Czernobog's Bin

[Czernobog]

[REDACTED]

[speaker-to-trolls]

I like the first verse, that seems to flow pretty well, the rest of the verses seem a bit clunky, this bit essentially.

I know their names so well,
Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Ghengis, Bismarck,
But at the last at the end, tolled the bell,
And so did they end,
I know them like a very long-lost friend.

This one particularly, the insertion of all the conquerors' names breaks the flow of the whole thing.

Would be my thoughts.

[Siege]

Whilst it's not a bad effort at all, I do agree with Speaker. And another issue with the paragraph he singled out is that the names are all over the place. This may be just me having a particular bee in my bonnet about this sort of thing, but in the sentence:

Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Ghengis, Bismarck

Caesar is a Roman cognomen for a specific branch of the Julia family (Julii Caesares); Alexander is the given name of Alexander III of Macedon; Napoleon is again a given name (this time of Napoleon Bonaparte); as I recall Ghenghis Khan means something along the lines of 'supreme leader', the guy's actual name was Temüjin; Bismarck meanwhile is a surname, and one that is missing the 'von' bit that goes with it.

So namewise you're all over the place. It should read something like "Gaius, Alexander, Napoleon, Temüjin, Otto". Even then however I find that Otto von Bismarck really has no place on that list, given that the first four are basically warlords of one stripe or another whereas Bismarck was the Prime Minister of Prussia and never personally lead an army. If you want a fifth, why not pick Charlemagne?

[Czernobog]

So, just another vague story concept. It's either this, or the resurrection of Rise of an Empire.

War of the Necromancer

Setting:

1000 years ago, the Necromancer threatened the world. However he was defeated, just barely, by a coalition of races and kingdoms. An extremely powerful magic sword called the Dawnblade was forged to destroy him should he ever rise again - to ensure its security, it was enchanted so that none but the rightful heir to the Empire of Allemania could wield it in battle. However, during a civil war, the sword was lost, and the dynasty that had ruled Allemania was supplanted.

Then the Necromancer comes back, and the heir (now heir to a minor noble house) is the only one who can save the world from his evil...

Antagonists

The Necromancer
An incredibly powerful dark sorceror recently resurrected, his spirit now bound to a copy of his old armour, the Necromancer will stop at nothing to place all life under his dark dominion.

Lord Terminus, the Dark Marshal
Lord Terminus is the Dark Marshal, commander of the Necromancer's undead armies and leader of the Pale Riders, a group of powerful servants of the Necromancer. Has slightly different motivations from the Necromancer - desires the end of all life, while the Necromancer merely seeks control. Eventually betrays the Necromancer because of this and is obliterated, but manages to weaken him, tipping the scales in the hero's favour come the climactic battle.

Protagonists

Theodor Augustus
Main hero. The only one who can wield the Dawnblade and thus destroy the Necromancer for good. Is a bit arrogant and contemptuous at story start, but grows out of it.

More will hopefully come soon.

[Dakarne]

The Belgariad, Shannara, Riftwar, Wheel of Time, Inheritance Cycle, Dragonlance, Sword of Truth, Prydain Chronicles, Star Wars and Elenium called.

They want their schtick back.

[speaker-to-trolls]

The Belgariad, Shannara, Riftwar, Wheel of Time, Inheritance Cycle, Dragonlance, Sword of Truth, Prydain Chronicles, Star Wars and Elenium called.

They want their schtick back.

Now, let's be fair, I know you agree that ideas that might seem old and overdone and cliched can make for good stories if they're done in an original way with an entertaining, evocative style.

Unfortunately this doesn't look like it has either. Kamin, I'd say go back to Rise of an Empire if you're going to write a long story. It's also not the most original thing ever written, but to be honest it sounds more original than this and you've gotten a lot further into it.

[Czernobog]

The Knights of the East: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale


Zero

Ludwig rode through the dark forests, ever watchful. There were dark creatures roaming these forests, remnants of old hubris. The War had been terrible, and its products - the Fallout, the Wolfbreed and other, worse horrors - had filled the land with terror for centuries. He'd been riding from Berlin day and night with only brief respites - if one ignored the day he had spent in Danzig - and if he was lucky, he would reach Konigsberg before the night was through.

The full moon rose, its sinister silver light partially illuminating the darkness of the thick forest beside the road. These lands were accursed, having been a major battleground in the War. The forests stretched from the Oder (where the Russians had been thrown back by the Emperor Ludwig Karl I) to the city of Warsaw. Ludwig kept riding, urging his mechanical steed to move faster.

He kept riding, and three hours past midnight by his reckoning he saw the great fortress of Konigsberg. It was built on a bluff, high, tall. It had been built above a great fortress tunnelled within the living rock. Not far away were the ruins of the Second Castle, built by Emperor Ludwig II on the site of the First Castle (razed by the Russians in the 20th Century) before the War and razed at the Second Sack of Konigsberg during the War. The third castle - well, he was looking right at it. He continued riding, to the great walls surrounding the fortress.

He looked at the guards, his commanding glare and the coat of arms on his shield making it clear who he was. They kneeled before him knowing he was their new master, their Heerführer, then saluted him in the old Roman style. Ludwig returned the salute. He had been like them once, when he was newly Commissioned, just another Hauptmann. He was 27, had been an Officer for 10 years since his Commissioning at 17.

He rode through the streets of the castle town, before coming to the entranceway to the castle. He dismounted, clutching his powered sabre and his autopistol tightly, ready for anything. He led the machine-horse to the stables, where with a whirr it powered down.

His father, Karl Hohenzollern, had always claimed to be a descendant of the old Emperors - not merely of Germany as they had once been, but of all Europe. He had told him of the wonders the Emperors commanded, miniature suns, machines that could make new life, spinning the subtle strands that determined the resulting being and carrying it to term like a mother in her womb, and many more besides.

He had told him of the great hero Siegfried I Hohenzollern, who had lived just after the War. Who had managed to preserve civilisation in the West of the Empire and bring its flame, against all hardship and trouble to the ravaged eastlands. Whose men had been the epitome of chivalry and valour. Who had been slain in a backhanded blow by the Russian Tsar at Minsk. Who, they said, had placed his weapons and armour in a vault in the underground fortress at Konigsberg, to wait out the ages until a worthy man wielded them once more for a noble cause.

No wonder they called Siegfried I the Once and Future King, for after his reign the Hohenzollerns had been driven from the title of Emperor after a great civil war, and the Empire's rulership had passed to lesser men. As he thought, he went up to the bedchamber, the antique light within powered by a machine far below that tapped the energy of the earth itself.

Ludwig had been sent to be Heerführer of Konigsberg as a test of character, and as he turned off the dim light, he wondered whether he would, and swore that he would pass. He fell asleep shortly after, and slept dreamlessly through the night.

[Czernobog]

So, I have several ideas for stories, but one seems to stick out most prominently (note that this is still vague):

The Kaiser's Finest

The idea:

To parody the usual Nazi supertech tropes by playing them straight while making the supertech German invaders Imperial Germans from 1918.

The premise:

In 1918 the Kaiser, knowing his days were numbered, sent an expedition to the dark side of the moon. 100 years later, they're back...and they want revenge.

