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WAAR of the Worlds
1421 AD (after Doozod)
Zeebon Morgo cracked another “coconut” in his eating jaws, lapping up the precious sucrose. Veenok waited patiently, drumming his fingers on the desk. As Morgo belched, one of the slaves in the corner of the room scurried up to gather the husk. Morgo handed it to him and waved the slaves out. They bolted from the room, wearing looks of pure terror. Veenok shuddered.
“They really are disgusting, Lord Zeebon. How can you eat with them around? Didn’t you read the report I sent you?” Zeebon shrugged.
“Well, yes, they do talk with their eating jaw, which is fairly repulsive. But I have a hard time believing their reproductive system is hooked into their excretory system. I’ve never encountered that kind of perversity, and I’ve visited eighteen systems. That reminds me- I have to use the pellet chamber. Just shout, I’ll listen.” Zeebon ambled to a door at the back of the office, patting his forebelly contentedly.
“YES, LORD ZEEBON! THE EXPLORATORY FORCE HAS ENCOUNTERED A CITY! WITH FORTIFICATIONS!” There was a muffled groan from the pellet chamber. After a short pause, Veenok heard the whine of a vacuum and Zeebon stepped back into the office.
“I’m sorry,Veenok. What was that?”
“The exploratory force has encountered a city with fortifications.” Zeebon groaned.
”By the Third K’Walla! I thought you said that whole continent was full of thatch villages and hunter-gatherers.”
“Well, until this morning it was. But Commander Zodol sent back photographs of a walled city and organized military units.” Veenok tapped his datacrystal on the port of Zeebon’s computer. Zeebon peered closely at the images, flipping back and forth.
“Well, there’s a lot of them. Hm- those are big guns they’re carrying.”
“Sir, those are spears.”
“What?”
“Their military is armed with sharp sticks.” Zeebon stared incredulously and began laughing, his frill bobbing. His threat fronds slid up and waved over his shoulders.
“Well! This is a stroke of luck! How many are there?”
“Zodol estimates their population at about three or four million.”
“Well, send Zodol reinforcements. Seven thousand battlespawn should do the trick.” Veenok bowed. “Report back when they’ve surrendered.”
“Of course, Lord Zeebon. Zorth!” Zeebon raised his frill in salute.
“ZORTH!”
1425 AD
The “Navaho” chiefs bowed in submission. The eldest creaked to his feet and began the speech Veenok had coached him through. The natives could make some sounds in Zorthon, but it sounded gruesome- the constant clicking of their glottal cords, the wet smacking of their tongues- they sounded like they were drowning in gark pudding. Veenok suppressed a shudder.
“Lord Zeebon. We accept your rule, and submit to the Zorthon Alliance. We hope that you will not shoot, explode or eat any more of our people. Of course, if you should decide to do so, that’s fine by us as well.” The chief looked over at Veenok, who nodded severely. Zeebon stood, puffing out his chest.
“Well, Navaho-thing, as long as you keep quiet and follow the rules, you should do just fine. Just ask the Emperor of the Aztecs here! Hey! You!” Zeebon got out his native-touching-stick and prodded the Emperor, who stirred in his chair. The Emperor nodded, his plume headdress bobbing.
“Yes. It is wonderful to be a slave of the Zorthon Alliance. All hail Lord Zeebon.” The Emperor slumped back into his chair. A couple of Maya kings and the Zapotec Chief also nodded.
“All hail Lord Zeebon,” they muttered in unison. Zeebon put on his best smile. The natives were ushered out of the room by musket-toting battlespawn, and Zeebon waved in farewell. As the door closed, he tossed a disinfectant sprayer to Veenok and they worked over the office, coughing.
“Zoomoth, they stink!” Veenok nodded miserably. They finished the spraying, and Zeebon waved the fumes away from his face. “Well, that’s that. Now it’s back to knocking down thatch huts.” He slapped Veenok on the back. “The worst of it is over! Look cheerful!” Veenok scratched his frill skeptically.
“Well, sir, we still haven’t found out anything about the quark screen over the deserts.” Zeebon sighed.
“I’m sure it was just a glitch in the landing computer. Do you honestly think these natives could use a radio, let alone a quark funnel or a field ellipse generator? I’m telling you, Veenok- there’s no way a quarter of the planet is permanently off limits to us.” Veenok shrugged, and Zeebon sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’ll look into it. In the meantime, see if you can find me some more sugarcane.”
“You really should cut down on your sucrose, sir.” Zeebon snorted.
