Tyvia
Establishing Nation
Northern Kapa Botjhabela
99th "Megalíx" Composite Battalion
The light titter of activity had turned into a general buzzing, especially now that a dedicated combat unit had been actually deposited unto the outskirts of Port Victoria. They'd rolled up to the camp which the 191st and 204th had erected over the past week—affectionately dubbed Isenicum after the Commodore—in a flurry of laughter, sitting high atop their trucks and personnel carriers. They exchanged some words, some jokes, and a great many fresh Alaix No. 2 cigarettes with the garrison before settling back into convoy order and mustering off towards the north. In their wake followed a small contingent of the 191st and its engineers, riding along in a handful of supply trucks and other such vehicles right after the trailblazers.
All of them were tattooed, even those who were of distinctly northern coloration. Though their stigmas differed in complexity, scope, and breadth, they were uniform in their style and color, every man painted in black on his right forearm and shoulder at the very least. It was the Raroua warrior-tradition, and it was one that the units stationed in Isarmorga happily adopted—for it had once been a Celtic custom too. Even now, many had rolled up their sleeves and proudly displayed these marks on their arms, a testament to the odd unity that had been achieved between the two peoples.
They were a varied mix of brown and white, with the majority in truth being somewhere in between the typical understanding of either. It was something they'd readily recognized, and was a point of great amusement when they were told about where they'd ship.
“Wonder how they view you island apes!” called out one lowly corporal from across the barracks, prior to their deployment, earning himself cheers, jeers, and tossed underwear all in equal quantities. Laughter rang out throughout the wide hall, and the pasty white corporal's smile only grew wider.
One paragon of virtue, a man altogether looking far more “native” than many of his compatriots, had stood himself up—entirely naked—atop one of the benches. With a broad frame and black tattoos running up and down it, the accent he put on for the following show—his best impersonation of what he must have perceived as genuinely aristocratic tones—garnered an immediate reaction: “the aboriginals of these southern isles,” he said, waving a finger dramatically about, “have displayed a level of civility leagues—leagues!—above that of the natives of this . . heart of darkness!”
He had been summarily pelted with underwear.
Now, they moved north along the Himyari mainland, their fates and objectives decided in a far-off place by humorless, grey-clad men sat around—of course—mahogany tables. It was taking time, but the breadth of peacekeeping operations was already expanding quite steadily. Only a week ago, they'd been constrained to just Port Victoria, and now they were ranging as far afield as the rough uplands of the north. It was in those territories that the Tyrrhenians had run into some trouble, finding themselves amidst what was a veritable hive of banditry and unrest. While there were no significant urban centers there either, it was nevertheless imperative to secure the country's frontiers—smuggling across them could serve to funnel arms into the wrong hands at this point.
As they moved further and further from Port Victoria, they entered the lands which had been scoured clean, thousands of refugees having made their way progressively south and towards the coast throughout the fighting. What forage there had been was now gone, and many of the crop-fields which previously dotted the landscape were burnt. With the dry season now in its advent, it was far too late to re-knit the earth and sew the seeds in time for the next harvesting period. It would have to wait for the next season, by which time many would starve with their food stores and reserves emptied by war and refugees. Thus, one or two trucks would break off from the main convoy and grind to a halt beside some of these larger settlements along their route. This was why the 191st had sent out its engineers, for they'd been tasked with enabling subsequent humanitarian efforts and relief throughout the area. Always, they announced their intentions first—entering these villages with interpreters in tow—and spoke to the local elders, chiefs, headmen, or what-have-you. While they did not explicitly ask for consent, they nevertheless made an effort to gauge the local feeling before beginning anything like preparations for construction.
Their goal was fairly simple. Whereas the 99th battalion continued north with the stated goal of aiding the Tyrrhenians, the 191st was to erect a series of supply outposts and minor depots. First just along the major arteries heading north, but thereafter to spread out along the other roads running west and east. The purpose of these facilities was to serve as staging and housing grounds for both peacekeepers and foreign humanitarian workers, as well as relief and distribution points for aid. It was on that basis that they were placed upon the most significant roadways and beside the larger, more economically-relevant settlements, with the hope that it might have a genuine impact that way.
