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Old June 3, 2003, 23:10   #1
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"When the dust settled ..."
"The so and so nations capitol has been captured and the so and so nations has gone into civil war. When the dust settled the so and so nations has emerged."


We all remember this captivating message given to us by our military advisor after our forces march into the once formidable opponent’s capitol in Civ 1. However, for many of us this all but an ancient memory in the back of old Civ gamers heads. Yet, still, even during Civ 3 you can't help but wonder what happens to a civilization when their center of operation has been snatched from them and when their people gaze down the dark barrel of defeat. What truly happens when the dust settles?


The strong, potent smell of whiskey filled the private office of President Joan d'Arc, which lay hidden in the man made caverns of Paris under the devastated Presidential Palace, which resembled much of the Capitol. Quietly she glugged the bottle of whiskey, coupled with long deep sighs and the apparent rumble of bomber wings flying over the city for another shot at devastating what, if anything was left. Her heavy, tired, depressed and hopeless eyes jetted across the crumpled war reports that lined her table. They spoke only of military blunders, lost battles, and sieged cities. She leaned back in her wooden chair, made from fine Scandinavian timber; an ally of her country....well....was, until it was subdued, like many other countries, by the vicious powerhouse called Rome.

She growled gently under her breath as she thought about sniveling grin of Caesar when he declared war on France. How he dared justifying his declaration by calling France a suppressive government only interested in taking the wealth from other nations. Of course the League of Nations didn't become entranced by his speech, tangled with false accusations, but what could they say against a country four or five times more powerful then them. Her eyes focused back down at the unorganized stack of reports, until she spotted "Operation Maginot Line". She laughed, with a laugh not of joy, but of sadness as she thought back to how her now deceased general Napoleon, assured her that line was impenetrable. How he lived to eat those words, when he himself died at the destruction of the Maginot Line. Of course it's not all his fault, who knew that the newly produced "Tanks" could make such a swift and forceful punch into the thin, but powerful defensive wall? Who could have second-guessed that military operation "Vici France" (Conquer France) would have caused such mass destruction of French infrastructure and lives that it did? Joan leaned back again, lightly pushing the paper off the table in frustration. It floated gently in the room’s dank air before landing in front of the room door, which was now being opened.

Joan looked up, just as she was about to take another sip from bottle. She stood erect in her seat as she noted the stubby faced man, know only as Richelieu, her most trusted advisor and only advisor since the rest had met their end during the massive air raids on Paris. "I have good news from De Gaulle on the field, President. It seems the general has managed to recapture Lyons from the 67th Roman infantry that occupied the city. He also wishes to thank you for the freshly produced "Angel Tanks". He, also mentions that the men are getting use to their feel and request more."

Joan’s lonely eyes filled with a sparkle of hope as she gently set aside her mostly empty bottle of whiskey on a stack of papers to the right. "How many more, exactly?"

"No less then five hundred straight off the line, along with 400,000 more men to run and keep maintenance."

Joan paused for a moment, the hope slowly draining from her eyes and her face once again returning to its bitter expression, as bitter as the whiskey she consumed.

"Maybe the four hundred thousand men, but five hundred tanks? We could barely get the one hundred tanks off of factory lines before they were bombed to dust by Roman planes!"

Richelieu stepped forward a bit, the same expression matching that of Joan’s. He hated to see the poor women like this, it wasn't so long ago that Joan could be seen celebrating in the dance halls of her palace, when she learned that valiant French Cavalry had scored a wonderful success during the Zulu-French struggle. Those days however, were long since gone and like much of the country she was losing faith in her country, her lord, and mainly herself.

"De Gaulle notes that it is critical that he get these tanks if you ever want to liberate the rest of are mother country.", He spoke in slight defense for the general, who was somewhere in rubble surrounded barrack of Lyon, hopping to get the reply he wanted.

Joan grasped the whiskey bottle with her right hand as he stroked her throbbing forehead with the left. Slowly she finished off the last trickle of liquid in the brown bottle and tossed it aside, laying back in her seat once again, her eyes locked upon the hand drawn map of France hanging in the room.

"Well you can tell De Gaulle to work with what he has and pray that the Lord is on his side. Someone has to have faith for our country...I know I’m losing it everyday."

