Patriotism is a Choice

Roleplay Library Unsorted RP
,
1

“So you gonna tell me now, that the King isn’t the King anymore, that the country has… nine kings?.”

“Naoi Ree.” The stoic expression on Sergeant Meiriceá Fausner was unhalting, it was unwavering in the slightest way as she said those words, spoke Gaelige as she had so long begged to speak without flaw or halting shouts. The language of her mother and her mother’s parents before that, the language of her forefather’s and of the blood she felt flowed best through her veins.

As the Sargent’s verdant eyes gave a winter-cold glance to the t-shirt wearing young man in front of her, as he lay crumpled on the ground. He had been carrying a rifle, apparently staying in his home for the past few months, living off stockpiles. His own eyes hit her with all the fury of heated steel through hay.

Those eyes of the young man brushed against the red haired young warrior, over her every shape, noticing the olive fatigues she wore and the polished black boots, noticing more over a symbol which was way way too reminiscent of another flag than his own nation’s, it bore the harp of Ireland’s old high Kings, but the harp was clearly a deep, martian mud like orange. The harp over a deep navy which covered each canton, and which bore six red stars around the harp.

It wasn’t the pennants flown by any Warreic army he knew of, and that meant this woman was an invader, even if she had just dropped him to the ground in a series of three movements, he couldn’t just give up. He was born Warreic and he wouldn’t let his nation be stomped upon by the boot of an invading army without a fight. Hell, with the way that Connor Daghill was raised, the army this woman represented would be lucky if they didn’t start to have mortars shot at them.

“Pogue Mahone!” he roared, and threw himself from the ground to charge at the woman -whom sidestepped and moved to bring down her elbow-, but that wasn’t all he did, throwing himself to the ground in a swinging motion and hitting the Sergant with the sidewards motion of his body as his hands gripped the grass below him for dear life.

And so a pride more over pride and misunderstanding than patriotism and hate had begun, and so it continued on with a rolling pair, a soldier and a vigilante, both a bit right, both a bit wrong, and both throwing elbows, knees, headbutts, and punches as they tried to pin the other and interrogate them.

2

Aishmar, Shahaale (the Dark Island), the Jeneras

“Impressive, ain’t it? Will ya look at that, kid?”

Aliya Hazraat peered over her shoulder at the man sprawled on the nearby park bench. It was considered impolite to hassle a Gendarme in full uniform, although strictly speaking she had ended shift and wasn’t on duty at the time. He was older - human, she noted - with flecks of gray framing a head of sharp red hair and a wardrobe that was well out of date and as disheveled as her City Patrol armor own was neat.

“Go on, take a look. Storm’s a’ coming.”

The Gendarme looked at the section of sky that the man was pointing at. Sure enough, it was dark, playing host to a proud fleet of fat, looming thunderheads. At face value, this would not be a surprise. The Dark Island was aptly named, and for more than one reason. One of those reasons was that it was just that: dark. Two hundred and fifty days of the average year saw no direct sunlight fall upon any given point of the island. This was quite fine for Kandari like Aliya, and the Dead felt that they did not lose much, but it was still disheartening to the human population.

And yet, something was…wrong…with the storm. The wind on the ground blew south, but the clouds moved north from the sea with unnatural speed. The clouds were too dark, like the onset of night, and their lightning flashes too bright, illuminating the city below where living and dead resided together. Occasionally there was a flash of deep blue instead of bright white, a dim, almost imperceptible glow moving amongst the clouds for but an instant before vanishing.

“You’d best get indoors.” Aliya gestured out to sea as the clouds moved in. “We’d best get indoors.” She corrected. “That looks like it’s gonna be bad.”

“Storm’s a comin’…soon. Not today.” The man smiled, and as quickly as he had appeared, he was simply gone. The shock of his disappearance was superceded by that of a sudden brightening of the park on the hill, and soon the whole city. The sun shone in vivid beams through the ragged remnants of dissipating stormclouds.

The hell? The Gendarme began walking back to the station. Someone would hear about this - but then, as she would later find, it would not be the only strange event reported that day, nor would that day of oddities be the last.

3

My father wanted all his life to be a simple shepherd. He wanted it and no more, but the political situation here in the Cuige Riocht stopped him. Too little real government, too little protection for those of us who don’t live in one of the walled settlements. Pirates, Psychopaths, and Phantoms, they’re all running about in this place. He told me that from the time I was able to walk, every night when he called me into the settlement’s walls and latched it shut.

He told me that our ancestors were warriors, that my own grandfather was a Warreic Ranger, the scourge of bandits, murderers, pirates, and Elafosians alike. He told me that my grandfather had fought in no less than three wars, had been through the whole of the Warreic Isles and he had been through plenty of the Jeneras too. Leon Donnall, his name was, 1st Lieutenant with the Rangers. He told me this and he told me stories of our ancestors in Ireland, of days in lore. He told me these things when I asked him why he prepared himself at any moment to defend himself and those he loved. He told me them to explain the way of my people, as he taught me to herd sheep and cattle. He told me them as he taught me to fire a rifle.

But I didn’t understand it until the raiders hit my clann’s estates. I didn’t understand it until I saw them mow my father down. We’ll see how well their own warrior spirit compares to hollow point rounds.

The Woods outside of Cameleon, Abalon, The Jeneras

He put the journal down, placing the sixty cent spiral the ballpoint pen in his haversack, and picking up the six times his age hunting rifle up from it’s perch on a nearby stone. Even at this time of year, Abalon was still vibrant, the land of apples apparently protecting the plants from the chill that the cool wind sent up the people’s spines.

