Fey'Dann - The Forgotten War: Land of the Red Sunset

[Cizerack Hunter Forces]

OOC: Contact me if you want to participate.


This land is my land. My mistress shares it with me, and we tend it side by side. It was not always this way, and it will be many years before the wounds we now inflict upon our ancestors can heal into scars, and bear witness to our struggle. But when the last drop of blood runs dry, the steppes of Fey'Dann will still wave thick with grass, beneath a red sunset. That is the way of things, and will always be. Our time on this world is only a moment in the Great Mistress's eyes. A heartbeat, which will be followed by many more. And the grass will always grow. My family's struggle ensures that our cubs will run with this same grass beneath their feet. Now, is a time of trial, and great sadness. Our ancestors cannot understand, but we stand here now, unable to live a life we know to be wrong. My prayers reach out, not only to family and comrades, but those who fight against us. Theirs is a war within, and no tradition is easily defeated.

The land knows of the coming trials. I can hear it in the wind. It is a sad song, and if the rains of Fey'Dann fall no longer, the grass will soon be fed by tears. The soil will crack, and our brothers and sisters will be claimed by it. The grass will grow, for that is always the way of things. Does this place shed tears for its people, now on the eve of their most trying hour?

This is my silent plea, that if it is not my fate to live a happy life, then let the happiness I now fight for be found by my family. Though the world may be unchanging, its people are no longer. We live, and we die, beneath the red sunset.

I am Arkaani Saajouurree. My hands are chained no longer, and this is the battle cry of Fey'Dann.


The steppes of the grassland world Fey'Dann loom out into the expanses of eternity, stretching out as if to embrace the horizon, its tall seas of grass reaching for every sunrise and sunset. It is lightly populated, but richly traditional, and its people are of long lineage. Here, Cizerack are the hunters of their repute, and provide sustenance for their people on other worlds. The bounty of Fey'Dann is a cornucopia of game and sustenance. In this hearth of the Cizerack culture...a spark of another color is fanned into flame. It is a hot summer. There is restlessness in the hot, steppe air...as the grass roots of rebellion begin to take shape. It is not a rebellion of political dissent, nor of geographic dispute. The heart of fervor is much brighter, and much more painful. It is the challenge against status quo, against the very culture that has defined the Cizerack people.


Across the vast Fey'Dann hunting plains...footprints can be seen. They are marching from all corners of the planet, but all toward the same goal. The footprints of males and females can be seen, side-by-side...and the simplicity of the message is the core of the rebellion's danger. On Fey'Dann, the foundations of a society are rocked.

The grasses of the open steppe turn from emerald green to gold. Now, it is autumn...and Carshoulis Prime can no longer delay in answering the challenge put forth. New footprints press into the grass, arranged meticulously into row and column...rank and file. The weather turns cooler, as the hand of fate pits soldier against farmer. Brother against Brother. Sister against Sister.

Civil War ascends, under a red sunset.

[Cizerack Hunter Forces]

At midday, the sky turns a kind of pink, casting a rose tint over the seas of golden grass. As the wind blows, the furrowed tufts of the stalks undulate like the crests of an ocean. Always, there is a serene feeling of calm, as if this were always supposed to be this way.

Kaataani Seellakaassuu watched the white clouds mingle with the pink sky, and for a moment, closed her eyes. Her speeder continued at a slow pace, as the rhythmic sounds of footsteps followed in her wake. Birds chirped in the distance. A Luc deer called far away, signalling the rut. She would retire here...one day. Not today. Fey'Dann was not so friendly as the calm fields now suggested. There was a quiet tension laden in the air, and it carried with it the profound ugliness of something unseen and terrible, as if it lay in the black of the soil, waiting to end paradise in an instant. Kaataani sniffed at the air, but the tension was nothing to be discerned in smell, nor any other sense, other than the quiet whisper of the heart.

Behind her, the males marched, their lives dependant on her insight and leadership. They knew of danger, but could blissfully escape the higher knowledge of the situation, that Kaataani dealt with now. She would call it a blessing. Her enemies would call it a curse.

There was smoke on the horizon, as an old thatch hovel burned. A finger of wafting grey dirtied the pastel horizon, and Kaataani frowned at its aesthetic. She did not know who once lived there. They could be loyal to the pride, or they could be rebels. They could be living, homeless and exiled, or dead, like so many she'd already seen. There was no sense in introspection, because the burning hovel was only a witness. There it was, in ashy hue, casting a pall over beauty and balance, its very symbolism hitting the heart like a bullet.

