The Siege of Portland in the Year of Our Lord 2025
- Thread starter nsacpi
- Start date
Drive the Marxist filth into oblivion.
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Dear Señora Maria,
Word reached me, through a friend of a friend down in Santa Fe, that Nicholas has passed on. I sat with that news for a long time before I could bring myself to write. You may not remember me — Corporal Amos Reed, from the old Portland detachment, back when we were all pretending to be soldiers in that strange, aimless campaign. But I remember him. I remember both of you.
Nicholas was never much of a commander in the military sense. He didn’t bark orders, didn’t keep to the book. What he did instead was look at a man straight through, as if trying to see whether there was still some spark of decency left inside him. For many of us, there wasn’t much left to find. But he looked anyway. That’s what I’ll always remember — his stubborn belief that something finer might still be pulled from the wreckage.
After the whole mess fell apart, I stayed on here in Portland. Couldn’t go back East — too many ghosts, too many folks asking what it had all been for. So I drifted, and somehow found a home among the street artists and the dreamers. I started selling clothes at the Saturday Market — old jackets, patched denim, tie-dyes stitched from surplus gear. Folks started calling it counterculture couture. I laughed at the phrase, but it stuck, and it kept me fed.
Looking back, I think I owe all that to Nicholas. He taught me that rebellion didn’t have to mean anger — it could mean building something gentler in the ruins. Sometimes I still catch myself quoting him to the younger artists who pass by: “Don’t fight ugliness with rage — outshine it with color.”
I saw him last, years ago, down by the river — he was talking about the music, about dance, about a kind of freedom he said he’d finally found. His face looked weathered but at peace. I think he had made his own truce with the world.
Maria, I hope you can take some comfort in knowing that his spirit is woven into more lives than you might guess. Every time I sell a bright, patched jacket to some kid trying to find his way, I feel like Nicholas is there too — smiling that crooked smile, saying, “Good, Amos — make the world a little less gray.”
May you find warmth in the memory of his laughter. He gave a lost generation something to believe in — even if it was only that love and defiance can share the same heartbeat.
With respect and affection,
Amos Reed
Former Corporal, Portland Detachment
Now purveyor of patched dreams and counterculture threads
Word reached me, through a friend of a friend down in Santa Fe, that Nicholas has passed on. I sat with that news for a long time before I could bring myself to write. You may not remember me — Corporal Amos Reed, from the old Portland detachment, back when we were all pretending to be soldiers in that strange, aimless campaign. But I remember him. I remember both of you.
Nicholas was never much of a commander in the military sense. He didn’t bark orders, didn’t keep to the book. What he did instead was look at a man straight through, as if trying to see whether there was still some spark of decency left inside him. For many of us, there wasn’t much left to find. But he looked anyway. That’s what I’ll always remember — his stubborn belief that something finer might still be pulled from the wreckage.
After the whole mess fell apart, I stayed on here in Portland. Couldn’t go back East — too many ghosts, too many folks asking what it had all been for. So I drifted, and somehow found a home among the street artists and the dreamers. I started selling clothes at the Saturday Market — old jackets, patched denim, tie-dyes stitched from surplus gear. Folks started calling it counterculture couture. I laughed at the phrase, but it stuck, and it kept me fed.
Looking back, I think I owe all that to Nicholas. He taught me that rebellion didn’t have to mean anger — it could mean building something gentler in the ruins. Sometimes I still catch myself quoting him to the younger artists who pass by: “Don’t fight ugliness with rage — outshine it with color.”
I saw him last, years ago, down by the river — he was talking about the music, about dance, about a kind of freedom he said he’d finally found. His face looked weathered but at peace. I think he had made his own truce with the world.
Maria, I hope you can take some comfort in knowing that his spirit is woven into more lives than you might guess. Every time I sell a bright, patched jacket to some kid trying to find his way, I feel like Nicholas is there too — smiling that crooked smile, saying, “Good, Amos — make the world a little less gray.”
May you find warmth in the memory of his laughter. He gave a lost generation something to believe in — even if it was only that love and defiance can share the same heartbeat.
