Oatia

The map has been updated once again!

Please welcome Foledonia to the world stage! *applause*

Qardadiyah has also had its name changed from all caps so it's more in line with the other nations.

2330 Hours
Cream sauce
South Eastern Coastline
IFN Sunfish

Captain Tang clicked his chronometer as the electric engines switched off. Their momentum would carry them forwards for another 40-50 meters. He ordered periscope depth and watched the dial on the dive plane operator's console rise as he gave the planes five degrees up bubble. They rose gradually and slowly. Without blowing the tanks, they could creep to the surface without even a ripple if he timed it right. As the second hand passed 35 seconds, he ordered planes flat and flipped the lock on the periscope. It rose silently upwards, pushing the water out of the way with a gentle bloop as it breached the surface. It was an overcast night, albeit the moon was still waxing. He removed his glasses and pressed his eye to the cup. The shoreline was over three hundred yards away. As his charts had foretold, the water was just deep enough for them to get this close.

"Yakov, ping the bottom," He said in a whisper, the cigarette in his mouth ashing itself as it bounced between words. The echosounder clicked three times and a dial spun on its face. "13 meters, Captain," Yakov replied. Tang held up a fist and the planesman tilted the planes so they were perpendicular to the surface. Their speed bled to zero. "Watch the bubble, keep us below."

The sea beyond them was as vacant as the beach. The lights of distant buildings, a small village, twinkled in the night, but otherwise, the night was empty and calm. Gentle waves lapped at the scope but nothing notable made itself apparent. Tang, satisfied, pulled the periscope down slowly and then locked it in place once again.

"Decks awash, two lookouts, man the anti-aircraft gun. No lights, no smokes," he spit his cigarette onto the deck and stepped it between the grating for it to extinguish in the bilge. Danon Ruttman, the XO, nodded and he pulled on a heavy coat and a watch cap. Two crewmen followed him up the ladder to the conning tower.

"Excellent work, Captain," Ephron said, as he entered the bridge. He wore a black smock and waders. His face was lightly painted and his gear was tightly packed into a musette bag and a leg roll. He patted Tang on the shoulder as he passed him and climbed up the ladder after Danon. Tang said nothing, face stone as the phantom passed him. With any luck at all, he would never see him again.

The two lookouts untied the rubber dinghy they had inflated the day prior and lashed a cabled rope to one of its eyelets as Ephron climbed in. "Farewell, gentlemen," he said as he nudged himself into the surf. The men spooled out the line as Ephron dug a short handled paddle into the dark water below. The sea was chilling but warm for this time of year. He enjoyed the feel of the spray as a light wind picked up and helped blow him ashore. After 15 minutes of paddling, the waves began to break and he prepared to ride one ashore. He dug the paddle deep and leaned forwards as one formed under him. The little dinghy bucked up and down as he came over the spill and sped up the wet sand. All at once, he stashed the paddle and tugged on the rope as he rolled over the gunnel and knelt down in the surf. He checked his watch and grunted and approval to himself. Right on time. The dinghy behind him started speeding away as the lookouts reeled it back to the Sunfish. Ephron looked over his shoulder and watched as the conning tower silently slipped once again into the deep. All alone now.

He shed his smock and waders underneath a twisted bulb of roots in a nearby bog. He wiped himself down to remove any loose mud and finished by cleaning his face paint away with a dark rag. His outfit, unremarkable in this part of the country, would allow him to blend in until he got to Bruma. There, a contact would facilitate his stay. A road lazily followed the coast north until it veered inland. Empty and quiet, Ephron decided to follow it as far as he could, sticking to shrubs and bushes when able in case any traffic appeared. He hummed a quiet tune as the clock struck midnight.

Veragonia has been added to the map, along with a few islands from The folks order. Additionally, several nations have received new colors. Hooray!

Undisclosed Location in Cream Sauce

Special Agent Sarah tuned the knob on the radio equipment to try and lessen the static from the transmission. The audio quality wasn’t great, but it was good enough for the cross-armed man standing behind her.

