"Does he always do this?"
"Every year, same day, same time... It's a damn ritual."
The sharp clink of the lighter sounded through the dead air, the noise of the slight breeze being drowned out by its power. The cold did its best to try and penetrate Carl's mantel, but the woolen greatcoat did its job well, combined with his uniform underneath, of course he could always gripe about his feet. Leather jackboots did little to combat the frigid air, nor the moisture that seeped in from the cracks and crevasses from the packed snow underfoot. Even with wool socks wrapped in fußlappen, he couldn't really feel his feet, though they'd be out of here soon enough... or so Carl hoped. "So this isn't your first time out?"
"I know you're new, but I didn't take you for a dumbshit."
"There a reason you're upset, herr Blasberg?"
"Yes... yes there is." The inflection of his voice when he replied made it known that that was all that would be said on the matter. Carl knew there was more to the matter than met the eye, but the Führer taking a drastic amount of time out of his schedule to take a trip to some remote village near Stierburg... the whole situation just didn't click for the young man. Yes, he was, as his superior had pointed out, new, but there were just certain things that were and weren't logical. Looking over the sour individual, Markus Blasberg, one could see that despite his uncomfortable body language, he was rather observant. His right arms crossed, with elbows perched atop one of the taller headstones, the pair of binoculars he'd bothered to bring with him lay dangling around his neck, the synthetic leather strap chilled the bit of exposed skin it hung on, though Blasberg was preoccupied with other thoughts to really care, least among them being the cigarette hanging limply from his lips. The Landwächter was a good choice, as secure as a military career, and a guarantee of safety for your family, considering that you didn't do anything stupid... but some of the people in it were just creepy as fuck, this Blasberg guy more than most of them. Sure, he was very dedicated, and he was, as things went, the top dog in the LW, but... something wasn't right about him. He's almost totally dedicated to the Chancellor, convinced almost always for his well-being, after his own, of course. Closing the distance between the two, Carl approached Blasberg's left shoulder, garnering a glance from the latter, who simply returned back to his vigil, though he soon spoke at the sound of Carl sighing, "He's over there."
"Where?"
"To the right, about forty meters, by the mausoleum." Nodding his head in the direction indicated, his black garrison cap shifted so minutely that one could barely tell, his close-shaven hair likely assisting in the matter, Blasberg figured that the younger man could pick out the movement among the headstones, even beside the large, monolithic monument that the old Empire had dedicated to the fallen from Stierburg, though as Carl soon inquired as to just where he was, Blasberg began to lose his temper yet again. "Do I need to give you the damn vector?"
"Er-No, herr Blasberg. I see him." The sight was odd, a nigh on abandoned graveyard, the only visitors one could see being the dark-clad men where Carl stood and the slouched figure that was the Chancellor. The situation also made Carl a bit nervous, considering that they were the only Landwächter in sight, and the Chancellor was so far away... if something were to arise, they'd be hard pressed to come to his aid. Still, if Carl knew the Chancellor's reputation, they weren't the only ones out here. It still unsettled him, though he suspected that Blasberg was fidgeting for other reasons... he was a northerner, not used to the cold down here, as one could tell from his skin tone, but what really gave it away was how he held himself; he, unlike Carl, wasn't nervous, he just seemed irate. "Herr Blasberg," The man turned to address Carl as he spoke, "just why does he come here? To Stierburg? Can't he do this on Remembrance Day in Dinsmark?" Turning back to look at the distant Chancellor, Blasberg pondered for a moment before he spoke, possibly contemplating just how little Carl knew, or simply thinking of how to answer,
"The Führer lost some friends from here in the war..." Slowly taking a drag off of the cigarette in his mouth before tipping of the accumulated ash, Blasberg brought his binoculars to his eyes as he finished, looking over the man who stood a solemn vigil near the memorial. "It means a lot to him." Sighing as his superior concluded his explanation, Carl was expecting something a bit more... meaty, if such an adjective could be used to describe it, something with a bit more weight than simply that he lost an acquaintance or two from the little backwater town. Needless to say, the puzzling situation began to drag on Carl's nerves, and a look of annoyance began to make itself a home on his face, which Blasberg, lowering his binoculars, soon noticed. "There's nothing you can do about it, Leutnant. When he's done, he's done." Carl let his tongue get the better of him as he spoke,
"Well, just what is it he's doing?"