Protagonists:

Charles Greenwood, a businessman in a Berlin conference who is blown totally out of his depth when the invasion force lands.

Karl Steiner Member of the GSG9 who gets involved in the resistance fighting back the invasion.

Supporting Characters:

Alfred F. Jones US President who is totally lost when the invasion starts, and whose foolishness leads to several setbacks for the neo-Entente.

Antagonists:

Ludwig Hohenzollern Your usual pampered, sneering cowardly pretty-boy aristocratic villain.

Siegfried Adlerssohn Commander of the Berlin landing force. Military commander, practical; doesn't like Ludwig one bit.

The Clonetroopers The main foot-soldiers of the invasion force. Wear gasmasks and full armour to hide the fact they're all clones.

[Heretic]

Is this the beginning of self-parody? Do I see a new dawn coming?

Is Kamin actually going mock...himself?!

[Czernobog]

Is this the beginning of self-parody? Do I see a new dawn coming?

Is Kamin actually going mock...himself?!

Well, this is more a mockery of the various tropes associated with Nazi supertech, by making the premise as absurd as possible while still taking things relatively seriously. But you can see it as that as well.

[Shroom Man 777]

Stop reading TVTropes.

[Malchus]

The Kaiser's Finest

The idea:

To parody the usual Nazi supertech tropes by playing them straight while making the supertech German invaders Imperial Germans from 1918.

The premise:

In 1918 the Kaiser, knowing his days were numbered, sent an expedition to the dark side of the moon. 100 years later, they're back...and they want revenge.

Kamin, this just sounds like Iron Sky but with the swastikas crossed out and German Imperial eagles hastily scrawled on. Dude, you're already having trouble trying to develop an original flavor since you seem to be mentally stuck on Germanian-something-or-the-other lately, a ham-fisted parody whose basic premise isn't exactly original doesn't help. Parody is hard to do, Kamin. And it quickly becomes stupid and lame if your only reason for writing it is "hey guys this is stoopid amirite lol."

[Dakarne]

Especially since the vast majority of 'Nazi Germany returns from the DARK SIDE OF THE MOON' fiction is pretty tongue in cheek anyway. It's badly parodying an entire section of fiction which is already devoted to parody.

[Heretic]

I personally think this is a good start for Kamin. Yes, it sounds like Iron Sky, and not really original, but everyone needs to start somewhere. I had to start somewhere, and people would have slapped me if they knew I relied on, for a while, on Seventh Sanctum.

And Shroom *Takes a pile of tropes and snorts them in the same vein as Scarface* Tropes aren't bad. Hell, they might help Kamin for a while. He just needs to learn how to use them responsibly. *Snorts more Tropes* It's not like he's going to stay on the computer for 10 hours, just looking through lists and inversions. I personally like Laconic tropes. *Snorts even more tropes* Come on mang, it's fine if Kamin looks at TVtropes. It's not like they're gonna narrow his creativity.

*Snort* Good stuff

[Dakarne]

Where do I begin with the tropes? I could make a long, epic list of reasons why tropes are bad. Not in terms of the individual concepts themselves being bad, but actually the over-arching concept and mindset of the website itself. At its core, the mindset has eventually gotten itself backwards; rather than seeing the 'tropes' as an identified convention or pattern in fiction, they see them as the building blocks from which fiction is created. The problem is that fiction does not go together like Lego bricks.


And how many starting points must Kamin have had by now? He's basically been at these 'promising starts' every other month or so. Every sign of improvement he's shown has been momentary at best to the point where we're all just sick of the spam. It's quite clear by now that he isn't going to improve, he isn't going to progress, and this right here? It's one of the worst pieces of crap he's spewed out in the past year or so.

I, for one, am absolutely fucking sick of Imperial fucking Germany.

[speaker-to-trolls]

I still maintain that he has had a few genuinely promising starts, even if I don't think this is one of them, but I don't want to be overly harsh because I'm sure most of us have started interesting ideas that we have later left to congeal and wander alone in the creative wilderness. Dak has a single project he's been working on for years, of course, so he's liable to be less forgiving.

As I've stated, I think that things like, for instance his Fall of the Space Roman Republic story showed genuine promise in terms of being a long running story, which is more than I have ever managed, and things like the beginning of his WW2 Armageddon(???) story show improvements in writing style.

[Czernobog]

So here's what I have of my new story. I intend, barring unforeseen circumstances, to get to at least a reasonable length with this one.

DEATHLESS

AD 1104

Ivan looked around; the forest was dark and shadowed. It was the deepest chill of winter, the night preceding the Winter Solstice; dark forces lurked everywhere on such black nights, and the full moon shone malevolently in the sky. Ivan’s band of warriors was hunting for the dreaded immortal sorcerer, Koschei the Deathless. They said he could marshal legions of the dead; call forth armies from the deepest depths of Hell, and other such unutterable horrors. Ivan did not doubt this; he had seen Koschei’s horrors, the living dead and the innumerable, unutterable legions that marched forth from his icy fortress in the uttermost north to lay waste to the living.

Then from the shadows of the snowy forest Ivan saw the green-glowing eyes of the dead that walked, heard the ferocious howling of the abominations that Koschei created or called forth. The dead surrounded the band of warriors, swords held limply in rotting hands that strongly resembled claws. The living warriors drew their swords and torches. They were going to fight to the death. The Dead moved closer. Ivan drew his blade, passed from father to son for time immemorial, noting the mystical glow, like white fire, of the Cyrillic characters engraved upon it.

The heir of Kiev was not dying quietly. The dead moved closer and closer, the warriors remaining tight, until they moved upon the hunting-party with swords and claws, attacking with clumsy blows. Where Ivan’s sword met dead flesh, it parted quickly, revealing black viscous blood that flowed in torrents and burned with a hiss and a flash of fire when it touched the sword. The dead kept coming, as Ivan’s band fought its way to better ground. Minutes passed like hours in the rush of combat. Then the other horrors of Koschei’s manufacture began their assault.

Ivan’s sword sliced off the head of a lupine abomination that walked on two legs, slicing through it like a warm knife through butter. The dead fell around the warriors, their swords slicing easily through long-rotten flesh. Eventually they reached a frozen lake, and there was an uncanny pause in the assaults. Then reality itself seemed to scream, a horrific sound that was felt in each man’s soul, as a shadowed portal opened in reality, and Koschei walked through, followed by two of his dreaded Pale Riders. Their raiment was snow-white and so were their steeds, but their armour was silver. Koschei wore a black cloak, and his armour was dark metal. He wore no helmet, and on his youthful face was a sneer of cold command.

He had no need of a blade – his black sceptre was a weapon enough, for its power was enough to slay armies and shatter mountains.

Koschei laughed, harsh and cruel.

‘So this is what you call an army?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Has the Tsar run out of men?’

‘Enough!’ Ivan shouted. ‘Charge!’

The men charged, but Koschei lifted his sceptre and they were suddenly lifted off the frozen surface of the lake, flung into the air, tendrils of dark light connecting them to the sceptre. Koschei struck it on the lake’s surface and they suddenly fell down dead. Ivan was frozen, could not move a muscle, as the Pale Riders dismounted. They drew their blades, shining in the evil moonlight.