“I can stop whenever I want to.” Veenok sighed and left the office.
1421 AD (after Doozod)
Zeebon Morgo cracked another “coconut” in his eating jaws, lapping up the precious sucrose. Veenok waited patiently, drumming his fingers on the desk. As Morgo belched, one of the slaves in the corner of the room scurried up to gather the husk. Morgo handed it to him and waved the slaves out. They bolted from the room, wearing looks of pure terror. Veenok shuddered.
“They really are disgusting, Lord Zeebon. How can you eat with them around? Didn’t you read the report I sent you?” Zeebon shrugged.
“Well, yes, they do talk with their eating jaw, which is fairly repulsive. But I have a hard time believing their reproductive system is hooked into their excretory system. I’ve never encountered that kind of perversity, and I’ve visited eighteen systems. That reminds me- I have to use the pellet chamber. Just shout, I’ll listen.” Zeebon ambled to a door at the back of the office, patting his forebelly contentedly.
“YES, LORD ZEEBON! THE EXPLORATORY FORCE HAS ENCOUNTERED A CITY! WITH FORTIFICATIONS!” There was a muffled groan from the pellet chamber. After a short pause, Veenok heard the whine of a vacuum and Zeebon stepped back into the office.
“I’m sorry,Veenok. What was that?”
“The exploratory force has encountered a city with fortifications.” Zeebon groaned.
”By the Third K’Walla! I thought you said that whole continent was full of thatch villages and hunter-gatherers.”
“Well, until this morning it was. But Commander Zodol sent back photographs of a walled city and organized military units.” Veenok tapped his datacrystal on the port of Zeebon’s computer. Zeebon peered closely at the images, flipping back and forth.
“Well, there’s a lot of them. Hm- those are big guns they’re carrying.”
“Sir, those are spears.”
“What?”
“Their military is armed with sharp sticks.” Zeebon stared incredulously and began laughing, his frill bobbing. His threat fronds slid up and waved over his shoulders.
“Well! This is a stroke of luck! How many are there?”
“Zodol estimates their population at about three or four million.”
“Well, send Zodol reinforcements. Seven thousand battlespawn should do the trick.” Veenok bowed. “Report back when they’ve surrendered.”
“Of course, Lord Zeebon. Zorth!” Zeebon raised his frill in salute.
“ZORTH!”
1425 AD
The “Navaho” chiefs bowed in submission. The eldest creaked to his feet and began the speech Veenok had coached him through. The natives could make some sounds in Zorthon, but it sounded gruesome- the constant clicking of their glottal cords, the wet smacking of their tongues- they sounded like they were drowning in gark pudding. Veenok suppressed a shudder.
“Lord Zeebon. We accept your rule, and submit to the Zorthon Alliance. We hope that you will not shoot, explode or eat any more of our people. Of course, if you should decide to do so, that’s fine by us as well.” The chief looked over at Veenok, who nodded severely. Zeebon stood, puffing out his chest.
“Well, Navaho-thing, as long as you keep quiet and follow the rules, you should do just fine. Just ask the Emperor of the Aztecs here! Hey! You!” Zeebon got out his native-touching-stick and prodded the Emperor, who stirred in his chair. The Emperor nodded, his plume headdress bobbing.
“Yes. It is wonderful to be a slave of the Zorthon Alliance. All hail Lord Zeebon.” The Emperor slumped back into his chair. A couple of Maya kings and the Zapotec Chief also nodded.
“All hail Lord Zeebon,” they muttered in unison. Zeebon put on his best smile. The natives were ushered out of the room by musket-toting battlespawn, and Zeebon waved in farewell. As the door closed, he tossed a disinfectant sprayer to Veenok and they worked over the office, coughing.
“Zoomoth, they stink!” Veenok nodded miserably. They finished the spraying, and Zeebon waved the fumes away from his face. “Well, that’s that. Now it’s back to knocking down thatch huts.” He slapped Veenok on the back. “The worst of it is over! Look cheerful!” Veenok scratched his frill skeptically.
“Well, sir, we still haven’t found out anything about the quark screen over the deserts.” Zeebon sighed.
“I’m sure it was just a glitch in the landing computer. Do you honestly think these natives could use a radio, let alone a quark funnel or a field ellipse generator? I’m telling you, Veenok- there’s no way a quarter of the planet is permanently off limits to us.” Veenok shrugged, and Zeebon sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’ll look into it. In the meantime, see if you can find me some more sugarcane.”
“You really should cut down on your sucrose, sir.” Zeebon snorted.