With a slight smile, whether garnered from exposing someone's suffering or at Carl's quip, Markus simply didn't reply, only handed Carl the binoculars.
---
The sound of packed snow crunching underfoot always fell pleasantly on the ears of Otto, even if interrupted by his inconsistent steps, considering that Winter was his favorite time of year, though he could never place just what it was that made it so. Perhaps it was the serenity, or the snow... but it was probably because some people wore more clothes, much to the benefit of others' eyesight. Regardless, thoughts of the snow did not make themselves present in the mind of the Supreme Chancellor, rather his mind was focused on days past, dwelling long on the ancient memories of his childhood here in Stierburg, remembering ever more so, his family. Before he knew it, he had found himself standing, alone as he had ordered, by the Tomb of the Forgotten Landser - a monument dedicated to those who didn't come home, who were never given a final status. Hundreds of dead lay symbolically buried underneath, but most important were two names engraved on its marble walls, always he had to look for them. Standing on the only paved road that the cemetery could boast, Kampf soon stepped off, approaching the monolithic structure slowly at first, though his pace soon quickened as he grew closer, allowing his gaze to drift over the countless names... fathers, husbands, sons... He remembered the time well, a thought that sent a shiver down his spine, the first of the day despite the piercing cold. Slowing as he approached the base of the wall, he began to run his gloved hands over the engravings, sliding over a decent portion of the wall as he searched through the surnames. Budaus... Daske... Dergens... Dieter.
Gustav Dieter.
Hans Dieter.
Pausing as he found the names, he ran his hands over them slowly before unbuttoning the upper portion of his double breasted overcoat, reaching into the toasty haven created between his uniform and the lining for the inside pocket, the hand which emerged clasped two photographs, both of them faded, colorized polaroids of young men; one clad in rather casual attire, sitting atop a large rock, the other in a shirt and tie sitting slouched over a desk. Both seemed happy enough in the photos, though the latter looked slightly annoyed by the one who was taking the photograph, though he managed an amiable enough smile. Sliding the two photos together, and apart again, Kampf looked over their faces... one directly happy, the other preferring to get back to his work... Crouching low, he set the two photographs on the base of the monument, so that they overlapped each other only slightly, and reaching into his coat's hip pocket, procured a medal, the Imperial Cross of Valor, and laid it upon the two. The medal was, as most would say, unimpressive for such a weighty decoration; its ribbon was stained and was frayed in several spots, the patina on the actual medal was giving way to rust, and the enamel was chipping... but it was, for Kampf, the greatest gift he could give. They hadn't fought for the Principality, he couldn't honestly bestow upon them a decoration of the modern state, for he knew that they would, if alive, turn it down. God knew that they deserved it, deserved it much more than he. His knees ached, and though he stood back up for a moment, he decided that perhaps to sit on the lip of the memorial would be a bit better. Sighing as he made himself comfortable as possible, he pondered momentarily on his age as the strain of his belt under his overcoat tightened itself on his belly as he leaned back against the monument, he soon pushed his peaked cap back a little further on his head, revealing his forehead. Every year since the war he'd been here for them, even during the turbulent times of the Civil War, it was a dedication that Kampf took with the utmost honor. Glancing over to the portraits of the two, he soon had to turn away, bringing his right hand to his face, finding tears he hadn't realized were there.
Million mark wound, Hans. Million mark wound...
