Four Accounts of Struggle

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Foreword

Four Accounts of Struggle is a story set during the Virassian Civil War, chronicling the key experiences of four witnesses of the conflict: Perrie Josephson, a university student activist and anarcho-syndicalist from a respectable middle class property-owning family; Signis Pale, a middle class journalist and social democrat who writes for the liberal Whitecliff Witness, and later the Evurska Chronicler; Emme Vosimkh, a young shoe factory worker who is swept up and politicised by the civil war; and Mark Nowe, a miner, union activist, and dedicated anarcho-syndicalist revolutionary.

Chapter 1 - Josephson

15th January 1892. Belessia, Krālars march

Perrie Josephson gazed skywards, stopping briefly as he focused momentarily at the clock of a nearby bell tower, its pearled face displaying an hour hand closely approaching the two. He resumed walking, ducking into an alleyway. It was daylight, and Perrie was trawling the streets of a non-affluent suburb of the cultural capital, financial centre and indeed most historically significant city of Virassia, looking for a specific, very uncultured and out of the way coffee house hardly worth mentioning to the tourist crowds, let alone a Pyroencian upper middle class exchange student like himself. Here he walked, dressed in a respectible grey blazer and pants, a long brown overcoat and matching flat cap, walking amongst miners returning home with blackened hands and faces, decked out in hardy work shirts and overalls. If he were anyone else, he’d already be wincing at the thoroughly working class character of these mossy streets, except Perrie knew damn well and proudly that he was a class traitor. This was a most ideal place for what he had in mind, far from the elitist, proudly condescending judgement of his peers.

He passed a set of green doors fixed with glass windows painted in gold coloured Virassian writing. He made out - with some effort - the letters for “Oukenat-Tie Koff…” and realised that he had found what he was looking for: The Oak Tree Coffeehouse. He was instructed by his dear friend Dȥorge Proud that their first reunion since the previous year would take place in this very shop.

Perrie opened one of the doors, removed his hat and stepped inside, its small bell chiming as he entered.

“Yelkom.” he was greeted casually by a bald man behind a wooden counter, who made little eye contact as he cleaned the brassy faucet of a commercial coffee boiler.

“Gād dei.” Perrie replied politely in his limited Virassian as he looked around the shop for his friend, who quickly turned out to not be present.

Dȥorge appeared to be late. Perrie, though, was confident that he had found the right place. Finding a table near the door, he grabbed a newspaper before sitting down. The door rung again, stealing his attention briefly before a glimpse of some unimportant strangers convinced him to settle into reading.

It was a daily circular titled Dan Trutt av Vrskannia, the official state-run newspaper of the Virassian royal state. It featured important domestic and international news, as well as typical sections for weather, entertainment, advertisements, sports, and politics. It was the most widespread paper in the entire nation, and was the mouthpiece of King Othmlia II, sovereign of the great Kingdom of Virassia and patriarch of the house of Michlinof, a house headed by emperors and kings but ruled for centuries by generals linked to the family through blood. Perrie laughed slightly as the paper’s name echoed in his head, thinking that it was very befitting a newspaper that featured everything from selective reporting to outright lies. It was functionally similar to the Atraelish Solex Times or The Atraethean, however was noticeably more thorough with its censorship.

Perrie couldn’t read Virassian well enough to actually understand what the front page article was about, however frequently picked up recognisable words, including Visser, an-ēmplaiment, ekonimaie, and the phrase Dan gād av Dan Firrene, which he clearly understood as “the good of The Kingdom”. He noticed that he didn’t even need to know fluent Virassian to get a full enough sense of the article.

The bell rung again, and a young worker clothed in beige and brown burst into the shop, his particulary slender facial features and unsually red hair revealing him immediately to be Dȥorge Proud. His eyes danced furtively around the premises before he noticed his friend seated at a nearby table.

He laughed.

“Reading that tripe? Bloody hell Perrie.”

Perrie laughed, getting up out of his seat as he walked over, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Been a while Dȥorge, how you been?" Perrie greeted.