“This ain't going to be a hell of a lot of fun,” commented the same pale corporal, sitting among his compatriots in the personnel carrier behind the leading—armoured—vehicle. He waggled a finger sagely in the air, his dark eyes flickering between the assembled men as he made known his wisdom: “fucking guerillas. Bandits, man, I read their fucking news! Live in the bush and the hills, man, like whole clans of 'em!”
One trooper was unimpressed. “You can read their moonspeak runes?” he asked, to general laughter.
“Ain't ever known ya' to mind the bush too much,” another added, garnering a similar reaction.
“You guys just wait,” the corporal simply replied, grinning wide even as he shook his head with exasperation, “you just wait.”
Port Victoria
1st ER Logistics/Medical Battalion
What was worse than a hungry man, Brícca mused, was one that was also idle. He'd seen it demonstrated before, when the economic recession which followed the August Catastrophe had hit Etnaea. There, in the north, criminality had increased to surprising numbers for about or year or so in the heavily-wooded areas until the economy had stabilized. Now, he wouldn't be surprised to see the same occur here, even in the heart of the Eastern Cape.
In his mind, independence wasn't likely to bring anything like immediate or even lasting stability. The roots of that would perhaps be planted, but it would be a long while yet before they were firm, time which would require decisive thought and action both.
He wasn't a soldier. Well, technically he was, but the youthful, fair-haired and oddly dark-skinned Cingetíbu (captain) was a member of the 1st Etno-Rarouan Medical & Logistics Battalion, which meant that he was, in essence, a glorified desk-jockey. While others were responsible for the management of supplies, he was meant to be in charge of seeing to the needs of the locals—a job which he'd initially responded to with some skepticism. He'd arrived with the 204th when it'd first shipped over, and spent the majority of the trip hurling into the sea while aboard. Then, he'd been far too occupied with helping the 204th create temporary housing for the truly shocking amount of refugees in and around Port Victoria to really consider the long-term of what to do with them.
The trouble was that many of them were unemployed. Worse yet, the majority of those were also uneducated, being therefore unable to compete with the predominantly white and educated labor-force in the area. Ideally, he supposed that they'd be repatriated to the areas from whence they'd came, but there was no way to accomplish that with current resources nor was there any reason for them to return. Yet living on hand-outs was no way to keep them happy, and it seemed clear to Brícca that resentment of such would eventually start to mount.
To this end, he'd went through his discretionary funds quite fast, handing out work to anyone that asked. They were paid far better than they likely would have hoped, all for helping the engineers, logistical teams, or assorted other units get along with their work. It was certainly expediting the process, and at the least they weren't lacking for housing at the time being.
He felt like he was running a small town, in some ways. People would come to him sometimes and ask if he could spare some money, or give them a job, or see about pushing them forward in line to see the doctors. His interpreter, a native by the name of Scipo—not Scipio—would always smile broadly at Brícca, as if amused, before providing the translation.
“He want start a business,” Scipo said, pointing idly towards the man. He stood parallel to Brícca's desk while the Cingetíbu himself sat comfortably behind it. The petitioner, a tall, thin, older aboriginal slowly gazed between the pair. From what Brícca understood, his name was far too elaborate and native for him to possibly pronounce, let alone remember.
“A business?” he asked, a brow coming up. That was a new one, to be sure. The question caused the two natives to speak further, exchanging several full sentences before they were done. Finally, Scipo let out a hearty laugh and turned to Brícca.
“He say, you tattoo-men use much men, much truck to move your food and stuff around,” Scipo, at length, provided. His hands moved creatively as he spoke, an affectation which Brícca had learned to tolerate during their association. “He say, people want go north, to go back home now war over. He say, he want money to buy bus and trucks, to make company to do that.”
Now there was a good one. He'd have to talk it through with his commanders, but--. .
“Tell him to provide me with a list of exactly what he needs by the end of the week,” Brícca instead said, making a note of this discussion on a slip of paper on his desk. “We'll review it, and if it's good, we'll give him the money.”
Smiles on all their faces, they unknowingly founded the first—with meagre beginnings—aboriginal company in the Eastern Cape that day.
