[quote]An offensively bright line shone through the trees and onto a silent country road. This sunlight shining down was unlike any that came before it, as it burned fiercely on the skin. The figure staggering down the road was wearing a thick coat to block it out, and tinted dark goggles. It was hard to see through them, but they were necessary in this world. He wandered half-blind, listening intently with ears lightly used. This was George Carnegie was walking down this road, his footsteps disturbing a thin layer of leaves and sticks that had lain there since the autumn. An astronomer would tell you it was springtime, but nothing obvious could tell you this. There were no snowdrops or daffodils, nor buds on the trees. There were barely even any mushrooms or mosses, which were scattered about and clinging to the roots of dead trees. It was warm nonetheless, as the sun bore down fiercely on all before it. George had heard and seen little on his travel down this road, a road whose origin was unknown, and the destination an irradiated wreck.
He was using a staff to support his thin frame, slowly working through the debris and past the occasional car, trembling as he came across anything that looked vaguely dangerous. It had been long enough now that the cars lying on the roads were bleached clean of what colour they once had, with thick scales of rust eating away at the body. He would occasionally stop and peer into the wrecked machine to see if there was anything left. Even skeletons had been picked away by creatures long dead. Now there was nothing to suggest who the prior occupants had been.
George slowly climbed to the top of a hill and finally gained his first view of the landscape that lay before him. He could see everything before him as the trees had no leaves, save for a few sickly clumps that had buds slowly emerging off their branches. A ruined manor house was also at the top of this hill, close by to some mounds with yellowed grass upon them. A river sat at the bottom of this hill, meandering into the distance and carrying undrinkable water within. There was a near-pristine town as well, although the passage of two decades since the war surely should have wrought their damage. A sign nearby the mounds said the words:
“Sutton Hoo Visitor Centre”
George was a fellow from somewhere up north, he was among the last born before the war, and among the first to experience a life solely composed of subsistence and wandering. He continued to walk down the road towards the only bridge around. It was thickly clotted with decades of mud and stained with moss and with patches of brown grass and shrubs covering it. The damage was slight however, her Victorian engineers had built it to last. The bridge was still holding steady after two long centuries, of which a tenth had been spent without human company. George walked over it and alongside a rusted railway line towards the town. Past what was once a dock, a nearby field lay witness to a storm that had devastated the area a few years prior. Flooded over and the embankments burst, fertile land had now become little more than a salt marsh. The boats were all embedded in the mud, quietly breaking down into their constituent parts. Soon enough they would be gone entirely, but their skeletons remained. His father (before his death) had been a worker in a factory in Manchester, and he remembered during his childhood working in that same factory until the machinery broke down and the army stopped guarding them. Some soldiers still prowled the country, looking for flesh. The rest were dead, or missing.
He suddenly felt something trembling under his feet. The wrought iron rails were vibrating softly. In the distance he could hear something he had never heard before. This was meant to be a silent world, and any sound was a cause enough for concern as his heart went into overtime and his brain screamed loudly to launch his body behind a car. A fraction of a second later and he was hiding behind a car and looking at the source of the sound. Before him a strange machine was limping along the rails in the same direction he had been going, a miserable device which was billowing smoke and groaning as it sauntered along towards the town – a machine unknown to George for he had never seen a steam locomotive. A piercing screech hit his ears and caused George to shout out as he grabbed his ears to block out the noise of rusted metal scraping. He continued watching as it dragged along a number of trucks which were full of sacks. After about a minute it had vanished into the distance and had left him again with nought but the sound of his own heavy breathing and the trickling of a lonely stream. Clearly somebody else was heading to the town too.
Another twenty minutes walk had proven him correct. A windmill was obviously in use, and a few houses had wisps of smoke issuing from their chimneys. But it was the soft and muffled sounds of human speech that gave him more hope than anything else. He staggered towards the town, where he hoped to find somebody that had something – anything that they were willing to part with. His bony hands were tightly clutching a small radio – something that people were now willing to trade for as many older ones had began falling to pieces. George now made his living by finding perfectly good working pieces of working technology out in the countryside (perhaps an old radio in a basement of a farmhouse, or a box of unused lightbulbs) and travelling around to swap them in return for food or clothes.
He passed by a sign that nobody could read, denoting a location that no longer existed, on a road nobody used. The town ahead of him had once possessed much more life than this – it was a major agricultural region a thousand years ago. A village had swollen into a bustling market town that exported grain. A few centuries passed before they built a bridge over the river, before a railway then snaked into the town and tied it to the wider world. Fibre optical cables tied it tighter, the town grew into a major tourist destination. The tourists stopped coming, the cables snapped, the railway became silent, and the bridge began sinking back into the mud. George was now standing in the middle of a street filled with barren shopfronts, many of them boarded up and then with the boards pried off. Similarly emaciated people were groping their way up and down the street, their heads wrapped in thick rags. They obviously had developed cataracts.
George finally found himself in a square in front of a clock that still tried to stay true to Greenwich time, although it was rare anybody could reliably correct it. A few boxes and benches with what could be charitably described as junk along with sacks and barrels were scattered about while the handful of watchful and suspicious stallholders kept a hungry eye over them. He wandered over to one and began to barter.
“It's a good radio, works well on batteries. You can listen to Beeb.” George fiddled about with the knob a bit and a loud buzzing was replaced with a dull monotone robotic voice.
“-dio 4, due to the lack of any input, the station will continue to repeat news from the last programming segment oF November 12th, 2077. In the news tod-”
Spinning the delicate little wheel once more, a new station blared into life.
“-have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?
Nowhere Man, please listen
You don't know what you're missing
Nowhere Man, the world is at your comm-”
The old stallholder was pleased by the surprising clarity of the sound. “Well, I have to say you had a good find here. You wanted this tin of spam too?”
“Those two please, thank you.” George said, pointing to the small pile of spam tins. He'd taught to say please and thank you constantly, perhaps to the detriment of many other important words and phrases. His generation had lost a few words from their vocabulary, and they tried to fill in the gaps whenever possible. The youngest children today were growing up without knowing what the word for cat was – probably because they didn't see any.
“Hard bargain, I'll give you kindling and a box of matches instead if you like.” said the vendor.
George looked down at the bundled books, which had been tied together with grass. On the top of them was a book with the title “Geometry for beginners”. The cover looked pretty nice to him. He didn't know much about mathematics, or even what “geometry” meant. His entire education in the matter was just figuring out the basics of addition and subtraction, and little else beyond that. In this world, an educated mind counted for nothing.
“Just the book there please? Can't carry them all.”
The vendor grinned widely and said “It was good trading with you”. He handed him a burlap sack with some tins and biscuits inside, in addition to the book and a matchbox.
“I don't need the matches thank you.” George said, picking them up and putting them back down on the table. He knew that it was a pretty hefty and heavy looking book, and that it would probably be a real hassle to carry around with him. But those intricate shapes on the cover – they did not deserve to curl up into soot and float away.
The vendor looked at George quizzically “How are you going to light it?”
“I know another way to make a light. More biscuits, please.” A few more of them passed into the sack.
He walked off out of the town back along the railway line. As he passed by the steam train, he noticed the engineer was desperately trying to patch it up a broken part with what looked like a rare and unblemished metal rod. The rest of the machine looked tired and worn out, an old workhorse being pushed to its limit. It was probably the only one left around here.
