• The local time in Ixnay is
Fleshing out the New Burgundie Secession War, current border in Equatorial Burgundie will likely change.

January 15th, 1931
Vesterstadt, Krizovatka Region, New Burgundie

Iva clutched her child close and crouched in the corner as the soldiers kicked the furniture around screaming for her husband. "WE KNOW HE IS A TERRORIST, WHERE IS HE?!" their leader screamed in her face, his spittle clinging to her contorted features. Her husband, Hans Mittermand, a Krizovatkan agitator had only left a few hours before, having been tipped off by a family friend in the police force. Iva's determined silence infuriated the soldier's leader, a small pitiful man. She sensed his insecurity as he bristled at her perceived insolence. The rage building in him with every passing second. The soldiers had turned over everything and searched the entire house without a trace. Iva remained stone-faced but was pleased when the soldiers reported their failure to the leader and started to exit. The little man was seething, "BRING HER INTO THE STREET!" he screamed at the nearest soldier. Two of them came over, one reached for her child, "Please miss." he beseeched her. She could tell he wasn't as malicious as the rest. She resisted at first, but after a few seconds let him take the child, he disappeared up the stairs quickly and quietly. The first soldier dragged her into the streets.

"EVERYONE! GET OUT HERE!" the neighbors cautiously peered out their windows, terrified of the scene unfolding on their normally peaceful and quiet streets. "WHO KNOWS WHERE HANS MITTERMAND IS?!" He was met with measured silence. Hans was a local hero and Iva was well respected, but they were all sworn to secrecy. The soldiers started hauling more people into the streets, "WHERE IS HANS?!" The leader started kicking Iva demanding that the crowd reveal Hans' location. They all stood in horror until one man stepped forward, the local reverend. "Sir, please, for the love of God, let this woman back into her home. We will search for him and report back to you. Please, I beseech you. We are people of God here, there is no need for this violence." The leader nodded his head and some soldiers pulled him back holding him there as his pleads became more desperate. "Stand her against the wall." the leader instructed quietly. "I WILL ONLY ASK ONE MORE TIME, WHERE IS HANS MITTERMAND?!" Hearing nothing he pulled out his pistol and shot her twice in the gut. "Well you all know were to find me if he turns up. We will be back tomorrow to continue where we left off here."

The soldiers piled into the wagon they had arrived in and slowly pulled down the road towards the fortification where they were billeted. The townsfolk watched, frozen by the extreme measures of the soldiers before losing sight of them and rushing to Iva's side, but she was already dead.
September 26th, 1932
Ostheim, Krizovatka Region, New Burgundie

Lieutenant Karl Visser of the Imperial Army of the Burgundian Grand Crona Trading Company had assembled his men outside of the Krizovatkan village of Ostheim. The Army had been here 4 times in the last 2 years, but today was pivotal. LT Visser was charged with rounding up the last of the Krizovatkan population and "transporting" them to the camp outside of Drovan, Maidonibor Slager, a known extermination camp.

Visser, 25 years old, a recent graduate of the Malmar Military Academy, was eager to prove himself. His platoon had been assigned 6 of these missions in the last month and they were developing a reputation for decisive action and ruthless measure in the achievement of their success.

Visser was having an issue with one of his sergeants, aged 35, who questioned the legality and ethical practice of these missions. The sergeant decried the dogmatic adherence of the younger troops to imperial orders that in his words, "would never been issued 10 years ago." Karl found the sergeant dull, a killjoy, and, nostalgic for a bygone era. The other younger sergeants sided with their LT, perhaps with the reckless avarice that often accompanies blind ambition. These young officers and NCOs had become known as the "Valkyries", lightning fast and the reminders that death in war was inevitable, regardless of your choice to participate.

Visser's unit closed their cordon on Ostheim. They quietly collected the farmers and field hands as they drew closer. When they started to reach the main residences and shops Zisser sounded an air raid siren he had attached to a "staff car" he had appropriated to himself a year ago during a raid.