‘Kill him!’ Koschei demanded.

The Cyrillic writing on the blade shone white with power, and Ivan suddenly sprang into life. The Pale Riders attacked, Ivan desperately fighting them off. He had learned swordplay throughout his youth, but never had there been a time when such skills were so needed. A parry, a thrust, a counter-thrust, Ivan fought for his very life. With a sudden blow, Ivan stabbed into a Pale Rider’s heart, briefly noting the flood of viscous black fluid that poured out before resuming the battle with the survivor. Adrenaline ran through his blood, filling him with strength as he cut through the second one’s neck, removing his head.

Koschei didn’t even get the chance to think before Ivan’s sword stabbed into his heart, killing his body. Ivan picked up the sceptre; it would make a perfect trophy for his return to Kiev.

AD 2009

Alex broke his way into the crypt. Six years of complex negotiation and even more of pointless searching had ensued, but now he had found what he wanted. A tomb, a real discovery, something that would ensure his fame forevermore. He looked around, there was a decayed, bleached-white skeleton lying on a stone slab. Between him and the slab was a line of Cyrillic characters, much too small for him to read. He walked across them; they flashed white behind him and faded in less than a second, too little time for him to notice.

There were little goods, no amber or gold or silver. There was however a sceptre, seemingly made of a strange black metal. Everything in his head screamed for him to pick it up. He did, and then he died. To be more precise, something else took over. The being in his body ran through his memories, his personality, everything that made him what he was. Yes, this would make a good disguise. A very good one.

AD 2010

Andrew woke up in a fit as the sun shone through the open window. The first dream he’d had had been strange, very strange. Something to do with him being a knight fighting an evil wizard, and snow, and a forest. Very strange images. Then, there had been a nightmare, something else in his body. Controlling it and he couldn’t help but watch as it killed somebody.

Still, he had to go to College. He looked at the newspaper; the front page was yet another bizarre murder. A professor of anthropology had died – the police couldn’t work out how, the evidence didn’t make sense. A book had also been damaged – a book of Russian fairy tales, a whole ton of pages ripped out and presumably burnt. Andrew could trace his ancestry back to Russia – his ancestors had immigrated back in 1878.

Still, College was more important than idle thoughts. He got to his motorbike and made ready to go. Somehow, he knew that this day would be more important than any he’d gone through so far.

CHAPTER 1

The chamber was shadowed, the meeting-place of the Seven, the leaders of the magical world. They were under innumerable spells of disguise, so that even one of their number did not know the true faces of any other members of the Seven, and that none could betray the group. They did not know each other’s true names either, and used pseudonyms so that none knew who exactly they were speaking with.

One spoke, his face hooded.

‘The Minister for North America has been killed,’ he said. ‘How is definite – it was magic. The wards protecting him have been utterly shattered, there is however some evidence that Koschei is behind this.’

‘Koschei?’ Another asked. ‘But how? He died long ago.’

‘Koschei the Deathless,’ the first speaker said. ‘There were long rumours that he managed to cheat death. Besides, the Minister was researching as to who performed the Russian murders, ones that were also magical, some of mundanes and some of fellow sorcerers. Besides, there is some other evidence-‘

He was interrupted by the sudden sound of a large bell, tolling ominously. The Seven rushed from their shadowed chamber, rushing as fast as they could up a spiral staircase. Magic was prohibited within their fortress, except for the wards protecting it and the Doomsday Bell. The Doomsday Bell tracked magic across the world, tolling when earth-shaking power was unleashed. They came into the chamber, seeing that the walls were glowing amber, never a good sign, the only worse colour than amber was red, and that had only occurred once in recorded history. On the map before the bell, magic use was shown as glowing gold spots and lines.

North-west Russia was illuminated brightly by a brightly shining spot to the north-east of Novgorod. The Seven summoned an image of what was happening, overlaying the map. They saw nothing but darkness. Trying to breach through the protective spells, they saw fuzzy images of a dark fortress, parapet upon parapet, wall upon wall and tower upon tower, hidden to mundane eyes but not to those possessing the mage-sight. They saw tunnels under the ground, filled with all manner of horrors. A chamber where pale-raimented knights rose from their deathly slumber, rising from their terrible sleep in death. And ultimately, a throne of frosted metal where an indistinct figure sat, the very power he gave off making him hard to detect. A cold whisper went through the minds of the Seven – ‘enough’. And then the chamber shook.

The scrying device went dark, the shadows spread outward. The walls of the chamber glowed with negative light, the opposite of light on the other side of darkness. Before long the chamber was utterly black. The door suddenly closed itself. One of the Seven began uttering a counterspell, but to no effect. The chamber continued to shake. Then the Seven realised what to do, began incanting a powerful spell, all together, effectively cutting off the device’s power, the light returned and the map showed only a grey mist.

It was useless now, but the Seven were safe. The incident had shaken them – even here, in the very heart of their power, they could be attacked.

+++

Andrew J. Strickland’s eye was drawn to the blackboard on which the history professor, Charles Forrest, had written a series of lines.

‘And for homework,’ he said. ‘Write an essay detailing the main causes of the Russian Revolution, 5000 words.’

Andrew moved to leave as the others left, but Forrest spoke again. ‘You, you go with me to my office.’

Andrew didn’t know why – was this some kind of punishment or something? But still, he obediently followed the professor to the office, a plump space practically covered in bookshelves.

‘Andrew, this isn’t a punishment or anything,’ Forrest said. ‘However, I want to show you a completely different side of life.’

Forrest removed a book from one of the bookcases, and the bookcase rotated, revealing a door. He quickly ushered Andrew in.

He looked around; the room was much bigger than would ever fit between the office and the corridor. It was decorated in plush red velvet; the professor sat him down at the other side of the desk and snapped his fingers, closing the bookcase-door.

‘Well,’ he asked. ‘What am I here for?’

‘To give you a new perspective,’ Forrest replied. ‘I’ll explain. Ever since the beginning of the universe, there has existed a force, a fifth or sixth interactive force to be precise. We call it magic. Magic can be manipulated by humans in ways the other forces cannot be.’

Andrew watched as the professor made a glass of water float through the air, by way of demonstration.

‘You are one with the potential, the capability to wield this force. This is extremely rare.’

‘But how-‘ he protested, but was cut short.

‘Hmm...’ Forrest said. ‘You seem to be latent; I’ll give you a jolt to wake your abilities up.’

A sudden flash filled his eyes; he felt a burning heat throughout his entire body. It only lasted a second, but seemed to take an eternity.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that he could see further, hear the tiniest sound, feel the slightest speck of dust. He closed his eyes – he could still see, see glowing particles filling the air, lines of light delineating objects.

‘So,’ he asked. ‘I’m some kind of wizard?’

‘We don’t say “Wizard”’ Forrest replied. ‘At least not amongst each other. “Sorcerer” or “Magus” is preferred.’

‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Let’s begin on the matter of your training...’

[speaker-to-trolls]

OK, well the length of this one is quite impressive for one of your stories, and I think the general standard of writing, particularly in the first segment, is a lot better than the general level of many of your stories. The description is much better and there is much more space for the story to develop.