Turning over the bulky mass of paper in his hands, grimy fingers pulled the cover open and traced their way over the words – George could read (but slowly). He had a long journey ahead of him – perhaps he could find himself work here during the summer when the harvest came in? No radio to listen to, but he had the funny shapes in this book to admire at least.[/quote]
When next turn?
[QUOTE=robinkooli;50026185]When next turn?[/QUOTE]
probably a bit after everyone gets their turns in
-Eisen Coalition – Dr. Critic
-Citystate of Zurich - Ruski v2.0
-Drenkelinge - YogiTheWise
these guys above ^^^^^^
send in ur turns tia
Send turns or die.
It's been month since last round.
Need not worry urself, it is being written
Still writing, have this for now:
[img]http://i.imgur.com/hnPFj0T.jpg[/img]
[i]The remains of Moscow after the conflict. In recent years there has been some recovery of plant and animal life, but humans are still few in number. Most of the people here have moved south to find better conditions, but a few cling on even as new migrants come.[/i]
From what I've read so far this is going to be a great turn.
Yeah no, Sobot just revealed that denmark literally got annihilated and is no longer in this realm of existance apparently through fairy dust and wishful thinking. I'm out
[editline]10th April 2016[/editline]
Can't wait for sudden nazi zombie army to wipe out the danzig jews
I didn't know Denmark had so much salt
There is a difference between my nation being torn apart because of logic and reality, and a stalker anomalies absorbing my nation out of existence because magic
[editline]10th April 2016[/editline]
[IMG]https://i.imgur.com/a/ALneM[/IMG]
literal meme magic
[QUOTE=EuSKalduna;50103035]There is a difference between my nation being torn apart because of logic and reality, and a stalker anomalies absorbing my nation out of existence because magic
[editline]10th April 2016[/editline]
[IMG]https://i.imgur.com/a/ALneM[/IMG][/QUOTE]
you do realize he's fucking with you right ?
Sobot said I'm a faggot so I guess I'm gay
[QUOTE=TheBloodyNine;50103113]Sobot said I'm a faggot so I guess I'm gay[/QUOTE]
was there ever any question
Great turn is coming.
Can't wait to [sp]terminate[/sp] someone below me.
[img_thumb]http://i.cubeupload.com/UmhqRL.png[/img_thumb]
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZc3HrGjYno[/media]
[quote]The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because they are generally the same people. - G.K. Chesterton[/quote]
Events of the years 2190 – 2195:
-A kind of great migration begins to slowly take shape as the last decade of the century begins to pass by. Between them, the Vikingr and Drenkelings have burnt and hacked their way through much of northern Europe (especially Scandinavia) to the point that many peoples are now fleeing south – although oddly they continue to move even after news of the Vikingr migration to Friesland and the end of their activities in the Baltic becomes common knowledge. Most of the migrants happen to be Norwegian or Swedish in origin, often formerly subjects of Asmund the mad. Numbering in their thousands they have come to Germany, Poland, and the Low countries where they fight with the natives for control of the land. In consequence, the Jews of Gdansk melt back into the wilderness whence they came, always wandering in search of a home. Many Germans meanwhile move south or west, often occupying formerly abandoned lands. Already these movements have produced such a flurry of news and excitement that the Church now manages a permanent network of messengers so as to keep abreast of any new developments. As peoples move, this causes trouble – something the Church would do very well to avoid. To mark out areas that are a “No-Go” for travel on the map, they paint it black.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/HTfI9Er.png?1[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=440820&dateline=1453437183[/img]
[b]Kingdom of Cavan – Native Hunter
Leader: Peter Ó Raghallaigh
Capital: Cavan[/b]
-The years drag on, and Peters once youthful appearance begins to diminish too soon under the strain of governance and environmental radiation. Now commanding a substantially bigger kingdom, he has seen off many threats thus far – but the latest may be the biggest one yet. Recently a great multitude of villages and towns had been inspired to throw off their oppressors by banding together and fighting off IRA bands, the result of which has been a rapid loss of influence over these past twenty years. The charismatic leader of the Carrickfergus branch, Sean O Conaill managed to gather together the disparate forces of the IRA for perhaps the first time in over a century. He convinced them that unless something was done soon, they would risk extinction and giving up all that they had fought for in order to secure a free Republican Ireland, with the threat of monarchism marching upon their doorstep. Leading them altogether, he led an assault on the town of Dundalk – which in recent years was the site of frantic fortification efforts by Cavan in order to defend it from the ravages of roaming bandits. But Peter did not act quickly or decisively enough to save the town, for in 2192 a great army descended upon it and laid it to siege. The IRA fought with spears and even an old RPG that had been recovered, slowly picking away at a corner of the towns defenses and eventually breaking in. They raised the old Irish flag and played a radio message to every part of the country in range of the transmitters that the tyranny of the monarchists was soon to be at an end.
-Like the rest of Europe, these small squabbles among petty polities looked like purely internal affairs with little chance of being impacted by some sort of unforeseen external event. But the week after the loss of Dundalk, a delegation asked to see the King of Cavan. Speaking a bizarre alien language, they had brought a monk who who fluent in Latin in order to communicate between the two (without him, no progress would have been made). Apparently the Suomi of the Baltic are seeking an alliance with any group of people that weren't Vikingr raiders (their exploits have become infamous all over Europe). They are also interested in trade, having brought a number of trinkets which were graciously accepted (a horse was gifted in return, their numbers having grown somewhat) by Peter. Although unwilling to support an alliance yet, he asked to retain one of their number so that their language may be studied by monks of the Albertian Order of Banbanus and written down for posterity (a man called Seppo chose to stay). Around the same time, the Finns were asked to send out a message to Stirling on their way back home (the IRA controlled many of the routes and the Finns were the only ones granted free passage). Upon arrival, they informed the Scots of the trouble that Cavan lay in and asked to send mercenaries in assistance. The Stirling Council agreed to send several hundred Gallowglasses, and a few weeks later a sizable army had been assembled in Cavan after the Kings call for militias and retinues had been answered.
-Organized once more, Peter manages to hold off the IRA from Dundalk at a series of wooden forts along the road to Dundalk (itself recently cleared of debris and with new signposts). Over several weeks, raids on villages led to many people fleeing west into the Kingdom and pressure upon the food supplies, while others threw in their lot with the IRA. In 2193, Peter marched with a massive army of fifteen hundred (composed largely of Irish and Scots, with a few English) which snuck through some marshy bogs around several forts held by the IRA. But caught close to Dundalk, they were forced to give battle in a boggy forest. It was an unusual battle that saw the use of vicious hand-to-hand combat after most of the bullets were spent. But the battle would have been lost if not for a curious event, when Seppo was seen riding forth on a hobby horse with a gang of monks. Four of those horses were dragging an old field gun, which was quickly setup outside of Dundalk and fired upon the town wall – their mobility surprising even the IRA (horses had not been seen in battle for many years). After the wall crumbled, a group of Scots Gallowglasses hacked their way to the Dundalk barracks and pulled down the Irish flag – an act so demoralizing that the IRA army instantly broke and fled through the bogs where they were either cut to pieces by vengeful peasants or attacked by feral dogs.