That man was Special Agent Hertzog, a Foledonian exile who was recruited into Special Branch several years ago to serve as an interpreter. He cut an imposing figure: he was well into his thirties and muscular with broad shoulders and a strong jawline. His blonde hair was rather curly, and his mustache only added to his manly figure. His eyes were that of a determined man who had seen his fair share of hardship.

He listened intently to the radio that Sarah had tuned, then spoke:

“Looks like your hunch was right Sarah. It’s definitely Folish. Seems like they’re speaking about some sort of mission off the Southern coast. There’s not really enough details in this transmission to tell what that mission is though.”

His accent was still a little bit thick, but he spoke the language of Cream Sauce perfectly well.

“Keep monitoring this channel Sarah, and let me know if you discover anything else. I’ll notify the Southern Branch to go on alert and intensify their intelligence activities.”

The chief had also been standing next to Hertzog, intent on hearing just what Sarah had found.

“Yes sir” was Sarah’s reply.

“First Hiromata and now Foledonia.” muttered the chief. “I miss when it used to be just Nogovastan.”

He gritted his teeth. It was frustrating. Neither of these nations had been adversarial towards Cream Sauce in the past, and now both of them were exerting pressure on the Confederacy. And it hadn’t even done anything to warrant it.

Meanwhile, in Northern Cream Sauce
Jurai Naval Base

Admiral Perry frowned at the orders he had received from Naval Command. He was to take the majority of the fleet and sail it to Notre Sagesse where the eastern fleet was stationed. Not only was such a maneuver strange and unprecedented, but the route was long. The proximity of Bestevaria, Veragonia, and The folks order islands meant that the fleet would need to take a long route northwards and pass between the easternmost Folkish island and Hiromata. The presence of the Hiromatan Navy only complicated matters further.

I’m sure this order has something to do with Hiromata’s maneuvers north of Komavia. But I still don’t like it.

The adjutant running on deck and saluting him took him from his own internal thoughts.

“The fleet is ready, admiral” said the young man.

“Very well, let’s get underway.”

And with the majority of the Northern Fleet began to sail towards Cream Sauce’s eastern coast, leaving behind a force consisting mostly of submarines and cruisers to facilitate trade, monitoring if sea-lanes, and espionage if it came down to it.

Northwest Waters, Just Beyond Cream sauce Maritime Boundary

The sky was colorless. A leaden gradient above a dead flat sea.

The Yugumo Maru, her hull streaked in oil and fish scales, slipped into position. She looked every bit the rusted workhorse of the southern fisheries - patched nets coiled along the rails, sun-faded kanji on the wheelhouse, rust-bucket screws clanging with every turn.

But no birds followed her. No stink of bait. And her crew were not men of the sea.

In the wheelhouse, Ikarashi Masato leaned forward over the map table. His fingers hovered just above the pencil marks. The boundary of the Cream Sauce Confederacy’s exclusion zone was only a few kilometers to starboard.

“Hold here,” he said. “Cut to drift.”

The helmsman nodded. The diesel engine throttled down with a rattle, the vessel beginning to idle with the morning current. No conversation followed.

On deck, three men - disguised as deckhands emerged from the storage bay. Within minutes they had cast longlines from the starboard side and began gutting yesterday’s salted catch, tossing it overboard to draw birds.

Below, the comms team had already begun calibrating the shortwave transmitter. One of the operators, face unreadable behind thin-framed glasses, tapped a coded message in a slow series of bursts.

“Yugumo Maru in position. Visibility clear. Weather calm. A fine day for F-I-S-H-I-N-G.”

Operating under the Naval-Branch of the Komitentei, these men were the best the Hiromatan government could spare for the task given to them.

However, each understood what it would come to if they, although unlikely, were to be discovered - the cyanide pills and sabotage equipment on board always served as a reminder.

