MISSION: World War III: Peace and the Pestilence of RIOTE {4}

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:08 Central Time (CT)

Ah, the salty sea air... The smell of the fishes and the coral and the waves and the sea... The scent of victory on the air.

War was never fun, not at all. Strictly business, if not, then a guilty pleasure, only worth the blood, sweat, and tears to see the opposition fall beneath Gelemortian superiority. And of course the blood is Esparian, the sweat is from the celebratory strippers at the post-victory party, and the tears are manly tears of patriotism, and girly tears of Esparian men crying over being dead. Yes. That obviously made a lot of sense.

But yeah. He was now calling Vasco up on his ceeeeelluuuulaaaar phoooone. HIS ships were already en route to Esparia, of course, but VASCO'S pathetic legion of pitiful futility was of course UNMOBILISED. Though Gelemort had a RIGHT to a head start; it takes FOREVER to get to and from Gelemort, so this was NECESSARY Totally fair. Besides, they didn't even have too many strong ships. The Gelemortian navy comprised mainly of specific factions; 65% of the boats were small motorboats, fast and armed with an RPG launcher and a lot of ammo, with a two-man-crew. Easily mobilized, easily manned, easily armed, and easily replaced, in the event that one is gunned down. It happens. The next 30% would be battleships, and the last 5% comprised of his yacht, the Rapscallion's Royal Yachet, pronounced OFFICIALLY as yachet, not yacht, in the case of the title of his ship, and of his dear friend's ship, The Salazaar, accompanied by several other ragtag vessels. Anyways, yeah, he called up his nemesis on that phone of his.

"Eyyo Allende. I just wished to calls youse and tells yah, we done had enough of youse Esparians doing whatever Esparian activities youse had been up to! Soes, yeah! Oh yeah, and the fact is that if we didn't do it first, you'da done it sooner 'steada laters, so we declare war on youse guys! SO YEAH. And uh, screw youse guys and have a nice day and stuff. Peace. Erm.. I mean WAR." Okay. Now to hang up. That went well. Now to sit in his captain's chair in his cabin and stare out his fiberglass window, looking intimida-... Were those Lokhyn longboats in the distance? By golly, miss Molly, they are! REINFORCEMENTS! Or a threat. Either or, depended on Siegfried's mood, stubborn barnacle-man. BUT AT ANY RATE. He played with his radio a bit at first, sending encrypted feeds to his ships, getting everyone ready for battle.

"SHF1-10, head into position on the digital map broadcast; SHF11-20, follow suit behind them. The rest of youse guyses, break off inta groups of 20, ten main front, ten back-up, to the map locations. Battleships, meet me at the front lines. Sec, have The Salazaar right by The Rapscallion. In position mens and girlies; war's broke loose in Gele, and I'm dealing the cards." Yeah, similar to the ACTUAL quote. So what he wasn't the Charlie Daniels Band?! HE CAN CHANGE THE QUOTE ANY WAY HE WANTS TO, HE'S KING OF GELEMORT. Anywho, the longboats had entered the fray, and he had a man signal to allow Siegfried and some of his men aboard the Rapscallion. Time to see what's up...
-------------------------------------

Posting order will be as follows, to begin with;
Wolfy, Vasco, Sieg, Ranza, and then it will be a free-for-all until everyone has posted once. This is mostly to ensure pre-war fluff gets out of the way easier. ;D Oh, and have fun!~

RULES:

• The typical stuff applies. In every post, note where you are, and which PC's your post pertains to. 'Throne Room - Balthazar, Ogihci, Hei, Ace', etc.
  
• There'll be an initial posting order as dictated below, which then will become relative, meaning obviously you're not going to post five times before the person your fighting can retaliate. Use your brain.
  
• You must exit the thread before the end or your character will die.
  
• Adhere to the beginning posting order - that means don't post out of turn. Do this, you'll lose 5 points, piss me off, and have to delete and rewrite your post appropriately. You've been warned.

START ORDER:

All of these people - it's imperative you post in this order if you're specified by name.

• Wolfy
  
• Vasco
  
• Sieg
  
• Ranza
  
• Free-for-all until everyone has posted once.
  

Malos Ciudad, Presidential Palace: April XX, 2012: 01:00 Central Time (CT)

Comfortably Vasco was asleep within the confines of his bed. Feeling the warmth that comes from a concubine and sheet, aye, it was one Hell of a party with all the Tequila yesterday. In other words, he was really hammered out, finally sleep came afterwards for some good hours, only for the door to be beaten like an ostrich mating with a zebra, which infuriated Vasco to no end. It really did. His tired eyes opened to look at the source of the disturbance with great displeasure that lengthened to an abyssal maw which lacked an end. In other words, he was really pissed off.

"Senor Presidente! Senor Presidente!" The ratfaced bastard outside his door proclaimed, opening the door to be met with a shoe flung at his face. And a pistol cocked and aimed for his face.

"WHAT?! There had better be a good reason you woke me up this early, unless there is an invasion somewhere, I'll blow your brains out with my load. No homo." He said with obvious displeasure in his mighty Esparian tone that speaks authority in the end.

"Erm... uhh... well Senor Presidente, there IS an invasion commencing along. We received news from our oceanic watch there is a vast Gelemortian fleet coming for Esparia's direction! And that sir ain't him coming for some peaceful delegation."

The Presidente in his Presidential briefs leaped off the bed, and put on his dictator's cap with a clearly displeased face, slapping a bottle of Tequila aside to the ground from his bedside table and stomps his feet on the ground, "Ese hijo de puta! Viniendo tan temprano en la mañana para hacer la guerra. De todas las veces que tuvo que venir .... Las cosas son personales. HABRÁ QUE PAGAR EL INFIERNO."

Vasco breathed in and out, and gives slit eyed glares to the ratface, "Okay okay okay, I got this. I just need some coffee. Tell the admiralty to get a small crackpot fleet ready. Send out word for the mercenary guilds to bring up their best men and women, and give the orders for a squad of Bloodhounds to form up on me." He fixes his cap and walks out of his room, "And for God's sake, get some of our best Marines out there! I want there to be EXACTLY three hundred Esparians in this battle of our best!"

Six hours and eight minutes later...

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:08 Central Time (CT)

A fleet of gunships were there in an extremely loose formation in an irregular pattern, outnumbered in this battle 5 to 1 as the distance was vast between the two forces, for Esparia came right in front of them for this hearty interception. Every single Esparian men and women committed to fight against the Gelemortians, whom have seen fit to bring along motorboats of all things. Vasco meanwhile rode on a glorious and heavily armored battleship that he took up as a command center. This time, he was in his formal military Presidential uniform. Standing on top of the heavily fortified catwalk, he could go anytime within the confines of his bulletproof ship tower, but he chose to smell the sea water instead. His men needed their glorious leader at the head of this battle.

The rest of the detail of his fleet was left to Ranza meanwhile, he let his diplomat usually handle these sort of things, a chance to prove himself, that, and Vasco can't be too assed to handle EVERY SINGLE LITTLE DETAILS. He demands, and they are delivered.

He was particularly amused by Wolfgang's adorable little sissy Gelemortian message, as they declared war on them AFTER they mobilized. HAH! Vasco was in a good mood after a cup of coffee, and some medicine to get over this blasted hangover. The Esparian flagship, ENS Diego, viewed the host fleet of Gelemortian ship from the side, cannons aimed and aching to blow each and everyone of them into smithereens. Taking up a loud headphone as his flagship was rigged up with several of the loudest speakers despite the fact every Esparian has a radio on their person.

"ESPARIANS! This is where we hold them! This is where we fight! This is where they die!" The loud speakers audibly transmitted Vasco's message to all of his fleet, as they would all chant "HAROO! HAROO! HAROO!" Vasco smiled at the enthusiasm of every Esparians despite the fact they are outnumbered 5 to 1 by the Gelemortian horde, "Remember this day, men. For it will be yours for all time."

The seas quaked though with ripples at the face of the vast Gelemortian fleet, yet one lone Gelemortian barge with a messenger came. "Esparians! Lay down your weapons."

BANG!

Vasco's pistol muzzle smoked, the messenger fell off his barge for despite how far he was, it was a perfect headshot. "Gelemortians! Come and get them!" The voice speakers crackled loudly for all to hear, as finally Vasco entered back into the safety and protection of his command tower. Now verily and truly, it was left to the Esparians to show them their worth and tact!

Upon a huge longboat-inspired frigate, the AS Fenrir, a single, huge, musclebound, withered, wrinkled, and cloaked figure stood at the helm. Whereas many others had retreated below deck in the cold morning winds, as the boat sped towards Murinyo's Rapscallion, Lokhyn warrior chief Siegfried Egil Odinson stood at the helm, bracing whatever nature threw at him. It had for eighty-six years now; and at a moment like this, Siegfried would be damned if the wind, the water, the Gelemortians, or the Esparians would take life from him.

Faint shots rang out across the misty horizon, over the sound of the speeding boat; only a trained ear could hear it. A withered neck snapped towards the source of the gunfire, and its owner grasped a hammer on the floor beneath him with a single hand, not trembling in the slightest from any one of these conditions he possessed, medical, psychological, or whatnot. The hammer itself was hefty, even for a muscular figure such as Siegfried; he released a low growl from his mouth as he heaved the head of Ragnarok up through the air, and rested it over his shoulder.

The growl turned quickly to a snarl, and the snarl quickly to a roar. For Siegfried, the only thing that mattered was inner battle spirit, now. He was a diplomat when it mattered; but even at his ripe old age, eight and a half decades on, he still loved the thrill of impending battle. The steam-powered hammer hung over an aching shoulder as the primal noises escalated further, the mist and wind passing through an ancient face at breakneck speeds.

The roar levelled quickly out into a shout, a battlecry, one of the most powerful to brace the earth in all eternity. But, no; this battlecry didn't declare war, but an alliance. "...MUUUUURIIIIIIIIIINYOOOOOO!" A name. A single name, roared for thirty seconds into the wind, the water, the condensation now specking the ancient man's brow. It reverberated around their arena, a huge, boundless, open-top azure field of water, the ozone layer itself bouncing it back down, acting as the only acoustic restriction - without it, Siegfried was sure it would have pierced through to the heavems.

Stepping backwards, and letting a sharp intake of air into his lungs, Siegfried let loose a sigh, his brow furrowed now above crimson eyes. He was rested once more; he had braced the elements to make his declaration, and, now, emerging from the mist, would be the Lokhyn fleet. With the flagship Fenrir at the helm of nine others, each armed with their own individual weaponry - even as dishonourable as Siegfried found it, simple blades would not win this battle, a most integral one - so he had allowed his ships, especially those piloted by the younger sprouts, to herald ordnance of whatever variety. A Lokhyn and his weapon were never to be parted, whether it was a tool of shot or shell.

At the front of the Fenrir itself sat one ridiculously huge turret. In an earlier incarnation, it had existed for over, supposedly, two-hundred years. His great grand-daughter, or so he heard, had experimented upon it; what was once a simple harpoon now could hydraulically propel a hull-piercing perforated lance, with two-hundred metres of titanium-steel tether wire at its end, hooked up to the deck of the ship itself. Even for one who despised new technology, even Siegfried had to admit that this monstrous cannon, with a spearhead the size of his chest, was impressive, especially with its rumours of shearing through an entire Esparian ship's hull in a single blow.

Equipment aside, however, the Fenrir and the nine ships in rank behind it quickly neared the Rapscallion, sailing upon white, charging, frothy horses and the clearest, most refreshing blue Siegfried had ever seen. Turning now back to the glass, letting his hammer fall down to the ground, and using it as a makeshift walking cane - a ninety-pound makeshift walking cane, but a makeshift walking cane all the same.

"EINHERJAR!" He barked his son's full name, standing, and interlocking calloused knuckles at the rounded end of Ragnarok as the hammer's head slammed into the ground with a resounding thud. He wasn't angry, it was simply how they communicated. Lokhyn never did with anything else aside from shouts. "HERE, NOW, MY BOY!"