"Not bad. Barely scraping by on odd jobs. Had plenty of time for political work with the ASP in all this time that I haven't found good employment, though. How's training to be a well paid professional scum going for you?" He bantered, his slick, non-rhotic Belessian accent shining through.

"I couldn't loathe it any more if I tried. The place gets more smug with every passing semester." Perrie chuckled with partial bitterness. "Say. would you like some coffee?"

"Course mate. Be a champ and get me a cup, yeah? I'll hold the table."

Following a placed order and intermediary overhearing of nearby conversations amidst a backdrop of a busker’s accordion, Perrie resumed his seat, two cups of coffee placed between them.

"So how's things been in the country since I've been gone?" Perrie asked. "I haven't heard much in the time since I was last here. International news rarely filters through to the mainstream media in Atraeth. The dear old Empire has been riding high since the crash. Giffard's government has fared exceptionally well following the election of Smithman to the position of Steward. There's all this talk about a new Atraelish century in the news. Things aren't looking great for our side, really."

"Things aren't great anywhere, Perrie." Dȥorge interrupted, pausing briefly as he took a sip of his coffee. "And yet you've actually got it good. At least the Atraelish ruling class hasn't felt the need to squeeze the workers due to how well they've fared from the crash. Virassia on the other hand is deep in crisis. The crash is just the beginning of this nation's tumble downwards. Everyone knows it, yet nobody will talk about it, in the news, in the town squares, you name it. That paper you were reading? It has gone to great lengths to blame Vissers for the unemployment and low productivity. Soon it'll have to be shelved in the fiction section, I bet. It's a real shame that this has been the same narrative for decades. Visser-phobia has grown out of control."

"I see". Perrie replied, concernedly, "have you and your family managed?"

"Every day presents a new challenge. Even if you're half-Visser like me, you're also dealing with accusations of blotting the mixture, as if i'm somehow personally responsible for the sabotage of the Virassian race."

Perrie cursed from under his breath, glazing disconnectedly across the shop as he took in his friend's words.

"I have heard of bombings in Upper-Astrary. There's occasional groans by the mainstream media at home about the rise of terrorism in the west, no doubt this is fuelled by the crisis?" He asked, sipping at his coffee.

"Oh yeah. In a good way, the political climate has manage to radicalise large amounts of the population. Lot of folks are taking politics seriously. A lot more have turned to radical politics, including protests, strikes, joining political groups, and yeah, also terrorism. The fact that these people are risking imprisonment on a daily basis to get their voices heard is awe-inspiring. With all the great news also comes the rotten though, since fascism is also on the rise. There's a few names like Virassia United and what's-their-name, Argent something... In Virassian it's Arbne Sonnzirē."

"Argent Dawn?" Perrie translated.

"Yeah, those bastards. They're one of the largest, growing by the day."

"Blimey. Well, to be fair, it's to be expected in times of crisis. The middle classes and lumpenproletariat, the social basis for fascism, have evidently been completely squashed by the crash, becoming like rabid dogs in the process. How has organising the left been going, though? To think the fascists may rule the streets unchallenged one day is a terrifying thought."

"It's been hard. The left is unorganised and full to the brim with sectarianism. There's a lot of ideas out there, some look to the peasants to lead a revolution, others to the workers, some simply think armed revolt is the way of the future. It feels cruel that in all this time we've bickered about the most trivial of political theories the right has appeared to get along swimmingly well. I'm sure it hasn't, but, still. It feels like nothing can be done to stop it, y'know?"

"It needs to be challenged, Dȥorge." Perrie cut in. "You don't need to be an anarchist to understand that extreme racism is dangerous. You need only have a conscience. It would be easy, with a good amount of building work, to crowd them out wherever they organise through popular protest. See them rallying in the streets claiming Vissers or Astralists are scum? Crowd them out with an anti-racist protest. That's what stops them."

"What, give them exactly what they want?" Dȥorge exclaimed in disbelief.