99th "Megalíx" Composite Battalion
The light titter of activity had turned into a general buzzing, especially now that a dedicated combat unit had been actually deposited unto the outskirts of Port Victoria. They'd rolled up to the camp which the 191st and 204th had erected over the past week—affectionately dubbed Isenicum after the Commodore—in a flurry of laughter, sitting high atop their trucks and personnel carriers. They exchanged some words, some jokes, and a great many fresh Alaix No. 2 cigarettes with the garrison before settling back into convoy order and mustering off towards the north. In their wake followed a small contingent of the 191st and its engineers, riding along in a handful of supply trucks and other such vehicles right after the trailblazers.
All of them were tattooed, even those who were of distinctly northern coloration. Though their stigmas differed in complexity, scope, and breadth, they were uniform in their style and color, every man painted in black on his right forearm and shoulder at the very least. It was the Raroua warrior-tradition, and it was one that the units stationed in Isarmorga happily adopted—for it had once been a Celtic custom too. Even now, many had rolled up their sleeves and proudly displayed these marks on their arms, a testament to the odd unity that had been achieved between the two peoples.
They were a varied mix of brown and white, with the majority in truth being somewhere in between the typical understanding of either. It was something they'd readily recognized, and was a point of great amusement when they were told about where they'd ship.
“Wonder how they view you island apes!” called out one lowly corporal from across the barracks, prior to their deployment, earning himself cheers, jeers, and tossed underwear all in equal quantities. Laughter rang out throughout the wide hall, and the pasty white corporal's smile only grew wider.
One paragon of virtue, a man altogether looking far more “native” than many of his compatriots, had stood himself up—entirely naked—atop one of the benches. With a broad frame and black tattoos running up and down it, the accent he put on for the following show—his best impersonation of what he must have perceived as genuinely aristocratic tones—garnered an immediate reaction: “the aboriginals of these southern isles,” he said, waving a finger dramatically about, “have displayed a level of civility leagues—leagues!—above that of the natives of this . . heart of darkness!”
He had been summarily pelted with underwear.
Now, they moved north along the Himyari mainland, their fates and objectives decided in a far-off place by humorless, grey-clad men sat around—of course—mahogany tables. It was taking time, but the breadth of peacekeeping operations was already expanding quite steadily. Only a week ago, they'd been constrained to just Port Victoria, and now they were ranging as far afield as the rough uplands of the north. It was in those territories that the Tyrrhenians had run into some trouble, finding themselves amidst what was a veritable hive of banditry and unrest. While there were no significant urban centers there either, it was nevertheless imperative to secure the country's frontiers—smuggling across them could serve to funnel arms into the wrong hands at this point.
As they moved further and further from Port Victoria, they entered the lands which had been scoured clean, thousands of refugees having made their way progressively south and towards the coast throughout the fighting. What forage there had been was now gone, and many of the crop-fields which previously dotted the landscape were burnt. With the dry season now in its advent, it was far too late to re-knit the earth and sew the seeds in time for the next harvesting period. It would have to wait for the next season, by which time many would starve with their food stores and reserves emptied by war and refugees. Thus, one or two trucks would break off from the main convoy and grind to a halt beside some of these larger settlements along their route. This was why the 191st had sent out its engineers, for they'd been tasked with enabling subsequent humanitarian efforts and relief throughout the area. Always, they announced their intentions first—entering these villages with interpreters in tow—and spoke to the local elders, chiefs, headmen, or what-have-you. While they did not explicitly ask for consent, they nevertheless made an effort to gauge the local feeling before beginning anything like preparations for construction.
Their goal was fairly simple. Whereas the 99th battalion continued north with the stated goal of aiding the Tyrrhenians, the 191st was to erect a series of supply outposts and minor depots. First just along the major arteries heading north, but thereafter to spread out along the other roads running west and east. The purpose of these facilities was to serve as staging and housing grounds for both peacekeepers and foreign humanitarian workers, as well as relief and distribution points for aid. It was on that basis that they were placed upon the most significant roadways and beside the larger, more economically-relevant settlements, with the hope that it might have a genuine impact that way.