As the Fenrir drew up alongside the Rapscallion, the ship grinding to a halt and a number of younger men casting an anchor into the water for the time being, Siegfried turned around slowly, pivoting about the planted Ragnarok, and staring, brow furrowed, head speckled and glistening with a veil of seawater, waiting for Murinyo to show up. "MURINYO!" He released a guttural growl of the man's name once more, cursing bitterly under his breath.

When the Gelemortian monarch would appear, Siegfried would smile as pleasantly as his tribe and heritage would allow him, and offer a salute to begin to forge a peace agreement. This would hopefully be a turning point; the beginning of diplomacy, and the beginning of reclamation of Lokhyn lands, burial grounds, and heritage sites, all to come - but... first?

First... staring out into the shifting, moving, morphing blue horizon, a hand to cup his brow, and shield his crimson eyes from the pale sunlight, Siegfried sighed oh-so-gently, his voice now nothing more than a whisper upon the chorus of hissing seawaves crashing against the hulls of a fleet of ships.

First, they just had to survive the fight.

Presidential Palace
Malos Ciudad, ESPARIA
-April XX, 2012-
01:00 Central Time(CT)

Really, even he wasn't used to waking up THIS damn early. But, it was a necessity, since the Presidential Palace staff were in a mild state of panic, while scrambling about. What on earth was so distressing it required waking up everyone the first hour after midnight? He and some other fellows (not counting the Amazonian guards) were just in time to hear ...

"Erm... uhh... well Senor Presidente, there IS an invasion commencing along. We received news from our oceanic watch there is a vast Gelemortian fleet coming for Esparia's direction! And that sir ain't him coming for some peaceful delegation."

... Well ... 'merde'. ....

"Okay okay okay, I got this. I just need some coffee. Tell the admiralty to get a small crackpot fleet ready. Send out word for the mercenary guilds to bring up their best men and women, and give the orders for a squad of Bloodhounds to form up on me. And for God's sake, get some of our best Marines out there! I want there to be EXACTLY three hundred Esparians in this battle of our best!"

Well, the President's orders were orders. And there was a reason he existed and worked around at his side, to take care of the little itty-bitty details the President usually never bothered with.

-
Presidential Palace
Malos Ciudad, ESPARIA
-April XX, 2012-
02:24 Central Time(CT)

-One hour and twenty four minutes and some cups of coffee later-

The situation room was a bit of an unused relic from when Esparia used to have reasonable leaders. And that time period in history was extraordinarily brief rule, even by contemporary standards then. Still, rooms of the past sometimes served their purposes, like this one: A storage room.

Granted, a storage room with extremely tight security and intricately overlapped countermeasures against anyone without the right clearance attempting to access it, but still. A storage room. Now, what does it store, you might ask? A draft of every single plan every made by every crackpot dictat-President ... President ... that Esparia has ever had. What was he doing looking through dust and grime in this storage room? Why, none other than Vasco's first one thousand Executive Orders, deemed as the 'Anti-Gelemorte' plans and were placed in here by his orders because he decided that there was no need for them, since Esparia had simply ran over the Ciel alliance forces multiple times in the past without these things.

Still, that didn't mean they wouldn't have the plans on hand, when the attacks came or were issued. First law of running a country like a dictator surrounded by enemies ... always have your contingency plans on hand, no matter how insane they are.

-
Open Waters, Azurian Ocean
North-west of Esparia
-April XX, 2012-
06:08 Central Time(CT)

" 'Executive Order #117: A battle force of no greater than three hundred mariners remain on standby to be summoned at the whims of the President.' ... 'Executive Order #666: All active mines that were placed before the creation of a demilitarized zone will not be disabled. In addition, no fewer than three vessels of the total navy will be dedicated to mine-laying.' ... 'Executive Order #777: To accommodate the troops specified in E.O.117, at least a dozen Esparian vessels must remain available to answer the President's orders.' ... 'Executive Order #1337: Gelemortians either have a 'Mother who was a hamster and a father that stank of elderberries' or 'A blind hippo for a mother and a three-legged donkey for a father' ... otherwise known as, heckling them to death with as many creative insults as one can muster. Bonus pay will be awarded to the most creative insult (no guarantee that the pay will be given).'

... Slap me with a Monkey's Paw and call me Annie, Vasco really is a god-damned psychic.

Or paranoid.

Or both."

Yes, his peering into Vasco's executive orders revealed that El President was truly a frightening man despite his bouts of insanity. For who would have these orders about, so that he may pull together a contingecy plan when a sudden attack is launched against one's nation? And after all, these four were only some of many THOUSANDS that Vasco had written, meaning he could string another emergency contingency plan if the present one failed miserably. But, alas, that was of little concern. What mattered now was to kill the Gelemortians who had dared to bring their filthy navy into Esparian waters. It was a rather rude thing to do, and now they would receive the appropriate reprimand from the gracious Esparian hosts to the barbaric and ugly Gelemortian guests.

-Bang-

There went the messenger, and off went a signal from that shot at the unarmed Gelemortian fool. No quarter. The wretched hive of insects was to be cleansed by their holy fire, and not a single shred of their remains should be found. That was the meaning of Vasco's display, and it was an unnecessary gesture: The fleas would be washed away naturally through their normal efforts. However, if El Presidente wanted to make a point, then his example they would follow. Already, the marksmen had already readied their arms, some smiling in approval at the current course of events, others merely bored at the situation, but all in all, they were prepared for battle. The Gelemortian batch of large soap in the sea was really an obnoxious, ostentatious and utterly incomprehensible show of inanity. Really.

Already he had procured his own firearms, drawn from the limited stockpiles of guns stored on the vessel. For now, he was part of the distance team, taking aim with rifles and ready to pick off the showy heads of their snailish opponents. But, that was them. He was a little busy elsewhere, at one of the vessels that happened to be the closest to the small little boat that the Gelemortian had been upon. Oddly enough, it appeared to be some kind of motorboat, with only an unarmed operator and the now-dead diplomat. Needless to say, it was easy to rig the controls of the boat to allow it to be speeding back to the Gelemortian fleet (with now two dead corpses, as opposed to one) with an adequate sized payload also acquired from the limited stockpiles. He had some help, so setting it up was no trouble and rigging that to a timer was a piece of cake ... so much that as the boat went a-skipping back home to its origin, the Diplomat had time to access a radio set and send a transmission to the Gelemortian fleet, intending to be broadcasted on an open channel for all to hear, Meatbag or Esparian.

Attention, attention, Gelemortian Fleet. A dear message for the silly men whom you sent to their doom. 'Go back home to your caves and shoot yourselves, it'll save us our bullets and time.' From Esparia with love."

At which point the small motorboat containing the failed peacemaker then exploded. It was still a nice distance away from the Gelemortian fleet, enough that the explosion didn't do anything to them (except maybe improvised shrapnel from various components of the vessel), but close enough that they could tell that the men were dead ... and if they weren't, well now they were.

The Ole Miss, South City: Amestris: April XX, 2012: 02:19 Central Time (CT)

Well then, this was to be a nice day. Sec had a very good feeling about it. Most certainly, nothing could POSSIBLY ruin i- Well, wait, what is this? A call on his cellular telephone? Well, he would be obliged, obviously, to answer it! And so he did.

“This is the phone of Secundina-”
“’ELLO BROTHER!~”
“Ah. Darkamaru. Lovely speaking to you. Is there any re-”
“Don’ stan’ near the door, unless you wan’ ta get smashed!~”

Well, Sec had no idea what that implied, but he was at his desk when the door was PLOWED. DOWN. By two small figures, one recognizable as his brother, and the other looking like his brother, if he was a somewhat promiscuously dressed girl. Well that mea-… “You… You are…”

“Hiya bro!~ Name’s Darkii Invidia, don’t question our parents’ stupid names, as they were probably HIIIIIIIGH as everything when we were all born. ” Well… Sec could really do no more than blink in confusion. “Hellooooo~ Earth to the beanstalk? Dark, did you forget to bring a radio headset so we can communicate with our space-bound brother’s head? I mean, he IS taller than the atmosphere…”

“You… Do you realize what you’ve caused for me? I’ve been SHOT, had my car DEMOLISHED, and had to go through agonizingly awkward situations to find you. WHYYYYY did you just CHOOSE to visit me NOW?” Sounding a bit more tired and exasperated than angry, he placed a hand to his head. So… After all this time, success. But wasted time was wasted. “Where WERE you anyways?” She then, of course, facepalmed. “Uh, well, certainly not where you were looking, stupid. I was in the Ishvallan ruins, camping out! I mean, wouldn’t that have been the FIRST place to check!?”

“…No. Why would you sa- NEVERMIND THAT. Why did you choose to come NOW of all times?” Snapping her fingers, she DID remember something important!

“Oh yeaaah! Right. Well, you know how our grandfather led Gelemort, aye?” Sec nodded. “Weeeeell, Gelemort’s about to duke it out with Esparia again. And this time, it’ll be bigger, badder and stuff. Trust me on this, I stalk political affairs. Tensions are high, and there have been rumors of war breaking loose.”

“…And this concerns me… How?” Facepalm again, via Darkii.

“Well, as you WERE the official heir to the throne, you should do SOMETHING. Genius over here got power-zapped, and excuse me for being a sixteen year old girl who DIDN’T die and come back as an all-powerful deity of sin, or join a merry band of pirates. So yeah. You’re pretty much the ONLY useful one of our happy little trio of siblings. So I volunteer YOOOOUUU to build a pirating ship, find a crew, and join Gelemort in combat. Trust me on this, you totally have to go.”

“…Seriously? I finally meet you, after such a long search, and you immediately tell me to go fight for a country I barely know about, for a cause that I don’t care about, just because you have a feeling I should? Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Yes. So, will you do it?” With a sigh, Sec was forced into a deadlock. He could fight for his case a bit longer, but women tended to win fights no matter what. There was no chance of victory. “Yes, yes, fine, whatever. But I’m going to need some supplies. Money, a crew, wood, weapons. Do you expect me to do all that for myself?”

“Yes.” And cue a sigh-fest from the First Mate of the Ole Miss…

A Cretan Dock, in Creta: Northwestern Creta: April XX, 2012: 08:28 Central Time (CT)

The Grand Salazaar. Named in honor of his own captain, Sec was to command this glorious vessel, built with some assistance by a ragtag band of street thugs, whom he had paid rather generously to be his crew. It wasn’t a big ship, but it was well stocked with cannons, a torpedo bay, and even a ballista, with which flaming arrows can be fired. That was probably the only thing Darkii paid for… So indeed. The Grand Salazaar was now properly ready to be christened, by Sec as he shattered a bottle of fine champagne on the portside of the hull. “Alright men. Prepare to board the Grand Salazaar. Take your positions, and we shall set sail on the high seas.”

With those words, Sec set sail for Gelemort. Upon arrival, he met with the Fleet Admiral, spoke some friendly words, and was assigned to sail into naval warfare with the country’s own navy. And so it began…

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:08 Central Time (CT)
“SHF1-10, head into position on the digital map broadcast; SHF11-20, follow suit behind them. The rest of youse guyses, break off inta groups of 20, ten main front, ten back-up, to the map locations. Battleships, meet me at the front lines. Sec, have The Salazaar right by The Rapscallion. In position mens and girlies; war's broke loose in Gele, and I'm dealing the cards.”

“Translation, Mr. Murinyo? Gelemortian isn’t a language I particularly comprehend.”

“Oyah, sorry Nasci! Have the Salazaar off the starboard bow’a th’ Rapscallion, eh? Cannons loaded?”

“Check.”

“Torpedoes at th’ ready?”

“Check.”

“SAM defense a go? Crew in position? Gotcher gun locked’n’loadin?”

“Check, check, and check. Anything else?”

“Prepare for war, me bredah, prepare for war. Godspeed, yah jolly green giant.”