“I can stop whenever I want to.” Veenok sighed and left the office.
Pish tosh! My response was delivered back with such subtle irony that you missed it! neener neener! 
WAAR of the Worlds
early 1426- on the northern frontier of Moab Province (grid reference no. 47)
Commander Zodol lowered the binoculars. To the north, a shimmering wall stood across the desert, just as the scouts had reported. His squad of battlespawn shifted uncomfortably in the wagon. Zodol walked back and unhitched one of the natives from the wagon, removing his bit and harness.
“You. Walk up there.” The Navaho trembled with fear, but began to move when Zodol took out his pistol. Sweating heavily, the Navaho approached the wall. Zodol gestured him to keep moving. Mumbling a prayer, the Navaho walked up to the wall- and through it, disappearing from view. He reappeared a moment later, his face slack with amazement. Then, with a sudden grin, he ran back through the wall with a final rude gesture. Zodol cursed.
“Out of the wagon! Guard the others!” The battlespawn poured out of the wagon, their rifles trained on the natives. Zodol pointed to a private.
“Your turn, Private Mokmok.” The private saluted smartly. He marched up to the wall, and began to saunter through.
As he touched the wall, his skin bubbled and burst into flame. Shrieking in pain, Mokmok tried to turn back, but he could not let go of the wall. The gunpowder in his bullets went off, and the battlespawn scattered in the sudden fusillade. Looking up, Zodol could not be certain- but he thought he saw monstrous hands reaching out from behind the wall to drag away the pitiful remains of Private Mokmok. In any case, when the screaming had died down, there was no sign of the private except a green stain. The three natives still hitched to the wagon were yanking at their harnesses, gibbering in terror. With a gesture, Zodol ordered them all shot. He sighed.
“We’re walking back, spawn. This discovery must be reported quietly. If the natives find out about this, we’re in deep trouble indeed.”
1435
Zeebon peered intently. “Okay, that one’s an Inca.” Veenok held up another flash card. “Um… Huron? No, Iroquois. Next? That’s… is that a Cherokee?” Veenok shook his head.
“No, sir. This one’s Shawnee.”
“How the deuce can you tell them apart?”
“Practice.” Veenok held up the next card.
“Okay, that’s a Huron.” Zeebon sighed. “This is tiresome.” Veenok clicked his baleen in frustration.
“Well, sir, these subjects of ours outnumber us a thousand to one. Even with grapeshot and rifled muskets, we won’t last long if they decide to rise up against us. We need to keep them divided, and it’ll be a lot easier to divide them if we can tell them apart.” Zeebon nodded. He gestured for Veenok to hold up the next card, spooning another load of sugar into his eating jaw. At that moment, the computer began bleating out an alarm. Zeebon stared at his display. He gaped.
“Emergency communication from the exploration fleet off the east coast.” Veenok came around the desk. “They’ve… they’ve found something.” Veenok looked at the pictures coming over the satellite relay.
“Uh oh.”
early 1426- on the northern frontier of Moab Province (grid reference no. 47)
Commander Zodol lowered the binoculars. To the north, a shimmering wall stood across the desert, just as the scouts had reported. His squad of battlespawn shifted uncomfortably in the wagon. Zodol walked back and unhitched one of the natives from the wagon, removing his bit and harness.
“You. Walk up there.” The Navaho trembled with fear, but began to move when Zodol took out his pistol. Sweating heavily, the Navaho approached the wall. Zodol gestured him to keep moving. Mumbling a prayer, the Navaho walked up to the wall- and through it, disappearing from view. He reappeared a moment later, his face slack with amazement. Then, with a sudden grin, he ran back through the wall with a final rude gesture. Zodol cursed.
“Out of the wagon! Guard the others!” The battlespawn poured out of the wagon, their rifles trained on the natives. Zodol pointed to a private.
“Your turn, Private Mokmok.” The private saluted smartly. He marched up to the wall, and began to saunter through.
As he touched the wall, his skin bubbled and burst into flame. Shrieking in pain, Mokmok tried to turn back, but he could not let go of the wall. The gunpowder in his bullets went off, and the battlespawn scattered in the sudden fusillade. Looking up, Zodol could not be certain- but he thought he saw monstrous hands reaching out from behind the wall to drag away the pitiful remains of Private Mokmok. In any case, when the screaming had died down, there was no sign of the private except a green stain. The three natives still hitched to the wagon were yanking at their harnesses, gibbering in terror. With a gesture, Zodol ordered them all shot. He sighed.
