A time of Shadows and Firecrackers

[Warre]

The world is changing. There's thunder-cracks and gales; there's sunbursts and empty black skies. There's a thousand contradictions, cries for help and shouts of threats if one gets involved. The world is changing every day and there's a never ending war going on throughout it. There's no escape, and so we must make the choice: Stand in the mists of blood which what, weapon in hand, shouting for our enemy's death, or cower in a world of shadows and firecrackers, hoping like children that our enemies will leave, that they will simply be spirited away and the world set aright.

Forget government; forget pieces of paper talking about laws and trying to tell you, a living breathing person; what's right or wrong. This is about steel and blood; about bullets and brain matter. This is about those who have the will to take what is theirs and to do what must be done. This is about the savages painted by time in the blood of their enemies. This is about you and every other human being; if pushed far enough.

But right now; this is about consolidation, no matter if it's official or not. It's about the banners of Ochre and Azul flying over every land they rightly should fly over, reminding the people of who they are [regardless of government]. If the officials won't do it, we'll do it for them. This is our story, a story of men who bleed orange and blue. This is the story of a nation coming to fruition. Of the stagnancy of the past being brushed away like so much dirt and dried blood.

The banners of Ochre and Azul will be unfurled in defiance; against king and crown, against imperium and insanity. There is no choice; victory or death. Infinity or a moment. We are the Cu na Daonnachta, the wolf-hounds of humanity. And we are out for blood. Our howls will be heard like whispers in the wind, like the Bann Sidhe calling out our enemies deaths; they will be heard in between steely footsteps and rifle-fire. The time for silence is over.

The battle was met at dusk; when the enemy least expected it. For whom in these modern days joins battle at dusk? At the time of the moon's raising and the sun's setting? This was the time of firecrackers and shadows; and as the ochre and woad painted militants dumped out of their trucks, semi-automatic rifles and more brought to bear, hidden by shadows and by their dark camouflage and their mostly camouflage faces. Slowly, squads of the militants went about the town maps had called Nau Nurnberg since the capture of the Western Kingdoms; in the shadows of alleyways and streetlights. The clock struck 21:00, and that appointed number was called by the ringing of the town's church bell. Bullets were sprayed, doors kicked in, cars set aflame with molotov cocktails and houses set aflame with flamethrowers and grenades.

The Germeanis had to go; this was the mandate of the Cu na Daonnachta. For with the Germans still here, no proper gods fearing celts could ever properly call the Western Kingdoms their home; as their ancestors and cousins had in times passed. It was bloody work, made of machine gun fire and machetes; of flamethrowers and frantic fighting. But the clock struck 01:34. It was over, this place was awash with the azul chill of night, with the ochre flame of the remnants of battles, of houses and cars still aflame.

It had been a massacre, and a message. There would be blood; and their would be calls for these criminals and mass murders to be found and brought to justice. If nationialism or the way of right would prevail; these were the questions more profound in this all.

For we are at the dusk of man; a time of shadows and firecrackers.

 

[Warre]

The smells of smoke and burning plastic, of cigarettes and self-doubt. They all permeated in this place, they kept Fritz on edge. The smell of his thrown up and half-digested can of less than half cooked beans kept him on edge as he sulked in his perch on the edge of Wasserstadt [and indeed, to Fritz that was this minute town's name; 'Vasserstadt'; not Watertown, not Uiscebaile, it was Wasserstadt, as the glorious lord, god of all the world and protector of the true christian and true westerners had deemed the inspiration for it's name to be.] Metal burned in the distance, and he checked his rounds once again.

The painted savages, both Otchi and Warreaigh, they'd be tasting more explosions and bullets before this night was over. Fritz grinned a grin that was so tight that it hurt his mouth to make it. It was the grin of someone who knew they would die; eventually. Who knew that they would die by the time the week was over. Those painted savages might be savages, but they weren't amateurs. Not Gallians or Germanians acting at a man's game. They were efficient and as dedicated to find one who hurt their pack as a pack of hounds were- wolves were, they were tools of the devil after all. They had faciliated this all; surely. If the Eastern Barbarians, those Khazars and Sarmatians hadn't been provoked by the Warreic goading them into doing the dirty work; who had? And why would the painted savages had regained this territory? His grandfather had helped build this town.

The rifle shook as the third generation freiheiter lay against the boards of his perch. His body was on edge, he was out of rocket propelled grenades. And the Warreic hounds would regroup; they'd be back, and he had to be ready. His eyes almost closed, and the smell of that regurgitated food shot his eyes back open. His eyes followed his rifle's sight down to the nearest and most likely threat. The sound of the swing set moving, in the middle of the town's square. That park, where Fritz remembered his father taking him by hand, and pushing him in that swing, remembered swinging from monkey-bar to monkey-bar with his brothers, giggling happily.