The 2600 residents, 1200 of them Krizovatkan where assembled into the town square and parsed out. The 1400 non-Krizovatkan residents where then escorted to the neighboring village, a tactic designed to eliminate sympathetic resistance by a number of "Valkyries" a few months before.

They remaining Krizovatkans were loaded onto trucks, each one accounted for due to the terrifyingly efficient record keeping that was standard in most Germanic communities. They were missing only 45 people off the list. A relatively small group considering the circumstances. Any "capture" of over 95% of the recorded population was considered an astounding success in those days.

Visser took the train ride south to relish his victory and to sort the various "governmental appropriations" amongst his favored soldiers.
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July 4th, 1933
Equatorial Burgundie Region, New Burgundie

Captain Silvestre Porquet searched through his binoculars, stopping frequently to wipe the sweat from his brow. The sweltering heat of the equator doing more to his nerves than the potential for an ambush. His tank squadron was passing through the open plains about 60 kilometers from the coast and, for the first time, outside of the range of the naval guns. Porquet’s massive creuer in the middle of the convoy of 6 tanks on a search and destroy mission. They had received orders to eliminate the local secessionist improvised armored vehicles and the 3 flying columns of the Burgundian Grand Crona Trade Empire that had been sent to support them. The Imperial columns were a mix of light tanks and truck-borne infantry who had recently been given an anti-tank cannon that was capable of taking out even the creuer.

The palm-lined streets had long been abandoned as the secessionists laced them with mines that the heavy Burgundian tanks alone were capable of activating. Light tanks, trucks, and civilian traffic were able to traverse the roads with relative safety. So Porquet and the tank squadron leaders had abandoned the roads and taken to the rolling fields and open lands. This provided them relative safety from mines, but they were exposed, and not only to the prying eyes of enemy forces but more disastrously to the blazing sun. Entire missions had been called off because of the dehydration and heat exhaustion plaguing the fair Burgundians. The Puhkgundian Gorkha Rifles were faring much better and many commanders had been asking for Gorkha support, but with so few of them available they had become a rare commodity.

Porquet ducked into his turret and asked for a canteen of water from the gunner, Guy Moyanes. The canteen was forthcoming but was clearly half drunk. “Mon capitane, the water is running low.” Silvestre grimaced, it had only been 12 hours since their last resupply, but without the space to store the water supplies in the tank they had not been able to takes as much as they had requested. He was concerned that another call so quickly would be denied because he had turned down the water only yesterday. “Ok, we will stop in the next village well.”

The high pitched ringing sound of a bullet hitting the turret reverberated around them. “CONTACT!” he yelled, reaching for his red semaphore flag and popping out of the hatch to wave it, signaling to his other commanders that they were under fire. He watched as one by one the hatches around him started to close and the turrets traversed in search of targets. The firing increased, but he stood firm waiting for the last tank in the column’s commander to see his flag-waving and batten down his hatch. Lieutenant Ui’Hanlen hadn’t seen him yet and was clearly focused on something inside his tank.

As his turret traversed he kept an eye on Ui’Hanlen’s tank and tried feverishly to get his attention. It was clear the fire was coming from a long stretch of stone wall about 60 meters to their right. Silvestre jumped out of the turret and took cover on its left side. “Fire at will Gunner Moyanes, you have the tank.” Guy gulped as he continued his search for a target. “Yes mon Capitaine, I have the tank.” Captain Porquet dropped off of the tank and rolled to avoid banging his knees. Dropping into a full sprint he closed the gap between the tanks, bullets cutting the air around him. When he came within 20 meters of Ui’Hanlen’s tank the driver spotted him and turned to the left to provide cover and notified Ui’Hanlen of the captain's imminent arrival. Ui’Hanlen’s head popped out of the hatch immediately, dazed by the totally new set of circumstances. “Mon Capitaine!” he snapped to smartly. The tank slowed as Porquet climbed up and then jolted back into action. “Lieutenant Ui’Hanlen, why isn’t this tank engaging in the battle?!” Porquet shouted, half out of concern for the crew and half in anger at the break down in command.

