OOC: As I have had my final questions answered:
Construct 4 armies, and invade the province to my north (looks like...Yamalia?).
***
From the diary of Grigori Rasputin:
On a beautiful day, the Caspian Sea is a surreal gem. Today, alas, was not a beautiful day. Surely the clouds were signs of the ones filling my head. There is too much to do, in too little time.
I told those thick Ruriks that Astrakhan, or Nova Roma as it was re-christened, is a poor place for a capital. The past century has not been kind. Just when these people were picking themselves up from an especially horrid outbreak of Cholera, the Fall wipes out two thirds of the population. Admittedly, the flux of refugees filled those spaces readily enough, but there was nothing else for those refugees. A roof is worthless if there is no work to feed those beneath it. The ports are dry nine months out of the year, and even when shippers dare enter the land of the Russians they bear meager supply. Farming is being started, and industry is being awakened. But this is too great a task for one man to grapple, especially with is rightful Czar occupied with running a war. Perhaps two, if I count the girl, but that is besides the point.
The Russian Empire has three times the land and four times the population of Nova Roma. The only thing keeping them back from overrunning us is the waste of resources it would be. A wasp does not bother a bear when the bear is prowling. And yet, that is exactly what we try to do. The border is ever shifting, and men lose their lives for nothing. No advantage is gained from holding a barren strip of land. Why not withdraw to the usable land, shorten supply trains, and fight a war that has meaning to other bodies than Righteousness.
But Ruriks are proud. As befits a line of kings, I suppose. The fact only further proves the divine right of the Ruriks, and the poisoned rule of the Romanovs. For no true king would allow his heir and favorite daughter to be taken, and not do everything in his power to get them back. But perhaps, in the Lord's infinite grace, somewhere in his poisoned soul Nicolae knows they do not wish to be with him. That he recognizes the righteousness of their being free.
It was no easy task getting the youngest Romanovs away from the Imperial forces. They wished to be gone well enough, but that demon spawn would not ever stand seeing his children be true to the Lord. It is a proper upbringing the two nobles deserved, craven father or no. They are of age now, and surely they are in the light, no matter how dim it appears to be these days. And truly, there isn't even a candle-shop in Astrakhan right now. The only truly skilled workers go to the Foreign Ghetto of Bukhara, to learn from the travelers. The economy, oh the economy...But the Lord must provide.
***
It is interesting to note that the common man does not recognize power when it attempts to conceal itself. Walking through the streets of Samarkand, Lenin found himself a ghost among men. Even less, in fact, being that a ghastly apparition would cause quite the stir. He was, in essence, a nothing. And that was exactly what the man wished to be.
A police force with the resources of a lesser nations' military should be able to maintain order. And yet this is not always the case; spies and smarts always seem to find their way into the city undetected. The damnable Ruriks had enough Russians to spare a few for reconnaissance, and any man mad enough to try and slip into the city undetected had to have enough intellectual in him to not be made within minutes. A spy could sell fruit, but an un-papered man was as good as dead. The police did, after all, have the resources of a military.
But this does not explain why the head of the Okhrana was stalking the streets on a moonless night. The truth, in truth, was quite boorishly simple: a smart spy requires a smart hunter. A good gate guard may have arms as thick as trunks, but his skull is just as much so. No; this was a job for real power.
Rounding a corner, Lenin-or simply Vlad as he called himself that night-reached into his coat.
***
"No! There shall be no relenting!"
"But your highness, there are simply not enough troops on the border to maintain every position, with three quarters of our force up north!" How idiotic kings could be. Did he not recognize that a general must plan according to the facts, and not his wishes?
"It is not a border! And there are. Enough. Men!" The Czar was understandably angry, for his nation did not seem to be able to accommodate his plans; General Annenkov certainly wasn't helping. And the ever-present weight of his heir's disappearance with that monk pulled taught against his heart.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I shall see what I can do." Sometimes, the only resource a man can have is his obedient word. Burn in hell, you crazed Chernoman.