“We’re walking back, spawn. This discovery must be reported quietly. If the natives find out about this, we’re in deep trouble indeed.”
1435
Zeebon peered intently. “Okay, that one’s an Inca.” Veenok held up another flash card. “Um… Huron? No, Iroquois. Next? That’s… is that a Cherokee?” Veenok shook his head.
“No, sir. This one’s Shawnee.”
“How the deuce can you tell them apart?”
“Practice.” Veenok held up the next card.
“Okay, that’s a Huron.” Zeebon sighed. “This is tiresome.” Veenok clicked his baleen in frustration.
“Well, sir, these subjects of ours outnumber us a thousand to one. Even with grapeshot and rifled muskets, we won’t last long if they decide to rise up against us. We need to keep them divided, and it’ll be a lot easier to divide them if we can tell them apart.” Zeebon nodded. He gestured for Veenok to hold up the next card, spooning another load of sugar into his eating jaw. At that moment, the computer began bleating out an alarm. Zeebon stared at his display. He gaped.
“Emergency communication from the exploration fleet off the east coast.” Veenok came around the desk. “They’ve… they’ve found something.” Veenok looked at the pictures coming over the satellite relay.
“Uh oh.”
Yep, the dread monster named PTI* is a dangerous being to cross
(*) Allegedly an acronym for Prime Terrestrial Inquisitor.
(*) Allegedly an acronym for Prime Terrestrial Inquisitor.
I'm eating this up. Keep it coming. I like the way you are using PTI. Also, this line killed me
Keep it coming. I like the way you are using PTI. Also, this line killed me
Now where have I heard a line like that before? Hmmmm...hey Norgesvenn. Help me out with that would you. What? No, you can finish your cigaratte first. In fact, I'll have one too while I'm waiting.
All hail Lord Prufrock, king of the bizarre AAR (hey, that rhymns) and demented genius of the forum!
PE- you think so now? Just wait.
BP- Thanks!
JS- In the near future. For the time being, picture all the Native American nations. Now paint them an unlovely shade of orange. There you go.
MrT- As a smoker, I nod wisely. I quit every day for eight hours, and then I wake up...
CA- Demented genius? *sniffles* Awwww! That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me.
BP- Thanks!
JS- In the near future. For the time being, picture all the Native American nations. Now paint them an unlovely shade of orange. There you go.
MrT- As a smoker, I nod wisely. I quit every day for eight hours, and then I wake up...
CA- Demented genius? *sniffles* Awwww! That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me.
Hey Prufrock451
Did you actually manage to make the game run using the ALI tag or did you just copy the ALI gfx over one of the other armysets?
The religion and text changes are trivial, but that one is interesting. I was under the impression that the ALI tag faced a few difficulties in actual play.
How are you dealing with tax/trade/production issues? A -100% trade modifier or something?
Anyway, keep up the fighting spirit
The Big Game Hunters Guide to the Alien
The Alien is a creature indiginous to the Americas. A sugarsucking mindless and savage beast, it is the fiercest creature a hunter can face, due to its tendency to disintegrate the unwary hunter.
The clever hunter will therefore employ subterfuge. And the subterfuge employed in hunting aliens is to dress like a native - and carry a sign.
New evolutionary theories suggest that the Aliens that accidentally devoured natives would deprive themselves of the sugar needed to support their life, and thus they would tend to die out. Over the generations, only the Aliens, who, for one reason or another, failed to devour, crush, kill, or accidentally main, the natives, would survive to breed. Thus the intelligent hunter will wear a loincloth and carry a sign saying Aztec, Maya, Zapotec, Huron, or whatever the name of the local tribe may be, for easier identification.
It is amazing how the savage beasts nevertheless are capable of just enough pattern-recognitioning to grasp the meaning, but fortunately not the intent.
It is suggested that the wary hunter also paint himself green, since he'll look more like a frog that way.
Did you actually manage to make the game run using the ALI tag or did you just copy the ALI gfx over one of the other armysets?
The religion and text changes are trivial, but that one is interesting. I was under the impression that the ALI tag faced a few difficulties in actual play.
How are you dealing with tax/trade/production issues? A -100% trade modifier or something?
Anyway, keep up the fighting spirit
The Big Game Hunters Guide to the Alien
The Alien is a creature indiginous to the Americas. A sugarsucking mindless and savage beast, it is the fiercest creature a hunter can face, due to its tendency to disintegrate the unwary hunter.
The clever hunter will therefore employ subterfuge. And the subterfuge employed in hunting aliens is to dress like a native - and carry a sign.