There is trouble in paradise, so the cliche goes. Kaataani thought back to a time when --

KRR-TOW!

-- Kaataani's officer greens were tainted with crimson, as the speeder driver's neck was blasted through the windpipe. The instinct to scream was a gurgle and a choke, and the driver leaned back, wound exposed to the pink sky as the red of her blood rolled down her cocoa skin and into her platinum hair. All around were the pocking sounds of blasters. Some hit the grassy fields and black soil, with a muffled thump. Some pinged across the thin metal skin of the speeder, splintering it in blackened sprays and sparks. Some hit soldiers, making a thumping sound, inaudible over their own anguished cries. The world slowed and distorted. In the primal attempts to cheat the blind hand of fate and statistics, people lose their illusions. Everyone wants to be brave. Everyone wants to be victorious...a hero. Under the scalpel of war, the self-stylings of a person's very existence are peeled away. Some fight back. Some are cut down in the moment of their own indecision. Some cower amidst the tall grass and cry, wishing for the paradise this place had once been, and there are others that look to the pink sky, and ask where their deities are, and how they can allow this to happen. The most horrible part of war lies in the fact that nothing is sacred anymore, and you discover how very little you can matter. Amid the hailing whine of deadly weapons, and the screams of their victims, you ask yourself how long-dead philosophers can sit peacefully in their graves, and if they realize how pretentious they now seem.

Kaataani never felt the shot that would kill her, though she would return to its agony later. Her officer greens now were stained by her own blood, soaking nearly black, as it leaked from her liver. She could only see and bear witness, as the burning hovel had. The field came alive with amorphous mounds of grass, as the guerrillas rose for better shots. Her soldiers ranks had been broken, and they were being cut down with no remorse. The ambush was perfect, in a sterile, analytical way. How very perfect, and in so...ironic.

Kaataani was pulled from her broken speeder, and tossed to the ground. Now, the pain of her mortal wound was dull and all-penetrating, as she looked up and into the pink sky. Two figures stood above her, and watched her breathe shallow, erratic breaths. There was no panic, but a thankful resignation, at the opportunity to let herself say goodbye to faces in her mind's eye, and to all things still beautiful. From here, the sky was clear. So clear. As she died, one of the two standing beside her, a male, spoke to a nearby female.

"Majybe thejy wjill sssee thjisss, and thejy wjill ssstop comjing."

The female looked dejected.

"Thejy'll onljy sssend morrre."

At this, the male shared in his comrades dejection.

[Cizerack Hunter Forces]

The hovel was now a funeral pyre, and its mournful column of ashy smoke rose into the sky as a veil, giving a moment of solace to a single solitary male. His only audience was a host of dying embers, rising on the hot flames and smoke to escort his Beloved Companion to heaven. Blue eyes were stung by the salt of tears and the sting of smoke, as the male’s large frame slowly lowered to the ground, amidst the golden sea of grass. Hands large and work-calloused dug into the rich, black loam beneath him, drawing the moist soil between his fingers, and the webs of thread-like roots of the grass around him. The wind shifted, and carried with it the sounds of more gunfire, and the wailing pleas of the fallen. He knew that She was now avenged, and as She left this physical life for what lay beyond, he sat alone. The vendetta was carried out by those younger than he, who yearned to feel powerful in a powerless time. His was not the want for revenge, but only a promise that something good was purchased with Her life. Now, there could be no other option, for he would never be complete again, without Her companionship. The fight was only just beginning, and Aktaarri Jaairrateerro was now alone, for the first time in his life. She had shown him independence, and yet he had always known that he would die for Her. Cruel irony now asked him to make use of Her gift, Her blessing, and live without needing, on his own two feet. There were none to go to, and none had walked the only path left to him. If the cause She was willing to die for was truly worth the blood She gave purchase with, then Aktaarri knew that he must learn to be a widower.

“Fatherrr…” a voice whispered over his shoulder, as if afraid to wake Her sleeping spirit. He turned to face Sanjeessa, his daughter.

“jYesss, Sssunflowerrr.” His eyes mirrored in her own the beginnings of a forced acceptance, and Aktaarri prayed the resilience of innocence would keep her from the thoughts that he had already begun to dwell on.

