"Dawn Shall Not Come To The Lost" "The field was littered with bodies. The resistance had struck with overwhelming numbers, but the convoy had fought with fierceness unseen from the usual garrison soldiers: even when faced with their imminent death, they had kept fighting to the last man. The rebel commander, a grizzled fighter who had not stopped fighting the Italian invaders ever since they entered Addis Abeba more than thirty years ago, eagerly approached the soldiers holding a single prisoner. The commanding officer had been captured alive - a coward surely - and had even offered to give his surrender personally to their leader: it would be a perfect chance for propaganda... The old fighter approached the officer, and revelled in the humiliating pose he had been forced into. The aged man was kept on his knees, his head held low by one of the guards. "Isn't fate cruel, imperialist? How does it feel to be forced to kneel to save your life?" he said to the officer. No answer came from the old man, and at first the men laughed, but as the silence dragged on, the fun ceased. "Why aren't you answering? Am I so worthless to you? Are we so worthless to you?!" the commander screamed, "the battle is over, we have won! And you will look me in the eye as I end your pathetic life!" The old fighter took the officer's chin in his hand, and forced it up. Not a second later, he let it go as if it burned. "No, no, no! You are not true!" he said, taking one, then two steps back, "you! You are -" "My old friend, the battle is not over" Graziani spoke calmly, "in fact, it has only just started..." Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. As all the soldiers turned, they saw the source of the noise: one of the rebels who had been stripping a dead soldier of his valuables was screaming in agony, the bloodied jaws of the dead sunk deep into his neck. As the Ethiopians looked in horror, one by one, the dead Italians rose. "And victory turned into defeat."

Dark Ritual The catacombs lying in the deep bowels of Rome were dark, not even the rats daring to venture outside, for what was happening that night was too unholy to name. The men covered in dark garbs surrounded the altar upon which old bones were laid, chanting in unknown, blasphemous tongues forgotten by men and deities alike: if one were to look and resist the call of madness, he would see the very air crackle and fizzle as nature itself bent to the powers that be. The corypheus raised his voice, chanting in raucous, maddened tones, listing names that would forever stain the history of the world, and the bones started shaking. Slowly, but steadily, maggots surged from the foetid earth, joining themselves with the bones and becoming flesh and blood, sinews and nerves, a body as horrible as the soul inhabiting it: the chanting surged, encouraged by the undeniable results. As the ritual reached its zenith, the very darkness coalesced into strings, then filaments, and finally a uniform, covering the writhing mass that was forming on the altar, until the dark creature lying there was undistinguishable from a normal man, if not for his eyes, dark and pitiless as death itself. The corypheus finally ended his chant, and the room went silent and dark, an obscure wind extinguishing the chandles and incense burners: he looked at the creature, now alive and aware, and whispered its unholy name. "Rodolfo Graziani, the Empire is in need of you again" The monster jolted, a shiver passing through his features as he recognized his name. Then he nodded wordlessly, for words were not needed. His will will be done through bullets and blood. "The butcher has returned"

Like Cat And Mouse Aziz ran through the roads of Addis Abeba, passing the streets seemingly without purpose. He used to know those avenues and small roads like the back of his hand, but now it was different: they had lost contact with almost all cells in the city, and those few that still resisted spoke of merciless offensive by the Italians, as if they were being led by some superior intellect that knew their every move before they made it. The young man ran, and ran, and ran until his legs could sustain him, but the fear was unshakable, as if it was in the very air he breathed. Desperate, he reached for the closest door, and his heart soared as he found it open. Quick as lightning, he closed it and slammed a chair below the handle to keep it locked: it wouldn't be much, but it would give him time to rest. "Who do we have here?" said a voice from the dark, and the very shadows seemed to thicken around it, conveying every word like a slap to the face. He turned, only to see an old man clad in an unusual Italian uniform, black as the night rather than the usual green. Aziz did the only righteous thing, and fired three shots with his pistol without even thinking. All bullets found their target, and the figure was slammed against the wall by the impact. For a fleeting moment, he was sure he had won, but his relief turned into horror as the figure rose again, a black, putrescent substance oozing from the holes in his uniform. "Aah, the pain. Sweet as always, like that time with the bomb." said Graziani, "It's good to see that you Ethiopians are still as unbreakable as before. It makes it more pleasurable to break you, again" The figure moved toward Aziz, and the young fighter opened fire, until there were no more bullets. As he looked at his gun, suprised, he saw black boots in front of him. When he rose his head, he saw death, and its laugh was the last thing he felt before the world went dark. "A shadow spreads over the Horn of Africa"