New evolutionary theories suggest that the Aliens that accidentally devoured natives would deprive themselves of the sugar needed to support their life, and thus they would tend to die out. Over the generations, only the Aliens, who, for one reason or another, failed to devour, crush, kill, or accidentally main, the natives, would survive to breed. Thus the intelligent hunter will wear a loincloth and carry a sign saying Aztec, Maya, Zapotec, Huron, or whatever the name of the local tribe may be, for easier identification.
It is amazing how the savage beasts nevertheless are capable of just enough pattern-recognitioning to grasp the meaning, but fortunately not the intent.
It is suggested that the wary hunter also paint himself green, since he'll look more like a frog that way.
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Originally posted by MrT
Now where have I heard a line like that before? Hmmmm...hey Norgesvenn. Help me out with that would you. What? No, you can finish your cigaratte first. In fact, I'll have one too while I'm waiting.
*coughs* Dunno where I've heard it... hey, got a light?
I'm using the U00 tag, and modified that to use the alien army graphics. The alien navy graphics work only intermittently, but since my aliens are using steamships, that's largely irrelevant.
AFAI can tell, the ALI tag faces insuperable difficulties. Proving this to my satisfaction sucked up three hours of my life before I relented and used the U00 tag.
Part of why I put my capital on an island (Kauai- I realize I've never indicated that) was to get the income penalty for every other province. Also, I didn't place any merchants in my CoTs until I'd conquered them. (A change occurred in this policy, and it will be explained in character down the road.)
This will require revision quite soon.
Hmm. plan on uploading this scenario anywhere?
so I can lead the human rebels to victory against the imperialist alien oppressors!
so I can lead the human rebels to victory against the imperialist alien oppressors!
Faeelin- I've considered it, but there are still some major gaps in the Alien code I've kludged together. For instance- why do my navies turn into flying saucers only when they're moving into port? Why are they sometimes Chinese junks?
I don't have graphics for alien cities, an alien interface, an alien culture (I relented and gave them Hawaiian), yadda yadda yadda. Basically, this isn't nearly at the level of utter geek nirvana I'd want it to be before I released it as a new scenario under my name. Plus there's no "Aliens succumb to Earth germs" event. Summing up- not where it needs to be.
Duuk- heehee!
I don't have graphics for alien cities, an alien interface, an alien culture (I relented and gave them Hawaiian), yadda yadda yadda. Basically, this isn't nearly at the level of utter geek nirvana I'd want it to be before I released it as a new scenario under my name. Plus there's no "Aliens succumb to Earth germs" event. Summing up- not where it needs to be.
Duuk- heehee!
WAAR of the Worlds
July 18, 1435
Peter Eppesen hauled another load of firewood to the storage shed. Wiping his brow, he sighed in exhaustion.
“Join the Danish Navy! See the world! Almost lose your head in a pointless fight with a shipful of drunken Swedes! Get stuck in Vinland for five years!” Eppesen spat. Looking around at the five huts and the ramshackle dock that made up the Royal Danish Fort of Gander, Eppesen snorted in disgust.
“To hell with the firewood. I’m going to find a quiet shady spot and sleep for the rest of the afternoon. What will they do? Fire me and send me back?” Eppesen, a man of 22, was full of spirit and adventure. The small post at Gander was far from enough for him. Picking up a stick, he absently went through a few fencing moves.
“Now, if I’d been commanding that ship in the Sund…” Eppesen went off into the woods, mumbling to himself and whacking at the trees with his stick. He didn’t go far before finding a blackberry bush. The berries were just ripening, and they made a pleasant change from hardtack and salt pork. As Eppesen was finishing off a third mouthful, he heard a twig snap behind him. Freezing, he listened carefully. All I need, he thought to himself. I’m in the middle of the woods without a gun or a knife, and here’s some damn Skraeling come to kill me. Eppesen crept quietly back the way he’d came. He heard rustling before him- and behind him now, too. He was trapped- the only way out was to bluff his way out.