"Blossoms bloom on Mt. Shigata"

From the bridge of the massive flagship Shōtetsu, Grand Admiral Karumi Yutaka stood motionless, his gloved hands clasped tightly behind his back. His uniform was immaculate. Medals polished.

The bridge was silent save for the low hum of engines and the whir of signal instruments.

He had been awake for hours.

Across the glass panes that curved around the conning tower, the formations of the fleet moved in strict intervals, destroyers slicing the water to screen the flanks, cruisers aligned by distance and bearing. The decks of the carriers Kaikō and Matsuhiko were alive with movement — aircraft being secured, armed, and readied with solemn urgency.

Captain Iwashita entered briskly from the stairwell below.

"Admiral, urgent transmission. Decoded and verified by Signals."

Karumi said nothing, but extended his hand. The officer placed the paper squarely in his palm and snapped to attention.

The admiral unfolded it. Read it once.

Then again.

His lips drew thin.

"Blossoms bloom on Mt. Shigata."

The bridge remained still.

He folded the message slowly and tucked it into the inside of his coat. Then turned.

"Alert the fleet. Code phrase confirmed. Order One is now in effect."

"Yes, Admiral!" Iwashita bowed.

The signals officer jumped into motion. Semaphores began flashing, coded light blinking from mast to mast. Across the horizon, the formation subtly shifted as ships leaned into a combat spread. Anti-aircraft crews took their stations. Spotters scanned the skies. Flight deck crews accelerated their preparations.

Karumi stepped forward, voice calm.

"Helm, hold bearing. Increase to full speed. Combat distance, prepare to assist landing elements after initial coastal bombardment."

"Aye, Admiral. Full speed."

The Kaikō, Off the coast of Komozaki (Komavia)

The sirens wailed across the deck.

One by one, pilots emerged from the below deck briefing rooms, some tightening gloves, others adjusting goggles, none speaking more than necessary. The alarm’s tone was unmistakable the code had come through.

“We have received the word,” barked Asahara into the flight deck intercom, his voice steady. “By the Will of the Celestial and the Voice of the King - all wings to battle stations. This is not a drill.”

A young pilot, barely twenty, murmured a final prayer to the heavens under his breath and tied his headband, the red-and-blue rays of the national flag emblazoned with the white Kikimi glyph of divine harmony. His squadmate tightened it for him. Neither spoke.

The deck crews moved with mechanical precision, marshalling the first strike group into position. Fuel lines hissed, torpedoes clunked into place under the bellies of sleek attack craft, their dull gray metal kissed with frost in the cold morning air.

“You heard it. The moment has come,” Lieutenant Masuda shouted to his wingmen as they climbed into their cockpits.

From a distance, the Kaikō looked like a floating shrine, her crimson sunrays lighting up the ocean as the first propellers began to spin.

Converted Assault Ship KHS Akegiri

The steel interior of the Akegiri groaned. No voices. No drills. Only the hum of restrained violence.

The men of the Kaisei Tokubetsu Sentai sat shoulder to shoulder along the bulkheads, their rifles across their laps, bayonets fixed. Each wore the dark navy blue uniform of the Sentai, the emblem of the anchor and blossom embroidered above the Kikimi glyph for endurance. Their helmets bore no rank - only the faded kanji of their unit designation.

These were not conscripts. These were not regular marines. These were the King and Navy's finest, selected not for loyalty - for that was universal - but for a coldness in the heart, a calm in bloodshed, and unrelenting nationalism.

Their commander, Captain Oda Katsurō, entered the hold. His voice, when it came, was low, and calm - but still commanding.

“You will land first. You will take the outer defenses and establish a route alongside our comrade Marines for our brothers in the Army. You will not fail.”

His eyes passed over each face.

“There will be no prisoners taken, we have not the facilities for the enemy at this time.”

He waited.

No man flinched.

“You have been selected not only because you do not fear death… but because His Majesty trusts you will carry out our Divine Mission to great success.”

