Chivalry was once exterminated by the sharp end of the bayonet and a few well aimed balls of lead, one by one targeted squarely by droves of grizzled old agrarians dying for or beside their young sons on the scorched earth of neighbors passed. While these flames took mere days to extinguish or burn out, the fury of revenge continued to stalk chivalric order deep in to the Steppes of Sarmatia where the noblemen themselves did in fact reside.
They were to be dislodged with an olive branch or adorned with the crown of death, for it was not just the will of God, it was the will of eighteen million Životun on a warpath occluded most zealously by Imperial Miedzymorze and its rivers of gold, ammunition, and manpower. What amateur historians misinterpret as the emergence of the Eastern Countries first Republic, could be more precisely classified as the perilous survival of radicals and militants unified under featureless blue banners (when not stained darker shades in the toils of mud, blood, and sweat) in the wars throughout the course of and after 1818.
True parturition to Republican Statehood took place long after the armistice at Karpatica, this in view of the fact that amidst the jamboree of revolutionary victory was a gloomy era of contretemps. Discussions between those radicals and militants were as much of a parley as the preceding negotiations with Miedzymorze. Achieving peace can be as straightforward as defeating your enemy, but living side by side with your comrades in the years that follow is easier said then done when militants and radicals are these triumphant comrades. In this realm of libertarianism, a peace was solidified upon the cornerstones of republicanism, or Unionism as the Životun were to refer to it as. Civil, International, and eventually World War would test their unified resolve deep in to the dingy foundations of freewill where ambition and greed has and shall forever persist over the tenants egalitarianism.
Aftershocks of the Great Crusade
One Snowy November in Karpatica - Životinje
Worn in by two consecutive years upon the cobblestone streets of Karpatica, Nandru's once pale white sneakers trudged through the freshly fallen snow of those early November showers. He coughed hoarsely in to a wool glove he had once snatched from a wealthy businessman on the North Side, but to no avail - the cough recurred immediately so he might have the chance to see the fog of the water in his breath encompass the snowflakes harassing his thick blocky nose.
"THEY WILL KNOW OUR NAMES!" a stentorian voiced called out from a radio attached to a daily newsstand. Nandru skidded to a halt over patches of ice to listen in: "THEY WILL SEE OUR BERSERKING FACES WHEN WE TAKE BACK WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OURS!".
"Who in the fuck is that?" Nandru asked with a terse tone, having no ear for the populist drivel assaulting the airwaves day to day.
Partially emerged from a copy of 'A Virtuous Republic', the salesmen replied "Rafal . . uhh .. Hollad, err . . yeah, the Burden of Proof guy" with a weary shrug. Not three years ago Rafal Hollad was a leading candidate for the Civil Officer position, but today only a fuzzy memory in the minds of average street urchins and newspaper salesmen.
"Blah blah blah is all I am hearing. Turn that crap off buddy" Nandru calmly ordered with no authority on which to fall back on; quick to oblige however, the salesmen nodded and clicked his radio to another local station that seemed content with simply reporting that it was in fact still snowing in Karpatica between wisecracks about Rep. Ciganeks most recent address to the Council of Nations.
Nandru shuffled on past a series of storefronts and the varying eccentrics of the Civil Capital, each presenting their own amusing sense of style or lack thereof. It was quiet, specifically for the business morning Thursday that was to be anticipated for this district, and this he was to remember as the fluttering moments of peace before a shockwaves crippled him where he stood, and a piercing blast rendered him deaf and stupefied for several seconds before complete darkness encroached recognizable consciousness.
In the shadowy lull state of unconsciousness, he dreamed of three slender rawboned prairie wolves stalking their unsuspecting prey, a beige and chestnut colored rabbit. Trotting towards their target, the two smaller prairie wolves fanned out to the right and left while the largest and most formidable prairie wolf pursued its prey with a headlong sprint. As a creature of evolution, the rabbit was immediately faster then the rather mature and grey haired prairie wolf trailing at breakneck speed. Its path was serpentine but ultimately forward in direction until reaching white rapid streams, where the two junior wolves were ready with teeth snapping as they closed in for the kill.
Suddenly the rabbit squealed and wailed like, well, like a human woman. Nandru was thus slowly stirred to the demands of reality by shrieks, his mounting headache, and the pounding of winter boots rushing by. Still paralyzed from free movement, Nandru contemplated on the taste of his warm flowing blood as it filled his mouth. Flames engaged the downfall of snow, and had begun spreading over on to anything that might burn.
"Move on or be moved over, eh" a sarcastic mass of a man standing over him said, nudging Nandru's arm carelessly of what pain from injury he might feel. He coolly scanned the horrific scene with his eyes, not returning them to the motionless lump at his feet as he insulted his condition further "We'll get'em for this . . Or, at least I will. . You'll probably watch it on T.V."
Nandru struggled to his feet, fighting sharp pain in his joints that caused in him to elapse an embarrassing moan, "Who did this, who the hell did this?" he said without yet gaining a respectable composure.
"We did'nt see their faces exactly, you know? It'll take some investigation of that blast to put a name to this detonation" the emotionless authority figure replied, "I'm ready to get out of this freezing hell, how about you, huh?". Shivering beneath his dark blue overcoat, the military policemen of almost twenty years rubbed his hands together with a chuckle.
Taken aback, he just shook his head and sighed over this mans strangeness, Nandru did, otherwise shellshocked and preoccupied by a throbbing pain. Clearly, the Union had already dispatched a litany of investigation wings from several self-important government organizations, but Nandru already knew, "Bunch of God Damned Militants probably" he contended "They have no fucking concept of our . . " he abruptly gagged blood in to his wool glove " our fuck, fucking Democracy".
