The message took its time to arrive, quietly guided by couriers past the local post stations before its envelope could even arrive at the post office, being passed from hand to hand until it finally reached the southwestern regions of the General's clique. Falkar's headquarters was rather humble compared to most warlords- he'd chosen subtlety over grandeur, taking up residence within the old catacombs of one of his larger towns of Kraev.
He hadn't been idle since the last time he'd had contact with Eleria, quietly gathering what little forces he could muster to bear and bringing in sympathetic local leaders, messengers, and resources to muster some kind of resistance. He fully expected civil war, of course. Only a fool would believe that Kaln would step down peacefully. But Falkar worried more that his humble stocks of arms and officers were so worryingly low that his efforts may very well be smashed like a bug at the first skirmish- or worse, be decimated by any of Kaln's lieutenants who bothered to thoroughly rake through his region. The courier found him at his desk, deep in conversation with a supporter when the letter was drawn and set down without interrupting the General upon his desk.
"...Naturally I understand that the people are eager, but we aren't ready yet. Tell the other elders to keep their muskets in the caches until the signal is given. Send the young to the ridges where the armies can't get to them- they're the only ones who should be armed, just in case bandits or wild animals come for them."
The other man, wrung his hands in exasperation, a number of wrought-iron throwing knives just beneath his worn village elder's robes rattling with the movement.
"We can't take any more of their bullshit, Falkar. One more quota and they'll take the cattle. And you remember Senvera, when they couldn't take the cattle, they took the children, the old, and the infirm. I can't guarantee that the elders won't just launch it all in the next two seasons."
Falkar grimaced, nodding. He reached for the letter, deftly swiping it open absentmindedly. "Then I will make preparations. You will get your cannon and muskets- as many as the works in Brelcava can deliver in time. You must ramp up production of the powder so that you have bullets for the coming storm. I fear that-"
He paused mid-sentence, seeing the letter's code.
Heart dancing with excitement, he reached for the cipher he'd stashed within his desk, distractedly making an excuse to the elder to wait outside. Rapidly writing down the result, he leapt up, hurriedly drafting a reply telegram. Making his message short for the telegram, he sealed the message and waved the courier back with a grin.
oamb tapmo'e kzed xnsk j-nevxmpsnzl wf ciu hdjgf ggy vab tevx rd nfdhvawh eo
(Traversing telegraph line Elenria - Eleria)
"Clovin? Come back, please."
The elder confusedly stepped back inside to the barely-contained elation of the General.
"Forget the order. We have hope yet."
With that, he hurried to his quarters, eager to prepare.
Falkar found himself waiting at a humble patch of land barely permissible as a runway. Since Elenria had virtually no radio on this side of the nation, the callsign meant little to anyone except himself and the two aides beside him, nervously peering out into the sky from their impromptu shelter made from mosquito netting over a sheet of canvas. Falkar only carried a rucksack loaded with civilian clothing and a number of reference documents he'd be able to present his forces and resources at hand with, though he was more relying on the Elerians to provide him with discrete civilian clothes.
The airstrip they were in was in truth a former road built by one of the old Kingdoms- the mossy cobbles had long since been dismantled to build and maintain nearby homes, and Falkar had taken the liberty of asking local friendly militia by courier to fell a few dozen trees for the next few hundred feet for the plane to land. They'd long since returned home as Falkar and his aides made their way up to this point, which the General noted in the sheer absence of anyone else in the area, which suited him just fine.
They heard a low din in the distance, undoubtedly to Falkar the sound of the airplane's engine. The other two aides seemed somewhat spooked however, looking up cautiously at the sky as the sound seemed to ripple through the trees.
The little radio beside them crackled to life, one of the aides holding down their headphones to hear the transmission better. Nodding to Falkar and the other aide, he spoke quickly into the microphone, informing the pilot of the airstrip's location. It took a few minutes of chatter, but as the rumble of the plane's engine grew louder, the trio noticed the tiniest pinprick on the far side of the woods, a glimmer of its glass windshield refracting light momentarily back at them.
Like the world's smallest bug, it glided down to the far end of the runway, bouncing a bit against the rough ground as it rolled to a stop, its engine still running in whirl of blurred motion.
Getting over their amazed shock, the aides stepped out of the shelter and guided the plane closer as the General picked up his things and stepped towards the plane. He gave his men an appreciative nod, muttering assurances to them. Falkar glanced at the open cockpit that awaited him, and taking a deep breath, clambered in, shutting the canopy behind him.
The engine roared once more, and as the aides stepped back in awe, the little plane gained speed upon the bumpy path, climbing into the air with gentle ascent, banking west towards Eleria.
