A young looking man wearing a ratty hoodie stood at the doorway. "You have news for the cause brother? Come inside.", said hoodie. "I do, brother. But first, I have a question for you.", the entrant said mysteriously, continuing all the while to scratch his backside. "Oh? What would that be?", said hoodie curiously. "Well it's like this... I was wondering if you had a moment--" said the man as his scratching hand withdrew a Biblia that had been tucked into the waist of his trousers. Hoodie received it curiously. "--a moment to spare for our Lord and Saviour, the Holy Taco.", Capitan Ector Santiago grinned again as he reached for the handle and pulled the door shut in front of him. The front window shattered as flash charge inside the Biblia detonated. Followed quickly by a louder bang from the rear of the house. The kill team that had been stacking by the backdoor breached the kitchen. Still on the porch, Santiago pulled a pistol from his waistband and put two rounds through the door. --- "Was that thing with the Biblia necessary?", asked the skinheaded SSO man as he sifted through the remnants of the living room with his black leather shoe. Santiago shrugged. "It worked, didn’t it, Shrike?" "We could have gone in hard and fast from just the rear in the first place" said the skinhead, callsign Shrike. "What if we got the wrong house? Besides, we needed a diversion. They would have heard cross-fit over there rattling around with all his new toy kit", said Santiago, gesturing to the younger SSO agent who had kept his rig and plate carrier on. "He goes by Plover", said skinhead. Santiago pretended not to hear him. Silly f*cking convention anyway, SSO and its hard-on for twittering candy-assed birds. "Have fun in your big boy jumper, eh cross-fit?", taunted Santiago, tossing a scrap of the blown apart bannister at him. The shard of wood bounced off of Plover's back. The younger man seemed determined to ignore Santiago as he rifled through a stack of documents by the moth-eaten and now bullet-chewed couch. "Santiago", said Shrike with a warning tone. "What?", Santiago queried feigning hurt. He turned to face Shrike again and gestured lazily to the space behind Shrike. "My plan worked and we got you frothy mouth over there", Santiago waved towards the bound unconscious figure crumpled by the stairwell, a slight trickle of foam poured from his slack jaw. He seemed important, older than most of the young guns cleaned out in the house raid. The bound man had tried to pop a suicide pill--that was reason enough to confirm their suspicions of a high-value target. If their intel was solid, frothy mouth would be he--Kingfisher's handler. "Sir--", Cross-fit/Plover's voice held a note of urgency. He was holding a pair of papers up to a blacklight. "--you might want to take a look at this". Santiago and Shrike ambled over, stepping over detritus and Hoodie's corpse. "What the hell am I looking at Plover?", asked Shrike, staring at the glowing lines sketched over a rent notice letter. "It looks like--", the younger agent started. "--a damn spider hole", spat Santiago, turning to exit the ruins of the house. "Where are you going?", asked Shrike sharply. "Look at the address. We don't have time." Shrike looked. He cursed. --- 0930hrs 17th of October, 2018 #34 Via Elissondo, Vilvau City, The Free State of Vasqqa Cold sweat on his nape trickled down. Kingfisher lay still in his prone position, the SFAW-04 anti-materiel rifle was braced against his left shoulder and rested on its bipod. Its muzzle was trained down the hole in the door in front of him, out another hole in the floor, then out a bathroom window on the floor below, and finally between the gap of two buildings a block down. His breath was slow, he felt comfortable despite the cold hard floor. His pulse was relaxed to near 40 bpm, the tight straps of the shooter's jacket held his chest snuggly and helped regulate a slow, steady cadence. A sweatband was used to patch his inferior right eye over, his dominant left eye seemingly glazed-over behind the lens at the optimal distance for a good sight picture. Kingfisher's eye stared through the scope, watching a small ribbon that had been tied to a post between him and the Assembly building. Weak wind today. Perfect. "Herring in the market", crackled the radio resting beside him. "Tuna's here too", came another report. Kingfisher let the sound wash over him, keeping his thoughts on the stillness of his arms, braced in exactly the right position--all the weight resting on his bone structure and none on the muscles. "Auntie likes them both", came Teresa's voice on the channel. "Keep our options open boys, never know if we'll be short one fish", she continued. The two prior male voices muttered their acknowledgement, their broadcasts marred by the background thrum of large crowds. The two, part of Teresa's cell, were embedded in a crowd of pro-Raqqan demonstrators who were out in force to protest the referendum. It had all been arranged by Teresa's contacts months before. Social media efforts had put firebrand ringleaders