-Victory was achieved at a major price. Cavan has shown herself to be supreme among the Irish, although the IRA still hold up in Carrickfergus. They have secured peace, but many people who return to their homes find them a plundered wreck. The Kingdom is wealthy from her active investments into trade, yet is in debt to Stirling for the mercenaries. Guilds have been founded in many towns to help carry on skills, while the monks have started to teach children how to read and write in Gaelic and Latin, but their efforts are piecemeal and small. Workshops slowly convert car doors into tools, pipes into shotguns, broken windows are remade into stained glass. Even two years later, after the repair of many of the fortified wooden outposts along the borders and the organization of many new Cohorts, the peace so desired by many has yet to descend upon Ireland. The island is still divided and broken, and although the rest of the island offers their congratulations and support to the King, they refuse to accept him as overlord. Every year hundreds (if not thousands) continue to die on roads to bandits, in fields to mutant beasts, and in skirmishes between the multitude of petty rulers who seek to expand their control over a ruined wilderness. After the Finnish and Scottish went back home, it would surprise anybody that a lone old man happened to wander into Cavan and asked to read some of the books at the Royal library. While there, he was surprised to see Seppo who had stayed behind. Fumbling about in his burlap sack, he pulled out a copy of the Kalevala and handed it to Seppo. Speaking in the Finns native tongue fluently, he said “Remember to keep an ear out for home, at least you still have one yet”. The man later vanished down a road to the north.
[img]http://www.mediafire.com/convkey/0c9f/vlg4wofk1ihg4m9zg.jpg[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=542325&dateline=1411600431[/img]
[b]Eisen Coalition – Dr. Critic
Capital: Eisenhollow
Leader: Varn Klausner[/b]
-Varn is old, not just by contemporary standards, but even by those who lived prior to the war. Although there are rumours of him handpicking a successor, most people see it as logical that the next in line will be somebody from among his loyal and close bodyguards (as to who in particular, no guesses have been made). His age is certainly something that is the subject of much gossip among the Swiss, and the fact that he still rules with a firm grip. Even in his own cohorts the men talk about his senility and age having dulled him, but in the year 2194 he would pull off perhaps one of the most magnificent feats ever attributed to a leader in postwar Europe. And it all began when a small trader from Zurich arrived on June 4 2192 with an excited expression upon his face and a letter saying “We agree”. The contents of the letter only becomes apparent a month later when a cart slowly rumbled into Eisenhollow carrying a number of strange crates lined with wool and straw. Inside are a number of precious batteries – the high energy density ones produced before the war for use in lighting in addition to a number of carefully repaired Light-Emitting Diodes. While both weren't particularly hard to manufacture prior to the war, the fact they exist today (albeit tarnished and worn) is exciting news – enough that a massive crowd came out of their homes to look at the batteries and the workmen utilizing them. Their purpose became clear enough when they strung up wires on poles and carefully attached the diodes to the cables at strategic points. These batteries came all the way from Zurich, where a team had successfully restored a power station to operational capacity and had now made a business out of repairing, charging, and selling batteries. In return, Eisen gives them caps or gold coins that in turn may be used to buy practically anything the heart desires. Of course, both profit from the trade immensely.
-Indeed, the new agreement seems to be very beneficial to not only both Eisen and Zurich, but the ordinary people as well. Part of the agreement sees that Zurich is now responsible for the maintenance of the trade routes in return for the right to collect taxes to pay for the patrols. While this is considered annoying by the people who traverse the mountain routes, they do appreciate that bandit activity has been pushed back to nonexistent levels. As it stretches from the Po Valley into Germany, a safe and open route now exists connecting Southern and Northern Europe – something traders begin taking advantage of as their small handcarts and donkeys plod along while laden down with goods. Permanent embassies exist in both capital cities, and the Pope is known to pay handsomely for the route to stay open so that he may maintain contact with the peoples north of the Alps. What was once a trickle becomes a stream, information flowing through the mountain passes flooding over and opening up the world that little bit more. But much of the news is worrying, as it concerns migrants heading south from threats poorly understood, and of conflicts aplenty. Varn mobilizes his men, and collects enough monies together that he meets with the leaders of the Condottieri in Eisenhollow. He gives them some money and makes the demand that if they seize Milan and reduce her to status of a protectorate for Eisen, he will reward them handsomely and will in addition throw a feast for their benefit in addition to permanent accommodation at the new Casino he has built in Eisen. Having tasted wealth before, and always hungry for more, the Italians accept.
-Nobody really expected a fight at all. Of course it was pretty different, but this job shouldn't have been too bad, or so thought Vulmaro Storto. Obviously the Milanese put up a good fight when it became obvious they could not buy their way out of it, the fight was bloodier than usual – the Milanese actually had many of their homes broken into and their possessions liberated. The Eisen flag was raised over the city and a puppet was installed. It was of great shock that the jewel of the Po Valley should fall to such outsiders, but the mercenaries cared little for that. Overloading their pack animals and carts with the booty they traveled out to Eisen where many soldiers began gambling or drinking away the fortunes they made in the war. What made it even better was that they were all being treated to a slap-up feast for their hard work. Many of the best men were given handsome prizes and flirtatious looks by the fair Swiss girls, while many bottles of beer were passed about. The music grew louder and Vulmaro found himself in a drunken stupor, laughing as he tried to roughly kiss a girl and shouting to the high heavens with the many hundreds of others. He felt himself being thrown over a table by somebody. The singing gave way to shouting and then to pain. His body burnt all over with pain and bright lights blinded his vision – in the distance he could see smoke. The girl stood above him and reached down before effortlessly sliding a knife into his neck.
