Sunshine is speculative.

[Warre]

“The first thing we all have to learn is to breath. Before we can compute, before we can even truly live, our lungs have to contract and expand, bringing life giving oxygen forward. It's something that a lot of us forget when we get panicked, it's natural to do so. In times long gone, the 'fight or flight' instinct all higher forms of beings are built with could be gone along with. Now it's hard to do anything but fight, even if your first instinct is to run from the scene in a moment of absolute fear and the push to survive by distancing yourself from danger. You've got to clinch your fists, and stand your ground, even as your heart and lungs act like they're as panicked as a herd without a shepherd. You have to remember to breath, to let in some deep, cool air to calm your spirit, your mind, your heart. Without remembering to breath, you'll be running until there's no more earth to run to.” - Dóiteáin Na Rygard

Stoirmmaigh, Duchy of Rygard – It was summer, yes, but that didn't make the days any brighter for the majority of the population of Rygard. Even after eight years, things weren't as bright here as they were in the rest of Warre. After the demi-revolt of the 'Province' of Rygard, with it's Arch-Duke had tried to politically maneuver into a position within the council of Ri. With the threats he wielded, removing Rygard and it's resource reach areas from Warre via requesting another nation to annex Rygard under special provisions; or attempting to establish Rygard as it's own independent nation apart from the rest of the Ard Riocht, it was inevitable what would have come. The Arch-Duke Ryaner MacFergus Ui Rygarcht; the clanntairna and sovereign over Rygard provoked what was nothing less than a civil war. The good old High-King [Then a young High King] discussed the matter of the Arch-Duke and the Arch-Duchy, of the threats that the Arch-Duchy of Rygard had levied in its efforts to be recognized as a full Flaitheas/Ri* in it's own right.

That had been the breaking point of the old status quo, and the thing which inevitably made the Warreic Military begin a march upon Rygard, with many Rygardic within the Warreic Military deserted. In a momentary lapse of Judgement, Rygard nationalism flourished. And as the Lionpups came flying in, as tanks rushed forward; as significant international recognition didn't show its head, and as the Warreic High Kingdom's Special Ops troopers continued to stop the utilities, and otherwise destroy infrastructure within the Arch-Diúcacht. The holdout lasted for no more than two months, and then the greyshirts fell. All of Rygard did, at the hands of brave Warreic Marines and brave Warreic soldiers, fighting off their equally brave Rygardic cousins. It had ended bloodily, but decisively. One would be Riocht could not stand up to the Cuige. To think that it could would be was to think with the objectiveness of an infantile.

The Arch-Duchy had it's Arch-Duke given the High-King's justice, and given it by that man himself. With a face of pride mixed with humility, of no regrets at all, that ruler's head was severed by fine steel and the High King's own hand. The Arch-Duke's heir was stripped of name, of title, of all but a little wealth. He was told by the High-King that with honor and hard work he may regain his ancestor's honor, but until then Dóiteáin would be known as Dóiteáin Na Rygard, and nothing more.

Something that the cool northern Implarian air reminded him of that day as his steel blue eyes looked around the port city which was the capital of the now Duchy, Stoirmmaigh, the hold against the storm, and as he watched these distant cousins and children of the ancient Warreic, he couldn't help but notice the lack of light in their eyes. Rygard was not to be celebrated, despite the fact that it was still a huge port of entry for goods, and despite the fact that it was a place which held a great deal of resources, both renewable and otherwise, there was not the zeal that was once here. This had been the heart of Warreic expansion, tourists flocking in droves to see the castles Ryhold and Stoirmmaigh, to see the northern Warreic architecture and to see the beautiful northern Implarian alpine forests that brooked within the province.

The people were scared, they were hungry. Crime was up and the Warreic General who had been given demi-sovereignity of the territory until the High King came to another decision on the matter, he didn't care. He saw the people as tools to foster his own growth, and he genuinely considered himself as a shoe in for the man to be named as the next Arch-Diúc. People regularly were robbed, and sometimes it wasn't even by criminals. Soldiers who had spent too much time under General O'Niell's command had begun to get his attitudes, and thought that what they took from the people was their right, be it a loaf of bred, a couple Luminatas, a soda, a new television, or oh-so-occasionally, a Rygardic's daughter.

Well, that was what rumor said. Dóiteáin Na Rygard, now Ser Dóiteáin Na Rygard, Captaen of the fifth Warreic Rangers'; and back from his tour of duty garrisoned in the base which occupied the former castle Soirc; he meant to do something about it. Revolt was idiotic, and the twenty-three year old man had too much respect for the High-King to incite one. It would be subtle, and within this time home, he planned to make some sort of difference. There were more ways to help one's country than with force or shouting. He just had to do as his ancestors would. To take a step forward and remember to breath. There was no such thing as the ability to flee, no such thing as defeat. Living and speaking was enough, and that poor excuse for a General, the one who people joked was really HEirannic and not Warreic; he'd have his day. Dóiteáin was not too unlike his cousins who were the descendants of Fire. For as his name meant, given for his flaming red mane, he could help or hurt. And he wouldn't give up so long as he still had oxygen giving him the strength to breath.