“Over and out, Wolfgang.” Closing the com line, Sec turned to his crew. “You all heard the man. Put us fifteen meters off the starboard bow of Rapscallion’s Royal Yachet; put her at thirty knots, and have us facing south. The rest of you, I want to see manning cannons, two in the firing bay, three on deck, manning machine guns, and two guys manning my SAM guns. When Wolfgang gives us the go, I want us hitting 70 knots, straight into the predicted location of the Esparian fleets. On my signal, men. Prepare for war... ” And with those orders, his ragtag crew, muchly similar to the crew of The Ole Miss, made their way around the ship, manning positions, moving the ship, and raising the four flags of The Salazaar; the Gelemortian flag sailed proudly above, overtop the Invidia Family Crest, mounted on lavender cloth, with the Xerxian word for “Battle” scrawled over white cloth, and on its own mast, a much larger flag flew; a black cloth, decorated solely with the image of a skull and crossbones cat, wearing a pirate’s hat, in honor of the ship’s namesake, Captain Sal of the Ole Miss. A proud ship, it was, The Salazaar… And Sec stood adamantly, donning the colorful robes of his grandfather; lavender trench coat over a white suit, rapier at his hip, pistol holstered on the other, with a burgundy cape and a pirate’s hat, matching the flag of The Salazaar. A truer captain could be found nowhere but South City…

AZURIAN OCEAN - SIEGFRIED, EINHERJAR, VALDIS, LOKHYN FLEET - 6:12AM LOCAL TIME
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjVq3UahN2U

"...TONIGHT WE'LL STRIKE, THERE IS THUNDER IN THE SKY!
TOGETHER WE'LL FIGHT, SOME OF US MAY DIE!
BUT WE'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT WE MADE A STAND!
AND MANY WILL DIE BY MY HAND!!..."

Such were the words sung to the Heavens by the many Lokhyn warriors as they prepared for war. On a slightly smaller ship than his father's was Einherjar, who stood proudly at the bow, singing in his booming Lokhyn voice along with many others.

He had been called up from Briggs. His father had called and merely roared into the phone for him to go to Aevadauor. Upon complying, he was told that they were to extend a gesture of good faith to the Gelemortian people, through participating in their war. To be honest, they would have anyways; a Lokhyn man was nay a man until he slew a man in battle. As a veteran of one particularly brutal war between the ice giant and the banana midget, Einherjar was among a good few of the men aboard the Lokhyn fleet who could say he was a man. And as for the girls? Well, girls generally didn't fight with the Lokhyn fleets, rather, they'd stay home and make sandwiches, but as times were changing, more and more girls wanted to fight, and now when a Lokhyn proclaimed their desire to fight and die by the side of their brothers in arms, it also referred to their sisters in arms. Speaking of the girls, he saw one not too far off from his ship; a certain Valdis Heldatter, as her Lokhyn name was. "HEY VALDIS! ARE YOU PREPARED TO MAKE WAR WITH THE ESP-" As he opened his mouth to finish his sentence, nay, his SYLLABLE, he received a delicious payload of chocolate. I mean, he would have finished what he was saying, but he took a pudding cup to the mouth. "THAT'S NOT A VERY POLITE THING TO DO TO YOUR ELDERS... BUT THANK YOU FOR THE PRE-BATTLE SNACK."

Cleaning up the pudding, namely with his mouth, he then heard his father barking at him in a manly voice of Lokhyn. AH, WHAT HE WOULD DO TO BE LIKE HIS FATHER... "COMING, FATHER." In a manly leap of awesomeness, he jumped from his own longboat onto his father's, and stood beside Siegfried. As the sovereign of Gelemort stepped outside, he too saluted, with a grin. "MURINYO! I'D CALL FOR A SPAR IF NOT FOR THE POOR TIMING, DUE TO THE WAR!" And now to do as a good omniglot of a son should do; translate betwixt the two most powerful men in Gelemort...

AZURIAN OCEAN - SIEGFRIED, EINHERJAR, VALDIS, THUNDERBUTT, LOKHYN FLEET - 6:12AM LOCAL TIME

"...TONIGHT WE'LL STRIKE, THERE IS THUNDER IN THE SKY!
TOGETHER WE'LL FIGHT, SOME OF US MAY DIE!
BUT WE'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT WE MADE A STAND!
AND MANY WILL DIE BY MY HAND!!..."

"TO BATTLE, THUNDERBUTT, MY BLUBBER-BACKED MAGNIFICENT SEXY GIANT OF A BEAST, YOU!!~" There is a time when every man comes to terms with the fact that a walrus is sexier than him. This is usually right after that man meets Valdís... And indeed, she told her walrus all the time that it was sexy, which it was. I mean, it's a walrus. Of course it's sexy!

Speaking of Thunderbutt, Valdis was riding his back, Storm of Ægir in her one hand, a box of pudding in the other. AND THE PUDDING WAS USEFUL! Namely as a counterattack, should Einherjar Thorson, obviously of the clan of Thor, and NOT the clan of Hel, say anything. Honestly, she had her suspicions that he was a dirty old man with candy, which SHOULDN'T affect her, as she was not a child, nor did she look like one, regardless of what other people thought, said, tried to prove, and proclaimed to be the truth.

SPEAKING OF. The large man yelled down at her some stuff, mostly pre-battle conversation, and SHE yelled up at HIM, "I'LL FIRST MAKE WAR WITH YOU AND YOUR... YOUNESS, EGIL!!" This exchange was followed abruptly by the tossing of a pudding glob at his mouth. "HAW HAW. I WIN!" This, of course, was folllowed by a somewhat dejected reprimanding of her ability to speak to her elders. "ONLY BY THIRTY-FIVE YEARS!! Totally not my elder, aye, Thunderbutt?" With that, she chucked a bit more pudding at him, partly out of boredom, partly because he deserved to be hit in the face with balls of delicious mush that would STAIN HIS BEARD.

And then, of course, she heard the barkings of Siegfried, the Jarl of thee Lokhyn people, calling his son to his side. DARN. Her pudding repository had other places to go! THIS WAS SADDENING. But no matter. She noticed a motorboat in the distance and, with a POWERFUL throwing arm, threw a pudding cup in the direction of Esparia, not aiming to hit the shore, nay, not even to come close, but merely to get a cup of pudding within range of Esparia. FUN TIMES WERE THOSE OF A FLYING PUDDING STARING OUT AT THE LAND OF BANANAS AND STUFF. Hence, she had made banana pudding for this war. Yes.

REYES RESIDENCE, MALOS CIUDAD
April XX, 2012
5:25 Central Time (CT)

You know, there is something to be said about receiving a rude wake-up call at 6 in the goddamn morning. The sounds of a man knocking heavily against the door of his rather small residence shook him awake from his slumber rather quickly. Groaning softly, the man would roll off of his sporadically-covered bed and land on the ground with a grunt. He had, for all intents and purposes, been busy the night before. Miss Francesca had gone missing, and he had been looking for quite some time. However, that was not the case, nor the story, of this moment. Instead, the fully-clothed and seemingly-besotted man pushed upwards, trying to get himself off of the ground in order to approach the door. Another hurried series of knocks shook him further awake, and the man held up a hand as if the messenger would see him through the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming." Looking up at the door, Vito saw the tattoos on his uncovered arms and sighed softly. That would not do him well to be seen. Finally pushing off of the ground, the man shook his head and stretched. Instead of covering it up, the groggy-minded man approached the chained-up door and slid it open, looking through a crack at the pale-faced and obviously out-of-breath messenger. "What is it that you must plague me with so early into the morning?"

"I'm sorry, sir... I had to move quickly. The Gelemortians... they attack us en masse. Your orders are here, please read them and act accordingly..." A slip of paper was handed through the crack of the door, Vito taking it between his fingers and sending the messenger off into the distance. Opening up the dirtied sheet of white, the man started to read the letter he was given--out loud, and with a quiet smirk. "Vito Camillo Reyes. Your orders are, as follows:

Take a small team of commandos, I care not who, and attack the Gelemortian ship, the Grand Salazaar.

Capture it, if you can. If not, sink it. If not, disable it as much as possible.

Get out alive. Your men are expendable, you are not.

Godspeed..." No signature, but that was a given. With a quite chuckle from its holder, the paper was folded up neatly and burned with a single match, the smouldering pieces thrown into a metal trashcan. As it disappeared into ashes, Vito found himself laughing. It started... as a small laugh. A quiet one that would not hold much ground--though that slowly started to change as the laugh grew in volume, Vito leaning backwards and laughing out into the air. It was time to... go to war.

OPEN WATERS: AZURIAN OCEAN
Somewhere North-West of Esparia
April XX, 2012
06:08 Central Time (CT)

Although it was obviously war-time, the docks had been all but completely silent. A pin could be dropped, and one would hear it resounding throughout the entire country. The stillness and silence was, in the end, broken by the sounds of a small outback motor springing to life, a small dinghy starting its journey into the deep. This would not take too long--it was not a weak engine. Five other men were with him--a six-strong team in order to take down a Gelemortian battleship. Normally, one would call them crazy. However, Vito was used to such stupefying odds. This was, as they say, his natural habitat. The heat of battle. The fires of doom. Everything about this... sent Vito's blood boiling with the thralls of adrenaline. Grinning to himself, the man pulled away through the waters, crossing over waves that decreased in size consistently, until they became nothing but squalls. Strapped to his back was the Septima, on his hips were the Claves, and in holsters throughout were the Derringers and his prized possession, the Contender. Because of his augmentations, this man was able to carry all of this; a normal human would have no chance. Grinning as the boat continued towards the Gelemortian fleet, Vito felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. This was going to be a fight for the ages...

OPEN WATERS; AZURIAN OCEAN
North-West of Esparia, the Gelemortian Fleet
April XX, 2012
06:25 Central Time (CT)

About 20 minutes had passed, though it was not very far from Esparia that they had to go. Making sure to circle as well as they could, the small Esparian motorboat moved swiftly, weaving through boats large and small, jumping over small waves and leaving a wake behind it. In their vision was a ship, and on the side of that ship were the words Grand Salazaar. Hm. Smirking, Vito started to push the little craft a little harder and headed directly towards the ship without hesitating. Of course, if he had hesitated...

Whooosh, BOOM.

Then the Gelemortians may not have assumed them to be an enemy and fired. The first RPG round exploded beneath the hull of the ship, sending them flying into the air and colliding with icy water. Vito sunk below the surface for a second, before pushing himself back up and coughing loudly. "Damnit... Boys! We've been compromi--" The light of a searchlight covered over them, and automatic machine-gun fire spread out into the water, attacking the men indiscriminately. There was no longer any time to think; Vito sunk beneath the surface of the water, but his eyes turned towards the placements of his men as they sank deep... and then rose to the surface once more. The ocean itself turned rosy-red, and Vito turned away, swimming off into the distance and beneath the ship itself.

Surfacing after about a minute under the water, Vito looked up the side in order to see any forms of grips on the ship. Thankfully, he had not lost any of his armaments, though the fact that his six-strong squad of men had been reduced to, well, one. Communications with the Esparians was not going to happen, so Vito would have to work quickly. If the boat started to pull away from him, his new-found grip on the side would be ripped off, and his arms would most likely go with them. Magnets had been taken with, in case Vito needed them, and they clanged heavily on the side of the boat as the man started to clamber up the side. Somebody was bound to notice him soon enough, so he had to move quickly. Each movement took him up further, until he managed to climb over the railing and onto the deck... where there were hardly any people guarding, and the ones who were guarding were watching the action ahead of them. Perfect. Creeping forwards, Vito took out two of his Claves Negro and thrust them forwards, stabbing them swiftly through the throats of the Gelemortian guards and pushing them overboard. His actions would not go unnoticed, but at the moment, he would be fine. With that, he disappeared into the darkness, almost completely melting away...

Grand Salazaar
North-West of Esparia
April XX, 2012
06:40 Central Time (CT)

Flat 38, Brandywine Block. Carraig. April XX, 2012. 02:08 Central Time (CT).

"But where the hell is it?!"

Fat, shaking hands scrambled desperately around the floor, oil stained across each palm as Dunstan Hue searched for the 6.6 spanner needed for his task. The entire flat was a curious sight; Flat 38 of Brandywine Building was a reasonably large flat, but it didn’t really look much like a flat at all. It consisted of three rooms; a bathroom, a kitchen and the main room of the flat, which looked like a garage. The stone floor was without any carpet or floorboard; it was coated with pieces of shavings from wood and iron nick-knacks. There was a small futon on the floor in the far corner, with a tiny desk that was to be used while sitting on the floor. On this desk was a computer monitor and a few nick-knacks; three Rubik’s Cubes sitting on top of each other, two completed, a deck of playing cards and a grotty tennis ball. However, the most prevalent features of the room were some way away. A large workbench in the dead centre of the room, iron with a few vices along the sides. One wall had an iron net across it, on which hung various different tools, paintbrushes, hammers, circular saws, drills, welders, claws, two different masks; a welding mask and a respirator mask, and along the table sitting next to it various bottles of differing liquids. Adhesives, paint, WD-40, oil. A huge band-saw sat not far away, and there were a cupboard of materials full of explosives.

