Is This The World We Created? (AWRP IC)

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Is this the world we created, we made it on our own
Is this the world we devastated, right to the bone
If there's a God in the sky looking down
What can he think of what we've done
To the world that He created.

"These people totally fucked this place up." God noted, looking down. "Good. I love it this way."

---

"This is SAN, South African News." A warm voice spoke over the radio in Yiddish as a few mob men gathered around a table with fashionable black suits and bowler hats of varying colours. One smoked on a pipe as he turned up the volume. "People celebrated as we entered the new decade. Welcome officially to the decade of 1920. A sweet farewell to the 1910s and a hope that the 1920s are even better."

"They damn well better be." One of the mob men remarked in German.

"The world, as a whole, is doing well. South African police assure us that the Negros are being kept under watch and under control-"

"Thank God for that." One man chuckled, the others laughing with him.

"And America is continuing it's policy of equality for white Jews and Christians above the other savages." the voice continued. "Europe is continuing their affairs of varying sorts, though alarming news of an organisation of revolutionaries comes from Eastern Europe. However, the Russian monarchy has claimed that Europe will be united and standing proudly together. Let's see how that turns out and whether this band of revolutionaries manages to cause any harm."

"Let's hope they don't." One of the mobsters noted. "I have business in Europe, I like the status quo. And besides...you get these stories about those revolutionaries. Crazy, crazy sorts."

"Asian affairs continue as they do. The rejected English monarchy continues to claim dominance of England, not deterred by the fact they're in India." the newscaster said sardonically. "Now, I'm not a politician, but I somewhat doubt that's how the business works. But overall, Asia remains controlled by native savages with only a few colonies from Europe. We live in a dynamic and changing world, ladies and gentlemen. And I for one will say that the 1920s look like they'll be even more exciting than any decade in previous. I bid you goodnight and a good New Year's. May the odds be ever in our favour." The broadcast ended.

One mobster stood up. "So, let's see here. We got the government in our hands. Economy's great. Military could be worked on. But let's have a toast. By God, my gentlemen, let's enjoy this world!" They cheered and drank.

And this is the world we've created.

Get to it, gentlemen.

[Unicario]

January 1, 1920
Rome



Benito Mussolini folded his hand behind his back as he walked the length of the former St. Mark's Square, the home of Italian parliament since 1848. He was accompanied by Alessandra Garibaldi, his foreign minister, the first woman to hold public office in Italian history.

He said, "So, what's the news?" The woman spoke, "There has been about a 1 lira increase in global oil pricing... and the Russians are still stirring in their own affairs, which has worried many." He nodded and said, "I am very glad to hear that things are still stable." He turned to Marconi and Tesla, who were accompanying him and he said, "Listen you two. I want you to gather the brightest minds in Italia and bring them to the University of Rome. We shall begin research on new developments."

They nodded and saluted and walked in a different direction. Mussolini saluted a parading guard unit at the Square, and said, "Now... what of the royalists in Genoa?"

She said, "They're still quiet, petitioning to get a chance to speak to you. They wish for a constitutional monarchy." He nodded and said, "It's a fair request, republicanism is getting us a bad reputation." He thought for a brief moment and said, "I want you to bring the claimant to my villa in Tuscany in the week." She nodded and pecked his cheek and said, "I'll go tap out some diplomatic cables, darling. Ciao! I'll get on the phone as soon as possible!" He waved to her and continued his lonely thinking.

He spoke to himself, "With the troops ready... Ethiopia shall be added to our free-loving empire..."


President and Prime Minister, Benito Mussolini

---

Carthage, Italian


Luigi di Capua walked around the hustling streets of Carthage, an Italian colonial city in Tunisia. Established in the late 1870's, it became a major colonial hotspot as the Italian government expelled Arabs and Negroes from the city, replacing them with white Italians. He entered the train station, placed a 20 lira on the ticket counter and said, "One ticket to Khartoum, please." The man took the money and handed him a ticket. The man boarded the train on the Pan-Afro-Arabian Line, to Khartoum.

---

Khartoum

Lucentio Maratia stood in the train station, waiting for his brother, Luigi. Lofting in the wind across the rail tracks, hanging from the fencepost, it read in Italian: "KHARTOUM-ADDIS ABABA RAILWAY. COMING 1921". He wondered why.