"Attention? Dȥorge they've got none at all and they've grown. It's just like what I've been seeing back at home, except the left in Atraeth has at least enough capacity to organise against the far right, even if it's gripped by all these absurd fantasies of reformism."

Dȥorge just nodded, drinking some more.

"The reason the right grows," Perrie continued, "is because through the course of months they build up more and more confidence to spit their filth in public with no fear of criticism or meaningful opposition. All the soft racists are soon convinced by the hard ones, after all these racists seem to be kicking up a fuss about a really important issue and nobody appears to have any alternative. Bullshit. There is an alternative, we just need to make it seen."

"Well, you make a point, Perrie," Dȥorge admitted, "though I'm not sure what to think of it. All I see is that they get a kick out of challenging the status quo. We're talking about fascists here, not typical racists or nationalists. The whole reason they aren't traditional, loyal-to-the-crown right wingers is because they believe the existing state and greater society is too soft when it comes to immigration and the treatment of Astralists and Vissers, right? They're completely extreme in their determination."

"They aren't immune to material challenges. You can't attend a fascist meeting if the doorway is blocked by protesters right?"

"Right." Dȥorge laughed, humouring his friend.

"Even the most politically convicted can lose hope if they see no options left to continue their struggle. They might remain convinced for the rest of their life, sure, but they'll retire from serious building work if it's too much effort and has no payoff. I'm sure you can relate to that, right?"

"It's thankless work, but yes, If I was hounded every time I was politically active in a public place, I'd probably quit. Fuck that for a joke."

They both laughed. Briefly disengaged from their heated discussion, Dȥorge noticed a strange group of men standing before the shop counter, conversing with the store owner. He looked noticeably flustered, with his voice raised in anger, enough to be heard from across the room, catching Dȥorge's attention.

"...Visseranis? Nis Vissera? Thates insāltarie! Paor frd mei basānes!" He exclaimed, confidently contesting what seemed to be seriously threatening accusations directed at him.

"Coffee's not too bad here." Perrie said.

"Quiet." Dȥorge hushed, gesturing subtly towards the store counter.

"Why, what's he on about?" Perrie asked, lowering his voice.

"Something about how not allowing Vissers to come into the shop will hurt his business. That mob at the counter must be kicking up a fuss about it."

"What? Surely it's completely insane to expect any shop to just put up signs prohibiting non Virassians..."

"You haven't been down this end of town much, have you?" Dȥorge cut in bluntly.

A shocked, almost mortified expression overcame Perrie's face, "What? In this working class end of town?"

"You need to get a grip of just how entrenched Visser-phobia has become, blood. We're talking decades of reaction here." Dȥorge continued, "Look and listen. Maybe these scumbags at the counter right now will give you a better picture."

One of the men confronting the shopkeeper began to talk quite loudly, laughing, "...ie nau nist jaer namme, but jue hiv da bietabel faesches."

Most of the coffeehouse fell silent and watched. A trio of women and a man at a table in the back corner of the room got up quickly out of their seats and hurried out of the shop, door ringing loudly as they exited. Others looked on without a word. One man in particular caught Dȥorge's eye from across the room, who nonchalantly sipped at his mug as if nothing was happening.

"What?" Perrie whispered, "He has a beatable face?"

"Common expression. He's threatening to punch the shopkeeper in the face."

"We should do something shouldn't we?"

"Oh yeah, be my guest." came Dȥorge ironically, "I ain't doing it. they'd be able to spot me as a Visser right away."

"What, aren't Vissers the most qualified to fight against this racism?" Perrie asked honestly.

"Fuck off. Most qualified to get beaten and left to bleed while Police pretend it never happened, that's about it."

One amongst the mob moved away from the counter, grabbing out a truncheon, and addressed everyone in the shop in a manner not unlike a call to arms. Perrie couldn't understand everything, but knew enough of his words to see that he was asking for racist sympathisers to get involved.

"Well, a rich prat like myself might have a better shot." Perrie replied, standing up. Loudly, in his best Virassian, he told off the mob, "Gāt oud jue bleden rasists!"

The man glared at him cockily, spitting "Wat? Sviekh that torav mei faes, eh? Visser luva."