And in all this mess, there was not a 6.6 spanner.

"ARGH! Get over here, you fucking bastard of a..." The bomber let out a violent hiss as he walked over to the futon, throwing the cushions up with a muffled 'bumph' with each strike on the floor. No spanner there. Dunstan growled, looking back to the upturned fridge in the middle of the room. Or, rather, what used to be a fridge but was now the world's largest, most powerful and hardest to throw incendinary grenade, the door handle serving as the pin and the entire machine set to blow. Now to secure it, but he was without a spanner to do such a thing.

Boop.

Dunstan pulled an expression of miserable frustration and turned to the computer monitor. An email of the highest urgency. Probably of the highest boredom too. "Now what?!" He spat, sitting on the cushionless futon and glaring at the writing.

To 'Bomber'

Dunstan's eye narrowed immediately. Sure, his alias was not the most imaginative, but when he was called Bomber he knew that this was business.

I doubt you remember, for we know of your accident and of its consequence, but many a moon ago you once worked under the flag of Esparia. Your services in those times, despite your youth, were invaluable to us. This is why, on such a short notice, we call for you once again. Gelemorte has decided that it is the prime time to invade our beloved homeland. A naval battle will rage in the Azurian Ocean, north-west of Esparia, within the next four hours. You will come. You will destroy any and every Gelemorte you can get your hands on by any and every means available to you. Finally, you will name your price, be what it may, and you will receive your reward.

Do not be naive, though. You are valuable, though if you wrong us or decline our generous offer, you will suddenly lose all value to us. We will be waiting for you.

Dunstan sat back in the futon, the wood bending and creaking under his weight. A naval battle. If he had ever been in one before, he didn't remember it. And he doubted he'd be in this one; it wasn't that he didn't want to, any price of his choice sounded pretty good, but there was one issue stopping him.

Where the hell am I going to find a boat and load it up with everything I need?

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:08 Central Time (CT)

Where the hell did I find this boat and load it up with everything I need?

It was a cleverly disguised boat, certainly. To any onlookers, a particularly stupid pair of fishermen were in their little rickety boat, tarp hanging over it protecting them from the sun and plenty of crates worth of fish already caught. Within the boat, Dunstan Hue propped up a dummy made out of pillows, slumped over and holding a fishing rod. The crates carefully hid the door to a hidden submerged compartment, which in turn was filled with rolls upon rolls of dynamite, semtex, C4 and, mostly curiously, fireworks. Petrol tanks sat in the same compartment. Between Dunstan's legs was gripped a mortar launcher for if things got so bad he couldn't get closer, but the real prize was what he sat on.

It was the fridge.

Dunstan peered through a pair of binoculars at every ship before him. He had tailed the Gelemorte fleet from afar, simply drifting lazily forward as if looking for fish, hopefully small enough to not be noticed by simply looking back and trying to decide which of the many ships to start with. He didn't want to be launching anything yet; to draw attention so early would kill him. No, he needed to get inside one of the ships and bash the engine's apart himself. After all, he could make it look like a simple malfunction, and the best way to destroy an enemy is when they don't even know they're being destroyed.

"I better get swimming..." He murmured to himself, going into the compartment and holding aloft a wetsuit. He stripped down and tried to put the wetsuit on.

"AAAAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

It didn't fit, in the same way a whale would not fit into a basketball hoop. Every motion of his brought immeasurable pain or a new tear into the suit. A step up the ladder. "Owww." Another step. "AH!" Another. "Owww! Fuck!." And another. "EEEEEEEP! NOTHING'S MEANT TO GO BETWEEN THOSE!" He pulled himself onto the floor of the boat, struggling to stand. However, he looked forward to the fleet, and made his way to the edge. He strapped an unlit blowtorch to his waist, ready for entering the ship, though his foot hit something before he set off. He looked down to it and scowled.

A 6.6 spanner.

"Right! You're with me!" He shouted, putting the spanner on the same belt as the blowtorch, before biting in the tiny snorkel he had bought at the shop before he left, the 99p label stick stuck to it. He stretched out, immediately regretted it, and with a pained yelp dived into the ocean, ready to enact some major sabotage to some poor Gelemorte's engines.

As Vito's dinghy drew up alongside the Salazaar at its own pace, and the cacophony of explosions intermixed with the chugga-chugga-chugga of heavy machine gun fire, beneath a rising pale sun in the waters, one Nazario Alvarez rose the remainder of a fine Esparian cigar to his fat, thick, pink lips, and took a long, last draw upon it.

Reyes was, for all intents and purposes, acting on the Presidente's orders. Nazario didn't have a problem with that; he'd picked out eight of them, and said that five would ride with him to the port side of the Grand Salazaar, whilst another three, lead by Alvarez himself, would ride to the starboard and infiltrate from there.

When the veil of pale silence hanging over the morning ocean was shattered by the bursts of gunfire aboard the impressive - but nowhere near as impressive as their Presidente's vessel - Gelemortian ship, Nazario, garbed in a black flak jacket, vest, and similarly-coloured combat trousers and boots, turned to the junior Bloodhound at the back of the speedboat, and he tugged vigorously upon the engine cord twice.

It wasn't long before the stench of petroleum filled the air, and the boat's motor spluttered into life, sending them speeding near-silently upon the waves, carving a short-lived valley through the azure blue peaks and frothy white horses marching upon them. As opposed to Reyes' dinghy, the speedboat Nazario had gingerly selected for his side of the operation was infinitely more stealthy, though less durable - a stray round would pierce the frame of Nazario's easily, but neither would survive long against RPG fire.

This particular stretch of the mission, it appeared, was a success; the speedboat's arrival was silent, with Nazario grinning and flicking the last of his cigar into the ocean waters. It was immediately washed away and ground into nothingness by the intense power of the clashing waves, the man exhaling a last burst-like cloud of smoke with a patriotic grin upon his face, murmuring as he grasped magnets, similarly-issued to the ones Reyes had used. He was another head of the same operation, so it was no surprise the equipment was the same. "For Esparia,"

The whisper evaporated quickly upon the ocean waves - had Nazario had his way, they wouldn't be boarding in such a snake-like and underhanded manner as this, and that mutter would have been far closer to an impressive bellow. The hand-held magnets slammed against the side, Nazario's vast array of weaponry - that which wasn't strapped down, at least - swinging to and fro in the ocean winds as he clambered up the side. His muscles bulged and strained, his moustache flecked and specked with globules of sweat as he finally pushed himself over the railing, taking the magnet with him - and not a moment later, Esparia's premier matador appeared, Trusty Jack in one hand, and the Widowmaker, unsheathed with a shing, grasped tightly in the other.

Apparently absent from his arsenal was the Barrett anti-materiel rifle, the King of Clubs. It was arguably unnecessary for a close-quarters blitzkrieg mission such as this, what with its primary function being 'blowing a hole in armoured convoys' - as much as Nazario hated to see it go, it was the most economical decision to leave it behind.

Ready to carve through Gelemortians with shot and sword, Nazario spun around and rushed onto the-

Oh.

Blood welled up at his feet, the floor specked with intermingling raindrops and crimson puddles. The Bloodhound squad leader scanned the front of the Salazaar's deck, grimacing as he realised not that these men had been executed in the coldest of blood, but that someone had stole his kills. Reyes. That bastard. That cool, collected, Janitor bastard. Grumbling in a particularly elderly manner, Nazario jogged quickly to the other side of the railing, where pieces of another... five Bloodhounds and a boat dotted the rosy-red seawater. As he'd predicted, the sixth, Vito, was still alive. And somewhere on the ship.

The hulking tank of a man sighed, returning to his eager, young squad, awaiting their senior's return at the bottom of the hull. He shook his head, as they gestured up at him with open hands, nodding vigorously, ready for him to throw the magnets back down. Instead, he twisted his torso upwards, and sent the two handled discs spinning into the horizon - and dropping into the sea with a distant splash.

It was time to abandon all sense of discretion. "YOU WILL SURVIVE THIS DAY, MY BROTHERS," Nazario bellowed over the sounds of waves crashing into the hull. "ENOUGH ESPARIAN BLOOD HAS BEEN SPILT ABOUT THIS VESSEL TODAY!"

With that, not bothering to acknowledge the looks upon his subordinates' faces, Nazario spun around and crouched, pressing bare fingertips extended from gloves that allowed him to do so against the throat of one of the Gelemortian sailors - the area that wasn't leaking blood. It was still warm - very warm. Vito wasn't far behind - this was undoubtedly his handiwork.

The leather of his gloves straining over the man's massive, steak-sized hands, Nazario turned towards a small spit of metal leading down the deck, bloody footprints leading along, having not yet been washed away by any semblance of rainwater. Extending himself to full form, the Esparian Bloodhound sighed, cocked his head slowly - ever so slowly - from side to side, letting the bones in his spine crack as they released tense, kept-up air, and bolted into a lumbering sprint after the crimson footprints his would-be cohort had left behind, bellowing a broken, Gelemortian war-cry as he did so.

"DIE, PREPARE TO, SCUM OF COUNTRY DOMINION!"

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:10 Central Time (CT)

Rudely interrupted from the ever-important onduty-nap, the woman in charge of Fort Rose found herself dragged off to do war. Literally dragged off. That fact that it was at least war with the ever-hated Esparians made it worth the interruption. While it was for the most part a battle in the open seas, it was not a bad idea to have additional soldiers on most of the ships, in case some filthy esparians dared to try and board the gelemortian vessels. Or if there was a chance to invade esparian ones to put them out of order.

Either way, the prospect of manhandling Esparians had everyone's spirits raised to the sky. While infantries where deployed onto all of the bigger ships and some provided crew for the 2-man boats, VJ herself ended up alongside friends of the King himself. He must have found it a brilliant idea to stack one 7'5 person basically on top of the other. So there she was. literally hanging around on the bridge of a ship bearing the title "The Salazaar", where commands from the other 7'5 human on this ship -playing pirate; coat, hat and everything- instructed people and made them busy. Except VIjaya, she gracefully ignored that, she was more the "Punch esparians" type of person then the "make the ship move" one. Also, she couldn't recall ever being instructed to follow this Invidia person's orders - then again, Wolfgang was always kind of spongy and his directions open for interpretation. Thus, she kept spacing out on the bridge, overlooking the vast sea in front, with esparian dots, supposedly ships, on the horizon.

AZURIAN OCEAN, THE PRISM -DEGAN, BRONZE

War....War never changed, it was a bloody violent waltz that was danced to music made of mens last dying breath and the pounding of gun fire, as it was played to a tempo made by the clashing of swords. Why? Why must people fight over petty differences? Why must we be forced to weep for loved ones lost in battle? Those tears alone could fill the oceans of the world twice over...No war never changed, but the people who fought it did. Entire generations had been lost to these bloody conflicts, entire generations will be lost in the future......War never changed, and nether did the sorrow it brought. Humanity it seemed was an idiotic race, most creatures avoided those things that brought them sadness and pain, not us....Never us. Humanity seemed to seek out hardship, why else would we wage war over something as insignificant as land? Or age old disputes? It was sickening.

Why then was he there? Why had he forsaken everything he had been taught? What had happened to his lofty ideals? Why was he making war instead of love? Hell Bronze had been dreaming of nothing else for the past few weeks, ever since he had been woken, rather rudely from his bed and told to report. Well that was the day he had be told about this rather spontaneous war, it was also the day he was told that his "Unique talents where needed". Those words had spelled the doom of his ideals...And he couldn't do anything but let them die. He had made a weapon....A weapon that he hated, but he had made it none the less.