together and had further incensed Vilvau's Raqqan minority. The crowds were planted innocently in non-critical locations, so police watchfulness was low. But Kingfisher knew the hive of protesters were moving, creeping their slow mass to the planned position. He also knew that a motley, but large collection of material followed them in the sewers below. Boxes of fuel cocktails, filled with a mixture of melted styrofoam and high-octane gas, were being wheeled in the tunnels below. Consulo Subiri would have no escape. At the corner of his vision, the first few motorbikes of the consular procession made their turn into the Assembly's avenue. They were followed in short order by a trio of black SUVs. Kingfisher slowly flipped his tinted lens cap off. He relaxed again and returned his right arm where it rested, folded against his left breast. Like fish in a barrel. --- Free cake for those who got the initial reference
  6. Mild snogging involved. Like really soft-core. Don't over imagine you sicko. A UNION DIVIDED | CHAPTER I, PART 1 0645hrs 16th of October, 2018 #34 Via Elissondo, Vilvau City, The Free State of Vasqqa There was a bird on the windowsill. Strange little thing. It didn't chirp, it just watched the man inside the 8th floor flat with suspicion. The man wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt, loose grey trousers, and black leather boots. The room was still, somewhat chilly by the approaching cold front, though it would likely not get much colder in this city, Vilvau, on the north coast of the Verde Sea. The bird was a shrike, unusually bold for most small avians. It simply fixed the man inside with a sharp stare as he went about assembling the Varinco SFAW-04-3 anti-materiel rifle. The man brought his face to inspect the fit of the trigger assembly into the lower receiver. He had long, narrow features, fair-skinned, sharp bone lines, pale platinum blonde. His white-gold scruff probably hadn't been trimmed in a week. A Narvic, probably northern, with few if any Iveric ancestors. The bird saw all this as it continued its silent inspection. He, in turn, watched it every so often as he fitted the bolt assembly and pinned the lower receiver into place. Just beyond the bird, about two blocks diagonal to the block the flat was on, was a stretch of road that came to stop at the rear façade of the Commons Assembly building. The rifle was finished. He inspected the action, cycling the bolt. Suddenly, the bird thrashed its wings and took off. The man paused. "I heard you come up the service stairs", he said as he dry-fired, pulling trigger. The punch of the firing pin snapped a sharp report, piercing the stillness of the room. "I wasn't trying to surprise you", replied a soprano female voice from the doorway behind him. She came up behind him and placed a single finger on his right shoulder. "Everything ready on this end?", she asked, whispering into his ear. He could smell her very faint trace of perfume. "You know it has been for days now", he said. "I wager," he continued, turning to face the woman behind him. "--that your inspections are motivated by something other than good leadership." She grinned slightly and breathed a single short chuckle. "If I were a bad leader, Arturo, we wouldn't be this close to saving the Raqqan cause", she closed the already meagre distance between them and placed her hand on his chest. He was taller than her by a good 4-inches, so she had to look up at his unshaven face as she did so. He leaned into her approach and placed a hand to caress her chin. "If you were a better leader, Teresa, you wouldn't be engaging in a sultry dalliance with your XO." She frowned then, pretending to be offended. "Show me where we'll do it." He raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes. "The shot, you lupo." Right. He gestured behind her and started out of the room. Walking around the central stairwell, he entered a room on the opposite end of the building. This one was padded with mattresses, the windows had been bricked shut. From the centre of the room, one could look out through a loophole poked through the door, which went through a wider one put through the floor and looked out a wide window on the floor below, passed between two buildings on the next block and came to a clear picture of the rear reception of the Commons Assembly. He had ranged and studied the trajectory and coefficients before. He had practised, spending almost half-a-thousand rounds in the Raqqan mountains, at the same elevation, at the same distance and at the same set of target silhouettes. The Consular Motorcade. As they crouched side by side, examining the handiwork, she leaned in and stole a kiss. "Soon, Arturo, for Raqqa." He turned towards her and returned the kiss. "You know its more than that for me." "You'll warm to our cause in time. For now revenge is a good enough motivator I think." He reached around her, but she withdrew. "Save it, Kingfisher", she teased, wagging her finger as she stepped back. "Save it for when you pay those púteros back for leaving their best for dead."