“I know you’re there! Show yourself!” There was more rustling, and… something… came out of the woods before him. It was four feet tall, carrying a long metal pipe, its hideous lidless eyes staring blackly at him. Its mouth open in a whistling gasp, it approached him, lowering the pipe. Eppesen whirled around, and saw four more of the beasts closing around him. With a scream, he threw his stick at one, hitting it squarely in the head. It made an odd burping sound and fell over. Eppesen hurtled past the first beast, wrestling its pipe away and running for the post. The beasts were fast, but Eppesen had a headstart and longer legs. His screaming soon roused the rest of the post, and they were outside, staring in horror, as the beasts tackled Eppesen and rushed him to a nearby boat. As the Danes were scrambling into their rowboats to follow, there were an unearthly hissing, and a ship with strange pipes and paddles- and no sail! roared into the harbor, belching forth a thick cloud of noxious smoke. As the Danes froze in horror, Eppesen was hauled onto the deck of the ship and the beasts scrambled up ropes on its side. The black ship, flying a dreadful death’s head pennant, turned and a flash and roar erupted in the side of the ship. After an unearthly whistling noise, the nearest hut exploded in fire. The Danes, screaming and outgunned, retreated as fast as they could paddle.
It wasn’t until two days later they found the gun Eppesen had taken from the beast, dropped at the edge of the woods…
July 20, 1435
“YOU CALL THAT AN ABDUCTION?” Zeebon roared at the battlespawn, his frill trembling and his threat fronds rustling in anger. “THE ENTIRE VILLAGE SAW YOU, YOU DROPPED A GUN, AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO CATCH THE OTHER NATIVES?” The battlespawn stammered out a weak reply.
“O-our orders were to find one of the albino natives and bring him back-“ Zeebon clacked his baleen in disgust. He dismissed the battlespawn, who scuttled back to his ship on the Manhattan dock. He looked over at Veenok, who coughed lightly.
“Well, did we learn anything?” Veenok nodded.
“He says his tribe is called the Denmarks. They live across the ocean- apparently, there’s at least one other continent on the planet with organized governments. He claims they’re a ferocious lot indeed.” Zeebon rolled his eyes.
“That’s what the Zapotec claimed before we made them into our official mascots. Well, scrape up a few ships and cruise their coasts. Let’s get their measure while we put together an invasion fleet.” Veenok shifted uncomfortably.
“I meant to ask you about that, Lord Zeebon. Our battlespawn are spread very thin on garrison duty and in supervisory posts right now, sir. I don’t know that we can spare enough for an invasion fleet.” Zeebon glared.
“And just what do you propose?” Veenok coughed, clacking his baleen nervously.
“I was thinking… that we could train a few natives, and send them along…” Zeebon roared in laughter.
“Absurd! Utterly absurd! Do you seriously think the natives could fight as well as a BATTLESPAWN?” Zeebon laughed, his forebelly shaking violently. He trailed off after a while.
“…How many battlespawn did it take to capture this native?”
“Five, sir.” Zeebon scratched at his frill. He unscrewed his canteen and sloshed some sugar water into his mouth.
“Well… let’s look into it. And let’s take the first paddle steamer back to the Gulf so we can get back to New Zortha.” Zeebon scuttled hurriedly back to his hut. Veenok sighed and saluted at his rapidly receding back.
July 18, 1435
Peter Eppesen hauled another load of firewood to the storage shed. Wiping his brow, he sighed in exhaustion.
“Join the Danish Navy! See the world! Almost lose your head in a pointless fight with a shipful of drunken Swedes! Get stuck in Vinland for five years!” Eppesen spat. Looking around at the five huts and the ramshackle dock that made up the Royal Danish Fort of Gander, Eppesen snorted in disgust.
“To hell with the firewood. I’m going to find a quiet shady spot and sleep for the rest of the afternoon. What will they do? Fire me and send me back?” Eppesen, a man of 22, was full of spirit and adventure. The small post at Gander was far from enough for him. Picking up a stick, he absently went through a few fencing moves.
“Now, if I’d been commanding that ship in the Sund…” Eppesen went off into the woods, mumbling to himself and whacking at the trees with his stick. He didn’t go far before finding a blackberry bush. The berries were just ripening, and they made a pleasant change from hardtack and salt pork. As Eppesen was finishing off a third mouthful, he heard a twig snap behind him. Freezing, he listened carefully. All I need, he thought to himself. I’m in the middle of the woods without a gun or a knife, and here’s some damn Skraeling come to kill me. Eppesen crept quietly back the way he’d came. He heard rustling before him- and behind him now, too. He was trapped- the only way out was to bluff his way out.
