Fuel, Fuel, Fuel

[Warr]

Dveria, was a place that produced hard people. Cold, with only a 10th of it’s entire territory having any prosperous growth of crops, and disastrous natural disasters an often occurrence. It was a place where few could live, but a place where the Dverians survived for untold centuries. From the time when it had been a refuge in centuries past for humans fleeing both the Vulpine Scourge of the old Vekaiyu empire, and the even older scourge of humanity known as the Sidhe, the Dverians had survived. While many outsiders considered Dverians to have a distinctly Germanic attitude and evolved culture, their culture had more underlying traditions tied to the old Celtic myths and legends. It was kin to Warre even before the Listonian incident, but until the occupation and resettlement began, few knew how akin to Warre Dveria actually was.

The Fanatic hatred which the Democratic government of modern Dveria towards the Vulpines and particularly towards Vekaiyu, it was highly justified. While in ancient times Dveria had no need of Listonia, with the population booms that came with modern technology and an influx of human immigrants, the mountainous terrain, deserts, and alpine forests that held the majority of the nation could no longer cater to the need of the Dverians. They needed Listonia and it’s massive foodstuffs, and as such the more outrageous hate groups kept their fangs off the foxes. But Dveria’s hounds, fearful for their children’s full stomachs, were no longer fearful after they saw the devestation of the Listonian Conflict, known in hushed tones by many Dverians as ‘The 6th Listonian War’.

Even with less than 23% of the previous population of Dveria still living, the new national order fostered the hounds. With bowls of plenty left by their dead cousins, they survivors of Dveria’s latest catastrophe considered themselves. And with the radicals of Warre finding much open land to hide themselves in in this new Demense of the Kingdom, this new Kingdom of the High Kingdom, the Dverian’s considerations came to national pride, and to the almost instinctual cultural fear of the Vulpine threat.

It was in this climate that the Warreic Hategroup known as ‘Cu Na Daonna’, thrived, and became a true threat. In the mountainous terrain of central Dveria, those racists (Ney, Specists), grew into a true threat, and it was there that their self proclaimed leader, disgraced Former duke of Duskendale, Third Cousin to the High King Himself, Reynald MacAodha, planned to make it a threat. To turn these small dogs into a Hound to Rival Cerberus, and like that legendary dog, guide the dead to the underworld. As the adherents of Cu Na Daonna feel they are the third head of a far greater beast, Warre, it shall be left to see if those Vulpine that should be dead will see it to come.

The wind whistled against the distant chant of the Cu Na Daonna, “May your litter welcome you home in death, chickenbandits.” And The Clouds of War were forming on the horizon, and there was nothing anyone, including the gods, could do to stop it.

[Warr]

Kenneth Wrex, that was the name he was born with. Before the Listonian Crisis, he had been a simple Dverian Gas Station Clerk. His life had been mostly happy, with the prospects of a happy marriage large for the young man. He had a long time girlfriend, and she loved him, and he loved her. Only a few hours of driving from his home in Clarksten, Dveria; and he’d be with his girlfriend in her home in Jekra, Listonia. Those were the happiest times of his life, but the Vulpine extremists within Listonia and Vekaiyu pushing it’s agenda had ended that.

Six months of being a vagabond, searching through the dead, and killing the things which used to be his countrymen. Four months of savage action to return for savage action. Six months of searching, and he still hadn’t found her. She had been killed by the riots, or the gas, or the raging beasts that had once been men. But in the end, Wrex couldn’t help but reason she had been killed by the Vulpines. If Listonia didn’t have any Vulpines, Anna would still be alive. The ghastly conflict which occurred before would not have happened, and the President wouldn’t have resorted to the Rage Gas.

By the end of the fourth month, the wild roaming, scavenging, and brooding had turned Kenneth Wrex into someone else, and when he met the mysterious person in a pale Mahogany trench coat that bore the faint insignia of the Cu Na Daonna, keenly replacing what had once been the insignia of the Warre Rangers on that coat. The man was dressed in the dress uniform of the Warreic Military, but had that same symbol that was on his shoulder, on his beret.

This man, who tried to calm Wrex out of shooting him, asked a simple question. “Would, Anna want revenge? If you had died would she have went after the beasts who did this? Those foxes in human dress aren’t fooling the Hound of Men’s noses, and they’d not have fooled her’s. They shouldn’t fool your’s, either. Let us teach you, and you’ll be able to do more than snap at their fingers. You’ll be able to rip out their jugular.”

And so the pup waddled off to become a full grown dog. Kenneth began to vanish with those words, and someone else came to take his place.

[Warr]

Mí Fhéilire Níos Moille.
Months Later.

In the time since the incident, it had been one of the quickest growing outposts of civilization and active government within Dveria, and it had been renamed Port Na Aodh at the insistence of many of the native Dverians, claiming better luck would come with a new name for Rivamot. Of course, the Warreic who had settled there or lived there as apart of the occupation forces turned national guard laughed at the irony of naming such a place Port of Fire. Rivamot-Port Na Aodh was famously cold during the nights, when the gulf winds rushed in through the bay. The winds made things bonechillingly cold for those who weren’t bundled up correctly, and made any fool dumb enough to swim in the bay or fall in the bay during the night to swear up and down they thought they were about to get frost bite.

And it was in this cold weather that Kenneth Wrex, shuffled towards the exits of the open air area that served as the customs building, waving the mahogany booklet which was his passport, a standard Passport issued by the High Kingdom of Warre, but a symbol that’d make the over worked and underpaid men and women of the custom office ignore him, even accounting for the sizable bag he carried through the metal detectors and the like, materials which in themselves weren’t dangerous, but which were banned to be carried without a permit, and would have gotten Wrex arrested if the customs officers were watching. They were simple materials to build bombs with, and tools to tweak weapons and make them rival military issue weapons.