Clarenthia
Establishing Nation
- Joined
- May 4, 2010
- Messages
- 1,148
- Capital
- Alaghan
- Nick
- Jurzidentia
Marden
Outskirts of Alaghan
Zorawar inhaled one final time as the embers of his cigarette glowed, crawling closer to his fingers. He blew out the smoke even before his fingers could pulled the cigarette back. As he did, he leaned the back of his head against the cold brick wall and peered up at the stars. He closed his eyes and flicked the cigarette to the ground, not bothering to put it out.
In the private darkness of his own thoughts, he could remember it all. The way she danced with the other girls at the fountain, the way the sun beamed against her dark hair and the red shawl that covered it. He could see the way her olive eyes glistened, so bright, on her face. Not as bright, though, as her smile which was warmer than the Jurzani sun. Remembering her face as she laughed was an already arduous task as each day passed. No matter how vivid his memories were they quickly descend into the last image of his daughter that his eyes had bared witness to.
The attack came without warning and done in a brutalic efficiency that the Kadikistani had used to construct their empire. It started as any other day, just as all tragedies so often do. Zorawar was digging into the earth to replace a fence post knocked down by storms in the days before. The soil’s surface was the same sort of loose gravel sand that marked a large portion of the Jurzani countryside, but the soil underneath was cold and hardened from the prior day’s rain. His work was interrupted by a scream, not uncommon in the village, but something about this one was different. Any mystery was quickly gone as the scream was followed by another and an ominous “pop” that could only be one thing. Soon sounds of a village in panic swept over as Zorawar raced back into the house.
“Lakhta!” He called out in a desperate yell as the open windows did nothing to damper whatever chaos was coming from the streets. “Where are you!?” He dashed all over the house, but the little girl did not respond. Another pop, followed by another, then a fourth.
“Lakhta! Come here!” He screamed again. Then, a whimper, amongst the roar of the outside called back to him “Plaar?” She called. He ran to the girl, scooping her into his arms, she seemed to have been woken from a nap. “Plaar, what’s going on?” He kissed her forehead, soothing her as he whispered back “We have to go my Gwel, all is fine.”
As if almost by summonance, the door to the home was kicked open and in walked one of the light skinned Kadikistani. Not the same as the soldiers or police, but his expression had an anger, a visceral hatred. “Dogs!” He shouted in a language that Zorawar could only barely understand, approaching the two of them as two more came through the door like bulls. The other two had guns. As they pillaged what little the home had, the first approached the man and his daughter, continuously shouting and motioning for them to get out of the house.
Zorawar didn’t understand the words, but he knew well enough he had to leave. Military police had raided homes before but this was different, there was something more sinister going on. He held his daughter tightly as the Kadikistani man grabbed him, throwing him outside where all doubt of what hell was occuring was dismissed. He could barely see through the people dashing in every direction, but bodies littered the ground and the doors of homes were busted in as swarms of the Kadikistani were chanting, lifting their rifles in the air as a dark, red liquid creeped from the bodies beneath their feet, dying the sand. Lakhta began crying as Zorawar covered her eyes. Another pop, and the cries stopped. Lakhta’s body heavied in a way he never felt before. He knew immediately what had happened, but he couldn’t muster the strength to look down. His hands were warm, wet, as the tears swelled down from his eyes.
“Haweed - A Jurzani, above all else, defends their homeland,” Zorawar whispered to himself but imagined it in the same way his father had recited the 6th and most important commandment of Jurzaniwali. “Never before has our country needed us so.”
Zorawar’s memories drifted away as he opened his eyes to again see the stars twinkling in the peaceful night sky, hanging above such a pained land.
“Are you ready?” Arsalan called to him, grabbing his attention.
“I am,” Zorawar lifted his body from the wall and approached Arsalan and the group of three men inspecting their pistols.
“Good,” Arsalan nodded, handing Zorawar a pistol, which he took. Arsalan grabbed Zorawar’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Once we start, we do not stop. There’s no going back. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” Zorawar cocked the pistol and joined the men, Arsalan huddled them together.
“We all know why we’re here,” he said “Round that corner sit those fucking butchers, reveling in their debauchery. Drunken dogs, all of them. We all lost something, now its time to make them pay. Haweed, brothers, Haweed. The Jurzan needs us now.”
He extended his hand into the middle of the group, and the others met it.
“Now!” Arsalan called, as he pulled his arm. The group pulled out, lifted their bandanas to cover the lower part of their face. Arsalan carried the only rifle of the group so he trailed as the group approached the Kadikistani bar. The group of men ran as quickly as they could, busting open the door - immediately catching the attention of the Kadikistani inside.
Dazed, confused, the Kadikistanis were nevertheless quick to realize what was happening and stumbled for their weapons. The Jurzani opened fire, the pops of their guns met with the screams of the young women the Kadikistani preyed upon. Whatever firefight would have erupted was quickly put down but the rapid fire of Arsalan’s rifle. Six Kadikistani bodies fell to the ground, six butchers now lay dead.
“For a Free Jurzan!” Arsalan called out to a group scrambling to make their exit.