“Motherrr jisss sleepjing?” She canted her head sideways, letting blonde, sun-drenched locks spill on her shoulders, as the sapphire of her eyes was hidden in his shade. His brow furrowed in a miasma of emotions, unsure of how best to defend his daughter’s heart. He sank to his haunches, eyes even with the little girl, as his elongated ears lowered in reverence to the gravity of her question.

“Ssshe hasss gone awajy, and left me to take carrre of jyou, Sssanjeessssssa.” His eyes could no longer maintain contact with hers, and he looked beyond her, to the burning house that they must now abandon, and the mother and mistress they must in turn abandon. He could not bring himself to share his burden on her small shoulders. Sanjeessa’s warm arms quickly reached around her father’s neck, as if he were a life preserver in a storming ocean. As she looked over his shoulder, she watched the grey trail of the pyre ascend through the pink sky of midday. In the distance, all was silent again.

“Wjill jyou ssstajy wjith me, Daddjy?” She shivered in a crisp autumn breeze, as she watched the smoke, and Aktaarri’s embrace was the only response that he could give to her innocent question.

[Cizerack Hunter Forces]

Taurrani tsked and pointed a spindly finger at her manservant as the smoke from a thousand fires swirled around them in the night. He was laden down with bags, and she was carrying a bag as well. Or, had been, before she'd dropped it in the dirt to shout down curses on the crops of the -

Well, was it even proper to speak of them by name? Rebels were what they were. And they were ruining everything. She opened her mouth to shrill another round of words that the people around her had never heard her use before, but Nuranaarro shifted the bags he was carrying, and picked up the one she had dropped. Taurrani's mouth snapped shut, a slight feeling of shame creeping up her spine.

After all, his home was burning behind them as well. And yet he bore it stoically, much as he bore everything else. The fifty-nine year old female reached out and tugged the bag from his grasp, and he looked at her. They had been mated when she was seventeen, and he was a strapping male of twenty cycles. Now they were both old. Old, and used to the way things had always been. Behind them the village trudged, on foot, attempting to get to the river and across it before the winds shifted and blew the flames across the plains towards them.

Small cubs were crying behind them, and a younger female suckled her baby daughter as they hurried past Taurrani and her mate. "The wjind! jIt'sss ssshiftjing!" The younger female's manservant ran by them, having paused to scoop up their two other children, a young male and another female with striking red hair. Taurrani paused, and then looked back at the village while frightened citizens flowed past her like a rock in a stream.

How had it come to this? The old ways were good ways. The rebels simply did not understand, surely, that their way of life was blessed by the sun Goddess Herself. Fey'Dann was a beautiful land, and now it was torn to shreds by the insolence of the young and foolish. Nuranaarro tugged on her arm. "Mjissstrrressssss..." There was a hardened edge of worry and perhaps even fear to his voice. She looked left and saw a grove of trees, decorated with bodies, dancing in the hot breeze from the oncoming flames. Loyalist villagers, her people, had caught the rebel arsonists, and punished them, as the emotions of the people reigned, and cooler heads stayed to drag out the most precious of belongings.

"jI have fajiled them." The head female of the village, the matriarch who reported to the govenor's board, who in turn reported to the Pride Mother herself.... and she had allowed unrest to fester, and destroy everything.

It was hot, so very hot. The last stragglers stumbled by the couple, and Taurrani steeled her jaw and turned away from the hanging corpses in the trees. "Go to the rrrjiverrr, Nurrranaarrrrro." Her deep blue eyes, almost purple in the red haze, were firm, yet sad. "jI cannot go." She could not face the humiliation of failure. The 'Loyalists,' as they were being called, would live on. The Rebels would be quelled. But if by chance they were not, she did not wish to see the day.

Perhaps Nuranaarro would like to. She looked into his eyes, and knew his thoughts. They had been together so very long. He also knew hers. "jI would djie forrr jyou, Tau." He had dropped the bags long ago, and gathered her into his arms for one last embrace. "jI would not trrrade one dajy of ourrr ljivesss forrr one dajy of 'frrreedom.'"

She sighed, and rested her grey streaked head against his chest, listening to the slow and steady beat of his heart until the flames over took them. The village would rebuild, but what would be the final cost of this day, and the days to come?

[Cizerack Hunter Forces]

The quartet opened their wooden cases, with a sense of care born out of their profession. The cherry hardwoods, the brass, and the silver, all gleamed with a loving shine that gave testament to the care their owners bestowed upon them. But today, the hands of the muses were unfit to touch their pristine instruments. Dirt and dried blood clung to their skin like a blight, and as the quartet members removed their instruments, their touch seemed to defile the beauty of their music, poisoning it with the pain of the land, that now swept like the raging wildfires, epidemic and unrelenting.