There are a couple of problems that stand out here, these are pacing and dialogue. Both of these are, so I've heard, very hard to do well.

Pacing: Everything in this story, and indeed most of your stories, happens very abruptly. I think whether one likes this kind of thing or not is largely a matter of personal taste, but to me things like the fact that in your first segment it immediately lays out who Koschei is and what he can do is one example, I'd have alluded to it for a little bit longer than that to build up tension about exactly who or what Ivan was looking for.

The best example of this problem, though, as welll as my other major problem with the story, is in the last section with Andrew and his lecturer. Andrew seems to get his 'You're a wizard, Harry' very quickly and abruptly, he just gets kept behind after class and told that, first, magic exists and, second, he can use it, then electrocuted and;

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that he could see further, hear the tiniest sound, feel the slightest speck of dust. He closed his eyes – he could still see, see glowing particles filling the air, lines of light delineating objects.

This man's whole perception of reality has just been completely changed, you say as much, but an extra line here and there to describe the confusion that would result from this might be nice for characterisation purposes.

Second problem, Dialogue: Dialogue isn't my strong point either, but I can't help thinking that yours is still very basic. For instance in the passage I just mentioned, in a few lines we go from

'Andrew, this isn’t a punishment or anything,’

To

‘You seem to be latent; I’ll give you a jolt to wake your abilities up.’

Zap, now you're a wizard. This whole thing is very short for such a momentous event, Forrest just drags him in to his special wizard room, gives him a very short explanation about magic then says 'now you're a wizard, but we don't say wizard, let's get you trained up,' There is no attempt made to put Andrew at ease, or to test what his reaction might be or whether or to explain how the wizards of this world operate and why they aren't commonly known about, or indeed find out whether he is going to accept being trained. Likewise there is only a little questioning from Andrew about what is going on, you don't show him wondering how he's going to be trained, thinking about whether he wants to be part of this other world or even really talk about how confusing this must be for him. Think about it, in his position wouldn't you have ten thousand questions for this Forrest fellow?

Those are all my thoughts for now. Good luck in writing the next chapter!

[Czernobog]

New story (partly an experiment in totally gonzo fantasy; partly an experiment in the present tense):

A TERRIBLE BEAUTY

“Man now has the capacity to utterly annihilate himself” – Unknown British soldier, 1918

“I love war!” – Anonymous German soldier, September 1939

Berlin, 1940

The inner sanctum of Prussianism has never been so dark, so grim, or so drab. The clouds cry tears hard, as if they are weeping for Germany’s lost innocence, roiling winds blowing Swastika-banners through the air as the grand parade continues. Troops goose-step through the great boulevard, marching, the crash of their boots on stone and asphalt forming a hellish, almost demonic sound, totalitarianism made manifest. Following them are innumerable tanks, and then the mighty Kriegmaschines – gigantic, 25-foot robots given mechanical life by skilled thaumaturgy and masterful science and the deft skill of their pilots. Then follow the Germaniatruppen Waffen-SS, the elites, gas-masked, leather-coated and power-armoured.

Looking on is a short, dark-haired, toothbrush-moustached former corporal now given ultimate power over his nation, made its Leader until the day of his death. From a balcony he overlooks the scene, the triumphal procession marking victory over Poland.

They stop before the balcony; raise their hands into the air, mimicking the old Roman salute the Party has perverted into its symbol of loyalty.

They hail the old corporal, and he basks in their adoration until a figure beckons him to come inside, come into the place, his bunker. He follows, going down several flights of stairs, then into the bunker, through an adamant door that could be used for a bank vault. He looks at them, the room is lit by torches and braziers of bright flame, banners with runic symbols and torches are on the wall, in the centre is an immense map of Europe, recently updated to reflect the obliteration of Poland. The flames glow an eerie blue, and by their light Hitler looks to the west of the map.

Alsace shines, marking it as important, and so does Lorraine. But there is a pressing trouble to the south, south of Bavaria and Silesia – Austria-Hungary. The wretched place narrowly escaped punishment in the last war, losing no territory, while land was stripped from the sacred Fatherland. The Augsleich, Austria, Danubia, the Dual Monarchy – no matter its name, its destruction is absolutely imperative. They have sided with France and Britain, rejecting their previous loyalties, betraying everything. He fumes with rage, striking his fist on the map just where Vienna lies.

An electric jolt passes through him – he shouldn’t have done that, although it felt good.

He guesses the odds – he has always been a gambler, and it has always paid off. The Austrians have Artefacts of their own – the Kahlenberg Weapon, to name one. They also have the best Thaumaturges in the whole of Europe, but he has many more, in both Artefacts and men. His augurs and spies have determined that they are still modernising their military. How weak they are! A single strike and they will fall, he has determined it; if the blow is hard enough of course, but then that is the very essence of Blitzkrieg.

He looks at Rommel, at Guderian, at Himmler and Mannstein, the very best generals and Thaumaturges he has.

He tells them what he wants – the complete destruction of Austria-Hungary.

Vienna

Kaiser Otto Von Hapsburg looks at the map, a tiny (when compared to the real thing) depiction of the whole of Europe, from Greenland to the Urals, forests, mountains, rivers and seas in miniature. Countries glow a soft colour, the borders determined by the edges of the glow. Poland is shown as occupied, German grey is striped over its dark brown colour. Austria glows white. The map shows armies and fleets and plane squadrons moving in real time, showing them as figures or planes or ships. It’s a fine work of thaumaturgy, having cost much for the Hapsburg court.

The Germans are massing near the Bohemian border, and the Italians near South Tyrol. He doesn’t think much of the Italian military, but the Germans are a real threat. The Italian fleet is concentrated in Venice – a good strike could knock it out, but Italy hasn’t joined the war yet, so he decides to wait for a declaration of war.

An attack will do as fine, but he’s concerned – Poland fell before the Blitzkrieg in only 18 days. He clutches his repeater-pistol tightly; he’d rather die than be captured by the Germans.

He leaves the bunker, going into the Schönbrunn Palace, looking over Vienna, taking sight of the Kahlenberg and the powerful weapon upon it. Who built it is long lost to time, but the first and only time it was used in anger was during the siege of 1683; a rather large crater, a mile deep and wide, now marks the spot that it was used upon, obliterating the heart of the Turkish host. And that was on its least powerful setting.

Potsdam

At least the Kaiser left us one good thing, thinks engineer Ruprecht – this. He is thinking, of course, about the Walküre, otherwise known (in Germany, at least) as the ultimate weapon. Completed in September 1918, far too late to change anything, it is a Strategic Artefact, the ultimate example of the skyship. It stands a mile long, wrought of orichalcum and adamantine, dwarfing all other examples of its kind, flying through sheer thaumaturgical might. Battery upon battery of plasma cannons, sufficient to destroy armies, combined with masses of anti-air guns, missile turrets and immense bomb bays make it a tough foe at the least. Uncounted millions of tiny, silvery machines scuttle through it, repairing and maintaining day and night.