Freiheit had been the hope for democracy; to his family. The place to escape the monarchists of the east; a place where any man could be his own king. It had been a place where folks could be happy, living quiet lives. But times changed; enemies made their moves. The defense forces fought on, and then the attacks had come; oh those short weeks ago. The rifle was positively vibrating against his twitching hands as he thought about it. As he thought of his sister running to the house, her dress torn and tears streaming down her face. Aidha, the beautiful wisp his [Kyivian] grandfather had joked was a sprite stolen from the woods, some Otchi or Warreic maiden gifted to their family. She and Fritz had been the only guarantees to the folks of Wasserstadt that their family was 'German'; though mother had been half-Warreic, most of father's family had dark hair, barely green eyes. A few of his brothers had had their hair bleached from an early age. Grandfather insisted it; no one would expect non-germans if there were plenty of blondes in the family.

A fuckin' painted hound; a mick; he was there on the edge of the scope, now; ducking his gunmetal helmet top a bit too high. Mmm, armor piercing bullets would teach him a lesson. The hunting rifle shaking staunchly in arms after the shot was unleashed, his eyes blinking the sweat that followed from the shot. Barely kept himself from falling backwards and taking his gun out of his hands at what followed, Fritz's lower lip was bit heavily by himself, lurching a bit backwards at the shake that came from the shot of the helmet.

Explosives packed in the helmet, the bastards! Were they really that stupid? Willing to destroy this town just toe secure it? He was willing to destroy the town to make sure they didn't. The numerous ruined and still flaming vehicle husks throughout the main street were proof enough of that.

The only way they'd stop him is with a dozen deaths. He had set mines before this began, and he had barricaded all the doors into the church aside from those through the courtyard which was directly visible. He'd fire at the mines as they came; and it'd stop the tanks that'd come to provide support for the storming troopers. It was the perfect trap, better than any those hound minded natives could come up with. For they were not ubermensch; they were not men at all.

The artillery strikes shook the tower, sending dust and loosing building materials a bit. How long would the foundation survive this siege? How long could this lone 'hero' stop the troops from moving further, closer? Fritz's body spasmed again, from the hunger, the lack of sleep, the sheer emotional turmoil that was in the young man. He had been a simple janitorial worker for the church before this war. Now his town was almost gone, now his emotional 'disability' would stop him from reaching heaven with his father and brothers and forefathers; gaining that right from dying a death worthy of the Valhalla the norse spoke of in mythology.

Mines were sent off, he thought he heard screams, and as he turned to look he saw a heavy, probably sarmatian made from the look of it; tank roll through the streets. It blew the husks of the vehicles away, at first. And he lined it up. The mines could wait, this goliath was the greatest threat. He looked at the nearest mine; 2 meters away. The bolt was pulled back, and his hand went for the trigger. It was a gunslingers game, this. Either he take out the tank or it blow the church tower out from under him. Another artillery strike, he thought, wasn't it? He had just ran his face into the rifle's scope; as if gravity had forced it.

A closer noise came; the sound of a pistol's hammer being pulled back. There was no quake, except in the spirit of this would be hero. “Guten Tag, Herr Wasserstadt.” It was fluid german, why would another german put a gun to his head? But then English came; and the Gaelic accent was strong there. “I'm here to tell you Fritz Thalerhelt dies today. It is your choice; though. Will Aidha Vallaigh survive?” Aidha, Aidha! That beast just said Aidha's name! The young german tried to rush to his feet, to face this beast, and he just sent the muzzle of the gun further against his skull. “Will Fritz Vallaigh join his sister today? Will he live, and take the gift his new government presents to him? The Warres can always find a need for one with the talents you've presented. And untrained, at that- haha. Fritz, do you want your mother and sister to live happily? To live the life of women of comfort instead, their men all fallen to the blades of greater men; of ubermensch? We painted beasts; oh yes, we know what your family thought. You have to the count of drei.”

A blink came from the ruddy blonde haired former freiheiter; then, “Eins.” his hands twitched, his arms twitched. “Zwei.” he gulped. “Dr-” “Tri.” Fritz answered. The Gaelige was enough, his hands withdrew from the rifle. The rifle; a family heirloom, was shoved out the window; hitting at an angle that sent the church shaking; having hit a mine in the adjacent graveyard, sending straphnel all about.