The tank was having braking issues, the pedal wasn’t responding. But it didn’t matter at the moment as the column was under fire while pressing forward. The tank’s turret came to life and opened fire on the wall with rest of the convoy. Rocks flew as the shells impacted, some just short and others long. The gunner corrected and fired again, most shots hitting the wall directly. A low, dull thud pierced the scene and the lead tank erupted in flames. “It's THE ANTI-TANK GUN! It's to the left, engage them now!” Captain Porquet shouted over the din to Ui’Hanlen and his crew. “ I am heading back to my tank, don’t stop until that gun is out of commission.” He dropped off the tank and began the sprint back to his own tank. The heat from the sun was incredible and the adrenaline pumping through his veins made him feel hotter. His vision started to blur in and out as he closed the gap between the tanks. Stumbling he dropped to his knees before trying to rise again, failing again he collapsed into the grass. The thumping percussion of the guns popping over his head and the quaking of the ground to follow. He breathed deeply, trying to find the air through the humidity and the growing thickness of cordite. His vision again blurred then faded to black as his brain shut down, the sounds of battle fading into the distance.
The war in New Burgundie had bogged down in the monsoon season over the last few months. The separatists and the Burgundian Grand Crona Trading Imperial army had managed to fortify themselves in the mountains of Krizovatka, pacifying the region in their continued ethnic cleansing efforts. Meanwhile, the beleaguered Burgundian Army and Navy had been stuck in the port cities, mired not only by mud but by strategic indecision. The Navy had requistioned a number of riverine capable boats and were insisting on an offensive deep into the heart of New Burgundie to block access to the Imperial Army's return to the remainder of New Burgundie. The Army who had operated in the hinterlands all summer refused to commit troops to the endeavor as they were concerned about the ability to maintain supply lines and resist a battle of attrition against separatist partisans.

Furthermore, the Army's fledgling Air Corps was unable to operate in the rainy, humid climate and had been a major aspect of the Army's plan to acheive a swift victory. The only real sucess of the summer season was the defeat and surrender of the Imperial forces in Equitorial Burgundie. While far from pacified it had served as a propaganda coup and encouraged the politians to continue to support the war through these last few dreary months.

Thus, the stalemate persisted past the end of the rains and the commencement of the campaign season. In lieu of Burgundian military resistance, the Imperial Army had descended down the hills and returned to the plains of New Burgundie, unhindered. The Navy demanded immediate action but the Army with its heavy tank squadrons wanted to wait until the ground was drier, pointing out that the heavy tanks had never lost an engagement with the Imperial Army, as long as they had heavy tank support.

October 31th, 1933
Vilauristre, Burgundie

Etienne-Maurice Sauzar looked at his brother and gave him a quick, maniacal grin. They took the last sip of their Imperial Colas and poured the premade mixture of gasoline and oil into of them. Etienne stuffed the wick into his and then wrapped the adhesive band he had stolen from the school nurse around the neck of the Cola bottle. Paul did the same. The boys stood up and threw their Molotov cocktails. Ducking back down they waited for the cracking of glass and the subsequent screams. Staying doubled over they ran into the back alley they had come through and then started to sprint. The smoke starting to pile up from the conscript recieving center behind them. They didn't dare look back as the militia guardsmen who were protecting the station were shouting and in hot pursuit.

"Come on, Paul, keep up." Etienne said through his heavy breathing. He had lost sight of his brother, but he could hear him panting behind him. They dodged in and put of alleyways and across traffic, but the militiamen were right behind, as they too were from these streets and had likely run from the law along the same routes as younger men. Their batons clacked hard against the walls with each direction change, reminding the Sauzar brothers of their fate should they get caught. Etienne glanced backwards only for a second to see if Paul was still with him. He was, but im that moment Etienne tripped on a cobblestone's askewed corner and tumbled knees over head to the ground. "Run, Paul!" he screamed as his reality sunk in. He scrambled to his feet but it was too late. The batons hit him about the head amd shoulders and he felt a heavy boot kick the back of his knees once again causing them to violently hit the cobblestones. He cried out in pain, his eyes welling with tears. Through them he could see Paul running into the distance. His little 12 year old form clearly racked with guilt. Etienne thought at least it wasn't Paul, Paul was still a baby.