It has as its ultimate armament the Godkiller Cannon – a weapon firing a white beam of pure energy that simply obliterates everything within a kilometre of the point it strikes, causing massive destruction within ten kilometres as a direct result.

And then there are its thaumaturgical defences, the most important of which is the Shield; when activated, no weapon, thaumaturgical or otherwise, can breach it. It can only last ten minutes, takes weeks to recharge, and the skyship cannot retaliate during this period – but it makes it simply invincible when activated.

The skyship is not due to be unleashed just yet – although the multitude of spirits bound to it hunger for battle.. No, if the Austrians prove unusually resistant, it will be deployed. And then it will destroy them all.

[Czernobog]

(If anybody doesn't like my use of historical figures, I apologise in advance)

Vienna

Lukas Edelstein takes one last look at Vienna, before the train passes it entirely. The mighty hill of Kahlenberg, with its terrible cannon, is soon on the horizon, and then gone. Lukas knows where he is going - the forts of South Tyrol, built to withstand anything the Italians can throw at them. Of course, there are rumours that the Italians have better weaponry than is commonly known, including shadowed whispers that they have an Artefact.

Artefacts are the big guns, strategic weapons that can lay waste to cities or armies. A big reason that Austria-Hungary survived the last war was the large number of Artefacts it possessed, spread throughout its territory in fortresses - no state could countenance a non-Great Power, or a possibly hostile state, gaining control of Artefacts even for a brief period.

He isn't scared of death - well, that is a factor, but it's not important - he's scared of what might happen to the Austria he knows and loves. Little does he know, one day he'll be fighting on the streets of Vienna against the Germans, and from then on to the streets of Munich and Stuttgart.

Luftwaffe Base, Carynthia

Himmelkapitän Von Trapp looks on at his superheavy battle-skyship, the Kaiser Franz Josef. It is immense, 263 metres long, 39 metres wide, and 11 metres deep. It has dozens of guns, mostly plasma based, lifting itself via thaumaturgy and moving via fusion engines, powered by a fusion reactor.

It's one of the new types, a powerful and mighty skyship. It's easily the equal of a German Bismarck sky-battleship or one of their Graf Zeppelin carriers.

He hopes it'll be enough. Then, a plane lands near him, without any flags. The pilot leaves, and Von Trapp notes that it doesn't have any flag markings, marking it out as a mercenary plane. Von Trapp doesn't like mercenaries at the best of times, but at least they don't seem to be fighting for the Germans. More planes soon land, with the same markings and various motifs marking their nation of origin - one seems to be American, a second British, and so on. The plane that first landed is Swedish, he notes.

===

Magnus Skarsgård looks around the base. He has a deal with the Dual Monarchy, he'll fight for them throughout the war, as long as it lasts, payments made after. It was a proposition the Augsleich could not ignore. Each of his pilots is an ace, marked by their number of kills - they also have better planes than the majority of Austrian pilots, with heat-seekers, rotary cannon and so forth.

He certainly hopes everything turns out alright.

Venice

Count Rezzio looks at the map, non-thaumaturgical - Italy has too few thaumaturges to spare, and only one - one! Artefact, which is going to be used in the attack on South Tyrol in a matter of mere weeks. The attack that he is leading.

The Tyrol is heavily fortified, a legacy of old wars and a remembrance of new developments. If Italy is to assault Austria, it must do so at the Tyrol. Il Duce (curse his name!) is also planning an offensive in Libya, which seems to have more support, so he is going to have to make do with something that seems like a parody of an army - the men are ill-trained and disciplined, the equipment un-standardised, the tanks and planes pitiful. Still he must make do - the wishes of Il Duce are commands to him.

If Il Duce wants the Tyrol, he will get what he wants - no matter how many die to achieve it.

Breslau

The sky is grim, as train after train of soldiers arrive at the city. Through the lashing rain, Karl Adlerssohn walks through the streets of the city to the specified point. He gets on the truck, and it starts moving. Breslau is swiftly behind him, even as he cradles his rifle, and then it is gone entirely. The rifle he’s carrying is a plasma weapon, state-of-the-art, fully automatic, capable of burning flesh and melting metal with a flurry of shots.

Karl never truly believed in the Nazi ideology, but now the coming war has forced him to fight. He remembers his father, Heinrich, the horrible fate he suffered in the first war, the mourning, the misery. Karl has sworn that that will not happen to him, but with the coming assault through the Bohemian highlands, unfortified as they are, the fear of death is strong in him.

Venice

‘Damn the Austrians,’ Admiral Alessandro mutters under his breath. A few minutes ago, conditions in the Adriatic were balmy and calm, now a nigh-impenetrable storm shields the Austrian coast. Thaumaturgical work, for certain, the immense power required to do so means the Austrians have at least nine First Rank thaumaturges in their navy. Thaumaturges below First Rank are considered practically useless on the operational level – they may turn the tide of an individual skirmish or battle, but the sheer scale of war nowadays prevents those below First Rank from deciding the fate of campaigns.

‘What does Il Duce suggest, Alessandro?’ an aide says.

‘Go straight ahead, damn the waves and lightning,’ Alessandro says. ‘It won’t work.’

‘What do you say?’

‘Wait until the thaumaturges have exhausted themselves,’ Alessandro says. ‘It should work.’

‘Il Duce has a timetable to be met, Alessandro,’ the aide replies. ‘He will be angry if you fail to meet it.’

‘Then, I will send my fleet into the heart of the storm,’ Alessandro says. ‘Just don’t expect many to survive.’

The Siegenberg

The Siegenberg is a fortress on a hill, overlooking the swift flow of the Adige, at the eastern border of South Tyrol. Lukas Edelstein looks at it, the grim concrete fortifications more than capable of shrugging off a sustained bombardment. The Adige is shallow at this point, a natural ford as it were. It is thus vital to any planned invasion.

Guns and AA cannon defend it, but the Siegenberg is a more recent development, built in 1921.

Looking at it, he wonders if it can endure.

Near Vienna

The great aerial assault seen against the twilight sky, incorporating the Himmelschlachtschiff Bismarck, a thousand bombers and twice that number of fighters, is intended to cow Austria, to fill it with terror. It is in many a ways a grand waste of resources, but psychological warfare is essential to Blitzkrieg. If the enemy has no courage, then you have won half the battle already.

The grand accoutrement has tipped off radar stations throughout the Dual Monarchy, and even now fighters ready a grand counter-strike intended to rescue Vienna from destruction. It only remains to be seen if they will succeed.

===

Von Trapp watches from the command deck as the instruments register success – the Franz Josef is flying. Hundreds of fighters are being scrambled throughout Austria, and even more in the other Hapsburg realms. The Germans have sheer numbers on their side, ready to deliver a gigantic knock-out blow to Austrian morale, but Austria has allies, even though war is being fought almost on the outskirts of Paris, the Blitzkrieg having briefly stalled against sheer numbers and moral courage

===

Magnus Skarsgård looks, checking his flight instruments as they near

Vienna. Fires burn far below, and bombers fill the air. It looks like they ignored the Schönbrunn and Hofburg, as well as governmental and industrial centres (including the Kahlenberg Weapon) in favour of setting residential districts aflame. He’s a pilot; he’s at home in the air, in his element.