So he stood on the deck of this weapon he had helped create, it was a master piece of alchemical and mechanical design, though this may or may not have made it the most obvious ship in the entire fleet. Its deck was just over a seventy paces long and 20 wide, it was constructed of light weight yet strong reflective metal alloys and was manned by a crew of forty men. Everything about it seemed stock standard other then the banks of high intensity spotlights arranged in columns and pyramids so that there where always at least ten of them with in five feet of another, these light banks where found on every side of the ship.

The battle had been joined some minutes before and still bronze stood motionless at the prow of his ship and looked out at the incoming ships. He knew each of these lights inside and out, each had four thousand candle watts of power behind them that meant there effective range was just over half a mile, that also meant the destructive force behind each of these seemingly out of place spotlights was equivalent to eight hundred grams of high explosive, more then enough to blow a good sized hole in any of the on coming ships.

Was he going to do it? Was he going to take a life with his talent? His gift? He already knew the answer...He was here it was kill or be killed...."Put us just ahead of our kings.... Yacht.. and ready the forward lights" His ship began to move ahead and positioned its self in front of Wolfys royal ship. The forward lights came on and Bronze took his place in the center of that particular cluster of lights."Take aim!!!" the men handling the light's targeted random members of the enemy's ragtag fleet....He readied his alchemy his alchemy...The transmutation circles on his wrists started to glow and he could see in his minds eye the gathering of energy in front of each of the lights..."Fire..." his last word came out as nothing more then a whisper, for it wasn't the soldiers that pulled that trigger...Ohh no.......Not a second after that he finished the transmutation and death that traveled at the speed of light struck at the enemy fleet, and nothing would implicate his ship...Other then the odd winking of his lights.

The effect was the nearest thing to instantaneous you could find with in the laws of physics. Eight of the shots struck home on some of the small boats, and a split second later their was nothing left but debris and a fine mist. The other two shots had gone wide striking with explosive force next to their intended targets. For the briefest of second's the ocean seemed to boil and steam erupted from the surface of the water.

It was sad really, how easy it had been to turn his talent into a weapon...How easy it was to corrupt something that was meant to bring joy and happiness to people...Tears came to his eyes then as he imagined the people he had just killed...The lives he had just taken. "Aim!!!" He would do what he needed just then....And he would deal with the consequences after words...."Fire..."

((Please note that bronzes alchemy is invisible to the human and travels at the speed of light, the only thing that gives away his ship as the source is the flashing of the lights he using to power his alchemy))

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia: April XX, 2012: 06:25 Central Time (CT)

War. This was something that she knew. This is something in this twisted land that she understood. But her bare feet were not digging into the fresh dirt of Panei, testing her bow before unleashing it upon her enemies. Nayeli was on a deck of a boat, made from some kind of metal. It was not even a sturdy wooden boat. It was this strange material. It did sail flawlessly through the water, comparatively to the small boats of her people. But she still could not dig her feet down to steady herself. The boat she was on was small, apparently meant to handle sniping and eventually overtaking an enemy ship. And so she was here, with her father somewhere nearby. She had agreed to assist in his war if he agreed to assist with hers. One of the men driving the boat had offered her a tether, which was secured to the railing. It kept Nayeli upright as the ship bounced along. The real fireworks would start when they began to hit on the enemy ships.

Nayeli had forsaken her “modern” clothing for what she felt most comfortable. A leather tie kept her hair from her face, a band of cloth around her breasts and a short skirt around her hips. Her tattoos stood out on her dark skin; the Amazon warrior was in her prime. She had prepared for this day by stocking up on arrows. A short walk across the deck of the small boat was a trunk full of arrows. She had a quiver full on her back as the first of the explosions surrounded the air around them. Her father had his orders from the ruler of their island, and Nayeli understood. She would use her quick shot and eye to take down any who attempted to stop their mission. She ran her fingers lovingly down Hihuaya, first the wood of her bow, then the line. As a cannon went off to her side, she glanced up at the sky. “goddess, let my arrows fly true.”



[[OOC: I'm sorry this is vague, but I'm leaving space for Miguel to elaborate! If need be, I'll get more into it on the next post!]]

[BUMP It's been a week since someone posted. GET THE MOVE ON DAMMIT.]

Vasco's flagship and moving fortress, ENS Diego, behind the rest of the Esparian fleet

War? War always is so much fun. The advent of technology widens explosions, the killing potential increases, the very symphony is so much more violent than ever before. There is always something new about it, just yesterdecade or so, the Rouen was was something so vastly destructive, so very violent, so very powerful that this battle compares nothing to it. Now... he is stuck, stuck fighting Gelemortians. Actually why did they come? It has become tasteless to have fought for so long without any clear results. They were cowards, as lore goes to Vasco, the Gelemortians are in fact Rouenians, but from what he saw, they had none of the Rouenian wit about them or in fact the power that came which is why Esparia has grown to respect Rouen after fighting a war with it, and conquering it. Aye, Gelemorté to Vasco was a cheapman's Rouen. WORTHLESS. Little brats playing up the Rouenian glamour yet has none of the splendour, it was just demeaning to the memory of Esparia's greatest enemy, Esparia's very own Carthage as opposed to their Rome. Till looking through his scope a quick moment, saw a dramatic explosion at the distance, he never ordered for the fleet to advance yet, so it is strange to see some of the ships up close over there to a Gelemortian vessel.

He looked closer from his scope for a moment to see the most pompous ship around, so flamboyant it just made him twitch from the distance away opposing the Esparian fleet, not something that is in his cannon's effective range as it is still a stand off at somewhat a point. It was an eyesore, but what could have caused an explosion? Looking at it he saw one thing that Esparians hated most, a hate that burned in every Esparian since Emperor Quatzecoatl's reign, the instruments of oppression that spurned to keep the normal people down, the self-entitled elitists that think themselves superior for but one skill in employ, yet were inferior as the earlier Esparian Revolution proved. Aye, even Vasco had a dislike for them for someone otherwise apathetic to many affairs of the world aside from his own personal profit.

"Alquimistas." Vasco muttered in lieu to the brat on board the ship, in clear view of anyone whom had a scope, otherwise a dot from the naked eyes. It was obvious, he was stretching his hand out without a weapon. He was glad to see some of the ships that were in loose formation managed to evade the otherwise over-exaggerated attack that seemed to have claimed them, but given the nature of the over-compartmentalized idea of not drifting closer to one another. There was but one wreck, the unlucky victim caught. But otherwise the radius was too much to cover given how much space needed to actually be occupied to in fact lay down destruction to the entirety of the otherwise hypothesized number, all boiling down to the mere number of one for a casualty. No problem really, that was not an attack boat, but the commando team. They didn't have the luxury of the armored support or the like, which is probably one of the reasons why heavy fire wasn't laid.

Grabbing the radio from on top of the desk, he places it close to his mouth, clear and loud for anyone that has the encrypted frequency to his radio, in other words unreachable without Vasco's whims deeming it reachable. Military-grade Cretan stuff imported all to serve Esparia at its disposal, and says, "Capitan Barone, have some good five sharpshooters lay suppressing fire on the shiny ship. Suppressing fire, but with clear intent to kill that Snookie Turkey jiving on our ship, till the Codename: Serpiente del Flamenco makes the delivery. But first, shoot out those spotlights, it should be an easy job, deploy anti-materiel rifles to do the job, and take account of winds. Don't let me baby you around with this information, Capitan."

Captain Barone, a grizzled naval veteran of the Rouen war, someone of the same sentimental attitude against the Gelemortian, crackled into the frequency, "Aye aye Senor Presidente, we will do as you ask without fail! Viva la Republica! Viva la Esparia!" With his appraisal that sounded over the radio, Vasco smiled. ENS Diego has begun to make a sudden start of acceleration towing sideways to the Esparian fleet's left.

Several monitors flashed in front of Vasco as he has begun to look at the myriad of them flickering with visuals from every angle and magnifying to view the battlefield from a 360 view to see all. The Eagle's eyes as the system goes. One cannon for good measure looks behind as the rest were aiming at the Prism. The range is beyond a mile, rather it was in fact 3 miles away from the Prism in lieu to the fleet as well, and given the distance, the Prism was effectively in the range of Vasco's flagship. With such calculations taken into place, Vasco smiles. He had given prior instructions to ready and load the cannons with armor piercing rounds with some compromises to give it explosive elements to add in with the destruction.

"Ready... aim... ah psyche, FUEGO!"

The ship's cannons exploded shells out of the barrels, the rounds sailed overhead many ships below in quick speed, done so as not all of them fired at once but in a sequence as it kept up constant barrage shooting at the Prism. It coincided with anti-materiel sniper fire that were closer (or have merely zipped in closer whilst keeping distance from each other in a roundabout) and were having ranged shots being made at Bronze after several were unloaded on the spot lights with good powerful rounds that were made to punch through mechanized armor and some others were unloading at the ship's defenses. They were using Cretan M80 Barrett's under Esparian production. Mass produced weapons for the Marines as opposed to the custom made nature of the Army weapons. The shots blew and were powerful, and kept in a concentrated and constant fire at Bronze's general mass of body rather than his head. It was done spontaneously to keep up with the element of ACTUALLY hitting the person, as it was easy to recognize the Alchemist given he stood at the deck of the contraption of that flamboyant pompousry.

At this point, Vasco is confident that Ranza has given orders out for the rest of the fleet to also start opening accurate fire on the cheap Gelemortian motorboats, given the inadequate protection, it was easy for them to snipe them out. The Esparians start breaking off their typical formation and steered clear from one stretch and clearing of the ocean as the battle has finally begun, laying down bullets to the Gelemortians on motorboats as it was only a matter of shooting them. And this was a matter quite as trivial for the Esparians renowned for great feats of marksmanship, as their leader, their Glorious Presidenté has demonstrated on the hapless Gelemortian messenger. Many bullets shot forth with the angel of Death behind each and everyone of these shots, whittling down the great numbers with the great loose formations helping out in making each and everyone of these speedy Esparian ships even harder to fight as they drew closer to the Gelemortian fleet formation, that at least they had a form of cover and also speed that makes it hard to even hit one of them, and gunfire travels faster than the less accurate RPG fire. But yet the threat loomed and remained of the larger vessels, and their great numbers yet Vasco smirked about it.

He picked up a speaker phone, set it up to the loudest setting so that it can be hard from his opposing counterpart, Woflgang Murinyo despite such distances to be sounded off from Vasco's morale ship itself, at least he didn't have to bring commissars.

"WOLFGANG! YOU FILTHY GELEMORTIAN SLUT DOG! LET'S SEE WHAT RUNS OUT FIRST! YOUR GELEMORTIAN LIVES, OR OUR ESPARIAN BULLETS!" The speech sounded off, suddenly a cacophony of cheers resounded throughout the battle for despite the loudness of gunfire being blown out, the Esparian morale was driven up the roof, for despite how their comrades are outnumbered, they were confident the Republican forces will win over the Monarchist scumbags. Those elitist snobs working under the royalty like slaves toiling to another, lesser human beings as they saw them.

It was pure and sheer chaos, yet Esparians thrived upon it, whizzing about without a care for formations, yet were constantly aware to keep distance from each of their comrades on the different ships. Already having closed in to battle against the Gelemortians within, for now they have become individualistic units everyone of them all under Vasco's general directions and Ranza's superior command. Brave Esparians all of them.

"COMING, FATHER." The booming Lokhyn tones resounded through the open waters as Siegfried unleashed a veritable yawn of a roar, Ragnarok still hanging by his side. The very boat trembled as the largest of his spry young sons arrived, the boy nineteen years his junior... it almost brought a tear to Siegfried's eye to see his legacy so very... fit.

"GOOD," Siegfried concluded with a booming tone, before another two thud noises graced the ships. Oh, god... not her... her... she was... the... THE PUDDING WOMAN?! "ONLY BY THIRTY-FIVE YEARS!! Totally not my elder, aye, Thunderbutt?" Her tones were just as loud and fiery as her own son's... Siegfried wasn't entirely sure how related he and the Raghild child were in entirety.

He turned to her with a blazing inferno in his eyes, and roared at her. "QUIET, WENCH, OR I SHALL HAVE THEE TRANSPORTED MOST VIGOROUSLY TO YONDER AEVADOURIAN TAVERN WHERE THOU DOTH BELONG," His threat was convoluted, and somewhat fashioned of nonsense, but, hey, it was great enough. It had been made, and Siegfried followed up by scowling at that ugly pile of blubber - the walrus, not Valdis - with a look that would veritably pierce all manner of metals, a swaying forest fire burning strong and intense in his blue-turned-red orbs.