Guten nocht- this narrator means Oíche mhaith.

 

[Warre]

“This is a game of shadows and firecrackers; this sort've war we wage.” The words rolled de facto in Warreic Standard English[which took the majority from Breotonian English; but meshed in the languages of Brettaine, Mercia, and Anglysh English in it as well]. English was the chosen language in this 'class'; because it was neutral to those assembled. The Warreic volunteers from all five of the traditional kingdoms [and the Otchi volunteers for that matter] would be offended by the use of 'That Súile Glasa tongue, German'; and the Germanics and 'Warreaigh' who were volunteers from the recently regained western territories; the 'western kingdoms' they would rage at the use of Gaelige. Gaelige being used would just confirm the fears that the orange menace to the east had come to smash their heritage like a troll smashes bridges.

“But it is important. There are hold outs to the Freiheit movement in the western kingdoms even now; but there are worse elements. Radicals whom would see Anglysh and Frankener control of this whole continent- ney this whole world; there are criminals who would see your brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons; see them all used in a game of criminal slavery. As sexual objects or drug runners or illegal arms dealers. They would circumvent the power of the crown placed upon our High King by the will of the gods and the Hill of Tarah; they would see the power invested twice in the Ard Riocht by her people; the trust and the decisions the people decide; all of them circumvented. They would see this land painted in no colors but black and red and the cannibalistic rage of those who take from those who are too weak to stop them.”

The slight, five foot and six inches tall man paused then, his ruddy brown hair being brushed away as he looked at the assembled youths all about. He saw the mixed emotions all about; in all of their faces. Some were waiting on edge for his next words, some not even looking at him, others seemed indifferent. He had been given strict orders to not bother speaking of race, it was going to be a touchy subject for quite a while in all of the High Kingdom.

“There is no point in skirting the issue; either. Those of you who are here are here because of your talents; none of you are here because of who you were born as- or what you were born as. I'm quite sure of you, Germeanis, Gael, or Otchi; are thinking tensely of others. Remembering wrongs done to your race by the other two- and thinking of how you're angry that you're here. How this isn't your country.”

He deftly cracked his knuckles. “You were born what you were born, where you were born. Fate brought you here, to the land of the ochre and azul banner; to this land which has been on the edge for centuries untold to take what is rightly its. To push back the tide of the occidental dominican cultural menace. You otchi here are probably angry that we make you go to church with the Dominicans, instead of letting you take your spiritual services amongst the trees. You Warreic are probably pissed off that you're here amongst these colonial bastards who's ancestors came and toke the vast lands which the gods guaranteed to your people. You Germeanis are probably pissed off at everything, at the loss of your loved ones and your culture and your nation- you're probably pissed off we've got you dressed in mahoganies and midnights; like all the rest of the recruits. You're probably pissed off the most at the horrible 'hound tongue' accent I speak English with.”

He pointed beyond, making sure to catch the eyes of those about- “But your old selves die today. No matter what tribe or nation you came from before; at the end of this training- you will be members of a family, with each and every person you see here. You will be Warreic- and you will be defenders of your land. A dagger in the shadow, a pair of shades in the storm of firecrackers of this era. You are joining the ranks of GAEBULG, today. The last-shot spear to take down the enemies of your nation; that spear to break their bellies.”
The wizened soldier lit a cigarette, taking a deep breath from it, before flicking the entirety of the cigarette into a pre-prepared torch, something that was a thousand times more ancient looking than him. The torch was thrown like a blade at a dart board- and as it twirled it seemed like a sun burning amongst them. The torch landed upon the piled wood to their sides, the cigarette stomped upon the ground.

He pointed at the daunting- six mile trail in the middle of the lár na tíre [midlands] mountains, and he let out a bellowing shout six times more loud than before; this in pure and unabashed Warreic Gaelic. “Chun an fiach!” To the hunt!

 

[Warre]

There were whispers in a musky tongue throughout the place- words caught between whispers like the flickering of a cigarette in darkness. It was in the dark of night that these words were spoken, clear and gruff despite their musky and mysterious flavoring. They were foreign to this place, and even the animals stood on edge as they heard those tones. As if they were approached with a spear, they scurried from those words, indistinguishable in their shadowy forms.

They were silence, before an explosion of words from these two fugitives. "Warre..." the venom was as evident as the sound of spit plopping upon the ground in this forested woodland. "What is it good for." A chuckle, and the answer. "Absolutely nothing."

And so this scout group disappeared towards their camp- in shadows and protected by the forested mountainside. The fight for Freiheit may have been over, but these folks would not let their lands go that easily.