He speaks on the radio.

‘Eagle One reporting, engage. Repeat, Eagle One reporting, engage. Fire at will, repeat, fire at will.’

The planes begin their assault, and the battle begins in earnest.

===

The duel of the skyships begins. Plasma blasts fade into exotic particles as they touch thaumaturgical defences, missiles and shells explode in mid-air or against decks. The other planes know not to interfere – if they do so, they will be swatted down like ants against these titans of the sky. The air hums with exotic energies, as Von Trapp considers his options. The Bismarck has more powerful guns, and he can’t last forever. He considers his options, before deciding what to do.

It will be something utterly unexpected.

‘Brace yourselves,’ he says. ‘Accelerate to ramming speed!’

A massive chunk of metal, the skyship takes some time to accelerate, mighty as its engines are. It turns round, moving right into the guns of the enemy. They are dumbfounded, surprised. Arcane fields break down trying to stop the mighty ship, as its guns blaze, tearing holes in the armour. Then, with a fateful shot, the magazine of the German skyship is struck.

Fireball.

Half the ship is destroyed by a massive explosion, a terrible flash of fire burning, in some cases, more colours than the usual, the fields holding it aloft weaken and the rest begins to fall. The Austrian vessel sends another shot, this time to the now-exposed fusion reactor, destroying the remains. Then, the battle begins to end. Most bombers are unable to endure the damage caused, the Bismarck was the only skyship deployed – arrogance said it would be enough.The Austrians have the upper hand now and a desperate retreat begins.

Victory comes at a high cost – 10,000, most of them civilians, died in the bombing and subsequent fighting. Whole districts have been razed.

But it is victory, of a most peculiar sort, for the Austrian people have proven that the German juggernaut is not invincible, that it can be defeated. And that is a lesson they will always believe, for as long as this war lasts.

[speaker-to-trolls]

You know what, as brief as the passages and as basic the storyline and dialogue are, this is pretty good. I think writing in the present tense actually suits you better than the past tense, you seem to get tripped up some of the time in trying to give a sense of immediacy to things while describing them as having happened in the past, whereas like this you don't have to worry about that. The first chapter of this story is, like the early parts of your WW2 Armageddon story, among the best descriptive writing I've ever seen from you.

[Czernobog]

Adriatic Sea

The storm tosses the Italian ships to and fro on the sea, like leaves in the wind. By Alessandro's estimate, about six ships have been sunk, two forced onto rocks, one hit by a very powerful lightning strike to the magazine, and three capsized. The troops in their transports are seasick to a ridiculous degree, and so are most of the crews. Alessandro remains calm, remaining in his captain's chair. Six is only a third of the fleet that has been mustered. They are acceptable losses.

What is troubling is that despite the strength of their engines, the storm is driving them off-course, into a heavily mined area with Austrian coastal forts. He guesses that was the Austrian plan all along. Still, he will fight to the utmost – Il Duce and his sense of honour demand it of him. Still, it is a foolish, idiotic plan. Was that an explosion he just heard? It transpires that it was one, as another explosion strikes a transport, making it begin to sink. Steadily, he becomes worried, and then it happens right below him. Reports of fires in the lower decks, and the ship putting on water, hit him sometime later.

A second explosion, only this time it’s the magazine. The battleship Roma literally explodes, obliterating Alessandro as the ship is ripped in half, a terrible flash in the artificial night that the thaumaturgical storm has created. The ships try and alter course, but the currents are too powerful, and one by one, they begin to drift helplessly onto the mines. A few hours later, when the storm clears, nothing remains of the 18-ship taskforce but a watery graveyard deep in the depths of the Adriatic.

Lombardy

Countess Lucrezia Germanotta looks around, to the east. Her husband Rezzio is in Venice, preparing the battle for South Tyrol. Lucrezia knows that South Tyrol is, quite literally, a prize worth dying for, but still, so many sons of Italy will never come home. Il Duce doesn’t care – the short, victorious war he fought in Abyssinia has thoroughly convinced him that every enemy is just as backwards as the Abyssinians, but this is a self-deception – the Hapsburg war machine is far superior to the Abyssinian.

She swears, silently, that if anything happens to Rezzio she will hold Mussolini and his little clique personally responsible – and take her revenge in a very personal manner.

Vienna

It is a time for mourning. The fires that burned last night have gone out, but they have extracted a very large toll in lives. It will be forever unknown how many perished, but the people are already working double time in the war factories, building countless tanks and planes. They already hate Hitler with a deep passion, and are preparing for the seemingly-inevitable assault already.

There are reports that Paris fell last night, and the French government and military have fled to the colonies. They, some say, are continuing the fight from there, from Algeria and Morocco. The British are fighting for their lives at Calais, against wave after wave of German men and steel. It does not seem unlikely to many.

Tokyo

The decision has been made. The might of Japan, the supreme Yamato Race, is putting the Chinese on the run. The Dutch Netherlands have fallen to the Divine Wind. All is going exactly as planned.

Admiral Yamamoto will lead the attack. In three months, Pearl Harbour will burn.


Munich

Hitler is frustrated. The failure of the attack on Vienna – somehow, it only angered and encouraged the Austrians – is gnawing at his psyche. And so he thinks, plans, prepares. In an instant he decides what to do. And so he sends the message, the message that will change history.

‘Initiate Operation Charlemagne.’

The invasion of Austria will begin in six hours.

Italian Camp

Baron Alessio looks around; the soldiers stand to attention around him, ready to fight. He begins to speak.

‘Men of Italy,’ he says. ‘Hear my voice! Years we have struggled against the attentions of Austria, wicked and loveless Austria; now we take this conflict to a whole new level. We fight not for gold, not for glory, but for our sacred Fatherland! The glory of Italy, the pride of the nation, will fight to the uttermost against the innumerable depredations that the Austrians have unleashed upon Trentino, proof certain of their abominable villainy!’

The troops cheer, but Alessio feels that he is delivering a parody of a military speech. Nevertheless, he continues.

‘With iron will and certainty of purpose shall we do battle. For the Austrian defences are merely physical – does not Il Duce say that will triumphs over matter? That is the certainty of it, and so shall we shatter the Siegenberg and reclaim our stolen land! Our innumerable armies will crush them, drown them in men. For we are Legion, and today is a day for victory!’

In a matter of hours, they will attack the Siegenberg.

Prague

The smoke and the sound of crashing rubble fill the air. Ludwig Jaeger looks around; nothing occludes his vision through the red-glowing eyepieces of his helmet. He is one of the Germaniatruppen, a specific elite unit of the Waffen-SS, covered in power-armour nigh-impregnable to anything less than plasma weaponry. The Germans have advanced swiftly in a matter of days, meeting little real resistance. But here, they have stalled. Explosions boom around him, but Jaeger does not feel the slightest hint of fear, as Kriegmaschines do battle in the streets, trading Tesla-blasts and fusion-shells.