With respect and affection,
Amos Reed
Former Corporal, Portland Detachment
Now purveyor of patched dreams and counterculture threads
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Dear Señora Maria,
I hope this letter finds you surrounded by calm — though I know calm can be a hard thing to come by when the ghosts start visiting again. Word of Nicholas’s passing reached me through the grapevine — from old Amos Reed, of course, who still haunts the Market with his patchwork coats and crooked grin. He told me he’d written you, and I thought perhaps you’d forgive hearing from another of the old Portland men — one of those who marched under Nicholas’s ragged banner back when none of us knew what the fight was really for.
My name is Samuel “Hawk” Denning, once a private in his company. These days, I run a small shop off Hawthorne called The Alchemical Caravan. We sell oils, tinctures, and essences drawn from the hidden heart of fungi — truffle and mushroom extractions that shimmer with color when the light hits them just right. Some call them “psychedelic,” but I prefer to think of them as medicines for the imagination.
Strange as it may sound, I found my way to this trade because of Nicholas. He was the first man I’d ever met who could speak about freedom as if it were a fragrance — something you could breathe in and be changed by. He used to say, “The war is inside us, Hawk — the rest is just noise.” Those words stayed. When the old discipline broke and we scattered, I followed the scent of that freedom into the woods outside Eugene, where I met a botanist who taught me the old ways of distilling.
Now I bottle the forest’s dreams and sell them to whoever still believes that wonder isn’t a sin. The young come in seeking revelation; the old come seeking memory. And sometimes I tell them about a man named Nicholas who taught his soldiers to see beauty as rebellion.
I never knew what became of him after he left the city, though I always imagined he was somewhere warm, teaching someone to dance. When I learned he had passed, I lit one of my oils — amber truffle and pine — and let the scent fill the shop. It felt, for a moment, as if he was standing there beside me again, smiling that patient, restless smile.
Maria, I hope you know he changed us all. He left behind no monuments, but he planted a whole garden of dreamers. Portland still hums with his kind of energy — a stubborn belief that joy can be an act of defiance.
If you ever come north again, you’ll find The Alchemical Caravan open late, the air thick with cedar and myrrh. There’ll be a small vial waiting for you — one last echo of the man who taught us to live unafraid.
With reverence and a strange peace,
Samuel “Hawk” Denning
Former Private, Portland Detachment
Proprietor, The Alchemical Caravan
I hope this letter finds you surrounded by calm — though I know calm can be a hard thing to come by when the ghosts start visiting again. Word of Nicholas’s passing reached me through the grapevine — from old Amos Reed, of course, who still haunts the Market with his patchwork coats and crooked grin. He told me he’d written you, and I thought perhaps you’d forgive hearing from another of the old Portland men — one of those who marched under Nicholas’s ragged banner back when none of us knew what the fight was really for.
My name is Samuel “Hawk” Denning, once a private in his company. These days, I run a small shop off Hawthorne called The Alchemical Caravan. We sell oils, tinctures, and essences drawn from the hidden heart of fungi — truffle and mushroom extractions that shimmer with color when the light hits them just right. Some call them “psychedelic,” but I prefer to think of them as medicines for the imagination.
Strange as it may sound, I found my way to this trade because of Nicholas. He was the first man I’d ever met who could speak about freedom as if it were a fragrance — something you could breathe in and be changed by. He used to say, “The war is inside us, Hawk — the rest is just noise.” Those words stayed. When the old discipline broke and we scattered, I followed the scent of that freedom into the woods outside Eugene, where I met a botanist who taught me the old ways of distilling.
Now I bottle the forest’s dreams and sell them to whoever still believes that wonder isn’t a sin. The young come in seeking revelation; the old come seeking memory. And sometimes I tell them about a man named Nicholas who taught his soldiers to see beauty as rebellion.
I never knew what became of him after he left the city, though I always imagined he was somewhere warm, teaching someone to dance. When I learned he had passed, I lit one of my oils — amber truffle and pine — and let the scent fill the shop. It felt, for a moment, as if he was standing there beside me again, smiling that patient, restless smile.