Leon Donnall III, of Abalon, was a young man with a mission, and he wasn’t the only one who had the mission. A handful of survivors had come out of the raid, the last eight or so people of the settlement of Cameleon, they all had the same rage burning in their hearts to a point.

The raiders, hell, all the pirates of the Crimson Feather, they’d know the taste of cold steel coming down on them. It was, after all, a fifty minute march to the coast line, and the raiders didn’t know the landscape enough to be able to navigate it with ease.

As a few bullets were loaded into his rifle, Leon let out a whistle, and the group began it’s hunt.

4

Merlin’s Cove, Abalon, The Jeneras

Three long days had passed, days of little sleep and much travel. From the Woods outside of Cameleon in the far south of the island to this north-eastern settlement which held no more than twenty souls, they had traveled. This place which was known by such a strange name because of the specific breed of Pegaline which frequented it of their own accord, and because of the almost ethereal cove it sat above, nestled into the coast and cliff side.

Along the way, the hunt blistered somewhere between a rushing run and a slow stalk. And along the way, Leon Donnall the III and his fellow Cameleonites picked off the raiders one by one, traps and bullet fire stopping them and forcing them to find a different route than hitting the coast line.

By now the group of eight had swelled to no less than forty, as Leon and his fellows stopped the Pirates from hitting the towns, villages, and homesteads along the way. The lights of the town could be seen even now and the raiding group of twelve or so was still about a half-mile away, only visible from the eerily shining moon above.

Weapons were prepared, safeties turned off, blades drawn. As the half-mile closed, the sky went dark, clouds covering the clear night. Thunderclaps and rumbles consumed the sound-ways around them, sonic pollution causing disarray and confusion. It was chaos and darkness for a moment, fear rushed into the hearts of the hunters, and then lightning flashed, giving a clearer view of the sea below Merlin’s Cove, and the dozens of pirate ships below, some with military grade hardware and artillery aimed directly at the helpless town above.

There should have been calls of retreat, there should have been calls to reform. But a silent, balled fist called out “Hold!” from the young Cameleonite farmer’s son, and so they did, watching from cover and preparing to fire on any incoming raiders.

As the enemy came to shore, bullets rang out like reverberations of the thunderclaps around them, dozens raining down from the beginning of the descent to the cove. The pirates could be seen scrambling, confused and attempting to muster for battle.

Another rain of bullets came, and then the pirates thought better. Artillery shot exploded the ground not ten feet in front of the furthest entrenchment of the posse, and things looked truly grim.

"If I die tonight it will be in a rain of blood of my enemies. I will feel no fear, I will embrace only fury. I will be a lion amongst men, I will tear my enemy asunder.

By god, by god."

5

Lumina

Aidan lurched to his feet, slipping once or twice on the steam grate and the rainy pavement. The voices were calling again. He knew better then to ignore them. He’d tried, once. They’d laughed and spoken even louder, drowned out his whole world in their cacaphony. When he came to, he was fired, divorced, tossed out of house and home. They didn’t like being ignored.

That was a year ago. He was still wearing what he had been wearing then, as the wide berth that pedestrians gave him reminded him. They’d visited him many times since, they’d told him to tell people what they showed him. Every time, he’d been ignored. And he’d been right! He’d always been right, Aidan thought. When he’d told people about the coming of the eight crowns, people had laughed at him then, but who was laughing now?

He stumbled forward, into the crowd of walkers whose umbrellas held off the rain that drenched him. The vision was ahead. He gazed at it, he walked toward it. “Look!” He shouted, to no avail. “Look ahead! Can’t you see it?” No one saw it, no one even listened. Some of them probably were used to thinking there was a crazy man on this street corner. “I’ll tell you what I see. Up! Up, out of the depths! The dreamer wakes, he wakes alone in the darkness! The water is deep, but still he wakes!” Aidan’s voice was shrill now, frantic; the people needed to know what they were showing him. “The deep water flows…look, it is flowing over the land, the people are drowning, all drowning, choked by the water! The dreamer’s deep water! Up! Up, out of…”

“Shut up!” Someone smacked him on the back of the head; he felt dizzy, and the vision changed, twisted and distorted. He shouted again, louder, faster and shriller. “Look! A child is looking for his mother. He went to sleep and when he awoke she was gone, all gone. He is looking for his mother. They sent men after him to stop him from finding her. He destroyed them, so They sent tanks, and ships and planes! They sent missiles streaking across the sky, and they didn’t even slow him down! A child is looking for his mother, always looking, never stopping…”

At this point, several someones pummeled him from several different directions, and Aidan crumbled to the pavement. The vision faded in the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. They hadn’t listened, just as before. They were laughing now, but who would be laughing when it all came to pass?

6

Merlin’s Cove, Abalon, the Jeneras

Leon’s Militia had nearly fallen once, twice, three times. Barely skewed to beyond the reach of the artillery, and barely keeping back the bandits, they cowered against the strong rocks above the valley-cove. Whispers of prayer, grumbles of irritation, snarls of anger, they all were awash in the air around the Cameleonites, the sound of anything else blocked out, artillery shots no longer drumming against the melody of this place, the waves below too far from their ears to be noticeable.

It was an eternity of anguish and uncertainty wrapped up clear and cleanly in just a few seconds. Their survival was in question, because it seemed for a moment they had been grievously out gunned. Slowly, slowly, they began to muster their courage. Better to die on your feet than cowering in your urine, after all.

They were doomed to die, but even as young master Leon’s good eye lay down a shot on one of the more wayward bandits, the sound of all heaven singing could be heard. Automatic rifle shot from below, the grunts and screams of the bandits could be heard. The Calvary had arrived, whoever they were.

Leon squeezed the trigger as tightly as a child holding onto their mother’s finger.