  7. READ ACT I HERE A UNION DIVIDED | PROLOGUE The months after the Ultramares Conference would prove to be the most tumultuous in Iverica's recent history. Somehow catching wind of Iverica's illicit activities to quell dissidents in Vasqqa, the Duke of Verde threatens Primo Franso Deitorr with what is effectively blackmail--either the Primo secedes control of Vasqqa's future economic planning to Verde, or the Duke uses his support to suspend unification under Iverica's mantle. With either option being a potential death sentence for the hard-won Iverican hegemony, Deitorr is forced to commit his last gambit. With two powers struggling for control of Vasqqa, a shadowy play of cloak-and-dagger unravels behind the gilded linens of the political façade. --- 2100hrs 15th of August, 2018 Campo V. D'Centrale, Vasqqa D'Oeste, Iverica The prefab room in the wayside of Exersito Base Vasqqa D'Centrale, like many of its sort, had been in use far past its listed service life. It was dank, a pervasive smell of unventilated washroom hung about to stuff the noses of the three occupants. The faulty wiring of the sickly-white fluorescent tubes illuminated the interior poorly and served only to accentuate the brownish stains spreading on thin wood sheet walls. Around a plastic folding table sat two of the three. One was wearing a dirt-streaked pair of Flecktarn trousers. The room's lighting fell short of his face, illuminating only what was below his neck. His bared chest was matted with thick strands of hair, mottled in some places by thick streaks of scar tissue. He smoked a rumpled looking half-corona while staring lazily at the suited man opposite him, occasionally shifting his glance towards the third figure, similarly suited and standing by the doorway. Across the table sat what screamed "spook" in possibly ever single tell. Black suit, black tie, bulge around the armpit where a concealed pistol sat, shaven head--likely to hide his receding hairline, reeked of expensive cologne, heavy set--probably cheating half a churro against the SSO fitness standard. The other was similar in attire but younger, maybe mid-twenties, slick hair-do, clean face--probably a user of feminine skin-care, trying playing cool, silent and dangerous. Trying. Also corded, slim, all muscle, probably a cross-fit hipster. As the soldier appraised them, he took regular puffs from the cigar. Apparently trying his best to overpower the room's smell with tobacco smoke. It wasn't long before the suited skin head decided to give up on waiting. Skin head cleared his throat. "We've got a rogue asset. The burn notice is about to go out. Free game. Pays well, 100k plus hazard and silence." Now spoken to, the bare-chested soldier put his cigar out on the bare plastic of the table. The sharp hit of sizzling plastic issued forth before being drowned out by the mildew smell. The soldier barked a laugh in response. "Why me? Kill team's gone soft?", said the soldier mockingly. "The mark won't go down easy, we need a real killer to helm this one", replied the skin head spook, seemingly unfazed and transactional. "mm'a soldier, not a merc", he replied dismissively. The soldier then straightened to get up, as if the conversation was already dead to him. The spook by the door tensed in turn. Shifting slightly to block the exit. "There's more. You know him." The soldier at the other end of the table paused. Casting an irate glance at the Cross-fit hipster by the door. Relaxing in his seat again, he gave a noncommittal grunt. He was interested, but just barely. "Hel-Rus. Death's Head", said the bald spook, using a tone that reminded the soldier of used-car salesmen throwing in free leather upholstery. The soldier's ears pricked at that. His jaw tensed, the bulge of bunching muscle below his left ear swelling slightly. Capitan Ector Santiago, Tercera Batallón, SOAR, leaned forward, into the dull cast of the flickering fluorescent. The left side of his face was contorted and covered in scar tissue from where he had taken a round to the face in the gutters of Salonica. The grafted skin was stretched tight over his skull and jaw, giving that one side of his face a sunken, skeletal appearance. After a short pause, Santiago gravelled a single word in query. "Kingfisher?" The bald spook nodded. "Kingfisher." "He's clever. It's damned risky", grunted Santiago. The spook raised an eyebrow at that. "He killed your men, almost got you killed too." Santiago snorted. "Not keen on giving him a better excuse." The Spook paused, and took some papers out of his pocket, scanning a page briefly. It was a showy effort. "I heard you were with them since selection? They make you write the butcher's bill to the families too? What was it called... a "helicopter accident?". Santiago warned him with a deep, low growl. The bald spook shifted gears, changing his tone to one imploring. "If you don't stop him, he'll get the chance to root out every single one of our loyal assets in Vasqqa. Include number One SOAR all over." Santiago sighed and rubbed his temples. "Fine", said the SOAR capitan. "Fine. I'll kill your rogue bird." --- Notes: Potato map is an ORIONI work, just coloured and detailed with Paint. Yes these are recurring characters--SANTIAGO'S BACK BBQ. Suck my fat one of you're reading this ya fakka!!!!1