After solemn preparation, a note was struck, and they began to play, a dignified and traditional dirge that enabled the defeated to defiantly salvage their own tattered dignity. As the soldiers of the Cizerack Army stood guard over the defeated rebel village, it struck most of them that the tune the defeated minstrels played was one that they all knew by heart. Traditional music, on rebel pipes. It was only then, that some of the soldiers of the Cizerack Army could see. They could see past the propaganda and dehumanization, and now, the cost of their enemy's defeat...the cost of their victory, was laid before them in unrelenting reality...as the shell-shocked elders and children struggled to dig away the soil of their homesteads, to allow their mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, to be buried. And alongside these, the nameless faces in red armor, fallen likewise. Farms became graveyards in the span of hours, and as the dirges played in the smoky air, a high note would harmonize with a mother's crying, as she found another child to say goodbye to. The music kept the gravediggers, the survivors, in time. Now, the irony of thousands pitted against each other could be seen.

A rebel with no family was laid in a ditch, alongside a soldier, who's only family was the uniform he wore. The deceased were silent and serene, and as the music played, as the prisoners toiled, and as the guards looked on, the same black soil was shoveled over both of the fallen. Identical round stones were placed on the mounds of their graves, and there was no distinction between who had won, and who had lost.

As the sun set, the band played its last song.

[Hermes Spearman]

The Galaxy is changing. Many fail to accept the coming of change, others simply don't see it however those, like myself, who are gifted with an eye for opportunity will no doubt sieze the moment and upon realising it's importance, embrace the change. Some do this in hope of bettering themselves and those around them, selfless acts of compassion and humanity, others, again like myself, will take advantage for their own simple wants and needs.

Coruscant is a crucible of chaos in which the loyalists and revolutionaries fight, politicians in the senate debate and the capitalist's pocket grows fat from the consumer's greed. The inevitible reason behind this is that once again, after decades of turmoil, the balance of power is shifting and one would naturally want to find himself on the correct side of the scales by any means neccessary. After all, it is better to be at the right hand of the devil than in his path.

I am Hermes Spearman, Chairman and Managing Director of GNN, the Galactic News Network whose hand stretches to the furthest reaches of the stars and planets. Many praise our works and my achievements, there are some however, who would go as far as claiming I am the devil himself. Godlike status may indeed apply to me but as the old saying goes: "You can't make an ommelette without breaking some eggs."

And indeed it is an omelette fit for a king. My home is self-evident of that, it takes up an entire floor at the peak of the GNN Headquarters right in the heart of the captial's commerce centre. I am currently sat in the lounge area, curled up comfortably on my couch made from Arkanian dragon-leather; the scales give it a pearly shimmer. Oh yes, Hermes Spearman is a man of refined taste; quality and quantity. Why do things in halves?

One may come across as being somewhat hedonistic, to a degree that is true of me but that is not to say I take things easy. Not at all. I am a workaholic in the strictest sense of the word and as such am waiting an important call from a contact of mine located in one of the Cizerack border worlds. Which one? Not that it matters, not yet at least. There is rumour of war brewing between a group of revolutionaries who have opted for a more equal-rights lifestyle amongst males and females. Naturally the Cizerack big-wigs will interject and aim to crush this bands of rebels before word gets out. Although I feel it may be a little late for that.

Why does this conflict interest me? Well, first of all, GNN is the best in keeping the galaxy up-to-date with the latest on-goings, gossip and scandal that riddles their daily lives so it is important for us to maintain that reputation by getting the scoop on this major story. Secondly as a man who not only deals in words and articles but credits and paycheques, I don't just see a story for what it is but rather for what it could be. Why have a skirmish when you could have a conflict? Why a conflict when you could have a battle? Why have a battle when you can have a war?

And I am going to make sure that this is a war that does not go unnoticed. This is not going to be a forgotten war.

"Ah!" At last, a light flickers at my desk across the room and a steady beeping indicates I have a HoloNet transmission coming through. "Just what I've been waiting for..."

[Hermes Spearman]

"Good morning, my dear general!" As the tone in my voice indicates, I am the man with the sunny day and skip in his step. Fortune is on my side and now I am prepared to squeeze it for all it's worth.