Richelieu closed his gapping mouth with a sad nod as he pressed the new report on the table with the rest of the strewn about papers. He calmly turned around and walked out her cramped office, closing the door softly behind him. Joan sighed again, a few tears streaming from her eyes. She was strong, yes, but the heavy burden of saving her beloved nation was slowly crushing her soul. She looked up at the roof, as she heard the familiar buzzing nose that haunted her very mind. The bombers were coming for another run...


Bismarck looked around the rather gloomy bar of men, mostly German or a mix of German and French. Even one or two sobbing French widows who had lost their husbands in the war. He almost felt sorry for the women, but then again he felt a sense of pleasure, seeing how that the French had suppressed German culture, forcing them to walk the "straight" path of the French flag. It was so bad, by the end of the Zulu-French war, no one in the international community remembered his people. For Bismarck, the invasion of Rome from the west was little more then a hidden revenge. Bismarck rubbed his baldhead as he flipped the daily newspaper, which showed half-truths about French success in the war, showing images of "daring" soldiers rushing flag first in the furry of Roman Tanks. Bismarck, like the widows at the bar knew the true inevitable fate of the man.... death. With a steady yawn he folded the newspaper into equal parts and laid it on the wooden table before him. He looked towards one of the women who had ceased her weeping with help of some heavy wine drinking and with his usual solid voice he spoke to her.

"You know miss, I always thought the French pride themselves on their ability to endure through the most dark of moments. As your president, what's her name again? Oh yes, Joan D'Arc has shown, this is quite the opposite."

Disgusted the women threw the bottle of win lying beside her directly towards Bismarck. Lucky for Bismarck the bottle missed its target by a long shot, she would of hit him had she not been intoxicated by so much wine.

"Shut up you...you...you German!” she yelled out in a slurred voice, followed by a stream of tears.

The bartender, who was silently watching Bismarck, as he cleaned out dirty glasses with an overly used gray wash towel, spoke up in a gruff voice. "Hey watch it Bismarck, ever since this war, French spies have been scoping ever bar and shop in town. Be careful what you say. Heh, besides I don't want my bar shutting down because of your mouth. It's all I have you know."


Bismarck looked away from the women, drowning in her tears with a chuckle. "Just like every other German in France, too afraid to speak up against the government and being satisfied with the scraps left over from the table. You say this is all you have and yet you do nothing to improve your life. Hell, with the French in control of whatever move honest folk like you and me work hard for, it's no wonder this is all you have! You good sir can wallow in the mud hole set aside for you by them all you want, but me, I’m going to make sure the German people are noticed in the vast world."

A few German people, who would otherwise be drinking their hour away, took notice to Bismarck and his statement. One by one a few shouts of agreement to what he stated would sprout up. Eventually the whole bar was cheering with German Pride, hanging on every word spoken by the entrancing Bismarck. Minute by minute, cheer by drunken cheer, the bartender became nervous that secret French police would bust into the bar any second.

"I won't have any of this talk here in my bar. If you want to have some kind of hopeless revolt then take it outside my tavern.", the bartender yelled, mostly directed towards Bismarck.

Bismarck muttered something under his breath as he stormed out the bar, the room became silent and the drunken men went back to what they did best, drink. Though Bismarck had been stopped here, nothing would stop him from going town to German populated town, spreading the word of a separate and free state. Revolution was in the fiery eyes of this old man and nothing would stop him.
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Old June 4, 2003, 02:32   #2
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Great to see you writing again and what a good start, there has been much debate on the subject of civil war recently in the general forum so I think many readers may find this quite poignant.

Looking forward to more.
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Old June 4, 2003, 21:16   #3
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Bring on the goods. You successfully set up quite a bleak atmosphere here. You might wanna proofread it a bit for the spelling errors and fix the occasional clunky sentence so we don't have to stop and reread parts to figure them out. Keep the story coming.
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Old June 5, 2003, 01:15   #4
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Thanks everyone for reading and replying to my story. I will continue it, don't you worry. Also, unscratched I proofread and tried to make the sentences less confusing and jumbled. Hopefully I succeeded...Well here goes...


Richelieu's right hand stroked back and forth to the classical songs of Russian instrumentalist that filled his office. It was a well-kept and organized room, rarely having items in disorder. A perfect setting to match the perfectionist mind that was Richelieu's. His eyes closed as the beat embedded into his mind, thinking cheerfully about conducting his own orchestra, which was a secret passion of his. His hand came down with one last smooth stroke as the song came to its final dramatic chord. In that same instant Joan D'Arc entered the room, a serious, as always, look upon her face.

"Richelieu?", she spoke up softly, but with a stern voice that commanded the swiftest attention.

