Warre
Establishing Nation
- Joined
- May 13, 2010
- Messages
- 1,384
- Nick
- Warr
“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.
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.