 

[Warre]

It was eleven in the morning, on sunday; and despite [perhaps because of] the cool weather within Rygard, the people of the city of Stoirmmaigh were all out and about. In the old town district, young couples shopped enthusiastically; discussing different products from about, and all walking right past the Kryobaijani Yak Toys on display. Children ran through the cobbled streets happily, kicking a soccer ball amongst them and having the time of their lives. And even on this sunday, people often found themselves working or doing something productive.

Warreic Orthodoxy, 'Warreic Christianity' as the rest of the world called it; had no taboo for the day of the sabbath. Anytime one quoted that on the seventh day God rested, was typically given the comment "And do you see an aura of power about me? God may have rested on the seventh day but the one they call almighty has a lot more power - and time, to rest than I do."

But it was a day of relaxation, none-the-less. The slim few [less than 1% of the total country's population was Dominician Catholic, up in Rygard and in the even more northern Mac Lir; it was typically more like .1% of the population] might be at church, singing hymns and the like, but most just had a slower day. Sipping Coffees or Hot Chocolate, and teas or soft drinks in the more southern portions. Occasionally with some whiskey slipped in -it was the High Kingdom of Warre, after all-; but typically just slowly as they watched the neighborhood kids run about and read a book, or maybe planned for a game of rugby or Cluiche Dar Soirc of their own. People would work if they had to, or needed something done, but most of them would deal with it in the later after noon. Sunday mornings and before the hour of 16:00, that was for relaxation, a time to be reminded of the finer things in life.

Dóiteáin sat on the stairs in front of his compact two-story house -typical within this city-, his hand against the grey and red-orange brick wall, sipping a mug of coffee, enjoying the smell of the fine coffee beans -Republican Del Sur coffee beans if the merchandiser was to be believed- as he drunk them. His eyes were calm and cool as he looked about, hearing the shouting cheers of the soccer children horde, and the stampede of their sneakers as they ran down the street. They even sung an age old song, as they marched forward with great speed.

"Táimid Tá Thuaidhaigh, Táimid Tá Thuaidhaigh, Táimid Tá Thuaidhaigh!" an ancient battle cry utilized by both the Rygardic and their Mac Lir cousins -oftentime rivals-; in nearly any kind of battle. "We are Northmen", was the easiest translation that could've been given to the gawking Singlish tourists who saw the children, but no one seemed to care to give them it. Not until a Warreic Royal Army MP, dressed in his Mahogany colored uniform, stopped the children with a punch to the lead kid and taking their ball.

"You're singing an illegal song, lads." The words almost a harpy's call in their amount of seething hate. "By the order of General O'Niell, Táimid Tá Thuaidhaigh is hereby an illegal phrase, used by separatists and dissidents. The Ard Ri unabashedly supports this. And now, now you're going to get the whooping your separatist parents should've given you. The MP's baton came down quick on the nearest kids, and a few other MPs -O'Niell's Cu- joined in.

All of five feet from Dóiteáin, and this all scene made rage well up in him. This was bullshit, total bullshit. More shit than all the herds of Ulaire could produce, and it made Dóiteáin's arms shiver a bit as his face reddened. It had to stop; and the Ard Ri had to be told of the General putting words in his mouth. The Ard Ri and his son definitely didn't think that about the song, they had chanted it with Dóiteáin before, at Stoirmmaigh Griffin's games, during an expedition to Mac Lir; to say the least.

The coffee cup and it's coffee became a grenade, splattering ceramic shrapnel as it exploded against the face of the lead MP, hot coffee spraying all around and his nose clearly broken.

"You Templar Sympathizing, Germanic Imitating, Your-own-Mother-fucking; idiots, had better stop. Lay another hand on those kids and I'll make sure you don't use the hand again."

Of course the children who could scampered. Dóiteáin clambered up from his staircase, and walked towards the MPs with all the malice that he could contain, his eyes narrowing with murderous intent and two of the four charging right at him with their Batons, only to have their swipes ducked and a knee clamming into O'Niell's Cu #1, and a firm grasp grabbing him by his Mahogany uniform's collar as he lurched forward from the knee, and all the while using his other arm, his forearm in fact, to stop the other MP's baton from hitting his face. It made a slight grimace appear upon his face, the impact causing significant pain, but not slowing him in slamming the first dog of the General O'Niell into the one who had hit him with the baton.

And then Dóiteáin was hit by the fourth one, who he hadn't seen in the first place. Hit with what any Warreic knew was a woman's weapon, too. A taser sending him to the ground as the first MP, the Instigator of it all, walked towards Dóiteáin and the MP's two hurt compatriots; giving a stupid 'conquerer's grin'.

"You're going to go jail for that shit, you stupid Rygardic scum. You know that, right? And no one's going to be able to help you, you probably have no friends outside of this town, right?"

There was a brick, two inches from his grasp. As the shocks slowed Dóiteáin reached for it, and moved as if to push himself from the ground. The first MP stepped forward, and in the second he thought he'd be kicking Dóiteáin in the ribs, Dóiteáin was instead flooring him with a brick, and spinning around to slam a knee into the fourth MP's stomach and an elbow into his face, while throwing his other hand into a vice grip on the taser to remove it from the MP's grasp.

It began to rain and clouds were above, but the sun was beginning to shine through the cloud canopy.