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The Partisans

The Partisans — Faction Bible (working title)

Resistance-aligned volunteers from the Corvée. A rural cell war against the harvest machines — civilian cloth, a red mark when they mean to be seen.

A knotted band tied around a broken machine-strut — the cloth decision and the cut, stippled woodcut white-on-black. A small struck burst at the binding, as if the break has only just happened.

The urban Resistance flies a flame in blue. The Partisans fly a kerchief in red: hidden in the corn they are Corvée; tied on, they are seen. Same war. Different cloth.

Status: logo established.

Names

The Partisans is their own word — a cell name, not a ministry status. The Regime says wreckers. The Banal Lords say thieves of the yield. The stacks will call them the reason the bread ran short. The Corvée call them by first names, or do not call them at all.

Overview

Volunteers from the owed who would not stay only owed. They run an ongoing campaign in the Agfields: sabotage the harvesting bots and the machinery of the ban — a knee-joint, a summoner dish, an irrigation sluice, a grain elevator. They look like the field, not the Spill. Coats, webbing, a huddle in bad light. French-resistance cloth on serf ground.

The city cells bomb ministries and call it war. The Partisans walk the same paths as the owed and unscrew a machine that feeds their cousins in Gen Pop. The Resistance will want to claim them. They may take weapons and leave the doctrine in the hedgerow.

The Campaign

What they break is the ban, not the keep’s door. A Banal Lord feels a dropped bot as insult and lost rank. The hive feels it later as a thinner ration. That is the moral trap already familiar to the urban Resistance, here made blunter: you starve stacks to free a strip.

The cost lands on the Corvée. Sabotage is answered by petty days, a sealed sluice, a family taken to the yard. So most of the owed hate the Partisans on weekdays and hide them on Sundays. The village is not the cell. The cell endangers the village.

Look

Civilian wool. A stolen coat. Leather straps. A holster. Goggles that read as machine-work. The red headband is the armband — worn when they mean to be seen by each other, not issued as uniform. Always a few. Night-meeting light. They do not get a brutalist anything. They get ditches, cache-pits, the inside of a dead bot.

Hi-tech stays in the satchel and the target. They sabotage walking cathedrals. They should not look like they could build one.

Relation to Other Factions

  • The Corvée: Where they come from. Kin, cover, and the people who pay for a successful night.
  • The Banal Lords: The ban they cut. The keep they do not storm.
  • The Resistance: Aligned. Not identical. Cousins in the same war; the flame is urban, the band is rural.
  • Gen Pop: The audience that eats less when a machine goes down — and will not know a Partisan’s face.

Aesthetic

Dark coats. Red cloth. Amber lamp, teal fog. Mud still on the boots. A cell, not a column.

Mood

Clandestine and tired. A decision you can untie by morning — if the roll does not find you.

Open Threads (to expand)

  • How tight is the line to the urban Resistance — shared command, a weapons drip, or only a name the city uses for them?
  • Do they ever hit a keep, or is the machine the only honest target?
  • What do they do with a named bot the strips treat as a saint — still cut the leg?
  • Is there a rule against starving a stack on purpose, or is that a quarrel between cells?