Consolidation The Great War: Coming Tempest

[Anarian Nensk]

It had been months ever since Emder had fallen. Anarian Nensk could still recall the time his own regiment had been drafted for the campaign. They were in Phalwezs, at the time, patroling the border with Gallian Antiincone. Tensions between the two Realms had always been high. The latter perceived the Iron Cult as a miasma on Erova, result of uncontained rebellion rather than anything related to a religious uprising. The church itself, though dominated now by the Iron Cult, had opposed the very idea of machine-worshipping. How the mighty had fallen...

Anarian's eyes jumped up, gazing to the fleet of ships gathering beyond the penninsula. Emder had provided, at long last, a gateway to the sea. Though Anarian had seen ships crossing the swelling rivers of Ostria and beyond, to have an entire beach open for fleet assemby drastically changed the rules of the game. Along the shoreline, columns of troops marched like long serpents adorned by steel and flag fabric. The 12th Grimcoats was mobilizing. Result to the decree from the Iron Council that addressed the heresy of the King of Espada.

Anarian never truly accepted such things. His bloodline far too corrupt to find purity in any of the strange cults across the world. He argued with himself it was that particular reason why he reluctantly followed the Iron Cult's dogmatic creed. In his own mind, they did not preach about deities. They preached of machines. Of personal achievement as part of a larger unit. Anarian could see purpose in that, though he himself did not believe in the God-Machine the way the Cult would like. He followed because they gave him and his Darklings what they could not possess: A feeling of belonging.

 

[Dreadheart]

The air still carried the scent of cinder. Regardless how long it had been, ever since the war, there were yet settlements that had not been rebuilt, either as grim reminders of the fate in resisting the Iron Cult's presence, or simply neglected, choosing to abandon what was broken instead of investing time that was in scarcity already. Captain Tybog had not been in the final fall of Emder. At the time, the Iron Guard had been stuck with the desperate last stand of the Freeguilds in Gronharen. While the Grimcoats regiments advanced, the Iron Guard played the role of the consolidation force, choking any pockets of resistance in artillery fire and bayonet charges. When the Guard finally arrived at the seaside, the conflict had already ended, and the Cult's leaders negotiated with the remnant authority figures for the different spoils they would strip off Emder, before it was intergraded to the Cult's domains.

Tybog's mind was calm, this time. There was little stress, save for the occasional brawls and the sporadic raids of negligable importance against patrols, mostly conducted by either drunkards, or deranged peasants.

"This is just the beginning of this War" General Wilhelm had told Tybog, after the siege of Gronharen. Though casualties had mounted, Tybog convinced himself that it was a tedious yet not as costly operation. A mentality that was rewarded as soon as the rumours of the crisis in Sparnia came.

"This is the level of crap this century has in store." General Wilhelm had proclaimed. "Kings fancying themselves Gods, while people die in droves. There is only one God. The God-Machine, and its not that orgy-loving lunatic that rules Espada."

Though many expressed strong feelings on the topic, Tybog usually said the very basic narrative that it was expected of him as an officer of the Guard. He truly could not bring himself to care about any of this. In either case, it would be him doing the fighting and him doing the dying, so why bother under who's orders he found himself doing it?

 

[Anarian Nensk]

"The Iron Guard has reached the port. Why gather all this anyway?"

The voice belonged to Captain Omadar Uldor. He was an old comrade of Anarian, having fought side by side in many an occasion, even before Anarian's enlistment to the Grimcoats. Unlike Anarian, Omadar was a Dark Elf, able to trail his past from below the surface, in realms of the subterrain long lost to the malice of the Demonkin. Omadar himself was a child, when Anarian had fished him from the waters of the Dragon Sea. It was fated, perhaps, Omadar never to find his path in any stable soil, instead, embark in a long career of seafaring, eventually seeing himself run his own ship, as a Captain. "Dragon's Belly" she called her. How Ironic, for Anarian to hear.

"For the only reason one would even muster such numbers to begin with, Omadar. War." Anarian shook his head, folding the paper parchment he held, before turning to face the Captain. "The Council has denounced Espada. They are going to mobilize against them. Granted Espada has become an Empire in hardly a year's time, the Council wants to make an impact."

Anarian approached Omadar. The latter dressed in thick brown gabardine, stained by the salt sticking on it from long exposure to the ocean waves. Omadar did not mind. In many ways, he always wanted something of the sea when disembarking on land, to remind him of his true allegience.

 

[Anarian Nensk]

"This came in this morning, before you berthed." Anarian held the folded parchment with his two fingers, offering it to Omadar.

"Of course, their timing..." the Captain chuckled. "They want to assemble the Fleet, don't they?"

"There is no fleet, Omadar." Anarian shook his head.

The Captain picked the parchment and unfolded it, reading through with intent. His red pupils quick to widen, as a sudden surge of opportunity usurped his nerve system.