The Austrians are fighting like tigers, street by street. For every inch the Germans take, one or two of their soldiers falls. But they have superiority in numbers, and it’s beginning to show. Jaeger advances slowly, cautiously, lifting his Tesla-rifle with armour-enhanced strength, training on it on an Austrian barricade, and firing. The barricade explodes, pure and simple. Jaeger’s squad-mates advance behind him, joining the barrage with more Tesla-guns. Austrians scream as the torrents of electricity rush through them, vaporising their flesh with the most pathetic ease, leaving them charred skeletons. Machine-gun bullets bounce off power-armour, making only the tiniest dents.

Jaeger turns his rifle on an enemy Panzer, watching as the lightning courses over its surface, ultimately making it smoke and burn, then it explodes in a flash of fire and oily black smoke. The booming of artillery is heard, and then a plasma cannon, previously unseen (it was hidden behind a shop window) is turned on him, the last thing he sees is the flash of energy from the barrel.

===

General Roderich Blitzhalten looks at the city of Prague on the thaumaturgical map, then at the artillery he controls. The enemy are sending a massive force of tanks across the river; if it reaches the Austrian defences then the city will definitely fall, and that cannot be allowed.

‘Men,’ he says to the artillery captains. ‘Target the bridges across the Moldau River. Prepare to bring down their sky!’

As one, the rocket artillery (Lindwurm pattern) fire, the parabolic arcs predicted to hit the bridges across the river. With a screaming noise, the rockets rise high, and explode with terrible force at the end of their trajectories. Concrete and stone rupture, steel shatters, iron simply breaks apart, and the bridges fall. Tanks are swept away by the rapid currents, as are men.

The fighting continues in the city, the Germans might be boxed in on the near side, their backs to the river, but they have dominance over the other side. Both sides are soon aware that this is just a slowing down of the German Blitzkrieg.

The Siegenberg

The sirens flare, and Lukas Edelstein rapidly puts his gas mask on, in case the Italians try something funny. He rushes to his post, the machine-gun nest atop a tower, marking a joining point of two walls. The Italians are rushing and he wastes no time in firing, plasma bolts flying from it, pausing only when the barrel becomes hot, and even then only briefly, for about two or three seconds. Around the Siegenberg, Italians begin to fall, fighting their way through mine-fields and razor-wire with sheer numbers. It is a kill zone in the truest sense of the word; they are dying in the thousands.

Then, something happens. The Italians are replaced by Roman Legionaries, solidified ghosts, shards of the past brought into reality once more. They advance in formation, using their old tactics. Modern ways are infinitely superior. Machine-guns and artillery wreak havoc, the Roman corpses fade into nothingness, they rout and vanish once more into history.

The area just in front of the ford, from the perspective of the Siegenberg, begins to burn with thaumaturgical fire, blocking it off. The Italians have lost, this time.

Munich

‘Welcome to Hell, little saint,’ the SS man says. Klaus Von Stauffenberg hears him well, and knows instantly that this isn’t the best place to go.

He looks around; the complex runic symbol is still being traced into the stone, the antediluvian, unholy sigils being written to mark the circle. The braziers with their scented incense, the crushed precious stones being put into the carvings already written, mark out what is planned – a thaumaturgical ritual of staggering proportions. Hidden behind a veil, at the far side of the underground chamber, is a rectangular object with four wooden poles sticking out from it, two at both ends. The circle has twelve lecterns around it, and a single, golden throne in the centre.

Stauffenberg knows instinctively that this is a bad place, but still he must do his duty in guarding it. He hasn’t the foggiest idea what might this ritual be planned to do, until the SS man speaks again.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he asks rhetorically. ‘The Fuhrer, transformed into a living god...so much power in death.’

Stauffenberg is only disgusted, but he hides it well. He knows that he must somehow sabotage this, before it is too late. The only question is simple – how?

‘You know what...’ the SS officer says one last time. ‘...This world isn’t ready for the Ark.’

Venice

The Artefact hums in Count Rezzio Germanotta’s hands. Summoning the time-lost spirits of old soldiers, again and again...the curse of endless battle. Far away, the Siegenberg and its brother fortresses hold strong. He wonders only how many lives will be spent for victory.

Bohemia

Oberst Totenkopf, leader of the SS Kavaleriedivision Todsritter, grins a savage grin as he rides on his black horse. Some Austrians are running from the battle, and he is chasing them down, the thrill of the hunt has never abandoned him. The cavalry charge, as a force to break infantry, may have been abandoned, but these horses do not break at the sound of guns, accustomed as they are to far, far worse. Nevertheless, his duties are commonly to mop-up those that flee, to spread fear and chaos.

His other riders follow him through the thick forest, never tiring or slowing, always chasing. Before long, the Austrians have been hewn through by his sabre, and Totenkopf has returned back to the main army.

[Czernobog]

Unknown Location

She stands, bound with invisible chains, forced to watch as her children fight and die. Without even crossroads to choose from, she stands, bound to the madness of her leader. She is armed, with a shining sword, and armoured, with Medieval-style armour, her golden hair flowing from her head. Mankind works in mysterious ways, she thinks, lifting her gold-painted shield, the black eagle of Germany emblazoned upon it.

She can feel an unstoppable force, pulling her down to the physical reality of the world. In a matter of months, she will battle her Austrian counterpart, at Vienna, and it will determine the fate of Europe. Germania knows that she must fight, but still she wishes not to.

Vienna

Spirits of death and battle swirl around the metaphysical counterpart of the city, like ancient Valkyries, choosers of the slain waiting for the epoch-defining battle that shall be fought here. They shall feed, and grow strong, and wax greatly. The summer sun is hidden, thick storm-clouds gather here, setting the scene for one of the greatest battles that shall ever be fought, but none know who shall ultimately triumph.

At the grand, central train station, Kaiser Otto and the government make ready to flee to the city of Budapest, they go in and the train swiftly moves away, no time should be wasted in fleeing. Masses of children and the infirm are being evacuated as well, as the Germans press into Moravia as well, in a bid to utterly destroy Austria-Hungary.

Austerlitz

The Battle of Austerlitz in 1805 was one of Napoleon’s greatest victories – now Erwin Rommel seeks to copy it. The Austrians prepare to sell their lives dearly – just like what was done at Prague, at Sedan, at Calais by the forces of the Allies. This battle, above all other things, shall determine the fates of Hungary and Galicia. The odds are against Rommel – his supply lines are long, under attack, the Austrians have fresh troops – but still he resolves to win.

Potsdam

The Arsenal is a legend among the soldiers of Germany. Together with the gigantic hangar of the Walküre, it represents a massive store of Artefacts. The weapons it holds are many – the mightiest Kriegmaschines and many other devices, the ultimate weapons of Germany. And one in particular is going to be used soon – the Soulbreaker. It is an Artefact, wrought by the blackest of dark magics. It resembles a gyroscope somewhat, made of a strange black metal known as Avernite – yet what it does is far different from a petty gyroscope. It has never been used in anger – it is a STYX type, essentially self-destructing upon use. Nobody is quite sure what it does in the field, but they definitely know what it should do upon detonation – destroy everything in its area of effect.

The Soulbreaker is put on the train to the airbase in Bavaria, where it will be put in a bomber. The size of a football, it is nevertheless rather powerful.