-When the smoke cleared, it revealed a scene of carnage. Virtually all of the Italians had been slaughtered. The field lay soaked with blood and the blasted corpses of Vulmaros comrades. He had not noticed that in many of the crates at the party had there been explosives hidden inside. He had failed to notice that the Swiss were drinking water and milk, and had failed to see them creeping up upon the party as the night drew on. The explosions which rocked them drove the Italians into panic, and Eisens cohorts calmly and methodically murdered or captured all of the mercenaries they could find. In one fell swoop Varn had eliminated virtually every single rival of his in northern Italy and completely crushed anyone and everyone that had dared to threaten his power. Milan was nominally under his control, but the survivors of the massacre and the native Milanese had already declared independence and dared him to march on them. But they could not do anything to stop his encroaching power. Helpless, the city simply watched as Swiss soldiers patrolled the roads and kept the trade routes open, slowly sweeping down into the Po Valley – Varn now master of it all. No mercenaries or bandits dared to attack them, for at the end of this road lay a powerful city. It is no surprise that Varn did this shortly after building a casino and renovating the pleasure facilities in Eisen. The electric lights (which have not been seen in some years) should prove to be a big draw to the crowds. In a rather major ceremony, Varn demonstrated the new lights by switching them all on at once – they were so bright that they caused many of the crowd to turn away and to shield their eyes in the face of such illumination. Even a delegate of the pope crossed himself upon witnessing the spectacle, and from the space stations battered by micrometeorites above, the skeletons of the astronauts dwelling within lay witness to a faint glimmer in Switzerland. The lights were turning back on.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/A8YB8EO.gif[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=599411&dateline=1455383136[/img]
[b]Vikingr - EuSKalduna
Capital: Bardyburg
Leader: Asmund the Mad[/b]
-This is a harsh world, one in which life is nasty, brutish, and short. The Danish Vikingr are no exception, and the cruelties they have inflicted upon the world has come back to haunt them as those that hate them multiply in number like mold spores upon bread. Many have begun abandoning the settlements in Norway and Sweden for a number of reasons, most of the families having been there for barely a decade or more. Most of them are terrified of the increasing frequency and intensity of attacks upon the more northerly settlements, which have been blamed on the Dutch (it is rumored they have been encouraging others to attack Vikingr settlements). As people flee, they implore Asmund to move in order that they be saved from these dangers. Of some surprise to them however is that he marks out the future homeland of the Vikingr to be Friesland – to the west and close to the Dutch, where there also are many towns and villages that happen to hate the Danes. This minor quibble does not deter Asmund or even the people who moved down south, as the displaced Norwegians and Swedes remark that they wouldn't be safe in Denmark either. Soon afterwards he gathered together a great multitude of many of his subjects and their slaves and wisely decided to place half of them in the command of his 11 year old son Bard the ass-rider. It was thus in 2192 that the Vikingr abandoned much of their homelands and set out for Friesland. In order to shorten the journey they travel by what remains of the Kiel canal, often porting their boats overland on the stretches blocked by debris or silted up. It took an entire month, with many of the boats heavily laden with food, tools, weaponry, and a multitude of other valuables. Despite some attrition, they managed to finally establish perhaps the first true post-apocalyptic city built from scratch (existing settlements were unsuitable). It is largely constructed from timber, old bricks, and scrap metal, mostly filled with single story buildings while a large rampart surrounds the whole entity. It is named Bardyburg in honour of its humble founder.
-It's a filthy and disgusting city nonetheless. The first two years saw people shitting wherever they pleased, before a number of streets were designated for the purpose, before finally the Danes took to shitting in buckets which would be taken away by gong farmers, who used it for manure on the fields (a good way to spread diseases). In the space of but a few months these crude and barbaric peoples have managed to achieve what Indian sanitation couldn't in a millennium. Blacksmiths, cobblers, tailors, carpenters, weavers, and the varied other artisans and skilled workers are organized into their respective guilds (including two barbers who have an agreement between them to extort their customers) in the town likewise, while lands are parceled out to loyal supporters of the regime. Within a few years, there are a multitude of market stalls, workshops, housing, and even temples for worship of the one true faith. Even the gong farmers have their own guild (Shitstackers & co) which regulates the management of waste and other refuse in the city. Of course, this new city is not safe, especially when Asmund the Mad built it right next to the fucking Dutch. It is constantly harassed by attacks and skirmishes are common, especially during the early days when the great migration was ongoing. But upon having arrived, Asmund immediately organized his men based upon their place of origin (Danish units, Swedish units, etc) so as to instill a proper esprit de corps among them.
-Having now established themselves, the increasing frequency of raids and attacks upon the Vikingr has caused several problems (mainly in that a lot of people are dying). The migration opened up the old homeland to attacks and has resulted in the collapse of control there (a ship full of Finns managed to sneak by unscathed, and now the Irish are slipping by their grasp often as well). Friesland is also becoming home to an increasing number of migrants fleeing Norway and Sweden, enough to the point that much of the available land has now been seized and the settlers are now pushing inland or into less habitable areas. The Drenkelings and the varied other raiders shall cause no more pain – it is now time for the Danes to show them who are truly masters of the sea! Half of the entire horde is brought to Ouddorp, where they find a town substantially fortified and filled with angry Dutchmen. The Danes attempt to use flaming arrows to set fire to the walls, a move once seen in old holotapes that have been carefully preserved. When the walls failed to burn down (due to the Dutch weather and the fact they are made of stone), they instead shot the arrows at the inhabitants (who then hid behind the walls and shot back at them). What was going to be a quick assault turns into a bloody siege as safe upon the island the Ouddorpers simply wait for a relief force. Several assaults are brutally repulsed before Asmund decides to send the other half of his army in, many of them well-skilled with firearms. Unfortunately, the lack of training for siege warfare led to a bloody stalemate that finally ended when the Drenkelings spent a few days assembling a fleet of their own before it descended upon the Vikingr in the bay around the town. Allied with numerous other tribes who had suffered the ravages of the Danes, the Drenkelings lead the battle that developed into a bloodfest upon the boats. Desperate and vengeful men assailed one another with handaxes and bayonets, shot with bows and rifles, and even attempted to ram each others boats. Having taken severe casualties, the Vikingr soon fled home defeated. The next two years saw what remained of Asmunds Empire descend into chaos as they constantly subdued one rebellion after another while struggling to beat off the Dutch, who have created a coalition against the Vikingr. It is not looking good for Asmund, or for his son. Worse yet, even in parts of Denmark people are now fleeing to Friesland on account of even more fearsome attacks.
[img]http://i.cubeupload.com/5T5tPY.png[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=393181&dateline=1389053714[/img]
[b]Citystate of Zurich - Ruski v2.0
Capital: Zurich
Leader: Julien Walliser[/b]
-The fortunes of the Swiss have begun changing in recent years. Under strong leadership two separate states have risen out of the former cantons of the Swiss confederation. Walliser was important enough that when tales of his exploits and stewardship of his realm reached Eisenhollow the inhabitants of that city became very interested. When the delegation arrived back home two weeks after setting out, they informed Zurich of the best possible news – that not only did they agree to trade and an alliance, but that some good could come out of a permanent embassy in their respective capitals (hence the funny man who spoke German with a heavy Italian accent). Of course, when it comes to the matter of trade there is a problem in that Walliser doesn't have anything all that valuable to exchange besides what trickles over the Alps. But the books generously gifted by the Nowhere man (as he has been called) find their way into Wallisers hands. He could read, and immediately recognized the value of them (military, scientific, and mathematical textbooks), enough to the point that after ordering a Catholic priest to make some copies, he immediately grabbed as many artisans skilled in repairing electronics as he could, along with people who called themselves engineers. Their purpose - to study the books. As it turns out, there is a power station called Beznau 1 that used to provide power even after the war until it was shut down some years ago after the Swiss government collapsed. A few cohorts trooped down to the plant and cleared out the squatters who had used the substantial facilities to make themselves a home, before then Walliser led the “scientists” to the reactor. They reported that there was enough fuel left behind for the next thirty years, but that due to the poor state of electrical infrastructure it would be impossible to actually use very much of this power. Thankfully there are hundreds of old batteries lying around that didn't take too much work to repair – and they could be recharged and then ported about. Given that this is the next best solution, Walliser immediately ordered his team to work.