"Loving the solidarity, Perrie!" Dȥorge cussed, sounding incredibly concerned for his and his friend's safety.

This mob was going all out, acting in a manner unusual even to Dȥorge. He looked them all up and down from the corner of his eye, trying with great difficulty not to make direct eye contact as he looked for any indication of an affiliation of any sort, be they mobsters, members of a political group, anything. He caught a glimpse of a white cross sewn into the shirt pocket of one of them, and instantly knew who they were.

They were Fascists, and they wore the Argent cross. A symbol of Amulndian nationalism, the cross was used by Atraeth and its satellites as a symbol of their heritage and opposition to Astralism's clutch over the descendants of the western Empire. In Amlei, the symbol was of an almost religious significance to the anti-Astralist far right.

Contrary to Dȥorge's fears, others within the shop followed suit, clearly also offended by this public display.

An elderly man at a table nearest to the counter stood up, grabbing his bowler in one hand before waving his other at the racists angrily, shouting equally angry words.

"See?" Perrie reassured Dȥorge. "Everyone's thinking it, they're just too afraid to say it."

"Very clever. Now can you sit down?" Dȥorge demanded, keeping his voice down.

Quickly the fascists began to slip in their confidence, as the majority of the shop now beckoned for them to get out. Some were fed up with their blatant racism, others, it seemed, were merely tired of putting up with public indecency. Unwilling to bend so easily, they attempted physically attacking on the store owner and his property. Some started kicking the sides of the counter in, others grabbed mugs off their racks, shattering them upon the floor. One of them even climbed over the counter in an attempt get their hands on the store owner or one of his assistants, with little success, as they successfully slipped out of reach by dashing out of the shop. The store owner grasped eagerly at his chance, threatening loudly to call the police.

Thoroughly disappointed in their botched attempt at terrorism, the mob quickly turned to make their way out of the shop once news of police reached their ears, though not without more vain proselytising to the crowd. In a showy demonstration of presence, a younger-looking member of the group grabbed out a pocket knife and carved an argent cross cleanly into the shop door before exiting with the rest of his comrades.

Dȥorge laboured his point, "Perrie, for spirits' sake sit down."

Perrie finally sat down, with the humoured words "God. Speak of fascism and it appears."

Dȥorge laughed, "Well, don't tell my mother that. She'd say you brought in the bad air by mentioning it."

"Real shame that that kind of superstition can't also just wish away all fascism in the country." Perrie followed humorously.

Perrie and Dȥorge remained in the shop as most of the customers took their leave in spite of the store owner's timely return, chatting more about the politics of the day. It took a solid forty minutes for the police to arrive.

The door at last swung open, pinned back against the wall as three officers fitted in crisp black and gold uniforms entered the shop - two fielding custodian helmets, a third in a peaked cap - disinterestedly perusing the premises. The capped officer walked over to the counter and flipped open a crisp notebook. Perrie eared in to his questions, picking out a few phrases here and there. There were inquiries about the appearance of the perpetrators, about the offences committed, witnesses involved, and various questions about the actions of the shopkeeper leading up to the events. Apparently, according to the officer, the broken shop counter, porcelain fragments scattered across the floor and front door clearly defaced with a fascist symbol weren't obvious indicators of unlawful fascist violence.

The officer then closed his notebook with a glib recommendation that perhaps the store owner not dress up his shop in such a manner that made it a target for fellow citizens concerned about the Visser problem. With the tip of his hat and bid of farewell, he immediately turned to leave, following his fellow constables out the door.

Perrie and Dȥorge looked starkly at one another, bitterly unsurprised. Neither of them needed any more convincing that the Police were the smug, yapping hounds of the regime, but in times like these it truly felt that the comments of officialdom had become so right wing that they could even shock hardened revolutionaries.

