My (virtual) people were dying by the thousands, lives cut short by a vile, supernatural plague. It was a divine punishment; a plague of biblical proportions sent from on high.
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weapons
We had found the fall guy for our illicit nuclear affair at last. The atomic horse was out of the barn and the world had entered crisis-mode.
Fresh off forging a binding, pacifying and above all, successful alliance, I did what any aspiring megalomaniac would do: profit ruthlessly from my new and improved position. Inciting a little Cuban Missile Crisis would fit that bill nicely.
We had nukes. But the more important question was: did anybody else? And did anyone else know we had them? And for that matter who gave them to us?
The Durendal Khanate was off to a bit of a rough start. Our bid for justice and equality for our oppressed brethren disintegrated in front of our eyes. We were dumbfounded the next day, when we received an innocuous email. The heading seemed innocuous: “Respected colleagues,” it began. This heading soon became the bane of my existence, the calling card of my arch nemesis and leader of the oppressive nation of Styrkuria.