-The fruits of their labours came to be realized in the spring of 2192 when the reactor slowly hummed back into life for the first time. It was less impressive than anticipated as most of the lights in the facility were damaged, and the repairs crude. A little fuel was purified and put into the damaged reactor (which was repaired as best as one could manage under such circumstances) before it was switched on. It was not very impressive, for just a few lights around the facilities flickered into life. The batteries were charged surprisingly quickly (indeed, the hundreds of them lying around took a matter of hours rather than days), and soon they were forced to shut down the reactor after realizing that they had grossly underestimated how much energy it produced. A quick survey of the surrounding facilities revealed that there was maybe a decades worth of fuel that could be purified, but no more. Nonetheless, the batteries are carefully loaded onto a donkey train which carries them forth to Zurich. There, the batteries were packed into crates with careful notes explaining their correct usage. As per the agreement, the road to Eisenhollow and into Italy was to be patrolled by cohorts under the rule of Zurich. Although the tolls on this route are pretty expensive and annoying, they are better than the alternative of having your brains bashed out. Indeed, the road from Milan to Zurich is perhaps the safest one in all of Europe and as a result there is now a thin but reliable connection between north and south for the first time in many years. Whereas once there were a dozen merchants and pilgrims braving a journey, now there are hundreds of people using this road every year as they carry all manner of goods and information about them. Even some bridges were repaired and potholes were filled in with clay, and when the wooden carts carrying their precious load of nuclear batteries slowly creaked into Eisenhollow for the first time the commotion they caused was certainly not unwarranted.
-The improvement in trade has come at a great time, mainly because the little citystate was struggling for monies recently. Cohorts had threatened to mutiny due to their wages being paid in arrears, while it was hard to secure reliable supplies of munitions and replacement parts for guns. Now that they sit on a profitable trading route, they can buy all that they need, and soon this allows Zurich to fund further expansion. While Walliser decided to pull back from this latest adventure by marrying a wife and impregnating her so as to secure himself a heir, this does not mean that it wasn't interesting in itself. Several more old bunkers and fortifications from before the war are cleaned out of their bandit and wild animal residents by several cohorts that march north into Germany, while the migrants that continue to trickle down from the north are resettled in numerous other areas (mainly to the west). While they regret the fact that they often get handed crap land (with vegetation and debris to be cleared or ponds and marshes to be drained), they do appreciate the protection. Many of these new forts in the wildlands have been built not just to keep these new subjects of Zurich safe, but because of the vague warnings of the threat up north that reach the Bureau of Civilian Affairs in the form of reports. The Bureau can't manage all of the varied problems induced by migration and the conflicts between the migrants, but are certainly more capable now. Nobody now denies their usefulness after they organized the construction and expansion of a fishing village and small port on the Rhine, and they have done the best they could with resettling displaced people. But perhaps it is the fact that they dismiss some of the reports – indeed, some of the migrants hail all the way from Norway and inform the authorities that it isn't Vikings or Drenkelings or the like that forced his family to move – it was something else out there.
[img]https://i.imgur.com/VsYTxlf.png[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=526496&dateline=1429466025[/img]
[b]Pohjoismainen Unionia (Nordic Union) - Robinkooli
Capital: Tukholma
Leader: Kustaa Urho Suomalainen[/b]
-Eastern Sweden is not Finland, but it is as nearly as grippingly cold and quiet. Towards the end of the century this part of the country has come under the control of Finnish migrants led by Kuusta, and slowly but surely he begins to carve out a new society – fueled by the sheer determination of Finnish sisu. Big families are encouraged – this means a lot of fucking and pregnancies. But this means problems for women when medical science has regressed. Most children die before adolescence, and having a baby is like playing Russian roulette for the woman – many die due to complications of childbirth. The Finns have been better suited than the other European races to repopulating the empty earth – hence their increasing numbers and migrations. But they are young and full of energy that drives them forwards. It is no surprise that the army is filled with violent youths, many of them tasked with the job of patrolling the major areas close by to Tukholma and keeping an eye out for the dreaded raiders that afflict the peoples of the postnuclear world. The Finns have been lucky in that they have a lot of old military equipment kicking about back home (such as binoculars, useful in spotting), much of it brought over to Ruotsi (the new name for this land) in return for varied agricultural goods (especially dried or pickled pork, wool, leather, and some cheese) which are easier to produce here than in the homeland. Tukholma has a number of cows recovered from over the wilderness, which in combination with the knowledge of the monks has contributed to their success at establishing their new home. Some old memories of capitalism remain here, as many people are eager to establish small shops and stalls where they sell a number of scavenged goods or repurposed new ones. The half-flooded city is home to many small traders who barter with one another over old radio diodes (either for use in jewellery or a radio), shovels, and loaves of dark rye bread. Most of the radios left that still function are held exclusively by what constitutes the “army”, which uses them for communication.
-On a cold november day in the year of our lord 2191, Sampsa Pellervoinen led an expedition through the wastes out west from Tukholma under a sky devoid of light and above a ground devoid of warmth. Organized by Sampsa, the group heads out to cleanse the earth of “Fallout monsters”. After them will soon travel a group of explorers intent on uncovering “Draugen”, a prewar installation in the sea that tapped the ocean for her black blood. But that is a journey beyond them for now, as all hopes lie on finding a safe route there. The expedition snakes through the cold wasteland of Sweden, where lie skeletons of houses and humans long since bleached so as to be as white as the snow that lay upon them. Kustaa had spent some years in the monastery learning the basics of genetics, and had managed to develop a sturdier kind of tree that would take root in the barren land. Every day upon waking and before resting he would scatter seeds in the hopes that a great forest would grow to cover the earth once more. But his real prize is to plant the first oak in over a century, a task that has eluded him thus far. Upon arriving in Norway they discover many abandoned Vikingr settlements – practically untouched and without sign of struggle save for one in which an half-sunken boat named “De dappere” sat on the shore with several bloated corpses lying upon the beach. Soon after they discovered a dead oak tree with the word “Pohjola” carved into it with an arrow facing north. What happened next was unclear, but Sampsa returned with only half the expedition, claiming that monsters from Pohjola had swept down and taken the others in the nights. He swore that they changed shape and did not make a sound but for . The monks at the monastery confirm his reports by saying that they have heard nothing from Norway or the rest of Sweden in some time now, and that people are fleeing east and south out of fear.
-Such fears do not affect the hardy Finns, as in the face of danger they seem to regard it with a sigh or a small nod of acknowledgment. Kustaa himself (upon hearing the monks worried reports) found enough time to set up a musical band, drawing upon the talented musicians under his rule so that pre-war Finnish music may be played once more (mainly for military marches). He introduces a small business tax for people in the town, who have to pay a proportion of their surplus to him in order to operate freely (and also because he promises to crack down on unfair dealing). He then sent another expedition out west, which eventually ended up in Ireland and going on a few misadventures before returning with a number of bottles of Scotch whiskey, some books, a trading agreement, a map, and messages from the varied figures of post-apocalyptic Britain including the leader of a cult in York that worships “Auntie Beeb” and the Manchester United Football Team (a group of men who claim that unless a football match is played once a day before dawn, the world will come to an end). Numerous other reports exist on the conflicts between the Danes and Dutch, the proclamations of the Pope, the multitude of other peoples met thus far, and even a horse (named Pieni Hevonen). The whiskey was immediately enjoyed with such relish that an enterprising man left for Ireland with the promise to acquire more. In the meanwhile, Kustaas army (largely based upon the old prewar Finnish army) continues to steadily grow and gain power over the eastern parts of Sweden, maintaining a large continuity with the old Finns. He has maintained conscription at age 18, and has repaired a number of schoolhouses in the wilderness to train the men in the task of hunting down bandits (a job they much enjoy doing) and to read and write. Although the Finns are better educated than most these days, their literacy rates are still abysmally low (a town where a third of the people can write is rare), something that Kustaa and the monks of the Albertian Order of Henrik are trying to rectify desperately.