Settling Old Debts "The roads of Benghazi were dark and empty, another long day of work over, and a night of well-earned rest awaiting the tired citizens, in one of the few things that united both native Libyans and Italian settlers. The old preacher was walking slowly, eating a loaf of bread that a kind widow had given him when she had recognized him as her husband's comrade a long time ago: kind souls such as her were hard to come by, and were becoming rared by the day... As he made his way to his humble abode - a small backyard in the mosque where he was allowed to sleep - he felt himself followed. Despite his years, he still had the instincts of the guerrilla fighter he used to be, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being spied on by foreign eyes... malevolent eyes. Afraid, he quickened his path, and his heart filled with relief when he saw the familiar shape of the mosque, but it was short lived. Suddenly, the old preacher was slammed against a wall, a hand cold and hard as stone keeping him lifted from the earth. By instinct, the elderly man closed his eyes, choking on the merciless grip. "Wh-who are you? Why would you hurt me?" he pleaded, uselessly trying to free his neck. "Don't you recognize me? I would be hartbroken, if I still had one such thing" said the presence, its rancid breath enveloping the preacher with enough force to make him retch. "No. No, no, no" he said in disbelief, clutching the small pendant with the half moon. "You are dead!" "Death is such a fickle thing, my old friend" said Graziani, "It cannot hold those with a strong enough will, and I still have so much to do, and so little time..." The old man felt the grip on his neck tighten more, and more, and more, until his body went numb. Before losing himself forever, he heard the creature cackle, in a cursed parody of laughter. "Revenge is sweeter, the more you wait for it."

Inside the Monster's Lair The commando entered the building carefully. Reports had mentioned trucks entering the facility and then leaving immediately after unloading their unknown cargo. No sentinels, no patrols were reported: it was as if the entire barrack complex, located some twenty miles outside Addis Abeba, was abandoned, and the Ethiopian Liberation Front wanted to know what was happening there, especially after the setback in the capital. When the men entered the barrack, they found nothing. The halls were in pristine condition, but completely empty, so they pressed on, until one of the soldiers noticed the stench. The closer they got to the cellar's entrance, the heavier the air became, until one of the men vomited. Fighting - and losing - the contents of their stomachs, the group descended into the dark basement, until they came to a closed door: when the leader opened it, he wished he had never done it. The room was filled by corpses. Some were intact, while others presented sings of bites, or even missed entire parts, cleaved away by a ravenous presence; their innards covered the floor, putrescent liquids making the entire surface slippery. In the dark of the room, they could hear the sickening noise of jaws carving a feral meal. One of the men pointed his torch to the source of the noise, and it showed an old soldier, clad in a dark uniform, kneeling before the corpse of a yong, dark-skinned man. The figure rose from his crouched position and faced the commando, and a collective gasp filled the air: blood covered his face, and a black tongue licked a strand of flesh from his parched lips. A man vomited, while the rest ran to the door, but it closed in front of them. Despite all their efforts, it wouldn't budge. "It's not polite to interrupt a gentleman during his meal, don't you think?" a surprisingly calm voice came from behind them. When they turned, they saw the beast, and they too became part of the meal. "No one heard their screams."

Those who describe themselves as autonomists now vary from Marxists to anarchists

The Easy Part "For twenty years, we have waited, and prepared. In an infinite chessboard of danger and deceit, we have moved ourselves - fragile pawns in a bloody game of power - hoping to win against all odds: there was no place for sorrow, no time to think the next move. However, through this ordeal, we have found our protector. Umberto II, King of Italy, has protected us in his own bid to destroy fascism, moving us with steady hand and far-sighted vision: with cunning and patience, he outplayed Ciano and his cronies, and has now ordered the Regio Esercito to secure Rome and disband the Grand Council of Fascism, effectively assuming ad-interim authority as Head of Government. Paradoxical as it might seem, though, now comes the difficult part. We may have destroyed fascism, but we still have a country to rebuild: brick by brick, stone by stone, we will shine anew!"

[22:00:19][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1147 and column 1455 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:19][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 139 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:19][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 568 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:19][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 906 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:20][localize.cpp:1536]: Localization file 'localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml' should be in in utf-8-bom encoding [22:00:20][pdx_localize.cpp:1019]: Missing UTF8 BOM in localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml [22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1147 and column 1455 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 139 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 568 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1183]: Illegal break character (utf32=32) at line 1165 and column 906 in localisation/TNO_France_l_english.yml [22:00:25][localize.cpp:1536]: Localization file 'localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml' should be in in utf-8-bom encoding [22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1019]: Missing UTF8 BOM in localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml

[22:00:20][localize.cpp:1536]: Localization file 'localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml' should be in in utf-8-bom encoding

[22:00:25][pdx_localize.cpp:1019]: Missing UTF8 BOM in localisation/TNO_Italy_dem_l_english.yml