"That's better. Now, where is my secretary? I have need of my Armsmaster. A real man. He always does what Chernobog's representative asks. You should take lessons." Maybe that would take a few from the stiff across the table. He only lives as long as his sword takes land in my name; perhaps Bellavin's Chernobog would have a place for it next to him when he dies.
"I find him at your command, my lord." At that, Annenkov withdrew from the session. A bow is a bow. And he is your Czar. It was right and just...so why does it feel like I just ate a bug? Maybe those German pretenders have something to them. But of course, this could never be true.
***
Mikhail didn't know where he was going to go. Anastasia must be in the parlor, but Rasputin would be in the study. He couldn't face the trouble either would bring. And his room would never be cleaned if he scared the maids out with an early retirement that day. Perhaps Alexei could use a companion for his stroll through the city. Rasputin's remedies could only fix the royal disease so much, and a bit of hidden steel might offer some protection. The plan must have been divinely inspired, for who did he see there coming up the steps?
"Alexei! Let's go for a walk, shall we?" Mikhail always carried a blade with him, there was no need to go inside for anything.
"I'm afraid I'm just about to eat. Care to join?" For such a scrawny man, he certainly ate a lot. Perhaps his medicines stole from his soul, leaving him in dire need of nourishment. Quite the price to pay. But an apple pie certainly sounded good...what could it hurt?
An hour later, Mikhail reclined on a simple wooden chair. There would be no dining room finery this meal; the kitchen was still too close to the main house to ease him completely, but there was nothing to be done. With nothing else to do- Alexei was using the john- Mikhail turned his thoughts to the war. What a subject for a full stomach. No, better to consider life and death after a good walk. And perhaps Anastasia would be more relaxed, and he could actually talk without feeling stupid in her piercing gaze. Yes, that would do. That would do just fine.
***
OOC: A Chernoman is a follower of Chernobog. I didn't feel like typing that out every time. Also, I hope you all enjoy the variety of writing styles I employ for each story arc. It gets boring writing in the same form every minute. These four introductions should give some measure of what I will be doing, although I may throw in a newspaper every once in a while.
Construct 4 armies, and invade the province to my north (looks like...Yamalia?).
***
From the diary of Grigori Rasputin:
On a beautiful day, the Caspian Sea is a surreal gem. Today, alas, was not a beautiful day. Surely the clouds were signs of the ones filling my head. There is too much to do, in too little time.
I told those thick Ruriks that Astrakhan, or Nova Roma as it was re-christened, is a poor place for a capital. The past century has not been kind. Just when these people were picking themselves up from an especially horrid outbreak of Cholera, the Fall wipes out two thirds of the population. Admittedly, the flux of refugees filled those spaces readily enough, but there was nothing else for those refugees. A roof is worthless if there is no work to feed those beneath it. The ports are dry nine months out of the year, and even when shippers dare enter the land of the Russians they bear meager supply. Farming is being started, and industry is being awakened. But this is too great a task for one man to grapple, especially with is rightful Czar occupied with running a war. Perhaps two, if I count the girl, but that is besides the point.
The Russian Empire has three times the land and four times the population of Nova Roma. The only thing keeping them back from overrunning us is the waste of resources it would be. A wasp does not bother a bear when the bear is prowling. And yet, that is exactly what we try to do. The border is ever shifting, and men lose their lives for nothing. No advantage is gained from holding a barren strip of land. Why not withdraw to the usable land, shorten supply trains, and fight a war that has meaning to other bodies than Righteousness.
But Ruriks are proud. As befits a line of kings, I suppose. The fact only further proves the divine right of the Ruriks, and the poisoned rule of the Romanovs. For no true king would allow his heir and favorite daughter to be taken, and not do everything in his power to get them back. But perhaps, in the Lord's infinite grace, somewhere in his poisoned soul Nicolae knows they do not wish to be with him. That he recognizes the righteousness of their being free.