A pause. The ship groaned again. Somewhere above, the intercom crackled with muffled code chatter. The forward decks were already beginning to move.

“We, by the Grace of the Divine, His Radiant Majesty Takeharu the Fourth, Sovereign of the Eight Isles, Celestial Thread of the Weave, Keeper of the Divine Vessel, and Living Voice of the Celestial Sons, shall bring forth a new age in Oatia for our people. The spirit of the Bushi and our ancestors ensures our victory over all the enemies of our holy and great nation.”

He took a slow breath. His white-gloved hand raised.

The men stood in perfect unison. Their rifles rose to their chests.

“May His Majesty reign—” Oda began.

And the response was immediate.

“Ten thousand years!”
“Ten thousand years!”
“Ten thousand years!”

The sound crashed against the walls of the Akegiri like a wave of stone. It echoed through the bowels of the ship, up through the deck plates, and into the waves beyond.

Outside, landing craft were already lowering into the surf as the mighty guns of the super-heavy Flagship Shōtetsu fired as they reached their effective support range alongside their escort and other destroyers and cruisers of the fleet.

Inside, the men of the Kaisei Tokubetsu Sentai moved toward the hatches.

Each man received one small cup of warm sake from the company priest before stepping off - an ancient ritual, long predating the modern navy. The scent of it lingered faintly in the steel chamber like incense from a temple.

Zetrogorsk

He hadn’t heard a shell in hours.

Not since dawn. Not since the booms that used to startle pigeons off the rooftops gave way to engine rumbles and the low grumble of tank treads pressing down broken tram rails.

Smoke still curled up from the direction of the Winter Palace - thick, gray columns rising behind the crumbling shape of Holy Roki Cathedral.

Pavel Zakovich walked down Kralov Street with his coat open and his hands bare. Soot still flurried from above - ash kicked into the wind by armored columns moving through nearby districts.

He passed the shuttered pharmacy on where he'd bartered antibiotics for a moldy loaf of bread two weeks ago. It was boarded up now. A red X had been painted on the doors.

He passed a dead trolley turned checkpoint. A man with a sergeant’s chevron stood beside it, uniform impeccable, boots polished - his rifle lowered, not raised.

No one barked at Pavel to show papers. No one searched his coat. No one stopped him.

Instead, a truck with four loudspeakers bolted to it turned the corner ahead of him, tires slushing through the mud from the rains. Soldiers marched alongside it organized, silent, not like the past few weeks' rabble of rebels and defectors.

And then the voice played.

"People of Nogovastan..."

The voice was like gravel - Marshal Gavril Volkin’s.

"...I am announcing as of today the dissolution of the Monarchy and Empire of Nogovastan as a whole. The Royal Family has given themselves up and been placed on house arrest... The Czar as a result of these recent events has, most graciously, surrendered his authority to the Council of National Salvation."

The truck creaked past. Children watched from window ledges. An old man stood on a step with a blanket around his shoulders and nodded once, slowly.

Pavel turned. Behind the truck, he saw the rest of the column: flatbeds loaded with wounded. Trucks dragging barbed wire. And just behind them, another truck, open-backed, hauling arrested palace guards.

Some still wore their dress coats.

Others were bloody.

One was weeping.

A few men in standard army uniforms followed behind, rifles slung over their shoulders.

The loudspeaker crackled again.

"Revolutionary cells still operating within city limits are urged to disarm and surrender at designated checkpoints. Those who resist will be treated as enemies of the people. No quarter will be given to saboteurs, looters, or agitators. This is your final amnesty window. Return to your homes. Lay down your arms."

The speech continued as the convoy turned down the boulevard. The words grew more distant - tiny echoes bouncing between apartment blocs.

"...As Vozhd of the nation, I can assure..."

Pavel didn’t move.