  8. Tech's Files- Part 2: Alicanto & Fénix --- Léon Flats, Prohibited Airspace, Site A-1010 0830 IST--March 29, 2016 Re: Alicanto Project (Inspection, 2016-002) Comandante Hermann Vasques, youngest OF-5 in the Fuersas L'Aire, and Chief Consultant for the Minister of Defence... picked his nose. Digging around, flicked a sizeable piece of snot into the tan dust of the Léon flats. He shivered slightly in his grey winter service uniform. He had a pair of shades on, the long flaps of his fur hat fully extended, and the collar of his officer's greatcoat turned up against the wind. The leather of his boots felt stiff like it was beginning to frost-over and he couldn't quite feel his toes. His finger had begun to wander for another round of nose mining when a sound from behind him broke through the whistling gales. ahem Vasques turned around, an errant strand still peeking from his right nostril. With no apparent shame, he grinned like a tardo behind is Rey-Ban aviadores and appraised the vision of womanhood before him She had iron-lines on her uniform sharp as razors and hip curves as shapely as the Toledo bells. --- As it turned out, Comandante Luisa Sant'Ana was just the officer Vasques was waiting for. She had apparently been waiting for him in the site's pre-fab breakroom, but when Vasques' SUR-17 landed, he had ignored the aide that had been sent to collect him, brushed his escort/bodyguard/secretary off and wandered around the grounds so he could find a secluded place to up-chuck the remnant's of last night's alcohol. The site facilities were mostly deserted, the staff were mostly tucked into their units for warmth and the roving patrols huddled behind bivouacs or stayed inside their patrol vehicles for the heater. So there he was, probably the most influential man in airforce procurement and R&D, wandering around, catching the sniffles and picking his nose as he appreciated the miles upon miles of flat horizon around him as far as the eye could see. Until of course Sant'Ana had gotten tired of waiting and stalked off to find him. They had exchanged greetings, spoke some jargon about inspection details, Vasques had made a few none-too-subtle comments on the aesthetics of her figure and she responded by thumbing the safety off of her service pistol. They walked towards the hangars in silence. Sant'Ana led the way, Vasques was happy to follow... and appreciate the view. The hangar was quickly unlocked by the on-site security and the large panel doors squealed open. By now, Vasques' aide had found him and they were joined by a sleepy looking test pilot with an unkempt beard. A small tow vehicle backed out from within the hangar, slowly dragging the subject of this visit into the light. As the figure emerged fully into the outside pavement, Vasques took a moment check his line of sight and appreciate another set of curves before him. There it was. Vasques excitement faltered slightly as he got the full scope of it. "Well--it looks a little... dated", he began. Sant'Ana bristled at that. "The design is 15 years old, but she has a higher service ceiling than any fighter in the inventory, she turns and climbs better than the Aguila, her electronics track more contacts further and her counter-counter electronics clean radar return better than any jammer we know on the market can hide. She's also the only design we have that mounts the latest IRST from Aamotech and can accommodate the directed-infrared countermeasure system." She took a breath. "Her frame is just old. Most of the design came from Aamotech when the idea of a joint-fighter was still a top concern. Its the same one we've had to work with since the 90's. With the RAS-2020 scalebacks, we can't afford a redesign. To refit all the modules we've developed on this platform to a purpose-built stealth airframe that's been proposed will take billions." "Just the airframe?" She hesitated. The bearded pilot, looking just as hungover as Vasques, interrupted. "No, not really", he slurred. "--It's the powerplant, too hot. Blazes on the FLIR scopes, guzzles too much. The Aguila's Saturno 'fans won't fit the redesigned frame... even more so if Defence wants this shitbird to vector. It needs a purpose-built design", he continued... then stiffled a belch. Vasques thought in silence for a moment. "Show me what Suisa sent you." "We forwarded it to your department." "Haven't looked at it. Let me see it on site anyway" --- In the shelter of the prefab, Sant'Ana booted up a widescreen kDesk Pro and linked it to the wall-mounted 40-inch. Vasques whistled. Fénix huh? Not a very imaginative cliché. "They've already built a scale model, though they won't budge until your department writes the cheque", said Sant'Ana. Vasques paused again. "Tell you what", he said. For the first time, remembering he was indoors and removing his shades. "You lot find some investors. Get that new powerplant designed and built, and I will talk to the Minister when he's in a good mood." If anything, overlooking some glaring production and design problems was probably worth the small smile Sant'Ana tried to hide. --- OOC: J-20 was discussed and planned by Prymont, Iverica, and Andalla in 2017. Aamotech (Prymont) has since jointly developed the J-10 with Fulgistan. The Mikoyan Project 1.44 and Chengdu J-20 (only a skin) was agreed upon by Prymont and Iverica and has since been continually developed slowly.
  9. Iverica

    Eurth Day

    To commemorate this region's official move from the Nationstates.com region "Europa" to Eurth. 2nd of April, 2019 Long may she endure.