“I know you’re there! Show yourself!” There was more rustling, and… something… came out of the woods before him. It was four feet tall, carrying a long metal pipe, its hideous lidless eyes staring blackly at him. Its mouth open in a whistling gasp, it approached him, lowering the pipe. Eppesen whirled around, and saw four more of the beasts closing around him. With a scream, he threw his stick at one, hitting it squarely in the head. It made an odd burping sound and fell over. Eppesen hurtled past the first beast, wrestling its pipe away and running for the post. The beasts were fast, but Eppesen had a headstart and longer legs. His screaming soon roused the rest of the post, and they were outside, staring in horror, as the beasts tackled Eppesen and rushed him to a nearby boat. As the Danes were scrambling into their rowboats to follow, there were an unearthly hissing, and a ship with strange pipes and paddles- and no sail! roared into the harbor, belching forth a thick cloud of noxious smoke. As the Danes froze in horror, Eppesen was hauled onto the deck of the ship and the beasts scrambled up ropes on its side. The black ship, flying a dreadful death’s head pennant, turned and a flash and roar erupted in the side of the ship. After an unearthly whistling noise, the nearest hut exploded in fire. The Danes, screaming and outgunned, retreated as fast as they could paddle.
It wasn’t until two days later they found the gun Eppesen had taken from the beast, dropped at the edge of the woods…
July 20, 1435
“YOU CALL THAT AN ABDUCTION?” Zeebon roared at the battlespawn, his frill trembling and his threat fronds rustling in anger. “THE ENTIRE VILLAGE SAW YOU, YOU DROPPED A GUN, AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO CATCH THE OTHER NATIVES?” The battlespawn stammered out a weak reply.
“O-our orders were to find one of the albino natives and bring him back-“ Zeebon clacked his baleen in disgust. He dismissed the battlespawn, who scuttled back to his ship on the Manhattan dock. He looked over at Veenok, who coughed lightly.
“Well, did we learn anything?” Veenok nodded.
“He says his tribe is called the Denmarks. They live across the ocean- apparently, there’s at least one other continent on the planet with organized governments. He claims they’re a ferocious lot indeed.” Zeebon rolled his eyes.
“That’s what the Zapotec claimed before we made them into our official mascots. Well, scrape up a few ships and cruise their coasts. Let’s get their measure while we put together an invasion fleet.” Veenok shifted uncomfortably.
“I meant to ask you about that, Lord Zeebon. Our battlespawn are spread very thin on garrison duty and in supervisory posts right now, sir. I don’t know that we can spare enough for an invasion fleet.” Zeebon glared.
“And just what do you propose?” Veenok coughed, clacking his baleen nervously.
“I was thinking… that we could train a few natives, and send them along…” Zeebon roared in laughter.
“Absurd! Utterly absurd! Do you seriously think the natives could fight as well as a BATTLESPAWN?” Zeebon laughed, his forebelly shaking violently. He trailed off after a while.
“…How many battlespawn did it take to capture this native?”
“Five, sir.” Zeebon scratched at his frill. He unscrewed his canteen and sloshed some sugar water into his mouth.
“Well… let’s look into it. And let’s take the first paddle steamer back to the Gulf so we can get back to New Zortha.” Zeebon scuttled hurriedly back to his hut. Veenok sighed and saluted at his rapidly receding back.
WAAR of the Worlds
July 1438
Veenok and Peter Eppesen stared through the binoculars. Eppesen was a quick study (once threatened with a neural stunner) and spoke nearly perfect Zorthic. It didn’t hurt that his constant terror kept his mouth completely dry.
“Well, Peter Eppesen, is this the land of the Denmarks?” Eppesen swallowed down the lump in his throat and peered through the binoculars again at the castle on the shore. The banner of Scotland flew atop the highest parapet.
“Yes! Absolutely.” Veenok stared again through the binoculars and hooted in alarm, clacking his baleen.
“CANNON!” He rubbed his primary eyes, blinking in astonishment. He turned around to the steamship’s captain. “GET CLOSER!”
As the ship neared the shore, Veenok scanned the defensive works more closely. Yes- the fort was equipped with cannon. And the sentinels were carrying muskets! As the ship began to cruise along the coast, a signal flare went up and trumpets sounded on the shore. Veenok turned in fury to Eppesen.
“You said you’d never seen a gun! You said no one in Europe had!” Eppesen quailed.
“It’s true! I never saw one before I took that gun away from your soldier.” Veenok considered this. He groaned in disgust.
“Well, it can’t be helped now. Captain- land us and provide covering fire. These natives may be excellent mimics- but they’re still no match for us.” He picked up the loudspeaker. “SPAWN! We face our toughest foe yet. But we shall defeat them! We shall defeat all those who stand before our righteous cause. FOR ZORTH!” Eight thousand battlespawn roared back in a single voice.