The war had since begun. The Prism drew up alongside them, and with much beard-stroking, the man watched as lights twinkled and foul Esparian ships exploded in some display of sorcery from what was likely a perversion of the very laws of physics themselves. Siegfried initially combated this with only a further vigorous stroking of said long beard, which was coincidentally long enough to throttle anyone who disagreed with him.

"TRANSLATOR!" Siegfried boomed, and, sure enough, along with the vast massing horde of Lokhyn deck-hands materialising, armed, aboard the face of the Fenrir itself, a translator appeared, booming everything he said up in Gelemortian to the Salazaar. "TELL MURINYO THAT OUR FLEETS ARE READY, AND OUR MEN HARDY THROUGH YEARS OF WAITING FOR THIS DAY, YEARS PERPETUATED THROUGH MANY-A-DUEL AND MANY-A-FLAGON-OF-ALE," He continued to stroke his beard.

"AND TELL HIM ALSO THAT WE WISH TO MAKE PEACE WITH HIS STRANGE KIND, AND MAKE OFFERINGS OF THE RAGHILD ONE'S PLASTICATED CONFECTIONERY BOWLS, ALSO," Another pause, as Siegfried went to cough and rub his joints. Damn, that arthritis WAS acting up. "HOWEVER, FINALLY, TELL HIM, THAT WHEN THIS DAY IS FINISHED, AND WHEN HIS NATION RESIDES VICTORIOUS ONCE MORE, WE SHALL HAVE A DIPLOMATIC MEETING," And a further continuation, of course, as Siegfried struck a manly pose - the manliest of all poses - and howled to the winds, seawater spattering his face. "AND TELL HIM THAT SAID DIPLOMATIC MEETING SHALL INVOLVE MANY AN INGESTED FLAGON OF ALE,"

With that, the translator finished shouting, quite probably dumb from the sheer volume that he had to transmit. Siegfried stared off into the horizon, locking eyes with that foul Esparian fleet, and screamed to the pale blue seas once more as his longboat-frigate was taken control of by some spry young pilot - perhaps a grandson of his - and veered for the navy of wimps themselves. "SAILOR, MAKE HASTE FOR ALLENDE'S FLEET," Another growl, an ear-splitting roar. "MAN THE HARPOON, MEN! TODAY, WE RIDE FOR WAR, AND WE RIDE TO CRUSH THIS PATHETIC FALSE PRESIDENT WITH OUR LOKHYN PRIDE,"

And so, the harpoons were manned, and the ship made haste for the Esparian fleet, carving a foamy white line in the seas themselves, with two longboats on either side. Siegfried turned and stared to Einherjar, his eyes carrying a battle-passion long unheard of, as the ship veered, the man himself gripping the base of the ship itself with his hands and smiling as he raised Ragnarok with the other.

"TO WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!"

[[@Aki - As you wish, my liege]]

AZURIAN OCEAN, NORTH-WEST OF ESPARIA
PT BOAT "EL CHE", SEVERAL KILOMETRES AWAY FROM THE CENTRE OF THE BATTLE, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE WAR ZONE
((NAYELI and ESPARIAN/GELEMORTIAN NPCS))

A fine mist of spraying ocean water kissed the troubled face of Miguel Montanez as he sped across the turbulent sea in his ship. Droplets of water clung stubbornly to his rugged unshaven features and dripped from his nose onto the damp cigar hanging carelessly from his lips, the smoldering embers of the tip having gone out minutes ago. He didn't feel like tossing it out into the water. The red-headed Esparian sighed wearily as he glanced out towards the distant naval war. The sun was rising over the eastern horizon, casting its light over the carnage of the raging battle. Smoke rose from the burning wreckage of dozens of ships, feeding off the bodies of Esparians and Gelemortians alike.

War was senseless. He had learnt this lesson two decades ago, washed in the blood of innocent Rouenians and fallen comrades, all slaughtered by his own hand. Women and children....by the orders of his commander he had pulled the trigger of their execution, just like his "brothers in arms". But with depraved minds and thirst for murder, his comrades relished the massacre they had brought to the once sleepy town. He could see it in their eyes. Their malicious yellow eyes. The same colour a his own. He could remember thinking- 'This isn't war. This is a genocide'. With the screams of the doomed ringing in his ears, he did the only thing he could. He shot his commander. One bullet between the eyes was all it took to end the life of the man who sentenced many more to death. And just like that, Miguel had committed treason against his country for the lives of his supposed enemy. He had turned his rifle on his fellow murderers and riddled their backs with bullets as they did the same to the fleeing Rouenian civilians before them. But no lives were saved that day, and no sins were erased. Those who fled in the wake of Miguel's treason were only captured and killed later in the event which would become known as the rape of Rouen.

But here he was again, a soldier on a mission with a rifle on his back. Sent to do the bidding of a friend from the past, now on the seat of power of the man who ordered the deaths of millions of Rouenians. And now the enemy was Gelemorte, a sister nation of Rouen. It was morbidly poetic, this war. Esparia had washed its hands in the blood of Rouen and now her sister came to avenge her. Or perhaps it was just the whimsical order of another dictator drunk with power. War was terrible, but Esparia was in Miguel's heart, and he could not turn away from her even now.

Miguel tore his eyes from the horizon and forced his wandering thoughts back into the here and now. Golden eyes, sharp as a hawks yet tainted with a dull soberness scanned the deck of his ship. His ship. Miguel was the captain of this small vessel. An old patrol-torpedo boat (PT boat for short), stocked with supplies and armed with four torpedoes and two rotational machine guns stationed on the forward and rear deck. The ship was an outdated Creig craft from the 1950's that was captured decades ago and recently restored and outfitted for combat condition. Stationed on the deck of the this crowded ship were nearly a dozen Esparian men and women. Nayeli was among them. Miguel could not consent to her accompaniment on this mission, nor could he object to it. He had promised an Amazonian blood oath to help her and her tribe if she assisted in the war. So this was his crew, boots planted firmly onto the deck of the ship bounding across the Azurian ocean and towards the gaping maw of the battle that threatened to consume them. It hardly lessened the weight upon his heart and mind that the lives of these twelve people, including that of his daughter, rested in his own hands.

"Target sighted, portside, 10 o'clock" echoed the shout of the man at the radar. Miguel glanced out to the side and spotted the enemy vessels across the rolling waves. It was a group of small craft, three diminutive motorboats advancing across the waters towards the ongoing battle.
"Señor, shall we intercept them?" asked one of the crew members. In careful contemplation of their next move, Miguel hesitated to reply, instead staring out towards the rapidly moving ships. They weren't heading towards them exactly, but at the angle they were moving they could easily be intercepted despite being faster than his own ship. On top of that, it was likely that they would soon notice his ship in less than two minutes if they hadn't already, and it was likely they would try to engage anyway. Rubbing the rough hairs on his chin, Miguel stared at the trio of boats thoughtfully. Suddenly his features hardened, seeming to have reached a decision for which course of action they were to take.
"I'm going to bring the ship onto course to intercept the enemy. Torres, Andino, I want you to use the mounted guns sparingly. I want minimal damage sustained on the enemy boats."
"For what reason, Captain?" Asked Andino, a dark-skinned and lean young man, resting against the bridge of the ship with a humourless and stubborn scowl he almost always wore.
"We're going to capture as many of the ships as we can. Martez, Nayeli. You're are best sharpshooters. I am going to need you two to take out at least four or five people without ruining their uniforms. I'll explain later, but we need the ships and uniforms intact. Understood?"
"Aye aye Capitán"

Gripping the steering wheel, Miguel took the helm of the ship and spun her to the left, putting her in route with the enemy's path. The PT boat skipped quickly across the ocean's surface, drawing closer and closer to the Gelemortian motorboats, as did the Gelemortian boats draw closer to them. By the time they were close enough to count the individual aboard each ship (two or three to each), Miguel was certain they had noticed the Esparian boat heading towards them and would take action soon. It was likely that their tiny boats lacked any sophisticated radar, but any one of them should have easily spotted their boat just by looking in their direction. Miguel's knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel tighter, preparing to take evasive maneuvers should any of them happen to have an RPG aboard their boat. Miguel and his crew were aiming to disable the boats, not destroy them, so their own RPG missiles and torpedoes were out of the question for use unless absolutely necessary, but this did not mean the enemy would refrain from using such explosives.
Suddenly, when the boats were only 150 meters away, they broke formation-- two turning left, and one turning right. But they did not turn completely, rather, only shifted their direction. Miguel frowned slightly at the sudden, yet expected action of the enemy craft. They weren't trying to evade them, they were trying to surround them from both sides.

"Hold on tight." With all the skill of a seasoned mariner, Miguel spun the helm of his ship sharply starboard, breaking off to the right, causing everything and everyone to lurch to the side from the sudden change in direction. The Esparian's ship was now on a course to cut off the lone boat in the enemy formation while the others would have to turn around quickly and sharply to catch up with them. If they did this quickly then they could face these boats nearly one at a time, and avoid being shot at from both sides.
"Wait until you have a clear shot" ordered Miguel in a smooth and leveled tone, nodding towards Nayeli and Martez, the curly blonde haired and fair skinned man from Malos standing at Nayeli's side, prepping his old dragunov for firing. Shooting a sniper rifle from a moving boat at another moving boat was no easy feat. If Martez missed his shot then they would have to hope Nayeli and the others could make up for it with standard rifles, or in Nayeli's case, arrows. There were only three men aboard this boat opposed to the twelve aboard Miguel's ship. If anything they had a numerical advantage in firepower. Seconds before firing range. With sharp sight, Miguel kept his eyes on the three individuals aboard the motorboat. One of them was fiddling with something on the bottom of their deck. What it was, Miguel could not see. Not until it was nearly too late.
"Martez! The one on the right!"
Cursing under his breath, the curly haired Esparian quickly lifted his rifle and peered down his scope, pointing at the Gelemortian man with the RPG rocket launcher mounted on his shoulder. The crack of the rifle echoed through the open dawn air, but the man with the RPG did not budge.
"Mierda!" Martez cursed aloud, as he lined up for another shot. BANG. But the thunderous crack was to no effect. The shot had missed again.
"Dios! INCOMING!" shouted Martez as he tore his eye away from the scope of his rifle, a look of pressing distress plaguing distraught expression. The rocket had been fired yet, but Miguel could only assume that through the magnified scope of his lens that they were about to fire.
Reacting quickly, Miguel cut the acceleration on their ship, slowing it drastically. Mere seconds after he did, the loud hiss of the rocket sped towards them like an arrow of god, spelling out their death's with its terrible song. BOOM. The impact of the explosion propelled a geyser of water into the air just in front of their boat. Just as predicted, they aimed for where their ship would be in reference to its speed, as any soldier worth his position would. However, with the speed cut so suddenly, the rocket missed them narrowly, exploding mere meters in front of them, rocking their boat violently and splitting their ears with its ringing din.
Wasting no time, Miguel hit the acceration again, this time turning hard to port in order to stay on an intercepting course with the motorboat. Another crack pierced his ears before he had even realized Martez was firing again.
"I got him! Target down!" shouted the lively soldier. They weren't in the clear yet, having two targets left on a still moving boat less than 30 yards away from them, and two more boats closing in from behind quickly. But with the RPG soldier down, they all could breath a collective sigh of relief. But another soldier could easily pick it up.
"Nayeli, take them out now! Don't let them load that RPG again! Andino! Take the rear machine gun and engage the boats behind us. Try not to hit them, just don't let them get close to our flank!"
Gritting his teeth, Miguel pulled the ship in for the kill.

Open Waters, Azurian Ocean: Somewhere north-west of Esparia

“Translation, Mr. Murinyo? Gelemortian isn’t a language I particularly comprehend.” OH. RIGHT. Nasci didn't speak any Gelemortian!

“Oyah, sorry Nasci! Have the Salazaar off the starboard bow’a th’ Rapscallion, eh? Cannons loaded?”