  10. Hi everyone, OPFOR for this RP here. To give everyone an idea of how I will be approaching this, I've decided to highlight some premises I'll be RPing under: Reactionary: apart from the likely few counter-offensives Derthaler forces will attempt to launch, I will mostly be taking my cues from you lot--this means that I'll leave most of the planning for big events in your collective hands. my contribution will mostly be responses to your scenarios in prose form. Expect limited, but still somewhat present strategic manoeuvering on my part. Think AI computer in a video game. Interpreted Derthalen: What has been written on Derthaler Imperial military forces can sometimes be... questionable or a little limited in terms of organisation. Thus, to fill in the blanks of the unwritten pieces and some lapses in realism, I'll be using my interpretation of a logical, balanced, and somewhat up-to-date (Cold War era) force. Limited Posting: Since there are more than a few players posting at the same time frame, it will rather hard to respond to each and every post. Therefore, my posts will mostly be responing to one or two in a set that I think (or that you advise) has the best story potential. Remember: I do not aim to "win" or compete here. I am just here to provide the Derthaler perspective of things and give some reasonable token manouevering. Naturally, all of the above is open to discussion. Ask me on Discord or here if you have any further questions/concerns. I'll leave most of the creative direction to you lot Will be posting my introduction to the IC RTW thread within the next 24 hours or so. Cheers profligates, I hope to see more than a few of you bleeding nicely in Derthaler clay. Good hunting.
  11. STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | EPILOGUE 0600 hrs 17th of May, 2018 Palá dei Primo, Intreimor City Desdemona Tomas-Morra, Secundo of the Republic, set her phone down. Deitorr had made it clear that Case Blue now teetered at a knife's edge. It had been close, too close to accomplishment without issue. Morra thought herself a fool for thinking that the situation could not possibly worsen after hearing Bonda's news about the Vasqqan troubles. Iverica's gains in recent years had put here in a position of vast influence. Armed with the necessary support, Deitorr had set about re-forging the Iberics from their diasporic condition. Morra had been at his side every step of the way, she wrote half the proposed legislation, brokered half the deals with the other parties. But so close to fruition, the plans had yet one more monumental hurdle to overcome. She herself was not so certain the nascent Federation would survive in one piece. From the phone call, she had learned that what was supposed to be a formality concluded with dangerous conditions. Having somehow learned of destabilising events in the Free State of Vasqqa, the Duke of Verde had managed to seize an opportunity for blackmail. With the Duke's insistence upon claiming the wealth of Vasqqa for the continued prosperity of this own state--his grave threats to Iverican plans, would force Primo Franso Deitorr to concession... Or to risk. In the brief, sobering exchange she had just concluded with Deitorr, on his return flight, he had made it very clear what they were to try now. It was... nothing short of a last resort and was incredibly risky. She picked up the phone from her table and punched in a contact she had been dreading to use. A last gambit. --- In the days following the Meeting of Iberic leaders, the situation in Vasqqa would only worsen. The autonomous region of Raqqa, an enclave for Narvic peoples resisting the monolithic Iberic paradigm, would voice their dissent over the Referendum. Being a demographic of only 10 percent of the Vasqqan population, their bloc vote, no matter how united, could not possibly unseat the unification majority in voting. Protests and riots would erupt, public acts violence not far behind them, serving only to widen the growing gulf between Iberic Vasqqans and Raqqans. Raqqan nationalists, seizing the opportunity would campaign hard for their emancipatory agenda. Vasqqa was now a powder keg. Each day, the Duke of Borbon moved closer to fulfilling his threat of suspending the Verdense referendums under the pretence of concern for Vasqqan affairs. Galicia and Narva, ever skittish, would grow uneasy with the unfolding events. Which course the road to Federation would take, now lay solely in the hands of Iverica's leadership. END OF ACT I
  12. STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | Part 4/4 2020 hrs 16th of May, 2018 Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares "So what did you offer Morra?", said Deitorr as the laughter finally died down "Astute of you" Borbon nodded, confirming Deitorr's suspicions. "--Nothing I would not offer you plainly, as I plan to now", responded the seated Borbon. "What do you propose, your grace?", Deitorr could not help the pointedness of the query. Borbon stifled a snort at Deitorr's sardonic use of the title. "I want what you want, Seniore Primo. For Iverica to get the Vasqqans in line." "But what else, Gian?" "I want you to get Vasqqa in line and let Verde bring it into the 21st Century. We all know how sorely they need as much investment and aid my people can offer. If you do so, I promise you some further incentive, Iverican debt in my banks will