Etienne's slender form crumpled under the violence of the hickory batons. He pulled his head and knees to his chest, watching the blood drip down to the ground from the dirty uneven wounds on his knees. His back screamed in red hot pain as boots and batons kick into him, knocking the wind from his lungs over and over. He couldn't catch his breath as they savagely and unrelentingly beat him.

He had only wanted to support his grandfather, a captain in the Imperial army in New Burgundie, and avoid having to report to his conscription notice the following month. His family had been involved in the Burgundian Grand Crona Trade Empire for almost 100 years and his loyalties were entirely on the Empire's side. He was not alone either. The scene was playing out across Burgundie as those whose families were tied to the Empire had to choose between family and nation.
January 22nd, 1934
Imperial Palace
Drovan, New Burgundie

Emperor Franz IV looked out over the newly recaptured Drovan. The Burgundian Navy still controlled the bay, the Army Air Corps terrorized the Imperial forces from the sky, but the soldiers of the Burgundian Army has been forced to relinquish the city streets to Imperial forces. Much of it was in ruins, but the palace was untouched. He turned to his aide-de-camp Miles von der Bekk, "Summon General d'Artengille and the Hauswächter leaders." "Your Highness." von der Bekk bowed and receded into the hallway to make the requisite phone calls. He disliked the Emperor's reliance on the Hauswächter secessionist peasantry. They were guerillas at best and social climbing opportunists at their worst. The von der Bekks were an old noble family tracing its lineage back to the kingdom of Froscland in modern-day northern Kuhlfros. The vast majority of those in New Burgundie were the unwashed riff-raff that Kuhlfros and Burgundie didn't want. He called the Generals office and then sent a cryptic telegraph to some random Hauswächter command post on the southern front requesting their high commands presence, a message which likely wouldn't get to them for at least 5 hours, if ever.

As General d'Artengille arrived an hour later, von der Bekk apologized to the emperor, saying that he hadn't heard back from Hauswächter leadership. The Emperor thanked him and dismissed it as them being unreliable, just as von der Bekk had hoped.

"General, we need to finalize our return to Drovan. We are harassed by constant strafing and shelling, I need you to organize your air squadrons and mount a counter-offensive."
"Your Highness, the situation remains untenable. We can't hold Drovan from within the city. If we regroup in this forested area, we can draw them into a battle where their air power means nothing."
"I WILL NOT RETREAT! We have the capital, I won't hand it back to those dogs!" the Emperor's face was all of a sudden beet red and contorted in anger.
Aaron d'Artengille had rarely been by the Emperor's side these last few years, preferring to conduct the battles himself. He disliked these meetings more and more every time. The three months of the monsoon season had been hell for him as the Emperor quartered with the troops and directed their activities personally.

"Your Highness, it is not a retreat, it is a maneuver to maintain the integrity of the army and to put the Burgundians at a disadvantage. My men are dying every day without the opportunity to fight back. We can't return every time we try to bring artillery to bear on the ships their planes knock them out of commission. The forest is the best chance we have of a grand victory and mobilizing the Burgundians against their government. That's the fastest way to crush their advance."

"No, General we will hold the city at all costs."

"Your Highness, I must insist."

"Von der Bekk, this audience is over, remove the General."

"Your Highness, we will lose the city in a weeks-"

As he struggled against the smug aid-de-camp and the guards he bellowed that the city was lost, lost.

On the front portico he sorted himself and entered the staff car. He rode back to his forward operating base in sullen silence. Each bump from a bombed out hole in the road sending him deeper and deeper into his own thoughts.
March 18th, 1934
Outskirts of Burgen, Equatorial Burgundie, New Burgundie

The city was buzzing as the supply ships crowded the harbor. The war had more or less moved across the Cronan Sea to the New Burgundian territories on Crona proper. Coastal Equitorial Burgundie had been quiet and peaceful since the Burgundians beat the Imperial Army in early September of the previous year. Burgundian naval and marine patrols had given way to Revenue Guard patrols as the militarization of the province gave way to civil government. Long neglected by the government in Drovan, the Equatorial Burgundians did not see the regime change as all that poignant to their day to day lives. They continued about their own business and as such much of their infrastructure remained intact. Lansing Lines had purchased the rail rights and began to improve the existing rail lines and extend new ones far into the interior, often times at the expense of the military. Not only was the military interested in developing a strong logistics train in Equitorial Burgundie, but they paid Lansing for the passage of many foreign workers, who they hoped would be able to be mobilized to defend the territory in the event of a return of the Imperial forces.