"Check.”

“Torpedoes at th’ ready?”

“Check.”

“SAM defense a go? Crew in position? Gotcher gun locked’n’loadin?”

“Check, check, and check. Anything else?”

“Prepare for war, me bredah, prepare for war. Godspeed, yah jolly green giant.”

“Over and out, Wolfgang.” Right-ho! Wolfy fully expected Sec to fare well in this war.Right. Now that THAT was do- OH? A THREAT OVER THE RAD-... Was that... It was..."FALKAZAR." Banging his hand on the desk, he nearly knocked a mug of hot cocoa all over the poor communications system. Pressing in to speak to Ranza, the infamous Esparian who did Esparian things for Esparia, Wolfy's voice seethed with rage. RAGE, I SAY, RAGE. "Save'in yer bullets ain't possible no mores, wise guy punkface monkeybutted chicken farmer! Jus' remember this, duck-butt headed emo-cutter boy, and take this message to the grave! We got the noblest troops in the world. Y'know what youse guys got? A bunch of low-life, good fer nuthin bullet-holders. By the way. That taking it to yer grave? You won't have to walk far, you cowardly fish-scented scoundrel."

Aaaaand click. Whatever reply that underwear stain of a man could state was lost to Wolfy turning off that communications link. He didn't care for Ranza's pitiful rebuttal, because he KNEW his ships were the best. Okay, now to- AHBJDBHDBND!!!! VASCO.

"WE HAVE MORE GELEMORTIANS THAN YOUR PUNY BULLETS, YOU CRAP-FLINGIN KANAMANIAN AXE-MUNCHING PIG-HAPPAFLAPPAGABBA HAMBONE WITH A YELLOW STRING OF APPLES ON YOUR EAR!!!!!! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEW YOOOOOOOOU!!!" He then turned the volume on that one down, as he wished to easily be capable of yelling at Vasco, but for now he had peace and quiet to pla- WHAT!? LOKHYN. OH YEAH. LOKHYN.

Stepping poutside of his cabin, to the deck, he looked down at them. "YOU! JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!! I CHALLENGE YOU TO A ROUND OF FISTICUFFS. AFTER THIS WAR, THAT IS. STAY ALIVE, MAN." e then listened to Sieg's offerings. Hmm... Peace... Help with the war- PUDDING? RAGHILD COMPANY PUDDING? As it was, he JUST AT THAT MOMENT noticed her. THE RAGHILD ONE. "YOOOOOOOOOU. PUUUUUUUUUDD-" And he recieved a pudding cup to the face in response. "THANK YOU." He grinned and emptied the pudding cup with much haste. CARAMEL. HE LOVED CARAMEL PUDDING. "RIGHT. I AGREE TO AGREE TO YOUSE GUYSES JOININ THE WAR. TO WAAAAAAAAR!!!" Allowing translators to translate for Siegfried, he went back into his cabin. FROM THERE, he saw a lot of stuff. Specifically, The Prism was not only tearing stuff up, but under attack. "Yo, Bronzor, you gots youse some attackers on yah! Raise defenses." And then opening a new comm. with his sledgehammers, "SHF-1 through SHF-5, cover The Prism. Take out any and all interferin ships, and try'n capture'm if ye cain't sink'em."

Opening a new comm. to Vasco, he had to grin, just HAD to. "Yo Allendy. Youse may'a hit my battleship, but it'll be two more hits till youse get that beloved YOU SUNK MY BATTLESHIP. Now be prepared to taste some Gelemortian bullets, you flipper-nailin seal-hopper. Deuces, punk." And to further emphasize his point, h drew his babies and stood at the very front of his ship, holding both guns forward. Four barrels of pure speed and force making a ratatatatatatatat that soothed him, as all four of the guns' barrels spat hot lead in the direction of the Esparian flagship. Yes, it was far away. But while bullets may or may not even touch the ship, let alone hit it with a degree of accuracy, Vasco would hear the guns ablaze. "ALLEEEEEEEEEEENDYYYY!!!"

RIGHT. So everyone had their duties to attend to and everybody was rushing around doing stuff. Well... All but one. Walking up the the woman, Sec was tempted by habit to look down or kneel to be eye to eye with her but it was NOT neccesary. mazingly, the two were ALREADY eye to eye. With a translator nearby to translate his words the Gelemortian, he addressed her with a smile and a handshake. "Hello there, miss. I think Mr. Murinyo told me of you, a Ms. Giovanetti, am I correct? I'd give you specific orders, but Wolfgang told me to skip those and just pass along his message for you; Go out there and bring back some headless Esparians for the bonfire." So with a smile, he stepped away, content that he'd passed along the orders properly, and whent to go do other things.

BOOM.

The sounds of an RPG bursting out loud and clear. Sledgehammer force something, he assumed. He moved to look over the deck and saw an Esparian vessel aflame, falling to the Azurian sea. It had been SHF-9. Well, that was pleasant, threat eliminated and such.

He then heard a battle cry. On his ship, no less. What? "Men, we've been boarded. Arm yourselves." He, personally, had armed himself, with a weapon given to him by Wolfgang. The Microhaxorr, as it was called, was a powerful assault rifle, one that spat out bullets with incredible speed and force, without comprimising precision too much. Reaching for it from his back, he armed himself thusly. No idea what the man had bellowed, he took cover, as a fistful of men also did. "Translator! Tell Ms. Giovanetti that we have visitors, and I think she'd enjoy demolishing them." Aiya... Now was a time for combat. SO. To hopefully strike fear in the hearts of Esparians, Sec too let fly a cry of war, in a language nobody could easily understand. "TO BAAAAATTLE!! PLACE THE HEADS OF ESPARIANS UPON THE DECK, WITH NO BODY LEFT TO REST ON!! TRUTH, YOU SICK DEMON OF A THING, IF YOU CARE AT ALL FOR ANYTHING, CARE FOR THE BLOODSHED ABOUT TO COMMENCE!!" And as his cry was bellowed, his men waited for the Esparians to turn the corner, to emerge from the only entrance to their position from the location of the battle cry. Should they turn that corner? The six soldiers in cover would open fire on the threat.

HAHAHA. So the king had ACCEPTED his request for a spar! WONDERFUL. Standing by his father's side, he watched and listened as diplomacy was done, his warrior of a father making peace with longtime enemies of the Lokhyn, politically, if not militarily. It was good that the two could cooperate; should they be sharing soil, he wanted to be considered more than a savage second-class ciizen. So with all that done, he nodded to Wolfgang, a symbol of respect for his authority and power, as he offered two words before storming towards Esparian pansies; "Godspeed, Murinyo."

(~(Click meh for epicness! )~)

As Lokhyn ships hit the sea, Einherjar stood with his father aboard one. As Siegfried raised his massive weapon to the sky, and roared a battle cry, Einherjar turned to the Lokhyn fleet. "TODAY WE SHALL MEET THE PUNY COWARDS OF ESPARIA OVER THE HIGH SEAS, MY BROTHERS OF WAR! AND WE SHALL BRING UPON THEM THE WRATH OF MIGHTY ODIN, CRUSHING THEM AND THEIR SHIPS WITH OUR WEAPONS. MAY THE BLOOD ON YOUR BLADES NEVER DRY! WITH SWORDS IN THE WIND, ATTACK WITH NEVER-ENDING POWER!" And with his brief speech done, he jumped overboard. Most would assume he was going to swim at the Esparian fleet, a madman's move. But nay. The seas were calm, waves minimal. He touched water, and stood there, on the water's surface, his ice shooting down and holding him somewhat steady. Step by step, he marched towards the Esparians, before slowly rising in pace, until he was charging over the waters at the nearest ship. Esparians aboard it were bewildered. Who was this man who could walk over water like land!? "VALHAAAAAAALLAAAAAAA!!" With a mighty roar of war, he brought The Hammer of Thor, his Heathen Hammer, down upon the ship's hull. A wide blow shattered steel, piercing the hull, and exposing it to the sea's unforgiving grasp. Moving quickly around the ship, he repeated his blows to several key areas, successfully flooding the ship with water, sinking it in a matter of time. Men reached the lifeboats, aye, but not for long. As lifeboats touched water, he was on them. One by one, the lifeboats were sunk, the men aboard the ship all slain by his hammer or his fists.

"BY THOR, I SMITE THEEEEEE!!! VAAAAAAAAAAAAALHAAAAAAALLAAAA!!!" And with a new battlecry, he charged off again, for anoother ship to sink, being covered by a thoughtful sledgehammer ship or two. HOW GENEROUS. But they wouldn't steal his kills, merely displace the Esparians. Should he fall in battle, he would fall with a wet hammer. And not wet from the salted spray either, but of the crimson shimmer that granted the Lokhyn their one-way ticket into the halls of the warriors slain on their feet, surrounded by enemies. And there he wished to be some day, and if today, he wanted to drag as many Esparians as possible with him. Well, not to Valhalla of course; puny Esparians killed nobody. But he would drag them to the grave with him!

Yeeeeeeeesh. The Jarl was an easily enraged man, it seemed. But she respected him, and he was muchly revered by her, which was amazing as she normally revered only money and those who wished to part with large sums of it. "QUIET, I SHALL BE, OH POWERFUL JARL. May Odin be with you, sir!" No, that wasn't sarcasm or anything with humor intended. As she saluted him, every word was intended exactly as stated, in all seriousness. And then he spoke to Wolfgang, yadda-yadda-bladda- WHAT!? WHAT!?!? Had she anything in her mouth, she'd have SPITTOOK. DID SIEGFRIED JUST OFFER WOLFGANG FREE PUDDING!? FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE PUDDING!? HER FREE PUDDING!?!?!? WHICH WASN'T FREE!?!?!? And the king looked at her with a hunger for free pudding in his eyes, and as he spoke, she hurled a large cup of pudding at his face, landing caramel pudding in his mouth. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, FOOL? SCREW YOU AND YOUR FAT WIFE, YOU'LL PAY ME BACK SOMEHOW, SOME DAY. For now, though, you may have free pudding, grumble grumble..." hankfully nobody translated any of that for Siegfried's benefit, lest she be sent back to Aevadauor to work at a tavern, apparently. Well, money, but ALSO, she had Lokhyn DUTIES to fulfill! And Esparian ships to raid and pillage!

So with the Fist of Ran raised to the sky, she let fly a whooping yell of battle as Thunderbutt rocketed off with the Lokhyn longboats, headed for an sparian ship. Oh, here was one- Nope. EEEEEEEEEEGIIIIIIIIL!!! He SUNK it! WITH HIS DARNED HAMMER. Grrrr... Well, there was another one. Tossing pudding in Einherjar's face as she sped by, Thunderbutt moving quickly like a good walrus, even if nobody wants to be a walrus, she yelled to him in Lokhyn, a grin on her face. "DIBS. DIBS, EINHERJAR, DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIBS!!" So as her walrus approached, she wasn't yet spotted. Placing the Fist of ran in her mouth, she held it betwixt her teeth and jumped, catching a panel of the ship's hull in one hand as Thunderbutt U-turned back to circle The Rapscallion until she called for him again. With her free hand, she removed the mace from her mouth and swung it into the hull, catching hold, before climbing to the next potential grip, resting her foot on the one before held by her hand, until she was aboard the ship.

Spotting a guard smoking a cigar not too far away, she charged at him with a blood-curdling shriek of war, and jumped up to brutally slam her mace into his head, killing him fairly quickly, as he hit the water, staining it red. "HAIL NIORD, GOD OF CASH! NIORD, GIVE ME STRENGTH TO STEAL THIS SHIP AND SELL IT BACK TO ESPARIA FOR A HANDSOME SOME OF DOUGH!" And with that, she returned to the brutal slaughter of the Esparians, a crew of about twelve, which was dispatched quickly enough. Once everyone was gone, she whistled quite loudly and hoisted Thunderbutt onto the ship. Heading for the cabin, she turned on the radio. "Greetings everybody! BUY RAGHILD COMPANY PUDDING. DO IT NOW, OR I WILL BLOW. YOUR. HEADS. OFF. WITH. MY. CANNOOOOOOOOONS!!" Turning off the communications array, she left her walrus to steer the ship (in other words, the ship sat pretty much still) as she manned a cannon, which she placed atop the cabin, for a maximum range and firing radius. WHOOOOO!~ Now to not get shot! HAPPY DAYS.