be forgiven." Deitorr looked at Borbon, with a look that plainly suggested the response: "and let you walk away with international approval, Iberic popularity, and more leverage than anyone because of Vasqqan debt?" Deitorr knew all too well what Borbon was asking, the Verdense had tried for years to establish cut-throat deals in Vasqqa that would leave the country in serious dependence to Verde's aristocratic cartels. "Be serious now Gian, Vasqqa is an Iverican responsibility." That was what Deitorr said, but the unspoken implication was there: Iverica wasn't about to let Verde, the closest thing to a rival, gain on Iverica's hegemony by planting their roots in Vasqqa. Iverican power within the Federation might be then contested by the Duchy--a serious standoff for influence in the Federation. If they conceded Vasqqan dependence, what followed would be two lions contending for mastery of the pride. "Given what you have at stake, it may actually behove you to accept aid freely given, Franso", Borbon knew how flimsy that argument was, so he was ready to back it up by placing more of his cards down. "--the unrest is going to cast a lot of doubt on whether the Federal Coalition is ready to proceed, it just might cause some hands to withdraw. Verde simply couldn't hold its referendum in light of such a crisis", Borbon continued. "It will be fixed, it may take time, but its nothing that cannot be handled. Then what will the others do? There won't be a reason not to go forward with the Referendum. Politicking can only delay it so long", Deitorr replied, but he knew Borbon wouldn't play his thinly veiled threat without a trump card to carry its weight, what Borbon said next would likely be what Deitorr's intuition had been prodding at anxiously since reading the Duke's message. All humour was gone from Borbon's features as he straightened his relaxed posture a span. "Whatever happens, there won't be coming out of this without a little blood Franso. Your people will want reprisals for whatever problems might be caused by the Vasqqan nationalists. Ultimatums will be thrown around, and the anger that lay dormant in the previous decades will flare up and break the understanding you've carefully built with the Vasqqans. Then what? The others will see you two tearing at each other like two hawks in a cage and then they will baulk, like they always have. They will curl into their shells again until everyone involved has died and it is quiet again. There won't be a Federation then Franso, not for another century", there was a growing menace in Borbon's tone now, the gentleness was gone in those cold eyes, replaced with a smoldering ember that betrayed the Duke's near triumph. "And who would bring all that down on us? What kind of beast would do so, just for more control of a labour state to fill the coffers?", retorted Deitorr, his voice rising just a pitch. He knew the thinly veiled insult was unfair, Borbon wasn't some selfish villain. He was more like Deitorr than any of the other Iberic leaders. He would do anything to preserve the integrity and prosperity of his people. Deitorr knew his words would change little, but perhaps if goaded, the old Duke may be made to volunteer something to aid Deitorr's weakening stance. Franso needed to prod the bull, needed to rile the even-tempered man some. Borbon looked at him then with a scowl, mixed with something like disgust. Deitorr knew Borbon needed Vasqqa, it was necessary for Borbon's slowly eroding influence. As the Iberic states slowly emerged from their enclosures, Verde's youth had begun their education in ideals of globalism--where powerful monarchic institutions like Borbon's were quickly losing their appeal to Divine Right. If Verde were to retain its traditional foundation in the next century, it's Duke would need to prove it with a resounding diplomatic victory. The consequences of inaction for Verde would be more than just the loss of Dukedom, but the erosion of the cultural base from which their worldview stood--it would be the beginning of a slow slip into social nihilism, surrender to the anxiety brought about by the poison of post-modern thinking. "No", Borbon said at last, his low tone carrying within the small confines of the parlour. "They'll look to Verde, to me, while distancing themselves from the bloodbath. And three states without you and the unruly Vasqqans will form the Federation. Your government isn't the only one they look up to Franso. My house has long held the beacon, reminders of what we once had. Tradition. The legacy of a bloodline that runs through my veins. Your Republic may be the successors of the old empire, Primo--but only because it's claim has not been contested since... the old wars. But Verde has my line, and ours is the old blood." The argument sounded like the ramblings of an irascible old fool clinging to the old ways, yet Deitorr knew the Iberics could, and probably would be convinced by it considering the chaos that was about to break the thin dam of containment the SSO had been struggling to shore up. Tradition was, and still is, the burning hearth that united the Iberic peoples. Borbon held the aces. Franso had only one option. The room was silent for a moment. Then, with nothing but the sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the room's corner, Deitorr nodded. With a few low words, the Primo of the Republic folded hand.