“Let’s leave,” Arsalan called as he lead the group out of the bar and as far from the town as they could.
@Kadikistani Union
Outskirts of Alaghan
Zorawar inhaled one final time as the embers of his cigarette glowed, crawling closer to his fingers. He blew out the smoke even before his fingers could pulled the cigarette back. As he did, he leaned the back of his head against the cold brick wall and peered up at the stars. He closed his eyes and flicked the cigarette to the ground, not bothering to put it out.
In the private darkness of his own thoughts, he could remember it all. The way she danced with the other girls at the fountain, the way the sun beamed against her dark hair and the red shawl that covered it. He could see the way her olive eyes glistened, so bright, on her face. Not as bright, though, as her smile which was warmer than the Jurzani sun. Remembering her face as she laughed was an already arduous task as each day passed. No matter how vivid his memories were they quickly descend into the last image of his daughter that his eyes had bared witness to.
The attack came without warning and done in a brutalic efficiency that the Kadikistani had used to construct their empire. It started as any other day, just as all tragedies so often do. Zorawar was digging into the earth to replace a fence post knocked down by storms in the days before. The soil’s surface was the same sort of loose gravel sand that marked a large portion of the Jurzani countryside, but the soil underneath was cold and hardened from the prior day’s rain. His work was interrupted by a scream, not uncommon in the village, but something about this one was different. Any mystery was quickly gone as the scream was followed by another and an ominous “pop” that could only be one thing. Soon sounds of a village in panic swept over as Zorawar raced back into the house.
“Lakhta!” He called out in a desperate yell as the open windows did nothing to damper whatever chaos was coming from the streets. “Where are you!?” He dashed all over the house, but the little girl did not respond. Another pop, followed by another, then a fourth.
“Lakhta! Come here!” He screamed again. Then, a whimper, amongst the roar of the outside called back to him “Plaar?” She called. He ran to the girl, scooping her into his arms, she seemed to have been woken from a nap. “Plaar, what’s going on?” He kissed her forehead, soothing her as he whispered back “We have to go my Gwel, all is fine.”
As if almost by summonance, the door to the home was kicked open and in walked one of the light skinned Kadikistani. Not the same as the soldiers or police, but his expression had an anger, a visceral hatred. “Dogs!” He shouted in a language that Zorawar could only barely understand, approaching the two of them as two more came through the door like bulls. The other two had guns. As they pillaged what little the home had, the first approached the man and his daughter, continuously shouting and motioning for them to get out of the house.
Zorawar didn’t understand the words, but he knew well enough he had to leave. Military police had raided homes before but this was different, there was something more sinister going on. He held his daughter tightly as the Kadikistani man grabbed him, throwing him outside where all doubt of what hell was occuring was dismissed. He could barely see through the people dashing in every direction, but bodies littered the ground and the doors of homes were busted in as swarms of the Kadikistani were chanting, lifting their rifles in the air as a dark, red liquid creeped from the bodies beneath their feet, dying the sand. Lakhta began crying as Zorawar covered her eyes. Another pop, and the cries stopped. Lakhta’s body heavied in a way he never felt before. He knew immediately what had happened, but he couldn’t muster the strength to look down. His hands were warm, wet, as the tears swelled down from his eyes.
“Haweed - A Jurzani, above all else, defends their homeland,” Zorawar whispered to himself but imagined it in the same way his father had recited the 6th and most important commandment of Jurzaniwali. “Never before has our country needed us so.”
Zorawar’s memories drifted away as he opened his eyes to again see the stars twinkling in the peaceful night sky, hanging above such a pained land.
“Are you ready?” Arsalan called to him, grabbing his attention.
“I am,” Zorawar lifted his body from the wall and approached Arsalan and the group of three men inspecting their pistols.
“Good,” Arsalan nodded, handing Zorawar a pistol, which he took. Arsalan grabbed Zorawar’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Once we start, we do not stop. There’s no going back. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” Zorawar cocked the pistol and joined the men, Arsalan huddled them together.
“We all know why we’re here,” he said “Round that corner sit those fucking butchers, reveling in their debauchery. Drunken dogs, all of them. We all lost something, now its time to make them pay. Haweed, brothers, Haweed. The Jurzan needs us now.”
He extended his hand into the middle of the group, and the others met it.
“Now!” Arsalan called, as he pulled his arm. The group pulled out, lifted their bandanas to cover the lower part of their face. Arsalan carried the only rifle of the group so he trailed as the group approached the Kadikistani bar. The group of men ran as quickly as they could, busting open the door - immediately catching the attention of the Kadikistani inside.
Dazed, confused, the Kadikistanis were nevertheless quick to realize what was happening and stumbled for their weapons. The Jurzani opened fire, the pops of their guns met with the screams of the young women the Kadikistani preyed upon. Whatever firefight would have erupted was quickly put down but the rapid fire of Arsalan’s rifle. Six Kadikistani bodies fell to the ground, six butchers now lay dead.
“For a Free Jurzan!” Arsalan called out to a group scrambling to make their exit.
“Let’s leave,” Arsalan called as he lead the group out of the bar and as far from the town as they could.
@Kadikistani Union