They were to be dislodged with an olive branch or adorned with the crown of death, for it was not just the will of God, it was the will of eighteen million Životun on a warpath occluded most zealously by Imperial Miedzymorze and its rivers of gold, ammunition, and manpower. What amateur historians misinterpret as the emergence of the Eastern Countries first Republic, could be more precisely classified as the perilous survival of radicals and militants unified under featureless blue banners (when not stained darker shades in the toils of mud, blood, and sweat) in the wars throughout the course of and after 1818.
True parturition to Republican Statehood took place long after the armistice at Karpatica, this in view of the fact that amidst the jamboree of revolutionary victory was a gloomy era of contretemps. Discussions between those radicals and militants were as much of a parley as the preceding negotiations with Miedzymorze. Achieving peace can be as straightforward as defeating your enemy, but living side by side with your comrades in the years that follow is easier said then done when militants and radicals are these triumphant comrades. In this realm of libertarianism, a peace was solidified upon the cornerstones of republicanism, or Unionism as the Životun were to refer to it as. Civil, International, and eventually World War would test their unified resolve deep in to the dingy foundations of freewill where ambition and greed has and shall forever persist over the tenants egalitarianism.
Aftershocks of the Great Crusade
One Snowy November in Karpatica - Životinje
Worn in by two consecutive years upon the cobblestone streets of Karpatica, Nandru's once pale white sneakers trudged through the freshly fallen snow of those early November showers. He coughed hoarsely in to a wool glove he had once snatched from a wealthy businessman on the North Side, but to no avail - the cough recurred immediately so he might have the chance to see the fog of the water in his breath encompass the snowflakes harassing his thick blocky nose.
"THEY WILL KNOW OUR NAMES!" a stentorian voiced called out from a radio attached to a daily newsstand. Nandru skidded to a halt over patches of ice to listen in: "THEY WILL SEE OUR BERSERKING FACES WHEN WE TAKE BACK WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OURS!".
"Who in the fuck is that?" Nandru asked with a terse tone, having no ear for the populist drivel assaulting the airwaves day to day.
Partially emerged from a copy of 'A Virtuous Republic', the salesmen replied "Rafal . . uhh .. Hollad, err . . yeah, the Burden of Proof guy" with a weary shrug. Not three years ago Rafal Hollad was a leading candidate for the Civil Officer position, but today only a fuzzy memory in the minds of average street urchins and newspaper salesmen.
"Blah blah blah is all I am hearing. Turn that crap off buddy" Nandru calmly ordered with no authority on which to fall back on; quick to oblige however, the salesmen nodded and clicked his radio to another local station that seemed content with simply reporting that it was in fact still snowing in Karpatica between wisecracks about Rep. Ciganeks most recent address to the Council of Nations.
Nandru shuffled on past a series of storefronts and the varying eccentrics of the Civil Capital, each presenting their own amusing sense of style or lack thereof. It was quiet, specifically for the business morning Thursday that was to be anticipated for this district, and this he was to remember as the fluttering moments of peace before a shockwaves crippled him where he stood, and a piercing blast rendered him deaf and stupefied for several seconds before complete darkness encroached recognizable consciousness.
In the shadowy lull state of unconsciousness, he dreamed of three slender rawboned prairie wolves stalking their unsuspecting prey, a beige and chestnut colored rabbit. Trotting towards their target, the two smaller prairie wolves fanned out to the right and left while the largest and most formidable prairie wolf pursued its prey with a headlong sprint. As a creature of evolution, the rabbit was immediately faster then the rather mature and grey haired prairie wolf trailing at breakneck speed. Its path was serpentine but ultimately forward in direction until reaching white rapid streams, where the two junior wolves were ready with teeth snapping as they closed in for the kill.
Suddenly the rabbit squealed and wailed like, well, like a human woman. Nandru was thus slowly stirred to the demands of reality by shrieks, his mounting headache, and the pounding of winter boots rushing by. Still paralyzed from free movement, Nandru contemplated on the taste of his warm flowing blood as it filled his mouth. Flames engaged the downfall of snow, and had begun spreading over on to anything that might burn.
"Move on or be moved over, eh" a sarcastic mass of a man standing over him said, nudging Nandru's arm carelessly of what pain from injury he might feel. He coolly scanned the horrific scene with his eyes, not returning them to the motionless lump at his feet as he insulted his condition further "We'll get'em for this . . Or, at least I will. . You'll probably watch it on T.V."
Nandru struggled to his feet, fighting sharp pain in his joints that caused in him to elapse an embarrassing moan, "Who did this, who the hell did this?" he said without yet gaining a respectable composure.
"We did'nt see their faces exactly, you know? It'll take some investigation of that blast to put a name to this detonation" the emotionless authority figure replied, "I'm ready to get out of this freezing hell, how about you, huh?". Shivering beneath his dark blue overcoat, the military policemen of almost twenty years rubbed his hands together with a chuckle.
Taken aback, he just shook his head and sighed over this mans strangeness, Nandru did, otherwise shellshocked and preoccupied by a throbbing pain. Clearly, the Union had already dispatched a litany of investigation wings from several self-important government organizations, but Nandru already knew, "Bunch of God Damned Militants probably" he contended "They have no fucking concept of our . . " he abruptly gagged blood in to his wool glove " our fuck, fucking Democracy".