It was no easy task getting the youngest Romanovs away from the Imperial forces. They wished to be gone well enough, but that demon spawn would not ever stand seeing his children be true to the Lord. It is a proper upbringing the two nobles deserved, craven father or no. They are of age now, and surely they are in the light, no matter how dim it appears to be these days. And truly, there isn't even a candle-shop in Astrakhan right now. The only truly skilled workers go to the Foreign Ghetto of Bukhara, to learn from the travelers. The economy, oh the economy...But the Lord must provide.
***
It is interesting to note that the common man does not recognize power when it attempts to conceal itself. Walking through the streets of Samarkand, Lenin found himself a ghost among men. Even less, in fact, being that a ghastly apparition would cause quite the stir. He was, in essence, a nothing. And that was exactly what the man wished to be.
A police force with the resources of a lesser nations' military should be able to maintain order. And yet this is not always the case; spies and smarts always seem to find their way into the city undetected. The damnable Ruriks had enough Russians to spare a few for reconnaissance, and any man mad enough to try and slip into the city undetected had to have enough intellectual in him to not be made within minutes. A spy could sell fruit, but an un-papered man was as good as dead. The police did, after all, have the resources of a military.
But this does not explain why the head of the Okhrana was stalking the streets on a moonless night. The truth, in truth, was quite boorishly simple: a smart spy requires a smart hunter. A good gate guard may have arms as thick as trunks, but his skull is just as much so. No; this was a job for real power.
Rounding a corner, Lenin-or simply Vlad as he called himself that night-reached into his coat.
***
"No! There shall be no relenting!"
"But your highness, there are simply not enough troops on the border to maintain every position, with three quarters of our force up north!" How idiotic kings could be. Did he not recognize that a general must plan according to the facts, and not his wishes?
"It is not a border! And there are. Enough. Men!" The Czar was understandably angry, for his nation did not seem to be able to accommodate his plans; General Annenkov certainly wasn't helping. And the ever-present weight of his heir's disappearance with that monk pulled taught against his heart.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I shall see what I can do." Sometimes, the only resource a man can have is his obedient word. Burn in hell, you crazed Chernoman.
"That's better. Now, where is my secretary? I have need of my Armsmaster. A real man. He always does what Chernobog's representative asks. You should take lessons." Maybe that would take a few from the stiff across the table. He only lives as long as his sword takes land in my name; perhaps Bellavin's Chernobog would have a place for it next to him when he dies.
"I find him at your command, my lord." At that, Annenkov withdrew from the session. A bow is a bow. And he is your Czar. It was right and just...so why does it feel like I just ate a bug? Maybe those German pretenders have something to them. But of course, this could never be true.
***
Mikhail didn't know where he was going to go. Anastasia must be in the parlor, but Rasputin would be in the study. He couldn't face the trouble either would bring. And his room would never be cleaned if he scared the maids out with an early retirement that day. Perhaps Alexei could use a companion for his stroll through the city. Rasputin's remedies could only fix the royal disease so much, and a bit of hidden steel might offer some protection. The plan must have been divinely inspired, for who did he see there coming up the steps?
"Alexei! Let's go for a walk, shall we?" Mikhail always carried a blade with him, there was no need to go inside for anything.
"I'm afraid I'm just about to eat. Care to join?" For such a scrawny man, he certainly ate a lot. Perhaps his medicines stole from his soul, leaving him in dire need of nourishment. Quite the price to pay. But an apple pie certainly sounded good...what could it hurt?
An hour later, Mikhail reclined on a simple wooden chair. There would be no dining room finery this meal; the kitchen was still too close to the main house to ease him completely, but there was nothing to be done. With nothing else to do- Alexei was using the john- Mikhail turned his thoughts to the war. What a subject for a full stomach. No, better to consider life and death after a good walk. And perhaps Anastasia would be more relaxed, and he could actually talk without feeling stupid in her piercing gaze. Yes, that would do. That would do just fine.
***
OOC: A Chernoman is a follower of Chernobog. I didn't feel like typing that out every time. Also, I hope you all enjoy the variety of writing styles I employ for each story arc. It gets boring writing in the same form every minute. These four introductions should give some measure of what I will be doing, although I may throw in a newspaper every once in a while.
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