Chapter 2 - Pale

16th March 1898. Near Nae-Seeskost, Seekost county
A panorama of cypress pines amidst fields of boulders and desaturated grass blanketed in dead leaves passed by the wood framed windows of a train carriage compartment, its sole occupant a shrewd, bespectacled Atraelish journalist by the name of Signis Pale. He straightened the lapels of a fine tweed jacket as he felt a cold autumn chill slither down his spine before returning to typing at a cream-coloured typewriter seated upon his lap, typewriter hammers clacking as he pressed its rounded letter keys. He spelled out a headline:

VIRASSIA REBELS AFTER DEATH OF OTHMLIA II

Pale looked to one side at a stack of paper seated beside him, gazing over a draft scrawled in graphite, and continued typing:

Monarch feared assassinated by far right extremists as nation wakes violently from years of post-Crash destitution

Just today, the Kingdom of Virassia has found its streets full of protesters and countryside full of rebel peasants following the death of King Othmlia II, as the rumours of his assassination ring through the squares. Contrary to recently published reports of the mainstream tabloids (see Lensua Courier "Virassian Monarch Dead: Chaos in the streets as alleged terrorism claims the life of progressive Othmlia II" or The Atraethean "Virassia In Flames: A dark day for the Necrist Kingdom as Othmlia II feared assassinated") it is not a heartbroken adoration for the King that has spurred the masses into revolt. Rather, this political development has followed eight devastating years of economic stagnation following the Great Crash, with its effects hitting the now impoverished masses the hardest, with severe state repression keeping the lid on all honest manifestations of discontent until it was cooked through. Today, it is plain to see that these grievances have at last boiled over, emerging as a powerful and fighting hatred, with only the Virassian state's mishandling of the crisis to blame.

As backed up by numerous reports - most notably the statistics released last year by the Independent Human Development Society in Silverthornton (published Woodhallow 17th 1897) listing the falling living standards, average wages and employment for Virassians of mid to low socio-economic backgrounds after 1890 - the root of this struggle is to be found in the utter destitution of Virassia's middle and working classes. Throughout the countryside, rising taxes have starved the peasantry dry, as recent famine has destroyed entire harvests and thinned out the populations of villages. In the cities, mass layoffs have seen thousands of workers out of the factories, while piece rates have driven those still employed to madness as their expected work quotas grow higher by the month.

The monarchy has done little in the way of addressing these common concerns. The House of Michlinof has for centuries stood as a bastion of conservatism, unmoved by the wave of republican revolutions that swept the western world. Over one and a half centuries have passed with a Michlinof on the throne, and not one meaningful progressive reform has passed. In fact, as any familiar with even the most simple of Amleian history know, it was the Michlinof dynasty itself that earned itself the title of the "Manarmes of Amlei" (From the Etruarac "Manarmos", i.e. "Police") through its ruthless crushing of republican rebellions throughout the centre and south of the continent. When the debt of their arrogance finally came demanding its dues in the form of The Crash, they merely resorted to their old strategy of pillaging the poor and bathing rebels in their own blood. With history in mind, it is mad to assume Othmlia II is in any way liberal. Is a liberal monarch one that has peasants shot by peasant soldiers if they so much as give their lord an angry gaze? Are they liberal when they deny the long-desired independence of the fascae colonies to no end through uncompromising blood and iron? Is it progressive to restrict the owning of over two-thirds of the land to two per cent of its population? Do they truly have the welfare of the masses in their minds when they deliberately eschew the Etruarac republican tradition in the name of preserving the Virassian national identity? These facts should speak for themselves.

The liberal press has done some justice in voicing the concerns of the Virassian masses, praising their moral and just cries for democracy, however it must be said that their voices have taken too many steps back by discounting the masses' violence as barbaric and ill-footed attempts to win a democratic government. It then rails at full steam against the assassins allegedly behind Othmlia II's death with a smug ruthlessness that the liberal press excels at par excellence. History shows that true democracy...