Richelieu's eyes opened the moment her voice touched his ears. He jumped up from the chair and walked over to the radio to turn down to music he so much admired. His head then twirled around to meet eye to eye with Joan, who seemed more drained then past days.

"Yes, President.", Richelieu said with a pleasant smile.

"Richelieu, you can just call me Joan now....I don't think it truly matters anymore.", She said with a slight laugh, the first laugh Richelieu had heard escape her lips in months.

"Yes Presi..err...Joan.", he sputtered feeling awkward.

Joan's face moved back into its serious persona as she scratched her head. "What was I coming here to ask again? Oh yes, have you heard any word from De Gaulle yet?"

"Umm, yes in fact I did receive a letter from him somewhere...", He trailed off as he scrambled through highly organized file cabinets. In seconds he found the hand written letter, which was dotted with dried up ink stains, most likely from a rainy day out in the field.

...Ah, hear it is. De Gaulle states that he has lost about 75 tanks and 70,000 men so far on his path towards Strasbourg. He insist that you comply with his request." Richelieu looked up from the letter as to see Joan’s reaction. Her reaction was just as he expected, disappoint mixed in with a bit of annoyance.

"I...I...I'll tell him to work with what he has Joan", he spoke with a laugh reading her expression.

Joan looked up from the dark red carpet at Richelieu, her left eyebrow slightly cocked. "What would I do with out you Richelieu? Anyway, If you get any updates, you know where to find me."

"You know Joan, you really shouldn't lock yourself up in that stuffy office, drinking the day away.", Richelieu stressed to her as he took a seat at his desk.

Joan could only smile and shake her head as she turned towards her office. The sound of violins and brass instruments could be heard in the background as Joan marched back to her cavern, waiting desperately for a miracle to appear. It would not come today...



"Ready, aim, fire!", The gun fire of rifles reverberated off the tightly packed apartments of Tours, that lined the thin streets of it's ancient city. The bullets were intended for German Nationalist spurred by the tongue of Bismarck to rise up. Women, children, young men, and even a few older people ran for their lives, hoping to live through the on slaughter of French Infantry.

"Do not run, this is what the French want us to do. Freedom is only a short reach away. Grasp for it!!", Bismarck bellowed as he urged his followers on. He waved forward with his left arm and held a Spanish made rifle with his right. The young men, encouraged by their leader, pushed ever forward into the hale of metal balls that battered them. Yet still they pushed on with the power of a striking lion, their hearts and minds set on the city courthouse. Windows shattered about Bismarck and buildings erupted into flames as the German mob progressed foot by foot, until they reached the marble steps of the courthouse. Bismarck could feel his blood pumping as he rushed forward into a group of French soldiers, desperately trying to block off the wooden door. The blunt of his rifle found its place on forehead of a French soldier who fell to the side like a rag doll. He sprung forward again at another soldier, hoping to strike another down until a sharp pain shot up from the bottom of his right leg, paralyzing him for a second.

He fell back onto his crowd of fighting people, who were quite shocked and angered to see their idol fall. Almost like a conveyor belt, they sent Bismarck hand by hand into the back of the crowd, until someone dragged the bleeding man to safety. It is said that Bismarck yelled out his people, "Fight on Germans. Even without me you are too strong to be stopped by the weapons of France!!". Whether true or not, his presence sent a wave of furry through the mob, sending them crashing into the courthouse, setting a blaze whatever was in their path and killing whoever dared to go against them. By the end of the day, the French flag hanging over the courthouse was little more then a tattered rag. Bismarck could only smile in pride for his people as he watched smoke bellow over the city of Tours from his four level apartment. This was the first and gigantic step towards German statehood and if it were in the hands of Bismarck, it would not be the last.


Hope you enjoyed this segment. As you can see I added a bit more action to the story. More should follow in the next chapter. Anyway, reply and criticize as usual.
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Old June 5, 2003, 02:46   #5
unscratchedfoot
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This episode was mostly fine, written in your unique abstract style. But I wasn't happy with the "action" part. It was too vague and a bit odd. My image was of everyone just standing around while bismark ran up, knocked out some poor french bloke and then got a cramp in his leg.

Anyways, I hope the french lass wastes that old cowhide properly.
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Old June 5, 2003, 13:13   #6
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Hmm, looking back at the action scene, I agree. I did type the scene up a little (ok alot ) too hastly. I'll try to remeber this during the next part.
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