"Spearman. Let's get this over with quickly. This a secure channel?" Before me stands a minature version of a well-known, high-ranking officer of the New Republic. His voice course and unrelenting and he speaks to me like he is the one holding the cards in some vain attempt to hold onto any remaining shred of dignity his name bears.

"You are looking well, especially for a man of your age. Tell me, good general, does a man your age have any problem with the ladies?" His pride fails him, up against my icy smile, sharp wit and several reels of incriminating HoloFilm his strength breaks. "Or even keeping up with the youths from your own marine core and their indulgences? Before you, I always thought the only death-sticks the military carried fired lasers."

"Alright! Alright!" He held up his hands in surrender. The proud war-hero. "I knew the call would come one day. What is it you want?"

"Exclusive access to the civil war on Fey'Dann. You are sending your troops in shortly. I know this. I want one of my men to go with your men and I want him to go undercover as one of your own." Avoiding the small talk, I decided to lay things on the line for the general whose face spoke volumes in response. He couldn't deny me but he would have a good go at trying to dissuade me.

"But--but--Mister Spearman, I don't think you understand the complications this will involve--" Came his bubbling objection which I quickly simmered with a calm wave.

"All I am asking for is the identification, equiptment and transfer orders. My man knows what he has to do. Leave the rest to me and I promise that film will replace the logs on my fire this evening." I smiled knowingly. Of course he didn't have my assureance, but he does have my silence. That should do for him lest the galaxy learns of the corruption within his armies.

"Very well, Spearman." He replied, his nerves now steeled. "I will arrange this for you but not a word of this goes beyond you, me and your man. Yes?"

"Of course, sir." I answer, giving a mock-salute. "I await your next call eagerly. Godspeed."

The image of the general faded. The deal had been made and I was one step closer to have my up-close-and-personal exclusive on the Fey-Dann War.

[Captain Tyle]

The moment we dusted off from Coruscant and linked up with the Quasar-Fire Carrier Sanctuary Moon, silence fell over the ship. We were tucked in for the ride, our dropships berthed in the Sanctuary Moon's massive hangar bay, as she left orbit, bound for the hyperspace lane.

Here and there, some talked. Most didn't. There was a tension growing around us, unrelenting. Some checked various compartments and seals on their suits. Some smoked. Some reminisced over holopictures they kept on their person. Occasionally, someone would whistle a few bars of a familiar song as a release, but the silence eventually claimed them, as well. Despite the rudimentary air conditioning, the stink inside was that of sweat, smoke, and foreboding. For me, I was returning to my favorite nightmare. Always the same. Always different.

For a while, I looked to each of my men, strapped tightly into uncomfortable pressure seats, bearing it in a way only NRSF could. Whenever a pair of eyes caught mine, I returned a smile. It was all I could do for them, in the terrible, precious time we now shared.

Some slept. Mostly the older troops. The ones who wore dried Balmorran blood alongside the scars of their past. Even some who donned the red cap before the frontier battles. That was their luxury, and one I envied. Sleep was a release, and I could think of no nightmare worse than sober contemplation.

"shhhhhhh..........shhhhhhhh."

I turned to my left. Private Occeran's eyes were staring off at the far bulkhead, and his teeth were chattering. For him, it was already starting. The sudden realization that he would soon be tapdancing on eternity's razor edge was fading from some drill instructor's clipped ravings into the muted, dead-serious whisper of reality.

Was he a coward? No. Nobody can ever know how they will face the first time. He was a human being, and that in itself is a pyrric victory in the hell of war. Redemption and damnation in the same skin.

I reached over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Private Occeran....Private?"

At my repetition, he snapped out of his daze.

"Sir?" he blinked heavily, running a hand over his face.

"Private, I need your help. Pull up your holomap. What landmarks are on grid 742-749?"

I wasn't looking for an answer. I already knew. Those grids were grassland and a handful of trees at best. But it was important for Private Occeran, important that he feel needed, and not feel like a burden. Obligation and duty could sober someone's panic quicker than anything else. Sure enough, Occeran began chattering off his known grid landmarks, pointing them out in detail to me. I nodded at each one, and thanked him for the help. Eventually, Occeran sat back, and breathed out a deep sigh. It had taken the edge off of things. Somehow, I think he knew what I was doing the entire time, but his smile still thanked me for it.

Then, the red klaxon flashed overhead.

"Look sharp, we're coming out of hyperspace!"

It would all begin quickly.