[img]http://puu.sh/nglc9/c43d4f67aa.png[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=130431&dateline=1442480710[/img]
[b]Drenkelinge - YogiTheWise
Capital: Ouddorp
Leader: Tomas Ingvisboerg[/b]
-During one of the retaliatory raids on the Vikingr in the autumn of 2191, reports surfaced that settlements in Norway were being abandoned as Asmund prepared himself for the great migration. Sensing opportunity they split up to intercept the people as they packed up and set sail to join the horde of Asmund. Everything from tools to clothing and slaves were captured or extorted from the terrified peasants who had given up everything they had. When the raiding captain Wilhelm asked his captives why they had refused to put up a fight and had surrendered so easily, they replied that noise would attract the Draugr of the north. He dismissed their foolish fears, but having returned home, news had surfaced of the boat “De dappere” having gone missing. Of course, Asmund had spread news that he had slaughtered every boat of Dutchmen he encountered too, so who really knows what happened? But even when the slaves from Norway arrive in Ouddorp, it does not please Klaus Voorhen. He's dying. Having made a call for revenge to be taken upon those who killed so many of his subjects, he then took to bed out of despair. Bedridden and infirm, his mind progressively decays as the years of toil and hard work pick away at the neurons connections. They misfire or die, he slowly goes blind and loses all sensation in his extremities. He began writing a book, and then as his hands withered away he began dictating it instead. Once his voice gave out he communicated by tapping. From him and onto pages of scraped rawhide does the basic tenets of a religion flow. The Book Of The Sea details an elaborate cosmology, legends, moralistic parables, and rules for the religious to live by. Although partly plagiarized from many other sources (often connected together with his imagination) it does prove to be immediately popular when read out to his subjects. Indeed, as Klaus had the completed text read back to him he stated “My job here is done” before he silently passed away. Nobody saw the light leaving his eyes, for they were glassed over with thick cataracts.
-As his body was thrown into the sea during a sombre celebration, those in attendance were already mulling over questions of succession in their mind. Voorhens young boy was clearly not mature enough, which is why they elected to get rid of him and instead have a succession crisis. Months of bickering and murders happened before Tomas Ingvisboerg quietly rose from the shadows to become the next Head Priest. His predecessor was declared a saint (something that the crypto-catholics took great offense to), although it wasn't due to any religious devotion on the part of Tomas. Indeed, he seemed to be relatively lax with his enforcement and devotion to religious law – which was more than made up for by his cunning and wisdom. He had a plan to change Dutch society – forever. Immediately he called a halt to all raiding parties and ordered them back to Ouddorp, declaring that because the Vikingr had caused such death and destruction and the untimely early death of their holy leader, that they were to be the subject of all raids from now on. Indeed, all those formerly raided by the Drenkelings were to be be left free of molestation as now the main target was to anybody who happened to be a subject of Asmund or his crippled son. This was a good time for it, as the Danes were moving south and west for some bizarre reason, often into dangerous lands they knew little about and where the natives despised them. As a result, the Frisians were only too happy to join the Ouddorpers as they raided Vikingr settlements, raped their women, burned the houses, and smashed the plant pots. Unfortunately such a grand army had been assembled by Asmund that these raids petered off in frequency due to the sheer terrifying size of the migratory horde. But Tomas was no fool. He worked on building a number of fortifications around the main settlements of his domain, especially Ouddorp, which was turned into a heavily fortified island complete with watchtowers and thick rubble walls. Even the ground outside of the walls was dug away and flooded to prevent anybody landing easily.
-Ouddorp continues to grow and become a little bit more sophisticated. The Irish monk who died here some years ago was venerated by the locals, so that when the next one came along they were only happy to show him around the town and to extol the virtues of their heathen god and the numerous material goods they had on offer. Tomas spoke to brother Christopher and told him that the Irish were welcome to trade here, on the condition that they didn't spread their faith. A few months later saw the first red-headed weirdo come along in a little fishing boat – laden with a number of whiskeys, clothing, some copied books, and some candles in addition to some fine cheeses amongst some other goods. Although only a handful of these Irishmen came over the years, they introduced the concept of money once more as they swapped copper slugs between one another. The Dutch, unwilling to be outdone, made pure iron versions named “St. Voorhens” as a substitute. Additionally, the Irish monks and traders often need a place to pray, so they are given permission to use a small church outside of Ouddorp – but the law mandates that nobody can see anyone worshipping a false god (the Irish can see one another). To get around this, they pray blindfolded.
-Nobody is quite sure how it began, but a tribe from Frisia reported on the movements of the Danes – a big army was coming for Ouddorp. The Irish were more than happy to supply food, munitions, and other supplies to the town. One of the Irishmen was even asked for advice on how to prepare – for he had fought in a battle back home involving a siege of a well-fortified town. His advice became crucial when the Vikingr arrived to wreak havoc. Expecting an easy fight they tried to find a gap in the walls, but when they discovered no such weak point they instead surrounded the town and attempted to scale the walls. Despite being outnumbered ten to one, the townspeople easily held off wave after wave of assaults, delaying their attackers for so long that Tomas easily managed to gather together a great horde of his own from all of the peoples who had ever been wronged by the Vikingr. From England to Poland, Asmund had made many enemies, and so it was not hard to find willing men with an axe or gun in their hands. Years of pissing off the wrong people had come to backfire hard on the Danes, as in the midst of the siege and after the arrival of more Danish reinforcements came a great fleet upon the horizon. This fleet swept down into the bay and forced the Danes into something they were wholly unprepared for – a sea battle on ship to ship combat. Raking the decks with gunfire and crossbow bolts, the coalition then jumped aboard and hacked the hapless occupants to pieces. The battle was so crippling, so damaging, that after the Vikingr fled home they stopped raiding settlements entirely. Now they are on the defensive, being relentlessly battered by those that they once oppressed. It is a mighty victory on the part of the Drenkelings, especially for Tomas. His legacy assured and the power of his country unquestioned, he can now truly make the changes that not only will he wish to see, but those that need to be done. Even the pope sent him a letter of congratulations, albeit begrudgingly and with a note on the bottom imploring him to give up his heathen ways.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/cGmqAIN.png[/img][img]https://facepunch.com/image.php?u=722776&dateline=1451174334[/img]
[b]The Worker's Council of Bavaria - TheBloodyNine
Capital: Munich
Leader: Viktoria Faust[/b]
-The war happened long ago in the increasingly murky past. The peoples of Bavaria did the best they could after war and desolation, but as the 22nd century slowly comes to an end the city of Munich barely resembles what it once was. Year by year, street by street, person by person, the city lost much of her former wealth and beauty to nature and bandits as she shrank from a cultural and economic powerhouse down into a village. The people hold an ancestral memory of the famous “Swan Knight”, a man who in the past came with his followers to rid Munich of the raiders and cannibals afflicting it. He asked only for cheese and salami as a reward, and when asked to lead them, the Swan Knight refused and left. His former lieutenants ruled in his stead, but became corrupt and reduced the Bavarians to serfs. In 2174 the people of Munich had enough – they rose up and slaughtered all of the Knights. An educated woman called Viktoria Faust was elected to be their new ruler. In her lay some old and dead ideals from the past – of a time when Socialism was more than just a forgotten word in a dusty tome. She and other Bavarians hope to bring the long dead past back to life. They even have an old gilded throne sitting in the town hall of Munich, which the Swan Knight is expected to sit in if he ever returns. Some people still leave and search for him, hoping to find his mystical castle or even him. Others say that the Swan Knight will only return at their hour of greatest need, so as to deliver them from a great evil as of yet unknown. For now, the workers council of Bavaria adheres to this strange combination of workers syndicalism, superstition, and a longing for some kind of golden age of feudalism. Led by the blonde, strong girl that was an artist and the child of idealistic parents, Munich may yet have a bright future once more.
