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Post by xander10 on Jan 27, 2023 23:47:00 GMT
To: His Excellency, the Bulwark of Western Placidia, Mr. Garend Marston, From: Mr. Titus Theris, Divinian Councilor of Arms Dear Sir, Following reports of the excellent combat record of the leatherwing aerocraft I have been tasked with reaching out to you in order to procure a contract for Divinian acquisition in order to establish our Aeronautics Corps. The Imperial senate is desirous for an initial contract for the purchase of four hundred such craft from the Associated Cities. If this request is possible to fulfill, kindly inform me of your asking price, as well as a timeline for which we may expect the craft to be finished. Should transport be an issue, we are willing to transport the craft from the cities to Divinium ourselves. Thank for for your consideration and care in this matter. Vale, T. Theris. To: Mr. Titus Theris, Divinian Councilor of Arms From: The Right Honourable Lord Mayor Garend Marston of the City of Sheen Dear Sir, The order of Four Hundred RSAF 1 Aircraft will be 230,000 F, with according to my associates the ability to have this order completed within 1 year of the order being set. We can transport te Aircraft to any airfield you wish or you may transport them yourselves if you prefer. Kind Regards, Garend Marston. |
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Post by Dunwik on Feb 7, 2023 2:08:34 GMT
FEBRUARY 19th, 1917.
Henry West paced up and down the remnants of the village, pistol in one hand. The rats, all of them, were dying. The damn things were chained up in a line, too weak to even stand anymore. He afforded himself a long, shuddering breath out, walking over to the death squadron's flame tank. With every settlement burned, the horrific image of that bloodstained, squidlike idol from his youth faded just a bit more. Or, not faded. Only intensified, but as a thing. Not as the harbinger of some malevolent and ineffable spirit of the inky dark. No. As a thing. A superstition of a childlike people. An idea vanquished, of a people best left in the great waste heap of history. Nevermore were clay idols and masked savages to menace the people of Dunwik, and he, West, was the hand to bring about that great change.
West marched towards the firing line, the men in their thick rubber suits huffing and wheezing as they dragged the dead and dying into a great heap. Some cursed their quarantine gear, but one look at the mangled bodies, ravaged with disgusting, oozing black sores, stilled their tongues. Soon, the tank rumbled towards the heap, pointing the long nozzle of its mighty flamethrower towards the mass. One of the creatures - West dared not even call it human - tried, still half-dead, to struggle free, to crawl away.
West smoothly aimed his pistol and shot the thing. Once. Twice. Thrice. A body twitched. West fired. All went still, and he stepped back, watching the flames wash over the horrific pile. In the flickering light, the smell of cooking meat flooding his nostrils, a mangled, agonized cry coming from somewhere - as an unconscious man was roused in his own funeral pyre, West's face was cast in long shadow.
To a new Dunwik. Unburdened by evil. Unburdened by anything, free to reach to the stars and beyond even them. Man's knowledge was frail, his form was weak, but his spirit, the Dunwikki spirit, could do anything. If West could watch these men burn with no pity, then what malign spirit, what ineffable monster, could possibly frighten him now?
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