“This ain't going to be a hell of a lot of fun,” commented the same pale corporal, sitting among his compatriots in the personnel carrier behind the leading—armoured—vehicle. He waggled a finger sagely in the air, his dark eyes flickering between the assembled men as he made known his wisdom: “fucking guerillas. Bandits, man, I read their fucking news! Live in the bush and the hills, man, like whole clans of 'em!”
One trooper was unimpressed. “You can read their moonspeak runes?” he asked, to general laughter.
“Ain't ever known ya' to mind the bush too much,” another added, garnering a similar reaction.
“You guys just wait,” the corporal simply replied, grinning wide even as he shook his head with exasperation, “you just wait.”
Port Victoria
1st ER Logistics/Medical Battalion
What was worse than a hungry man, Brícca mused, was one that was also idle. He'd seen it demonstrated before, when the economic recession which followed the August Catastrophe had hit Etnaea. There, in the north, criminality had increased to surprising numbers for about or year or so in the heavily-wooded areas until the economy had stabilized. Now, he wouldn't be surprised to see the same occur here, even in the heart of the Eastern Cape.
In his mind, independence wasn't likely to bring anything like immediate or even lasting stability. The roots of that would perhaps be planted, but it would be a long while yet before they were firm, time which would require decisive thought and action both.
He wasn't a soldier. Well, technically he was, but the youthful, fair-haired and oddly dark-skinned Cingetíbu (captain) was a member of the 1st Etno-Rarouan Medical & Logistics Battalion, which meant that he was, in essence, a glorified desk-jockey. While others were responsible for the management of supplies, he was meant to be in charge of seeing to the needs of the locals—a job which he'd initially responded to with some skepticism. He'd arrived with the 204th when it'd first shipped over, and spent the majority of the trip hurling into the sea while aboard. Then, he'd been far too occupied with helping the 204th create temporary housing for the truly shocking amount of refugees in and around Port Victoria to really consider the long-term of what to do with them.
The trouble was that many of them were unemployed. Worse yet, the majority of those were also uneducated, being therefore unable to compete with the predominantly white and educated labor-force in the area. Ideally, he supposed that they'd be repatriated to the areas from whence they'd came, but there was no way to accomplish that with current resources nor was there any reason for them to return. Yet living on hand-outs was no way to keep them happy, and it seemed clear to Brícca that resentment of such would eventually start to mount.
To this end, he'd went through his discretionary funds quite fast, handing out work to anyone that asked. They were paid far better than they likely would have hoped, all for helping the engineers, logistical teams, or assorted other units get along with their work. It was certainly expediting the process, and at the least they weren't lacking for housing at the time being.
He felt like he was running a small town, in some ways. People would come to him sometimes and ask if he could spare some money, or give them a job, or see about pushing them forward in line to see the doctors. His interpreter, a native by the name of Scipo—not Scipio—would always smile broadly at Brícca, as if amused, before providing the translation.
“He want start a business,” Scipo said, pointing idly towards the man. He stood parallel to Brícca's desk while the Cingetíbu himself sat comfortably behind it. The petitioner, a tall, thin, older aboriginal slowly gazed between the pair. From what Brícca understood, his name was far too elaborate and native for him to possibly pronounce, let alone remember.
“A business?” he asked, a brow coming up. That was a new one, to be sure. The question caused the two natives to speak further, exchanging several full sentences before they were done. Finally, Scipo let out a hearty laugh and turned to Brícca.
“He say, you tattoo-men use much men, much truck to move your food and stuff around,” Scipo, at length, provided. His hands moved creatively as he spoke, an affectation which Brícca had learned to tolerate during their association. “He say, people want go north, to go back home now war over. He say, he want money to buy bus and trucks, to make company to do that.”
Now there was a good one. He'd have to talk it through with his commanders, but--. .
“Tell him to provide me with a list of exactly what he needs by the end of the week,” Brícca instead said, making a note of this discussion on a slip of paper on his desk. “We'll review it, and if it's good, we'll give him the money.”
Smiles on all their faces, they unknowingly founded the first—with meagre beginnings—aboriginal company in the Eastern Cape that day.