Raindrops fell in a languid patter against the slick cobble, the sound of the breaking storm accompanied by an almost rhythmic tap-tapping as water was shed from where it had gathered in awnings and the leaves of trees. Walsh tapped his heel alongside his mental tally of the seconds, his father’s good watch, a gift when he moved to the city, still haven’t been attended to by the jeweler, leaving him to make his own time. It was a certain spot of bad luck given the day, but if it was the worst Ainee had designed for him, Wash could manage. His count hit the sixth around-again of sixty with a clip of his heel, and Walsh placed his hand to the grip of his gun.
The checkpoint had been set up in a rush, wire pulled across half of the street before a pile of sandbags that were in a partway decent stack. The guardhouse was largely using a statue of Lord-General Stockton for most of its support, and a simple manual boom gate had been placed to stop traffic trying to head deeper into the city. A trio of miserable loyalists were manning the checkpoint, each dressed in a damp dun overcoat, and each low enough in the pecking order that they couldn’t order someone else to wait in the rain. The driver of the truck that idled at the gate rolled their window down as a loyalist approached.
The words weren’t much over the pitter-patter, though the blushed-gold of the woman’s hair glittered as she held out papers bound in leather, shameful luck for the pretty thing but Walsh’s eyes were already following the second loyalist as he stepped around the truck to inspect the cargo. Wash’s count hit the seventh around-again of sixty, and he slid the gun from his jacket. Had the others gotten into place? The safety disengaged with a click and Walsh gave the magazine a tap with the bottom of his palm to ensure it was properly threaded. The first soldier returned the woman’s papers. Walsh slid out from behind the wall, taking a knee as he sighted on the soldier at the back of the truck.
There was a shout from one of the three. Walsh released a breath as he squeezed the trigger. The soldier at the back of the truck sagged as a burst caught him high in the chest, the other two diving out of the way as a rain of lead splattered into the cobble. The one manning the gate had the better luck, as he managed to get himself behind the wall of sand and managed to get his gun up to return fire. Walsh turned his gun into the one who had checked the license, catching him somewhere in the leg before rolling behind a corner. Walsh spat a curse.
The driver had kicked her door open, and she was standing tall within the gunfire, one leg braced against the door as she yanked her skirts of her blue dress up. The woman pulled a silver flask from her thigh and opened it with a distinct ‘pop’ that lingered over the echoing cracks of gunfire. Walsh blinked, realizing his mistake a moment too late to correct it. The flask was at her lips by the time he had pulled his gun around to take aim, and the boom gate had already turned to a fiery storm of splinters and shrapnel before he could squeeze the trigger.
His bullets cut through empty air as the woman dropped back into her seat, rubber already screaming as the truck plowed through the remains of the gate. Walsh emptied what he had left into the back of the truck, managing only to mangle a box before his gun clicked empty and he had to dive back behind cover to reload.
—~—~—~—~—~—
There is a simple problem with Empire and it’s this; violence is all an Empire knows and it is the only tool at hand when things go wrong.
In many ways the Rising had been doomed before the O’Serra had stood upon the steps of the General Post to proclaim the new Republic of Eyra, bad rains had slowed the movements of allied rebels across the island, critical munitions arrived late to recaptured docks after steamers had been harried by choppy seas, and a lack of pamphlets left the public of Dhulac lost as to the cause of the fighting. Six days is what it took the Legion to force the rebels into an unconditional surrender, and the Imperials had hoped they could put a solid end to the whole matter by simply putting a bullet into the men who had organized the whole affair and shipping the rest they rounded up to work camp.
The executions turned the population, small fights continued around the city as pressure built under the strictly enforced martial law. A killing of a loyalist private led to a series of reprisals against civilians by loyalist forces, all ignored by the acting imperial commander of the city Brigadier-General Lowe, and emboldened imperial fears about a second uprising. A simple solution to that was found in a prohibition against the consumption, selling of or manufacturing leading to the selling of alcoholic liquors within the Isle. Production would not halt however for all distillers and brewers so long as all of their manufactured supply was sent to Albion. To be caught distilling spirits to sell to civilians was to stand accused of supplying aid to the rebel cause and face imprisonment without a proper trial.
Magic is in spirits, of course, so the prohibition made a certain strategic sense as a means to starve the mages and witches of the Isle of their craft. It was a move however that only added further heat to a population on the verge of boiling. The Hunger, a famine where the Isle starved while the Imperial core feasted on the grains and good cattle grown on the Isle, was still a fresh wound in the minds of the elves who had survived it, and a memory still raw as it was passed from human parents to their children. Magic perhaps wasn’t needed to survive, but wasn’t this still a Hunger in its own right?