Around him, civilians began stepping out of basements. A group of teenage girls stood near a crumbling trolley pole, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands. Someone tried to raise a flag - neither rebel nor imperial, just a white bedsheet stained with ink, reading "HAIL VOZHD."

Rumors passed between faces again just as they had before the fighting:

“The Reds and Anarchists fled north...”

“The Czar’s younger brother tried to shoot himself a soldier at the Palace told me... he missed.”

The silence felt louder than any of the shelling or gunfire Pavel had grown used to during the short uprising against the Czar in the city.

Pavel kept walking, stepping over rubble, passing couples and friends and neighbors moving debris from their homes and attempting to return to what little normalcy there was in the city.

Royal Palace, Cinica, Komavia

Suhaila, the King's chief aide, entered his chambers early in the morning. "Good morning, your majesty. How did you sleep?"

King Akaina Ikaika rustled awake, "I barely slept at all last night. Were any more survivors found from the heavy cruisers during the night?"

"No, your majesty, it looks like we have recovered every sailor we could have. Regarding the navy, the destroyers and submarines have fully dispersed and are continuing their harassment operations. Still, there is only so much that can be done against the Hiromatans after the sinking of the cruisers. The Royal Air Force is doing its best to fight back, but there is only so much that can be done with what we have."

King Ikaika slowly rose out of bed and walked across the room to a bowl of water, splashing his face. "Alright Suhaila. Let's start from the beginning, then. Let's do a quick brief before I have to meet with everyone for the official briefing and orders."

"Yes, your majesty. For the land actions, the night's counterattacks were repelled. General Wattana said that he will be unable to continue offensive actions for the time being. It seems the Hiromatans have fully established their foothold on the main island. The Royal Army is struggling to hold back Hiromatan offenses. Our men are highly motivated, but blood cannot stop iron, and the Hiromatans are well-equipped and trained. In the air, we have superiority for now. We have approximately one hundred fighters versus their naval air arm, comprising about three aircraft carriers, based on our observations. This is enough to hold them back for now, but the Hiromatan aircraft are more advanced and their pilots more experienced. However, our spies and resistance contacts say they can see the Hiromatans building an airbase. Needless to say, if they can move their land-based air wings within range of our forces, we will not have an air force for much longer."

"And the Constitutional Convention? Have they been evacuated?" asked the King.

"No..."

King Ikaika swiveled around to his aide almost immediately. He raised his voice before saying, "I thought I told the armed forces committee to evacuate them to Kurow immediately!"

"No, sir... it was their decision. They unanimously decided to stay in Cinica for as long as you remained."

Akaina Ikaika stood silent. He stared off towards a window that displayed the parliament building, just a few blocks away, as if it were a framed painting. He spoke, but this time with a low, calm voice. "I guess I underestimated my fellow countrymen. Maybe, we have a chance at democracy yet. Well, if we survive this. Assemble my military staff in the conference room. I think I have hope for the first time in the past several days..."

His aide quickly turned back to the door and hurried out of the King's private quarters. She had a busy morning ahead of her.

The Fires in the Interior

"Não atire! Não atire!" the man raised his hands in the air, "I'm just a worke-"

His body fell limp and heavy to the moist jungle floor - blood running from his nose in a consistent and seemingly never ending stream.

In the background the sound of cracking fire and the sight of thick black smoke filled the air as the armed fighters made their way about the plantation, their red armbands the only signifier of who they could possibly be. Not that it mattered, they had killed anyone that would even think of identifying them, and any survivors had been freed from their inhumane working conditions and assimilated into the group or left to their villages in the surrounding hills. Still, despite their typical policy of "no quarter to the bourgeois oppressor", some foreign mercenaries guarding the plantation were taken prisoner - all of them from The folks order.

"You'll fetch us a nice bit of cash in a ransom," their commander bent down looking the tied and stripped mercs in the eyes, blowing smoke from a cigar in their faces before standing up, "take them to Chacho! Business as usual."