  13. January 22, 2018: "Shadow" Founding: April 9, 2018: The Verde Blockade The Verde Blockade was a joint operation to blockade the Verde Sea from penetration by Ahranaian Naval forces. The operation was justified under the international protest against the expansion of Ahranaian military forces in the connected Mediargic Sea, specifically in the region of Xara, which had been annexed by Ahranaian forces much to the protest of Ahrana's northern neighbour, the United States of Prymont. When protests and warnings from TRIDENT member states were ignored, the blockade was executed by a TRIDENT task force and forced the Ahranaians to halt their fleet and enlist the aid of the now rouge state of Asgeirria in what some deemed to be a false flag operation. This issue was resolved later by the Xara Accord, to the satisfaction of TRIDENT and Ahranaian parties. March 25-April 10, 2018: Joint Exercise- "Atgeir" The joint aero-naval exercise dubbed "Atgeir" was conducted in Andallan waters of the Tiauhai Sea. Wargames between the assembled strength of some 4 Carrier Strike Groups and several lighter flotillas were carried out exercising ship-to-ship, ship-to-shore, air defence & SEAD, naval air strike, anti-submarine, anti-ballistic missile, convoy security, shallow water manoeuvers, boarding & counter-boarding, marine reconnaissance, and oceanographic survey operations were simulated by an OPFOR consisting of Iverican military and PMC units. The exercise was supposedly successful in gauging TRIDENT's ability to work together in aero-naval operations and in fostering an organisation-wide cultural exchange. June 3, 2018: Establishment of a Personnel Exchange Program Plans to foster cooperation and cohesion among personnel of different TRIDENT states included the establishment of an institution to oversee regular batches of exchange personnel being sent to different member states. June 12, 2018: The Xara Accords TRIDENT officials from Iverica & Gallambria co-authored the Xara Accords, a treaty to resolve the heated situation of Ahranaian naval expansion (see: Verde Blockade). The Accords presented a sustainable solution by proposing a balance of strength in the Mediargic Sea and specifying the conduct necessary for forces to maintain the peaceful posture between both parties.
  14. Recap: Part I-- The Primo discusses the economic plan Decada 20 with his aide, the plan will effective result in a transition of Iverican workforce and industries towards a more modern setting. It is revealed that Deitorr will be heading to Las Islas Ultramares for a Summit with other Iberic leaders. Part II--The Primo speaks with Morra, who reveals that the top members of Iverica's executive group, the Executive Ministry, have agreed to enact a plan called "Case Blue" wherein the state will effectively sponsor a unification with satellite states. Deitorr leaves for the Ultramares Summit Interlude I--Morra is called to the situation room, Director-General Bonda brings news that the "Circle of Death" is mobilising in conjunction with Vasqqan rebel groups. Morra declares a covert state of emergency and unveils her position as appointed Secundo, or Vice-Executive. Using the authority of her position, she gives clearance for the Special Security Office--Iverica's foreign intelligence entity--to initiate a shadowy protocol in response to the potential security threat to Case Blue. Part III--Deitorr arrives in the Ultramares-- --- STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | Part 3/4 2000 hrs 16th of May, 2018 Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares Alone in a cocktail parlour with a powerful peer could have certainly been the setting for some post-modern tv series' homoerotic "surprise, you thought he was straight, but nope" moment that would get the ratings soaring. It was a ridiculous thought no doubt, and really quite anti-thematic to the actual gravity of the tense moment. Such absurdities played in Primo Franso Deitorr's mind more often as of late. The Primo, in his mid-fifties, pinned the blame on age and work-related stress. Deitorr knew he had a few moments left to go over the day's events before the other man in the room finished his drink and began the melodrama of the night. --- Earlier- 0800-2000 hrs 16th of May, 2018 Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares Deitorr felt exhausted, despite the relative ease of the day. The frigid weather and desolate beauty of the Ultramares had been like a shock of energy as the wind chill zapped his bones upon walking down to the tarmac of the Ultramariano airport. The crowds that greeted the Primeal party were relatively tame, cheerful, and sparse owing to the island's homely provincial culture and small population. He received a warm welcome, owed much to the enthusiasm of the Marianos at meeting their new head of state. The excitement of the Ultramariano Integration was still fresh in their minds and the spirits were felt even as Deitorr's motorcade pulled up to the small cubic palasso that was the Marian state building. The conference itself, gathering the Iberic Diaspora leaders from Greater Galicia, Narva, Verde, Ultramares, and then Deitorr himself went on with much pomp and circumstance--it was the first they had held in over 3 decades. It had then proceeded more like a kangaroo court. Rather than a fierce debate contesting Iverican leadership The other heads of state were beholden to their people's enthusiasm at following Deitorr's policy for completing the work that had been so forestalled by misfortune and freak circumstance in the past. Iverican approval among the bloc had never been higher and the praise the Iberic masses had for Deitorr was pressuring the other leaders all the more, even if, by chance they harboured some personal disdain for Iverica's Primo, they had to agree with him at least for the sake of keeping their people's faith. The Consulores and Primos seemed unwilling to challenge Deitorr's terms for the new paradigm. Of course, they still had to