---
There are points in history where the world witnesses a tumultuous change, one so extreme that it seems, at times, that things will never be the same. Such is only a brief window into one story of such an occurrence; where one can see either the best that we have to offer, or the worst that mankind can boast. The twentieth century witnessed the rise of the imperial state of Belka on the world of Airta, known to its inhabitants as Earth, in a war that came to be known only as the Great War, having utilized shrewd grand strategy to wrestle control of a large portion of the continent from both domestic enemies, overseas adversaries, and allies who soon found themselves on the wrong side of a rifle. Reigning for almost two decades as the dominant power on the Averian continent, their people again grow restless, and nationalism under the newly crowned kaiser is at its highest point in years - already forces mobilize for another bloody war of expansion. For God and Fatherland! the posters say, though, in their might, the Belkan people have overlooked several matters of grave import, matter that, if one was not careful, could cost them not only a territory or two on the border, but a much greater price.
The first and foremost being that their 'Golden King' lies interred at the Grand Mausoleum of Dinsmark, the superb leadership of Emil Dollmann is no longer at the helm of Belka, in his place is his overlooked baby brother, Walther I. Having risen to manhood in the shadow of his celebrated older brother, it is understandable that simple sibling rivalry would drive Walther to emulate his brother's accomplishments, though the situation being what it is, his desire is amplified(or so it seems) by the clamoring of the Belkan populace and his own lacking resume. Though he has received one of the best educations that Belkan Royalty can provide for, he is still uneducated in the ways of world politics, and as such is not prepared to deal with matters than an autocracy can bring. Inexperienced and thirsty for blood, this man could prove to be the undoing of all that his brother, and those who had fought and died in the Great War, had worked so hard to achieve.
Also of note is the condition of the Belkan military, which could easily jockey for a top spot in size, though it is quickly finding itself becoming obsolete, both in physical equipment and strategy. The branch most troubled is the Kaiserliche Marine, the Imperial Navy, who, despite good showings overseas of the capabilities of the aircraft carrier, still foolishly embrace the concept of the battleship dominated conflict, a flaw which, should a competent and able navy proceed to exploit, could provide for great gain across the island chains in the southern Diorot Ocean. The Army, or Reichsheer, whichever you prefer, is as it has been for many years; in a state of limbo between readiness and lax apathy. Its divisions stand ready and able to fight, though their weapons are old, and their tactics stale. If one were to study heavily the previous wars, and compare the militaries of the Belka of old and the Belka of today, one would soon find that countering the armies of the Eagle is easier done than said. Belka has previously relied on, what were then, state of the art tactics and equipment, and though they've advanced with the times, they still find themselves a relic of decades past. Her good fortune in recent years dealing with domestic turmoil abroad in the empire has simply been due to her nigh-on-unchallengeable size and force of numbers, which could also be easily dealt with, if one had the proper head for it.
Finally, there is the matter of alienation, considering the highly nationalist and pro-Belkan policies that the Empire has followed for the past decade, they've managed not only to alienate some of those who might have proved an ally, but also those who dwell in her colonies; second hand citizens passed over by the government for 'peninsula-born' Belkans. Such actions have managed to sow the seeds of dissent, dissent that could fuel into outright revolution, if given the proper spark, and provide a death-blow to the Empire's assets in the region, especially in Freistaat Rakistan, which is nestled precariously on the northern border of ethnic Belka. Masses across the Empire yearn for freedom, yet they haven't the courage to take it... yet.
For all of these faults, Belka is not a foe to be trifled with: her air force still remains one of the most lethal in the world, her armies vast and seasoned, the industry clutched in the Eagle's talon is one of international renown, and the will within the people is without equal, if the proper leader can rouse it to his will. However, the Eagle's enemies are legion: the democracies of Averia, and of the world, have watched and waited decades for the chance to take their revenge, though they enjoy not the ironic freedom that autocracy can bring, and are plagued by the opinions of their people, where isolationism runs rampant.
Will your nation know its sovereign rights, and knowing, dare maintain?
Or is the government itself, or the administration of its affairs, better committed to one, than many?
The year is 1973, and the world stands on the brink of total war.
The Belkan Eagle is poised, ready to force itself on the land of Averia once again.
Will there be war is not the question, but will your people survive,
and will you lead them to thrive?
The Belkan Eagle is poised, ready to force itself on the land of Averia once again.
Will there be war is not the question, but will your people survive,
and will you lead them to thrive?