"No way..." he muttered.

"There is no fleet, Omadar, because there is no Admiral." Anarian pointed out, turning to walk towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes once more consumed by the view of the trailing troops and the sea of masts across the sea. "The Iron Council has no intention of planting any. They want a land-borne war with Espada."

"How are we to move the entire Grimcoat Regiment onto Hulva, if there is no fleet?" Omadar looked up to Anarian. His gaze filled with inquiry.

"Ask the Lord-Chalybatte... He has been appointed as the Commander-in-Chief of this campaign."

The Captain lifted an eyebrow.
"-Which- Lord-Chalybatte...? I hear the one from Oldenn has defected."

"I wouldn't read too much into rumours, Omadar. You know how the Iron Cult runs things. The more you stray from the need-to-know basis, the more exposed you are."

"I do not care about that." Omadar stepped forth, demanding. "I won't sail to face the Sparnish fleet on my own! That is suicide!"

 

[Marthaler Amslerbeak]

"But you will follow a decree of the Iron Council, will you not, Captain Uldor?"

The voice belonged to Marthaler Amslerbeak. The very appearance of the man hinted to his position among the Iron Cult. The Beaked mask a mark of his initiation in the Spires of Fuernburg. His long trenchcoat embracing the sophisticated armour worn underneath, while his wide black leather gloves strapped against his arm. His one hand resting on the rather elegant armguard of the rapier that was sheathed by his hip, under the coat.

The very sound of Marthaler made both Omadar and Anarian to stand firm, ceasing any previous discussion they might have had.

"Please" Marthaler shook his head, letting himself closer to the Darklings. His masked gaze journeying to the fleet assembled in the bay. He halted just before the edge of the cliff, besides Anarian.

"Do not allow me to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen." he exhaled, as if breathing the fresh air. He then turned his gaze over his shoulder, nodding to the two. "Continue. Captain Omadar, you were saying something about your concerns regarding the Iron Council's decree?"

The man's voice was strangely serene, coloured by a feeling of positivity regardless how that seemed faked, or at least adopted from a site of superiority...

 

[Anarian Nensk]

The very presence of Marthaler Amslerbeak was evidence enough this would be a very serious endeavour. Though the Iron Cult had a history of assigning lesser frontiers to the Iron Guard high command, or even Darkling detachments, Anarian was aware that the fact a Lord Chalybatte was appointed to lead a campaign meant the Iron Cult had no intention of keeping the confrontation on the backburner.

No, this would be merely the opening to a much larger war... Anarian could feel it to be true.

Marthaler was known for his expertise in warfare. His armies from Krahen renown still, for their ability to inflict terrible wars of terror, driven fully by zealotry and self-sacrifice. None among his ranks was fighting for coin or glory. They all fought for Marthaler. They all fought for the God-Machine... A patron venerated, yet now defiled by that blasphemous King of Espada, which the war effort was aimed towards.

"Lord Chalybatte" Anarian saluted with a motion of his head. "Captain Uldor and I were merely discussing the situation." he reported.

"Espada is helpless beyond their shores. Their navy weak, their sailors weaker still." Omadar tilted his head and folded his arms before his chest. Unlike Anarian, who had seen the Lord Chalybatte in action, he had yet to truly serve under the Iron Cult's direct command. His years spent in auxiliary duties and privateer contracts around Munria.

"I could run a blockade through any day. The Sparnish and Asterians are hardly a breed of salt..." he continued. His voice soon deepening, emphasizing the change. "My concern is Zenith. They have recently laid waste to an Alurmanat fleet outsie Badazza. A whole blockade broken within hours of battle."

 

[Marthaler Amslerbeak]

The Lord-Chalybatte listened to the Captain's words with interest. He turned his gaze back to the fleet in the distance, as if ignorance to any facial information of Omadar would allow him better judgement on the situation. In truth, Marthaler was barely evaluating the very need to keep the Captain alive. A part of him wanted to make an example out of the Darkling, for any future disobedient mind that wished to be heard. But such an act would stir trouble. Many, if not most, of the assembled ships were privateers, for the Iron Cult had not had the time or resources to construct a fleet in and of itself. Should they had, any privateer weasels would be easy to discard.

"I see." Marthaler tilted his head. "You, Captain Uldor, are worried about losing to the Southerner pirates." he pointed out. A chuckle followed.
"For a man of your reputation, I expected some more determination than I would from a young seadog..." the Lord Chalybatte turned to face the Darkling. He shook his shoulders.
"Perhaps the word of tongue overestimates your capabilities. In truth, I did seek for a capable captain to test the Zenithians, until the High Seas Fleet sails for the Black Sea. Alas. I will find another captain to lead the expedition. You may rest assured, the other commodore will be notified to keep the Dragon's Belly in auxiliary duties. So you will have nothing to fear."