-Viktoria has charisma and intelligence going for her, enough that she can sweetly talk others into following along with her plans. Traveling to the numerous villages around Munich she helped convince the inhabitants to form permanent militias for the first time, with the promise that if they helped protect one another and answered the call of Munich, they would be given supplies and training enough by Viktoria and the Munich council. Armed largely with a mixture of bows, spears, and some old guns (many guns also improved out of pipes), these peasant militias are largely only useful en masse. Luckily they help to deter raiders and other hostile parties from getting close to Munich proper (a major blessing in a time like this), As a consequence, people in Bavaria begin traveling to Munich once more where they settled themselves down and made themselves a new home within the ruins. Many of them fled the wars to the north, and consequently they speak the northern German dialects (or even Danish and Norwegian), which has caused some tensions. Other problems relate to the poor material conditions of the workers (or well, really subsistence farmers and artisans) that scratch at the earth for a living. Work begins on uplifting the impoverished peoples of Munich, for a socialism of poverty is no socialism. Villages and people within Munich are drafted into work gangs organized largely along military lines – this is easy to do because the former knights who ran Bavaria often had serfs work under them for a portion of the week on various projects. Most of these projects remain the same – such as repairing walls, building crude watermills, clearing vegetation, digging dykes and ramparts, etc. Some of the old roads in the Munich area are cleared of debris so that the outlying villages may travel to the town center, where a number of stalls have been erected and small traders hawk their goods. It is a kind of primitive capitalism operating under Viktorias nose, but for now pragmatism holds sway. Just like their medieval ancestors, the Bavarians are fed, clothed, shoed, and housed by the efforts of simple labourers and artisans. It remains to see how long manorial socialism can exist.
-But there are glimmers of a world beyond that. In recent years more and more people are on the move – a priest from Rome set up shop in Munich and began preaching the old Latin masses once more. There are a few traders and wanders who reveal the existence of a wider world – of vikings and kings and monstrous beasts. Viktoria saw to it that she would help to brighten the light by means of a curious policy. She ordered the erection of numerous little booths in areas controlled by the council (or well, villages that agreed to enough mutual collaborative works) guarded by soldiers. The purpose of them is that anybody wishing to send a message or small package may use these booths, after which the patrolling militias will deliver the letters to their intended recipients. They take many forms, ranging from simple lists to detailed poetry or works of prose (some of the earliest true postapocalyptic works include these letters) that convey all manners of information. Within several years, the popularity of the system is such that donkeys now carry large sacks filled with scraps of paper, bark, wood, wax tablets, and animal skins. Even peoples outside of Munich have taken to the system (especially because its free), and some of them end up flowing down roads west and south towards “Zurich” a city reportedly engaged in trade. Some scouts sent down that way to search for the legendary castle of the Swan Knight confirm the reports, that there is indeed another small civilization in the world. The occasional patrols are friendly enough, and even ask if they sent letters to Italy too. When they replied no, the patrolmen slunk past dejectedly with bags full of coins and caps strapped to their belts. The workers council continues to expand piecemeal, often including friendly towns in a semi-allied “Red line” (towns that do not wish to join, but offer to trade), and although the postal system does not cover everywhere, it is clearly popular enough that everybody wants to send letters. Even the illiterate pay (or do favours for) those that are willing to write for them, or even to teach them.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/rQLTeJR.jpg[/img]
[i]The rapid spread of diseases in the aftermath of the war was of such concern that the provisional government distributed leaflets encouraging people to kill those infected with an incurable ailment such as rabies or the Cockney accent.[/i]
[B]Current player List:[/B]
-Kingdom of Cavan – Native Hunter
-Eisen Coalition – Dr. Critic
-Vikingr - EuSKalduna
-Citystate of Zurich - Ruski v2.0
-Pohjoismainen Unionia - Robinkooli
-Drenkelinge - YogiTheWise
-Bavarian Workers Council – TheBloodyNine
[b]If you haven’t already done so, please join our group. There will usually be people chatting in the chat room after each turn is posted, so please pop in for a visit.[/b]
[url]http://steamcommunity.com/groups/FaRPG[/url]
Noice.
Restored Scarfolk holotape:
[media]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60DQ9MoreCM&nohtml5=False[/media]
[i]A copy is known to reside in the Cavan library, as does another in Ouddorp.[/i]
[video=youtube;V0yAR4MtFEI]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0yAR4MtFEI[/video][I][B]
[/B][/I] [B]“ [/B] [I]From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.[B]”[/B][/I]
[B]― William Shakespeare, Henry V[/B]
[B][I]Bro-Alliance between:[/I][/B]
[B]Nordic Union,[/B]
[B]Citystate of Zurich[/B]
[IMG]https://i.imgur.com/LLAIZhF.png[/IMG]
[I]//fyisomeartisnewandsomeold[/I]
[img]http://i.cubeupload.com/9o3dDH.png[/img]
[U][I]Nordic Union Propaganda #1[/I][/U]
[IMG]https://i.imgur.com/4QdQTCu.jpg[/IMG]
[B]The Payment for the Traitor is Death[/B]
-Eisen Coalition – Dr. Critic
-Vikingr - EuSKalduna
-Bavarian Workers Council – TheBloodyNine
i need
[editline]17th April 2016[/editline]
also there's a slot for another player if they like to join
oh shit i forgot sorry
Next turn gonna be intresting.
[quote]A river slithered down towards the sea, between her banks a clear water untouched ran. It flowed softly around twisted chunks of brown iron and through cracks in mossy masonry. Hopping over this river carefully atop rocks that poked out from under the surface was a peculiar man that bright morning.
His name was Patrick, and he was wearing a thick patchwork coat that was ragged and stained. On his head was a dented cap no longer made, around his chest a rough rope with a burlap sack. Emblazoned on his chest was the sole creative piece of art in living memory. It was an insignia of a pen and paper, designating that he was a postman. He slipped on a rock and bashed his shin, uttering a curse as it grew hot and bruised. For the first time in years somebody had again fallen into this river. The water seeped through his thick boots of hide and met with the blood trickling down his leg.
This river was no stranger to people of course. These waters had once flowed under broken trees and through the fingers of a Neanderthal washing his hands. Some of it had once been scooped up into the wine glasses of Romans in villas long ago buried. Further downstream it quietly passed by a site where once a watermill had stood a millennium prior. Some water splashed onto a Georgian red brick bridge on the verge of collapse after four centuries of long life, a bridge that Patrick did not dare use because of a couple nearby that robbed travellers.