save face from time to time. They made old arguments, though ones that had been rehearsed and resolved before in more private talks. The displays were simple theatre, an opportunity for other leaders to demonstrate some sort of public backbone. One formality blurred into another, yet all the while, Deitorr couldn't shake a tingle of warning. The inkling stemmed from a single figure, sat just next to Deitorr during the panel discussions with a grandfatherly face, twinkling dark green eyes that betrayed mischief, and a canniness that flowed with his measured witticisms. Borbon. Gian Iago Vivar de Borbon ét Carlos IV, was the Duke and executive monarch of the Duchy of Verde, patriarch of the last legitimate noble bloodline from the old empire. The old duke remained unusually passive. Certainly, the old bull gave some comment on matters and fired a few issues of tactful wit, but it seemed more for the cameras than to confront any of the issues with his usual pointedness. It was when the panels had concluded, that the evening and conference came to an affable close. Digestifs and nightcaps were served in the cocktail parlour where the leaders had ambled over into after the closing ceremony. Pipes and Cigars were lit, the musky odour of several different blends wafting about the small room, furnished well in the Iberic favourite of Imperial Léonid Revival, but really no larger than a hotel suite. Deitorr hardly touched his mulled wine, but joked and laughed agreeably with the company nonetheless. The unfamiliar twang of apprehension had become almost alien to him after he had seized political majority by the locks. The one the world saw as the de facto hegemon of the Argic Iberics had long discarded the need to be apprehensive in the face of his fellow Iberic leaders--vassals in all but name really. He hated it, no matter how small the feeling was. Frightened, he was not, but the Primo was still wary as a predator might be when it thought it smelled an implacable scent around its haunt. --- Present- 2000 hrs 16th of May, 2018 Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares As the last flickers of conversation evaporated into echoes down the hall, cut suddenly by the shut and click of the parlour door, Deitorr heard the kiss of glass on wood behind him, a drink being set aside on an end table. Deitorr spurred his mind from recollection. "Here we are", the voice from the corner of the room reverberated across the small chamber despite the gentle volume of the speaker. Deitorr had his back to the room, staring out into the night at the small port's sleepy lights through the tall, narrow window. After the brief pause, he half inclined his head towards the speaker. Borbon was sat on a leather armchair, one leg folded perpendicularly over the opposite knee. He had discarded his jacket and now let the rumples of his emerald tie lie across his charcoal-black woollen waistcoat. He was relaxed, allowing the concave of the chair to shape his posture. His combed back silvery white hair rested on the carved fluting of the headrest's rim and his full, trimmed beard was nestled in the crook of his neck and collar. The picture had the elegant old duke look like a leisurely old man eager for a chat over a nightcap, a twinkle in his eye and old stories to tell--but Deitorr knew too well that those dark emerald eyes could flash like greek fire when Borbon needed them to. He was trying to be disarming, too gratuitously so. If Borbon knew his intentions were so obvious, he wore it as a comic. "Indeed, alone at last.", Deitorr responded injecting a faint air of forced amusement in his voice. "I was trying hard not to laugh you know", Borbon began. "--you had Sbal, Acosta, and Subiri bobbing their heads like a nest of eager owlets. Truly, you have achieved great things to corral this collection". Deitorr sensed the conditional 'but' was unsaid but meant to tease his inquiry. He knew the old bull could be, for lack of a better analogy, a fickle c*nt. His words were often weighed, always double-edged, and never merely conversational. "Your message suggested something more than congratulations", Deitorr decided to vault over the word fencing introduction. He was pointedly referring to the email Borbon had sent him just as he departed Intreimor. The very letter that had Deitorr guessing and wary the whole day. Likely designed to have him on edge, weaken him with apprehension so he might slip up during this exchange. Clever old bastard. "Oh Franso", Bordon drew out the 'oh' so he sounded like he was a tired old man. "--your frankness becomes you... We'll discuss my letter in due course. But first, tell me, what ails you. What has you wound tighter than a Vasqqan's purse?" Deitorr said nothing, deciding to turn his attention to the half-full glass of mulled wine. Then, the Primo's head tipped back and he laughed. He laughed loudly enough that the harsh barks bounced around the panels of the parlour. It was absurd. Deitorr could plainly see what it was, yet Borbon insisted on his usual games. He laughed and Borbon's own cackle joined his. They both laughed, Deitorr now dreadfully certain-- of the reasons for the charade, why Borbon insisted on a personal and private meeting. Borbon knew. With dawning surety, Deitorr had realised that the old duke had caught wind of the trouble brewing in Vasqqa, probably suspected with an unerring intuition what Deitorr's camp was planning to do about it. If the old bull knew that, he likely also calculated the risk--the balance of Iverican Hegemony that was precariously ambling like a blind man about to take a long tumble down a flight of stairs--and here he was, to levy tax for his cooperation. Clever old bull. ---
  15. I noticed that some issues that were RP'd were not fully concluded. For the sake of underlining what is canon and in order to close some previously running RP actions that are as good as done, the posts below (to follow) will suffice as official as it gets. [Further content to follow]
  • Create New...