Maria, I hope you know he changed us all. He left behind no monuments, but he planted a whole garden of dreamers. Portland still hums with his kind of energy — a stubborn belief that joy can be an act of defiance.
If you ever come north again, you’ll find The Alchemical Caravan open late, the air thick with cedar and myrrh. There’ll be a small vial waiting for you — one last echo of the man who taught us to live unafraid.
With reverence and a strange peace,
Samuel “Hawk” Denning
Former Private, Portland Detachment
Proprietor, The Alchemical Caravan
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Señora Maria,
I write to you from a narrow cell, the bars of which rattle in cadence with the fury I can no longer unleash in the field. You will know me, of course — Colonel Reginald Thorne, the man who relieved your Nicholas of command. I suspect that word of my own disgrace has reached you by now. Court-martialed for failures, they called it; atrocities, they whispered. I say only that truth is never as simple as the courts would have you believe.
I do not write to justify myself — there is no justice left in me. I write to speak of him, Nicholas Sacpi, the one who dared defy me, who refused the order, who led men not by fear but by some maddening spark of conviction. You may think he was reckless, perhaps even foolish. I tell you now: he was the kind of man who leaves the world trembling in his wake. I have spent these months in iron and stone trying to understand him, and every night I wake to the memory of his laugh, his stubborn hands, the way he moved among the men as though they were not soldiers but children of some brighter day.
I hear he has gone fully to the resistance, that you walk beside him still. Perhaps that is fitting — the world he sought was never mine to govern. But know this, Maria: there is a fire he carried, a recklessness and devotion that will outlast us all. You and he are blessed, if blessed is the word, to have survived it, to have walked into the chaos hand in hand. I have survived too, though in chains and infamy, haunted by the echo of his rebellion.
I will not trouble you further, though perhaps you will think my words a final intrusion. I only write to preserve memory — a confession of awe, envy, and the bitter knowledge that some men are too alive for their own good, and far too dangerous for the world that claims to rule them.
With grudging respect,
Colonel Reginald Thorne
Brig 7, Portland Military Detention Facility
I write to you from a narrow cell, the bars of which rattle in cadence with the fury I can no longer unleash in the field. You will know me, of course — Colonel Reginald Thorne, the man who relieved your Nicholas of command. I suspect that word of my own disgrace has reached you by now. Court-martialed for failures, they called it; atrocities, they whispered. I say only that truth is never as simple as the courts would have you believe.
I do not write to justify myself — there is no justice left in me. I write to speak of him, Nicholas Sacpi, the one who dared defy me, who refused the order, who led men not by fear but by some maddening spark of conviction. You may think he was reckless, perhaps even foolish. I tell you now: he was the kind of man who leaves the world trembling in his wake. I have spent these months in iron and stone trying to understand him, and every night I wake to the memory of his laugh, his stubborn hands, the way he moved among the men as though they were not soldiers but children of some brighter day.
I hear he has gone fully to the resistance, that you walk beside him still. Perhaps that is fitting — the world he sought was never mine to govern. But know this, Maria: there is a fire he carried, a recklessness and devotion that will outlast us all. You and he are blessed, if blessed is the word, to have survived it, to have walked into the chaos hand in hand. I have survived too, though in chains and infamy, haunted by the echo of his rebellion.
I will not trouble you further, though perhaps you will think my words a final intrusion. I only write to preserve memory — a confession of awe, envy, and the bitter knowledge that some men are too alive for their own good, and far too dangerous for the world that claims to rule them.
With grudging respect,
Colonel Reginald Thorne
Brig 7, Portland Military Detention Facility
Funny thing is that these figures are proably even more drastic when you normalize for the underreporting of criminal activity by Democrat controlled areas.
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
To the Honourable Mrs. Maria Sacpi,
Madam, I take up my pen to address you after the passage of many long years, and it is with a profound sense of duty and reverence that I commit these reflections to paper. Time, that great healer and relentless chronicler, has not dimmed the significance of the trials endured by the Nation, nor the memory of the heroic sacrifices rendered upon that most tragic and consequential theatre: the Siege of Portland.