Bavaria, Some Hours Later

The plane takes off against the dawn sky, carrying such an innocuous thing, yet more powerful than any ordinary bomb. The Soulbreaker is headed for the town of Salzburg, headed to destroy it. A whole air raid’s worth of planes will be used as the decoy, they are ultimately expendable compared to the plane carrying the Artefact.

3 hours later

Among the many planes assaulting, one particularly special one drops the one bomb in its payload.

5.

The Soulbreaker begins to glow a bright green.

4.

Tendrils of darkness begin to form within, as it rapidly spins.

3.

It hovers 500 feet over the target.

2.

It begins to flash brighter.

1.

A bright red flash.

0.

Detonation.

Like a negative sun, the Soulbreaker begins to shine with the uttermost negative light – the opposite of light, as far from darkness as light is, a living and hungry darkness that quickly occludes the sun. Tendrils of shadow spread across the face of the sky, devouring light, before reaching the surface. Where they touch flesh, it calcifies and becomes nothing more than dust. Trees and stalks of glass petrify instantly where the hungry shadow touches to devour light and life. The souls of Salzburg’s populace are divorced from their bodies, but still bound to this mortal earth by the dark magic of the Soulbreaker as terrible, vengeful ghosts.

Where the shadow touches buildings, stone crumbles, wood disintegrates, iron rusts and concrete rots. Glass shatters, as venom-green lightning strikes from the dark cloud to reduce everything to rubble. Bathing in the dark light of entropy, it swiftly does so, before the shadow is banished by the bright light of the sun. Even so, this place will always be a little colder, a little more shaded, a little darker.

The Soulbreaker’s legacy will be more than that little fact, however.

Moscow

Stalin remains calm, but inwardly he is shocked by the morning news. Even a tyrant as wicked as him, as cruel, as cold, as malevolent as the dread figure that is Iosef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvilli, is shocked by what Hitler has done. That is tempered by the cold realisation that Moscow might be next in line for destruction via Artefact.

‘What do we do, Comrade-Secretary?’ the figure asks.

‘We don’t attack right away, we may need the Germans in the future,’ Stalin says. ‘Instead we condemn the attack diplomatically while not angering the Germans, the usual. Furthermore, we have to funnel arms to the Austrians, maybe some Tsarist Artefacts as well.’

‘Why?’ the figure asks. ‘Everyone knows the Austrians are wicked imperialists. We can’t aid them publically-‘

‘We don’t need to, just do it in secret.’

‘Excellent as always, Stalin.’

‘Don’t say my name like that.’

A bullet to the heart later, the inferior has been taught his lesson – a terminal one.

Washington D.C

The newspaper has been telling stories about it all week. A devastating assault on Austria – not on military forces, but civilians – and with the use of an Artefact that left no survivors. The press are livid with rage, and everybody has forgotten the fact that they actually don’t know any Austro-Hungarians.

Meanwhile, in the Oval Office, Franklin Delano Roosevelt smiles. His plan to get America into the war might just work out sooner than expected...

[speaker-to-trolls]

Still pretty good, as I said the first person style for your descriptive prose works well for you. Moreover I rather like this whole magical not-quite-steampunk World War 2 setting you've concocted.

A few criticisms, A) A lot of these segments are very short, admittedly I tend to ramble on a bit, so I'm not suggesting you follow my example, but I think segments which are just a few sentences are best left absent so that the subject matter can be dealt with at greater length later on. B) Some of your dialogue and description is a bit repetitive, which is distracting, example

He guesses that was the Austrian plan all along. Still, he will fight to the utmost – Il Duce and his sense of honour demand it of him. Still, it is a foolish, idiotic plan.

Using 'still ...' twice once after the other is too repetitive, I'd say. It's little things like that, but just watch out for them.

So, I'd say keep going if you have the time and motivation, you could get a lot out of writing this.

[Czernobog]

Czernowitz

Colonel Smirnoff looks on at the city of Czernowitz, before it vanishes into the horizon. His men are going to Austerlitz, to fight the Germans currently pressing there. The fighting has stalled there; both sides are building trenches and fortifications, in a grim copy of 1914. His regiment has artillery, and above all sunbombs – artillery shells using thaumaturgy to begin a chain reaction of nuclear fusion, creating explosions about a kiloton in yield. After the destruction of Salzburg, Austria is readying its Artefacts for use.

He hopes that it doesn’t get too out of hand.

Kyffhäuser

The SS figure warily admits to himself that his task is done. All the ravens anywhere near the summit are dead, killed by ground fire. Now all that has to be done is the discovery of the King in the Mountain. The long-dead monarch, who, legends say, shall return in Germany’s hour of greatest need. Except, he thinks, we’ll wake him up a little early. He walks to the excavation site under a grim sky, noting the great cave that has recently been discovered. He walks into the darkness, the cave walls begin to glow with soft golden phosphorescence, diamonds are studded into them, and he thinks of the great wealth Germany could receive if they could be exploited.

He continues walking past great treasuries and rooms filled with jewels, surrounded by a coterie of soldiers. They keep walking, into a great room like a cathedral in the heart of the mountain, lit by a light with a source that seems hard to place, as if it emanates from the very air. There are no supplicants or priests however, but statues wrought of iron, eyes glowing with a soft red light, of men and horses and knights. At the end of the vast chamber, is a throne of the purest gold and sitting on that throne is an aged figure.

The officer approaches him.

‘Do the ravens fly yet round the mountain?’ the figure asks, in a cracked, dry voice and in an old, hard to place accent.

‘No,’ the SS man replies truthfully – he has spent the past few weeks killing them all.

‘Then it is time for me to ride once more,’ he says, sounding more...youthful, as his aged features seem to melt away.

The statues’ eyes begin to glow red with full, vibrant colour, and they begin to move, first slowly, creakily, mechanically, but then quicker, more organically. They follow Barbarossa, on horseback, and the SS men out of the cave.

They will fight at Vienna.

Graz

The Avatar of War is being readied. It is a walking humanoid machine 60 feet tall, a testament to man’s endless capacity for innovation and destruction. Countless engineers and crewmembers are preparing to activate it, to awaken its powerful wrath. The mighty weapon of war is soon going to Vienna, to help in the battle the thaumaturges of Austria have predicted is almost inevitable by now. Tesla-cannons and infinite plasma-repeaters dot its surface, its arms are massive-power plasma cannons, and it is equipped with more...thaumaturgical devices. For instance, the spirits of bloodshed bound to the weapons systems and targeting devices, helping damage enemies, the thaumaturgical probability-shapers and shields that defend it, the thought core, an intelligence controlling the secondary weapons systems.

This is Austria’s most powerful Artefact, its ultimate defence. If it should fail, then what could survive of Austria?

Washington D.C

Roosevelt is a master of speechcraft, and before long Congress is forced to listen. He tells of the atrocities of the Germans, how they obliterated Salzburg, how they unleashed horror after horror upon the Polish and Austrian peoples. He tells of the orgy of slaughter that took place in Prague, the reducing of the population to a tenth of what it had been.

He asks Congress if they are ready for war, if they wish to declare war upon Germany. The vote is 52 for, 48 against. The United States is soon officially at war with the German nation, not that this affects the Japanese plans much – or at all.