Patrick took a few minutes to sit down and to clean his wound before continuing on his way. Here nobody really travelled, and there weren't really many people around in the first place. The sun bore down upon him, her attempts to give him skin cancer foiled by his cloak. His leathery hands held the burlap sack close to his body, for it contained a precious cargo. It contained books, sheets of paper, tablets of wood with scratchings inside them, pieces of animal skin, anything with the symbols of a language that each day fewer and fewer people spoke. It was precious not just because of the rarity of books, but because among the papers it contained some of the only words put to paper long after the deluge.
It wasn't so bad these days. People used to rush out of their fortified houses to scratch at the dead soil or to lay in ambush for a few hours at a time before they ran back inside for safety. Whenever somebody passed by in those days, it usually ended badly for either party as initially hot lead and then much later cold rock would strike bone and crack it in such confrontations. Patrick could walk confidently with a stride in his step as he made his way down the road – to his side were groups of people hunched over, wielding hoes and shovels that they prodded the earth with. They were aware of his presence and did not flee nor attack him, since he did a valuable service for the struggling hamlet of Greendale. Nestled away in Lancashire, the only reason that anybody bothered collecting the mail from here was because it happened to be on a relatively important road connecting several towns – they held maybe a few thousand residents between them.
A small old women prodding away in these fields saw Patrick and called him over, before she quickly pulled back her hood and hobbled over to the side of the road as she carried a bag filled with numerous small trinkets and some food. She began babbling to Patrick in the local dialect, and at great pain he asked her to speak slowly as he found her hard to understand. He was able to mentally translate roughly what she said into the older English now rarely heard.
“I've got a letter for you to take to my son, you'll write it down?”
At least he think he understand her, the second part of her message seemed difficult to understand. In her attempt to make up for her lack of vocabulary, she was stringing together all sorts of bizarre sounds and tacking them onto her words to the point that he was seriously considering whenever or not to write it down in her own words or in the language that nobody spoke anymore. Well, Patrick excluded (no matter how rusty his English was).
“I'm sorry Mrs Goggins but you're going to have to speak more slowly.” He pulled out a pen and began to transcribe the message before giving up halfway and then simply writing down everything phonetically. It looked an ugly mess, and some of the sounds had to be improvised – he made a note by adding little slashes through some of the letters to help him remember. Patrick then read it out loudly to Mrs Goggins.
“That's it, perfect. You're speaking like one of us now!” She then fumbled about in her bag and pulled out a loaf of dark bread and pressed it into his scarred hands.
“For you to be doing this is a real godsend to us, most of us durst not leave in case of the bandits or devils dwellling down the roads. He's a good boy, working out there and sending us back the little things we all need here.”
Patrick looked down at the loaf in his hands and held it closely. “Thanks Mrs Goggins, I'll be sure to get it to your boy.”
Being well-regarded in this little community, Patrick was called into the settlement where the several families living were eagerly asking him to take this small item or that piece of paper, while he handed out a few things wrapped in cloth. Lighters were eagerly sought after, and a workshop down in the ruins of what was Manchester had made itself a profitable existence by selling lighters (along with needles and pins) to people throughout Lancashire. He left and went back to the river as he continued on his run. It was quiet, save for the occasional chirping of a bird. Recently he'd heard them here and there, but until now he had never actually seen one in the flesh. Looking over the river, he saw a tree entirely dead save for a branch which had grown out of the side and was now flowering. Perching on it was just one robin singing a song, a song so entrancing that Patrick couldn't help but stop and stare at it. So much so that he wished he could hear the singing of birds wherever he went in the world, and not just here. He was rudely interrupted when he heard the sound of thunder and a blow to the side of his head.
Coming back from a concussion later, Patrick found his arms bound behind his back and squashed against the ground as he lay slumped next to a tree. Hot and damp, his scalp was stuck together with bloodied mud and missing a cap. He could hear the little robin chirping away nearby while two figures sat nearby with their hunched backs turned to him. They were rummaging through his bag, evidently upset by the grunts they were making.
“Hell he doesn't have nothing on him, just this bunch of shit here!” said the hunched figure with long matted hair.
The other figure, with shorter hair and a deeper voice boomed “He's got bread on him and some lighters, those'll do us well”
“He's a postman, they're more valuable selling than eating these days.” spat out the companion of what Patrick believed to be a man (although both voices were hoarse and animalistic, one was definitely deeper and sounded like it belonged more to a bear than a man).
“Grab him, we'll see if we can sell him off.” Patrick wasn't sure about which of them said this, for he lay in a daze where his vision swapped between blurred images of a forest and a sharp focus on individual trees. He could hear the robin still singing, although he was unsure whenever or not he was the only one to hear it. After being forced to get up, his two attackers then dragged him along down the road towards the red brick bridge. On the way he stumbled over a manhole cover from Victorian Liverpool, and the rope leading him was tugged on.
“How the hell are we going to sell him? We haven't done this before, let's just eat him instead of going to this hassle.” complained what was once a man.
“Because we can get more this way, some people want live ones so they can put them to work”
They reached the bridge, where underneath was a small shack that had been built into the arch out of scrap metal and wood. The original core of their home had once been a car from the twenty first century, long since twisted and cannibalized out of recognition into the latest construction to grace this ancient river. It smelled strongly of sweat and burnt oak inside. Patrick was tied to a post outside of the bridge. The robin had followed him (or perhaps it was a different robin?) to this bridge, and it was chirping loudly.
“Will you do something about that flying shit that won't shut up?” squawked the crone to her accomplice. He grabbed a pole while his partner stooped into her squat dwelling, and began to whack the branches of the tree with it. The persistent robin merely flew into a higher branch and taunted him with a triumphant tweet.
“Stop arsing around and get rid of that bloody thing whatever it is!” came a shout from in the house.
The crook quickly stooped into the house as Patrick slowly came to his senses as he watched the bird. He tried to struggle against his restraint, with no reward save for ropeburn. Out of the house came the man, his arms thick and troll-like. Pulling back on a huge bow he took aim at the robin and shot it off its perch, the arrow not just going through it, but causing the poor creature to disintegrate entirely. Happy he had gotten rid of the problem, he went back into his home to argue with the closest thing to what a wife might be. Outside, Patrick saw another robin fly down and sit on the branch in the same spot as the previous one. It began singing.
More shouting from under the bridge was followed by another arrow shot, but this time it narrowly missed the robin. It immediately flew down and into the house whereupon the couple inside began arguing and then the sound of broken crockery and pans slamming against hard surfaces could be heard. The commotion got worse and as Patrick looked on he could see pebbles rolling off the bridge and the aged masonry starting to give way. This bridge was once the pride of the local brickworks, which had spent a considerable sum of money on it. It was money well-spent, because the bridge was built to last. While it survived the nuclear war, it did not survive the robin. The whole western section collapsed into the river, crushing pretty much everything underneath it (including the pole that Patrick was tied to). Dusting himself down and picking through the rubble he eventually found his bag with all of the papers safely inside. He got up and washed his head and hands in the river, his blood mixing with that of the bodies underneath the rubble. When the water came out of his ears and he could hear clearly once more, he could hear the singing of a little robin, and some other birds too. At that moment in time, Patrick felt that he was a really happy man.[/quote]
story about a postman is in ireland even though i invented the postal service blyat noob messengers
nice story tho
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