In the annals of that bitter conflict, the name of your late husband, the valiant Nicholas Sacpi, is inscribed with the indelible ink of selfless devotion. He stood as a bulwark when the very foundation of our civic order was threatened by the perfidy of those who sought to dismantle the structures of governance. Like the patriots of old, he answered the fateful call of the trumpet, placing his duty to the Nation above the comforts of his own hearth and home.
I have lately reviewed the reports of his regiment, and it is clear that in the grim crucible of those city streets, your Nicholas met his fate with true soldierly fortitude. He yielded his breath not in vain, but as an offering upon the altar of national unity and perseverance. A cause consecrated by such blood cannot fail to flourish.
I understand that no mere words, however sincerely offered, can fill the void left by his absence, nor reconcile the spirit to the crushing burden of such a loss. Yet, I trust that in the stillness of your quiet moments, you may find solace in the knowledge that his life was a testament to the highest ideals of citizenship. The generations yet unborn shall learn of his valor, and his memory shall be held in hallowed remembrance by a grateful people.
May Providence grant you comfort, and may the noble standard for which your husband died ever wave over a peaceable and united land.
With the deepest respect and sincere sympathy, I remain,
Your obedient servant,
Stephen Miller
Chief Chronicler of the National Remembrance Commission
Madam, I take up my pen to address you after the passage of many long years, and it is with a profound sense of duty and reverence that I commit these reflections to paper. Time, that great healer and relentless chronicler, has not dimmed the significance of the trials endured by the Nation, nor the memory of the heroic sacrifices rendered upon that most tragic and consequential theatre: the Siege of Portland.
In the annals of that bitter conflict, the name of your late husband, the valiant Nicholas Sacpi, is inscribed with the indelible ink of selfless devotion. He stood as a bulwark when the very foundation of our civic order was threatened by the perfidy of those who sought to dismantle the structures of governance. Like the patriots of old, he answered the fateful call of the trumpet, placing his duty to the Nation above the comforts of his own hearth and home.
I have lately reviewed the reports of his regiment, and it is clear that in the grim crucible of those city streets, your Nicholas met his fate with true soldierly fortitude. He yielded his breath not in vain, but as an offering upon the altar of national unity and perseverance. A cause consecrated by such blood cannot fail to flourish.
I understand that no mere words, however sincerely offered, can fill the void left by his absence, nor reconcile the spirit to the crushing burden of such a loss. Yet, I trust that in the stillness of your quiet moments, you may find solace in the knowledge that his life was a testament to the highest ideals of citizenship. The generations yet unborn shall learn of his valor, and his memory shall be held in hallowed remembrance by a grateful people.
May Providence grant you comfort, and may the noble standard for which your husband died ever wave over a peaceable and united land.
With the deepest respect and sincere sympathy, I remain,
Your obedient servant,
Stephen Miller
Chief Chronicler of the National Remembrance Commission
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
To Mr. Stephen Miller,Chief Chronicler of the National Remembrance CommissionWashington, D.C.
Received your letter of November 5.
"Hallowed remembrance." "Altar of national unity." "Relentless chronicler."
I am not sure what kind of performance you think you're putting on, or who your audience is, but I can assure you that I am not a character in your little tragedy. My husband is dead after living a full life, and the only "annals" I care about are the ones that keep the heat running in this apartment.
The siege was three decades ago. You’re writing about it like it was the Battle of Gettysburg.
Please stop sending me these flowery, pointless letters and, for God’s sake, get a life.
Maria Sacpi(Widow of Nicholas Sacpi)
Received your letter of November 5.
"Hallowed remembrance." "Altar of national unity." "Relentless chronicler."
I am not sure what kind of performance you think you're putting on, or who your audience is, but I can assure you that I am not a character in your little tragedy. My husband is dead after living a full life, and the only "annals" I care about are the ones that keep the heat running in this apartment.
The siege was three decades ago. You’re writing about it like it was the Battle of Gettysburg.
Please stop sending me these flowery, pointless letters and, for God’s sake, get a life.
Maria Sacpi(Widow of Nicholas Sacpi)