Pale paused. He felt a temptation to denounce the autocratic regime of his home country under the rulership of High-Leader Charles Giffard and Steward Harold Smithman, decrying them as a faux-democratic sham, however the thought of it bitterly reminded him of his prior written attempts to criticise the Atraelish state, and the thorough chewing out that followed. In that attempt, Pale reminded himself, he should have known better. Despite the fact he tired to hold himself back, keeping his personal opinion of Smithman - i.e the man being an insipid mannequin moved by strings pulled by Giffard - to himself as he published an official stance of the man "being largely dependent on the ideals of Charles Giffard, lacking a clear political project of his own", he still suffered from a career-threatening censure. In hindsight it did not surprise him that a liberal paper like his kept quiet about issues at home if it wanted to both keep the title of "a world-leading liberal voice" and to operate legally within Atraeth. The Whitecliff Witness was liberal only when it was "exposing" the injustices of the world abroad, pretending to be the truthful, principled paper it so desperately tried to present itself as; when it came to reporting about the homefront, when it reported anything at all, it seemed like it was contesting to break the world record of number of fallacies and half-truths per paragraph. With a quick sigh, he resumed typing.

...like that of the Etruarac Revolutions, was won not by gracious monarchs responding to polite popular concern, but by massed pitchforks, barricades and guillotines. Though terrorism is not the most moral of political ventures in changing society, you simply cannot vilify the terrorists and deride all they stand for when their hatred for their target has centuries worth of a nation's collective resentment and woe behind it. The serfs and workmen of Virassia are a hungry, oppressed, angry people, who have known nothing else for generations than to live bitter lives under the boot of feudalism. To condemn their struggle for a better world is to defend inequality, oppression and exploitation.

A carriage waitress tapped Pale on the shoulder, pulling him out of his writing.

"Apologies, sir. Would you care for tea or coffee?" She asked in an impressive though noticeably Virassian-tinged Atraelish, a wooden service trolley fitted with two brass-coloured boilers by her side.

Pale looked up to her, assuming an amicable face.

"Oh, tea would be nice. Thank you."

A clink of porcelain hit his ears as a cup and saucer was placed on the table in front of him. He gave the waitress a ten Vibser note and received nine Vibser and sixty Avn's worth of coins in change, and he reminded himself of the exchange rates and how much he was getting back in Atraelish cents.

"Seven cents for tea, that's fair." he thought to himself following his calculations. He took a sip, and resumed typing.

Virassia needs democracy if it wishes to see change. A bright future awaits Virassia if its heir apparent were to shrug off the reactionary traditions of his forefathers. I have no doubt that the masses' ills would at last be tended to once they are given the basic human right to universal suffrage. Just as history has taught us however, the prince is unlikely to even consider such benevolence. As the dust settles, it may end up being the masses themselves that storm the palace of St. Engelkea as they establish the new republic themselves. However, a third alternative may present itself; perhaps an existing figure within Virassia's establishment may see it fit to rid the nation of its despotic rulers. Perhaps a revolutionary republican aristocrat rises with the intellectuals of Virassia behind him to spearhead the abolishment of the monarchy in a style similar to Sine Weythern's democratic revolution, or perhaps one of Virassia's powerful generals will be moved by the cries of the people, and seek to defend Virassia from itself by taking the situation in his own hands.

The events after today are set to take Amlei by storm. The monarchy has two choices to end the war it dug itself into. Will it at last grant the masses the right to universal suffrage? Or will it crush them all in the old Michlinof way? Will they finally modernise their nation, or will they burn the country to the ground to keep their un-reformable autocratic rule intact? Only time will tell.

Chapter 3 - Nowe

11th March 1898. Dȥkavei, Dȥkavei county

Chapter 4 - Vosimkh

15th March 1898. Belessia, Krālars march

Chapter 5 - Josephson

9th March 1898. Belessia, Krālars march

Chapter 6 - Nowe

18th March 1898. Uppe-Astrary, Uppe-Astrary county
Mark Nowe scratched his beard exhaustedly as he sat in a dully lit warehouse listening to the empathetic words of a delegate from the Misomkh iron mines, his spiel having become a lengthy addition to an already long list of reports given at this first meeting of the Council of Virassian Mining Unions. There was tension in the air, and though Mark was tired like the rest of his comrades, he keenly lent his ears.