By 1921, four years after the Rising, the whisper of independence was again on every lip and the Republican armies were gathering support and supplies. Arms, munitions, and liquor from illegal distilleries. Rum runners too are a valuable asset, knowledgeable as they were about the various ways one can smuggle goods or make a quick escape from a loyalist patrol.
For those we’ve lost, and for those who have given everything to us, we will be free.
The checkpoint had been set up in a rush, wire pulled across half of the street before a pile of sandbags that were in a partway decent stack. The guardhouse was largely using a statue of Lord-General Stockton for most of its support, and a simple manual boom gate had been placed to stop traffic trying to head deeper into the city. A trio of miserable loyalists were manning the checkpoint, each dressed in a damp dun overcoat, and each low enough in the pecking order that they couldn’t order someone else to wait in the rain. The driver of the truck that idled at the gate rolled their window down as a loyalist approached.
The words weren’t much over the pitter-patter, though the blushed-gold of the woman’s hair glittered as she held out papers bound in leather, shameful luck for the pretty thing but Walsh’s eyes were already following the second loyalist as he stepped around the truck to inspect the cargo. Wash’s count hit the seventh around-again of sixty, and he slid the gun from his jacket. Had the others gotten into place? The safety disengaged with a click and Walsh gave the magazine a tap with the bottom of his palm to ensure it was properly threaded. The first soldier returned the woman’s papers. Walsh slid out from behind the wall, taking a knee as he sighted on the soldier at the back of the truck.
There was a shout from one of the three. Walsh released a breath as he squeezed the trigger. The soldier at the back of the truck sagged as a burst caught him high in the chest, the other two diving out of the way as a rain of lead splattered into the cobble. The one manning the gate had the better luck, as he managed to get himself behind the wall of sand and managed to get his gun up to return fire. Walsh turned his gun into the one who had checked the license, catching him somewhere in the leg before rolling behind a corner. Walsh spat a curse.
The driver had kicked her door open, and she was standing tall within the gunfire, one leg braced against the door as she yanked her skirts of her blue dress up. The woman pulled a silver flask from her thigh and opened it with a distinct ‘pop’ that lingered over the echoing cracks of gunfire. Walsh blinked, realizing his mistake a moment too late to correct it. The flask was at her lips by the time he had pulled his gun around to take aim, and the boom gate had already turned to a fiery storm of splinters and shrapnel before he could squeeze the trigger.
His bullets cut through empty air as the woman dropped back into her seat, rubber already screaming as the truck plowed through the remains of the gate. Walsh emptied what he had left into the back of the truck, managing only to mangle a box before his gun clicked empty and he had to dive back behind cover to reload.
—~—~—~—~—~—
There is a simple problem with Empire and it’s this; violence is all an Empire knows and it is the only tool at hand when things go wrong.
In many ways the Rising had been doomed before the O’Serra had stood upon the steps of the General Post to proclaim the new Republic of Eyra, bad rains had slowed the movements of allied rebels across the island, critical munitions arrived late to recaptured docks after steamers had been harried by choppy seas, and a lack of pamphlets left the public of Dhulac lost as to the cause of the fighting. Six days is what it took the Legion to force the rebels into an unconditional surrender, and the Imperials had hoped they could put a solid end to the whole matter by simply putting a bullet into the men who had organized the whole affair and shipping the rest they rounded up to work camp.
The executions turned the population, small fights continued around the city as pressure built under the strictly enforced martial law. A killing of a loyalist private led to a series of reprisals against civilians by loyalist forces, all ignored by the acting imperial commander of the city Brigadier-General Lowe, and emboldened imperial fears about a second uprising. A simple solution to that was found in a prohibition against the consumption, selling of or manufacturing leading to the selling of alcoholic liquors within the Isle. Production would not halt however for all distillers and brewers so long as all of their manufactured supply was sent to Albion. To be caught distilling spirits to sell to civilians was to stand accused of supplying aid to the rebel cause and face imprisonment without a proper trial.
Magic is in spirits, of course, so the prohibition made a certain strategic sense as a means to starve the mages and witches of the Isle of their craft. It was a move however that only added further heat to a population on the verge of boiling. The Hunger, a famine where the Isle starved while the Imperial core feasted on the grains and good cattle grown on the Isle, was still a fresh wound in the minds of the elves who had survived it, and a memory still raw as it was passed from human parents to their children. Magic perhaps wasn’t needed to survive, but wasn’t this still a Hunger in its own right?
By 1921, four years after the Rising, the whisper of independence was again on every lip and the Republican armies were gathering support and supplies. Arms, munitions, and liquor from illegal distilleries. Rum runners too are a valuable asset, knowledgeable as they were about the various ways one can smuggle goods or make a quick escape from a loyalist patrol.
For those we’ve lost, and for those who have given everything to us, we will be free.