AZURIAN OCEAN; NORTH-WEST OF ESPARIA
THE GRAND SALAZAAR

The darkness was good. It was cold, still, silent and special to the man who stood within her callous grasp. A soft-edged smile curled over his lips, while his fingers tapped against the edges of the blades. He was hiding--keeping himself out of the sights and minds of the Gelemortians onboard. That Bloodhound, Nazario, was already doing a good job on his own; "YOU WILL SURVIVE THIS DAY, MY BROTHERS," A distraction from the great proved of the best use for those who confided in the shadows. Of course, Vito would still earn more kills than he, but at least Naz was trying~ Chuckling internally, the dim lights of the slowly-breaking dawn crossed over his face once, showing a more serious expression on the face of the assassin, as his body shifted and moved, almost folding away into the deep darkness once more. "DIE, PREPARE TO, SCUM OF COUNTRY DOMINION!" He... understood about half of that. Gelemortian was simply Rouenian after all. It was strange, seeing these people attempting to eradicate each other with war. Sliding around a corner and into a small nook, the man crept through the hallways of the internals of the ship. Few sounds could be noticed in this area, though the hyper-sensitive eyes of the man picked up one or two discrepancies, but certainly nothing that had cause for alarm. The blades of the Claves scraped across the sides of the walls, Vito tracking his own path and watching the steps that he took.

Men rushed past him, somewhat distracted by the events. Unfortunately, they were not distracted enough. Their heavy footfalls dropped to a stop as they noticed a dark-robed and sodden male in their path, grinning and lunging with a shout. Two vs one--it was no wonder that they were confident. Taking in a half-second to recognize their combat attempts, Vito lunged and struck twice. Silence fell in that small hallway once more, Vito kneeling with six blades at his sides. Upon the swords themselves were two men, each impaled by three apiece, blood soaking through their burgundy uniforms. Gold-trimmed clothing was slowly stained a deep red, the color soaking outwards from the exit points of the blades and dripping to the ground. Pulling the swords outwards and backwards, the man let a solemn sigh creep out from his otherwise calm visage. "Requiescat in pace..." Flicking his hands over their faces, he quickly slid their eyes closed and made his way into the next hallway with a soft sigh. These people were only his enemies by right; they were not his mental enemies, nor would they ever be. Shaking his head, the man continued to move down the hallway.

"In the battleground, there is no place for hope. What lies there is just cold despair and a sin called victory, built upon the pain of the defeated." Sliding past a door, he noticed the sounds of men making communications. Placing his back silently against the wall, he closed his eyes and thought it over for a second. From the sounds of things, he was right outside the communique room. If he were to charge in here and kill these men now, the lack of communication would cause much disarray. The other Gelemortians would quite possibly realize that the ship had been compromised, and possibly shoot it into the water. That would complete his job, but also leave him high and dry...then again, he was already stuck on this ship anyway. However, the Gelemortians being on high alert about the ship would be worse for his situation right now. He would allow them to live.

Slipping away silently, Vito started to skulk further through the ship, waiting for the chance to find himself a proper placing and prepare the rest of the plan. As well as that...

"Where in the high hell is Alvarez?"

"Where in the high hell is Alvarez?" A good question. Where was Nazario? Where had the antics of the Bloodhound taken him this time? In truth, for a good part of this chapter of the man's crusades, he didn't entirely know, but his battlecry, and his slightly more... direct methods, when compared to Vito, had drawn a fair bit of attention to him.

Burgundy and gold appeared in a flash as Nazario turned about the corner of the boat, clutching Trusty Jack in one hand and his kukri machete in the other. This particular office and this particular Bloodhound made bad tidings for the five that had just appeared, cocking their shabbily-made rifles and taking aim as the hulking giant of a man rose his arm, and brought it down in arc.

He was still a good few metres from them, but the Widowmaker propelled through the air, making innumerable revolutions as it spun. The now-empty hand came to Jack's hilt, and the Esparian threw himself to the ground, taking aim and unleashing three shells off, sequentially, one against each leg he could see. The rounds sheared into flesh and smashed through bone, the chatter of rifle fire automatic and off-target as the men keeled backwards and fell to the ground, clutching their legs.

Nazario snarled, and, the knife found its target with a squelch of flesh and a splintering of bone, followed by a soft thud as the man hit the floor; the Widowmaker had embedded itself solidly within the cranium of the fourth man, and a single dribble of blood ran down the blade, before the rest sprayed out from amidst the grey matter like a violent crimson fountain. His brow furrowed, and the hulking giant of a man rose back to his feet as the final, fifth man trembled and took aim, but the Esparian was faster in his drawing, firing off Jack as if it were child's play. The .500 S&W cartridge, Cretan in origin, is powerful enough to kill elephants; the men now clutching their legs and screaming in agony would likely be unable to walk ever again, if they survived the blood loss, if no-one found them after the squad leader vanished. But when the .500 round slammed into the last man's chest, it sent him reeling, knocked him down to the floor in an instant, and left him, spluttering, seeping blood, and sprawled across the deck of the Salazaar he'd so valiantly tried to defend.

Grumbling, and ignoring the men's plights and jumbled, Gelemortian cries for help, Nazario kicked the three aside and placed a rhinoceros-sized boot against the chest of the fourth man, splintering ribs that a heart no longer beat within as support whilst he stuck his tongue out in sheer determination, pulling the machete from the man's cranium with a slow, steady, sickly squelch, before grimacing at the crimson-stained blade and wiping it against the motionless man's burgundy uniform. Wasn't going to be put to use, now, otherwise.

With a sombre, grim and almost regretful look upon his face, Nazario holstered his smoking hand cannon, and rushed past the corpses of the five, the Widowmaker still bared for a good minute or so until the Bloodhound too sheathed that, pulling aside now his queen - the twin-magazined Kel-Tec KSG-12 shotgun, loaded and all. Pulling the pump back with a grin, Nazario cradled it in his hands and followed the stench of death and trail of blood to find Vito as he'd expected, within the deeper innards of the ship, skulking through the dankest, darkest parts, commenting, conveniently, and on-time... "Where in the high hell is Alvarez?"

The rhetorics brought a hearty grin back to Nazario's face, almost sickly so; the patriotism creased out the wrinkles and the darkness upon his face. Bah, bloody Gelemortians. He was back and right again, with that little murder-hiccup behind him; he flashed his teeth at Vito and bellowed, his voice filling the room, and the night itself, by that matter, with ease. "Here, my good brother!" He roared. "How go your crusades?! Byahahahahahaha!" He looked down to Vito, stained with blood and looking rather... glum. "Tell me you haven't killed Murinyo already... BAHAHAHAHA!"

It was only after he dived that Dunstan realised that he had forgotten the plastic explosives and his diamond-edged circular power saw. A quick detour and he was swimming again, several belts fitted around him with great difficulty, explosives strapped to them in an ordered and efficient manner. It was a very powerful load, but the ship Dunstan set his eyes on was not going to go down with just that. No, there had to be sabotage from the inside, unbridled and unforseen damage from within. But Dunstan couldn't help it. It was much too fancy a ship, sitting there like a pearl in the sea. The chaos! The reward! The fun!

"That royal yacht is fucking mine!" Dunstan said to no one in particular, a great and terrible grin on his face. He dove under the water, the darkness of the ocean hiding him from sight, but it wasn't long until he was under the ship's hull. He spread his hand across the metal as if it were a lover, a mockingly mournful look on his face. "Alas," he mimed to himself as he prepared his circular blade, his hand on his chest as he wiped away a fake tear. "To destroy a vehicle of such grace! Oh, the tradegy! Oh, the humanity!"

And then, with gusto anyone else would consider alarming at best, he sliced through the metal like a hot knife through butter. He was momentarily pushed down as a rush of air escaped the ship and the metal disc he cut out of the hull dropped into the ocean's depths, but eventually he forced his way in. The first thing he did was pull the mask off of his face...

... and immediately regret it.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep..."

Dunstan was in too much pain to even scream, the salt water slashing into his burns like a sabre. His eye twitched like a hare's leg and his body wobbled from side to side in a burning agony. It took him a while to recover, his back against the metallic wall, but finally he was able to move. The corner of the ship he was in was a dank, miserable place, water dripping with echoes booming through and the rumbling of the engines not too far away.

"Engines? Now we're talking." A wide grin uncurled itself on Dunstan's face, malice behind every tooth as he walked towards a catwalk and followed the constant "whrrnnnnnnnnnnnnng" that was the soundtrack to the innards of the ship. He was only slightly perplexed at the complete lack of people, but it wasn't without reason; all personal to battle stations, most likely, and every man to spare. So it was with no surprise that when Dunstan found himself at the door into the engine room and silently opened it, only one lone engineer was keeping guard, all the dials keeping his attention as he looked on, a huge turbine behind him, no doubt part of one of the engines itself. The fat bomber got only closer, preparing his spanner in hand.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?!" Shouted the engineer, whirling around... too fast. Dunstan had positioned the spanner right to the side of the engineer's head, who smashed straight into it and knocked himself out through sheer force, pitching to the side and dropping like a sack of potatoes. Dunstan grinned, walking over to the dials.

"Earl. Earl who?" He answered his own joke as his eyes analysed and calculated the purpose for each and every button, lever, dial, meter and lightbulb he saw. Just from looking, he could tell that the yacht employed a tank-style steering, where steering was done by two controls, one for either side, and to turn one engine would power down or reverse. Very good turning circle and very quick. Dunstan was secretly impressed. "Earl tell you if you open the door, hyuk hyuk."

A pause.

"... yeah, I don't deserve to survive this battle." He murmured, and then his eyes lit up. "Hello!" Two large levers, a sign above them saying "EMERGENCY ENGINE POWER! USE ONLY IN THE EVENT OF THE BRIDGE CONTROLS NO LONGER WORKING! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MOVE WITH PRIOR PERMISSION!" One lever for the left side and one for the right side. Dunstan's eyes drifted upwards, seeing a collection of wires that most likely were connected to the bridge. Dunstan made no reaction for a moment, but he remembered seeing another ship directly in front of the yacht, one that others would recognise as the Prism. The gears worked in his brain as he thought of a plan of action. His power saw revved up again.

Shnnnnnng

"OH NOOOOOOO!" Dunstan screamed dramatically, his hands on his head. "WE'VE LOST CONTROL OF THE SHIP! CAN I USE THE EMERGENCY CONTROLS?!" He turned his head, looking to his hand, which began to move as if speaking as he deepened his voice. "You have my blessing, Dunstan." After this performance, he wrapped his hands around the levers and slammed them forward, putting the entire ship into full speed ahead, only going forward. He stood back and took the saw to the levers, snapping them away and leaving the ship careening and charging forward out of control.

Next, he took his belts off and took off every ounce of explosives. He hid it all over the place; inside the control panel, under the catwalk, inside the engine itself, even in the unconscious engineer's mouth. Any inch he could hide explosives in, he filled to the brim. There wasn't a doubt that, if detonated, a chain reaction would start, taking the entire engine on this side with the room and blowing almost half the yacht up. Dunstan nodded to the engine room, only able to imagine what anarchy was about to happen. He turned to bolt to his exit...

... and his foot tapped a radio.

He looked to the small black box, and he smiled. Why not rub it in a little? He gingerly picked it up and spoke as he moved, his words travelling straight to the monarch of Gelemorte himself.

"Your majesty!" Dunstan shouted down the line, his feet slamming across the catwalk as he made his escape. "I've got a once in a lifetime chance for you! If you go right onto the front of your ship right now, turn around and pull your trousers down, you'll be able to be the first man to fit a boat inbetween his butt-cheeks! It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity seeing as your lifetime is being cut drastically short, so don't delay! Get on the bow of your yacht and get your arse out! Make some history for once, mother fucker!" With that, Dunstan reached the hole he had entered the ship in. The swimming mask went over his face once more, though this time he decided to take the radio with him, just in case the king felt like talking back. He dropped into the water like a stone and dove as far as he could, before his gaze drifted back up, watching the yacht charge forward without any hope of stopping.