Suddenly the call of "Federais!" was heard from one of the fighters, signaling their stay at the plantation was no longer welcome as a government recon plane was heard approaching - likely seeing the smoke rise while on patrol.

With a whistle and gesture from his pistol their commander ordered them to disappear back into the surrounding jungle. Their work was done, and their success would eventually be reported back to the supreme commander of all ESLI (Exército Secreto para a Libertação do Interior) forces, Marco Vomlel, also known by his alias, Commandante Chacho.

They wage what they called a "People's War," with the goal to destabilize the state from the underdeveloped and rural interior before what they see as the "inevitable" popular uprising kills the state and allows for the complete takeover of the urbanized coastal regions. The 'Chahistas', and their ideology of, 'Chachismo' as they've been labeled by newspapers and the government, are even denounced by the most far-left parties within the country for their tactics - though many believe this is just to ensure they themselves are not labeled threats to national security and outlawed.

Formed in 1922 they've only recently began to properly act against the government of Veragonia, however, a recent swell in numbers that's now put them at a government approximation of 2000 fighters, has emboldened the group only further, leading to more audacious attacks by the day. Though the supreme commander of all ESLI forces doubts their readiness for a nationwide uprising, that isn't to say preparations are not being made for the first step: The Liberation of the Interior.

This has all only been made easier by friends in Nogovastan, Cream sauce, and Komavia that have also recently made more operations possible from their combined funding along with the group's involvement with, although controversial to some within the organization, the growing Cartel rings Veragonia.

Bruma, Capital of Cream Sauce

Martin Chatski sat leaned back in his armchair in his mother’s basement, smoking a pipe as he shuffled through the many newspapers and socialist pamphlets he had strewn about his room. Here he was, the largest socialist agitator in the Confederacy, right smack dab in the middle of its capital.

His story is not unlike many others. He was born a commoner to a poor working class family. His family scraped together what they could to send him through grade school, but after that it was straight to the work force for him. However he quickly discovered that there was hardly any work available: Cream Sauce was woefully behind in its industrialization, and many laborers like himself would be forced to work as practical serfs in the fields of some noble. Such a fate was too ignominious for Martin - thus began his turn to socialism.

Under the pen name of “Bannings” he began proliferating his own paper, “Workers of Cream Sauce”, which was radical in its approach in calling for an abolishment of the nobility, and the complete equality of all citizens in the Confederacy. It also called for the state to nationalize the nobility’s land, and redistribute it to the proletariat. However, the proletariat would need leaders, and thus his manifesto also called for the abolishment of the Principate, and its replacement with an elected council.

This paper, while fringe, garnered enough support that Martin was able to establish a few cells around the country. These cells are largely left to their own devices, and perform activities ranging from recruitment, distribution of socialist literature, and raising funds. The one significant joint venture these cells performed was in raising funds for their like-minded comrades in Veragonia. Martin reasoned that any socialist success around the globe could lead to the proletariat of Cream Sauce waking up and realizing they too could achieve this goal.

As he read the after action report from Veragonia he was caught off guard by what came out of the radio next:

Princeps Gallienus’ Reform Bill has failed to pass in the Senate!

Martin smiled, and turned up the volume on the radio.

Nicator Palace, Seleuciopolis

Chancellor Antonius Kazantzakis was visibly stressed as he gestured for the workers to move the table into the perfect position. He had been coordinating for some time to prepare the palace for an impending summit between Seleukidia, Ranchmangaria, and Sardakistan.

The summit was ostensibly to negotiate a settlement between Ranchmangaria and Sardakistan, but the main interest for Seleukidia was ensuring that the Christophorans in the region were protected from Ranchmangarian excesses. As defender of the faithful, the Basileus had a vested interest (and indeed a divine right) to ensure that the Christophorans of the region were protected.

The threat of Seleukidian intervention would hopefully deter the Ranchmangarians from any silly sojourns into Sardakistan, and hopefully prevent a war that the Basileus really did not want to get embroiled in right now.