“ZORTH!”
February 1439
“You WHAT?”
“I will not bend ma knee to ye. Ye may be able t’keep th’lands ye’ve stolen, but the King of Scotland will nae bend his knee t’a demon fram hail.” Zeebon turned to Eppesen.
“He says he is forbidden from ceding his capital of Strathclyde for… religious reasons.” Zeebon trembled in anger.
“Well, you tell the Scot-thing… the…” Veenok burst into the room, panting in terror. He was flushed bright pink, but his camouflage served no purpose on this obscene world.
“LORD ZEEBON! Our scouts have… terrible news. L-look at this photograph.” Zeebon stared in dawning horror. Eppesen leaned in.
“Oh, they’re quite common around here. Lord Zeebon? What shall I tell the King?”
“Fine, fine. He can keep Strathclyde, as long as he gives up the year’s harvest of sugar beets. Please take him outside now.” Zeebon and Veenok waited anxiously as the natives left the room. They stared at the picture the scout had brought back.
“It can’t be. They’re extinct. They were only found on Morzool, and Morzool was destroyed-“
“By the First Emperor, yes. But here they are. This explains the shield. This explains quite a bit indeed. Morzool.” Veenok and Zeebon instinctively made the Sign of Ralbozar.
“Well, Veenok, we have encountered our greatest foe yet. The Lost General of Morzool.” Zeebon quoted from the First Emperor’s Annals-
“And ye shall know him by his steed
That charges to attack
No Zorthon can defeat
The General… on his Wlak.”
July 1438
Veenok and Peter Eppesen stared through the binoculars. Eppesen was a quick study (once threatened with a neural stunner) and spoke nearly perfect Zorthic. It didn’t hurt that his constant terror kept his mouth completely dry.
“Well, Peter Eppesen, is this the land of the Denmarks?” Eppesen swallowed down the lump in his throat and peered through the binoculars again at the castle on the shore. The banner of Scotland flew atop the highest parapet.
“Yes! Absolutely.” Veenok stared again through the binoculars and hooted in alarm, clacking his baleen.
“CANNON!” He rubbed his primary eyes, blinking in astonishment. He turned around to the steamship’s captain. “GET CLOSER!”
As the ship neared the shore, Veenok scanned the defensive works more closely. Yes- the fort was equipped with cannon. And the sentinels were carrying muskets! As the ship began to cruise along the coast, a signal flare went up and trumpets sounded on the shore. Veenok turned in fury to Eppesen.
“You said you’d never seen a gun! You said no one in Europe had!” Eppesen quailed.
“It’s true! I never saw one before I took that gun away from your soldier.” Veenok considered this. He groaned in disgust.
“Well, it can’t be helped now. Captain- land us and provide covering fire. These natives may be excellent mimics- but they’re still no match for us.” He picked up the loudspeaker. “SPAWN! We face our toughest foe yet. But we shall defeat them! We shall defeat all those who stand before our righteous cause. FOR ZORTH!” Eight thousand battlespawn roared back in a single voice.
“ZORTH!”
February 1439
“You WHAT?”
“I will not bend ma knee to ye. Ye may be able t’keep th’lands ye’ve stolen, but the King of Scotland will nae bend his knee t’a demon fram hail.” Zeebon turned to Eppesen.
“He says he is forbidden from ceding his capital of Strathclyde for… religious reasons.” Zeebon trembled in anger.
“Well, you tell the Scot-thing… the…” Veenok burst into the room, panting in terror. He was flushed bright pink, but his camouflage served no purpose on this obscene world.
“LORD ZEEBON! Our scouts have… terrible news. L-look at this photograph.” Zeebon stared in dawning horror. Eppesen leaned in.
“Oh, they’re quite common around here. Lord Zeebon? What shall I tell the King?”
“Fine, fine. He can keep Strathclyde, as long as he gives up the year’s harvest of sugar beets. Please take him outside now.” Zeebon and Veenok waited anxiously as the natives left the room. They stared at the picture the scout had brought back.
“It can’t be. They’re extinct. They were only found on Morzool, and Morzool was destroyed-“
“By the First Emperor, yes. But here they are. This explains the shield. This explains quite a bit indeed. Morzool.” Veenok and Zeebon instinctively made the Sign of Ralbozar.
“Well, Veenok, we have encountered our greatest foe yet. The Lost General of Morzool.” Zeebon quoted from the First Emperor’s Annals-
“And ye shall know him by his steed
That charges to attack
No Zorthon can defeat
The General… on his Wlak.”