Iago Cerqueira had come from Insui on a Lansing contract to work on the rail lines with the promise of 2 acres of land and Burgundian citizenship at the completion of the three-year contract. He was one of 14,000 Insuians and Palmerians who had been hired by Lansing on similar contractors. The 4,000 slots had filled up almost overnight, as the lowest classes of Insuians and Palmerians jumped at the opportunity to own land.

Iago wiped his brow as he rested his pick on his shoulder. The sweltering sun beat down on him and his mates as they cracked the baked earth. Looking south he wondered, for a moment, where in God's name the track was going. There was no city in sight and the Insuians did not know what the terminus was. In broken Spanish and Portuguese, it was clear that the Palmerians also didn't know where the tracks would lead either. The Burgundian foremen were tight-lipped, not that their language was intelligible to the Insuians or Palmerians. Some among the Burgundians were versed in Portuguese and Spanish, but they were normally project managers and spent their time far away from the actual work, so Iago and the thousands of his equally bewildered colleagues sweat and swung their tools into the clay of Equatorial Burgundie.

Iago turned to Rafael and signaled for some water. It was only 9:30am and already the sun was evaporating their sweat off of their backs. Rafael passed him the canteen and continued to shovel out the loose clay from Iago's pick. The two men had become like brothers in the last week and a half. They were both from the Verona territory in Insui, but opposite ends and traveled over on the same ship. They hadn't met until the first day on the job, but they continued to be next to each other day after day. Only the night before had they moved bunk assignments to be in the same tent as each other, so it was easier to each and drink together at the end of the day. Iago handed the canteen back to Rafael. Bending back over he swung the pick into the ground.

The noon bell came and Iago and the rest of his shift shuffled to the mess tent. They passed the oncoming shift, their boots already caked with mud and clay, but their clothes mostly clean. Iago's shiftmates were filthy from the sweat and dirt they had picked up over the last 10 hours. The supped on the cold stew of beef broth, vegetables, and potatoes and drank as much water as they could. The average mess of 100 men drank about 470 liters of water in a single sitting. Iago was in line to the water buffalo when someone pushed him out of the line and took his spot. "Ei, idiota!" he screeched as he recovered. The Insuians and Palmerians were not as diligent in their queuing as the Burgundians, and the mess was designed to be utilized by orderly, single-file lines of well-behaved individuals. The thronging, mob-like movements of the migrant workers stress the system immensely.

Iago pressed his chest up against the man who had pushed him and pushed him back with his body, "Get out of line, asshole!" The man pushed back and refused to look Iago in the eye. "GET OUT OF LINE!" Iago shouted, very agitated. At this point, the rest of those in the mess tent had stopped and were watching with anticipation. It was common for the workers to fight over the most trivial things, and the Lansing-hired police were usually brutal in their response and suppression so the crowd watched to see how far along a fight would get before the police arrived. The man punched Iago in the gut and pushed him further out of had once been something vaguely resembling a line. Now it was becoming a circle around the men. Iago swung back and hit the man in the thigh. Rafael jumped out from the crowd and clocked the man in the back of the head, knocking him out. Another man took a swing at Rafael and he ducked and the punch landed in another man's chest. The circle descended into a melee and Rafael grabbed Iago and they crawled and fought their way to freedom. They ran to the edge of the tent with the remaining onlookers to witness the maelstrom of fists and knees. Above the fracus, they heard the first of the police whistles and stepped out of the tent to avoid being caught in the oncoming blizzard of billy clubs.