---

January 1, 1920
Outside Ogaden, Ethiopia

"FIRE!" shouted General di Napoli, as the Italian infantry let loose an artillery round into Ethiopia. Soldiers began their march into Ethiopia, marking the invasion's begin. He grinned and toasted to his fellow commanders and got into his motorcar as it peeled off to keep up with the marching soldiers, singing the national anthem. He spoke to his generals, "Once we get the reinforcements and supplies via Eritrea, we should take this monstrocity of a nation down."

Una mattina mi sono svegliato,
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Una mattina mi sono svegliato,
e ho trovato l'invasor...

[Garwall]

St. Petersburg, Grand Duchy of Novgorod
The Russian Empire
January 1st, 1920
Early Morning

It was cold.

The Russian winter bore down on the people of St. Petersburg, with a relentless fury. The people shuffled about their morning routines, often rising and heating a cup of water to drink, or to mix with their oats to form breakfast. Some drank coffee, as this day was especially cold. Many rose while it was still dark, setting out for factories and bakeries and shops, while others set off early to be first in the lines. The bread did not stay warm for long in this weather.

"The port will freeze today for sure," remarked one wharf-worker, drinking a cup of thick black coffee, bitter, from a local cafe. All across the city, factories creaked to life, bakeries turned on their ovens, and the first train of the day is minutes away from arriving. In the coffee shops and breakfast dives of the city, chatter was all about. Talk shifted from the thickness of the ice in the harbor, whether the trains would run on time today, and when the "Boys in Brown", as the army was referred to, would finally march on Europe, spreading the glories of autocracy from Moscow to Madrid.

However, in the lonely parts of the city, where watchful eyes were less prying, a different sort of talk was underway. Talk was of guns stockpiled in warehouses and basements, artillery shells sneaked away, of uniforms smuggled out of armories and sleeping factories. "Perhaps today is the day, comrade", jested a man wrapped tightly in coats, in the basement of lesser-known bar. "The Imperialists' bolts will freeze shut in their guns", he said, laughing. "Do not forget their bayonets, friend," remarked another man sitting across from him. "You'll be dead, roasting over a fire before you can cast the first brick."

In another part of the city, closer towards the Winter Palace, the march of soldiers drummed throughout the streets. There was a sort of electricity in the air, being so close to those that ruled one of the grandest Empires on earth. Deep inside the palace, we find the brains behind this grand empire: the Tsar himself. Alexander IV Alexandrovich, Tsar of all Russians, Crown Prince of Muscovy, Grand Duke of Novgorod, King of Estonia and Finland, Duke of Courland, and countless other titles litter the ground he walks upon. Accompanying the Tsar is a number of his attendants, advisers, members of the Royal family, including his dear brother, Nicholas II of Russia.

"An Emperor shouldn't have to be awake at this god-forsaken hour," yawned Alexander, shaking his head as he adjusted his clothing, displeased with the attire. "I can see why my father took his stay in Moscow. Now why was I woken so early?" An attendant bowed, before addressing him. "Your highness, we have wonderful news. The price of oil has finally begun to rise, I believe we may have finally weathered this bubble," the man said, excited. Alexander yawned. "How much of a rise is this?"
"Two rubles to the barrel."
Alexander snorted. "Yes, two rubles, the economy is saved." He stretched, still fiddling with his clothing. "Two rubles will not fix the treasury, that is the problem." He glanced past the attendant, spotting his brother, Nicholas II. He smiled. "Back from England, I see?" Nicholas nodded, returning the smile. "I am, your highness--" he was brutally cut off by Alexander. "You know how I feel about the 'highness' crap from my brother--come here, you little bastard!"

The two embraced quickly, and shook hands. "How is George?" Nicholas shrugged. "Living as well as anyone else. Hear any rumors from the court?" Alexander returned the shrug. "The Romanovs are a dull bunch. Although, the international reports seem to suggest that the Italians are preparing to sweep up the remainder of Ethiopia." Nicholas shook his head. "I give them a week before those olive-skinned bastards drive a tank over Addis-Ababa."

"We need friends, Nicholas," remarked Alexander suddenly. "Russia needs friends. You haven't seen the Russian people, some of them are downright ready to begin shooting Dukes in the streets. Ever since 1848, we've been sitting on borrowed time. You know how liberalism spreads--like an infection, a disease. Europe is stinking of it." He grimaced.

"Then perhaps it is time to throw in the towel," murmured Nicholas, turning to Alexander. "Bending with the wind is a form of resistance as well, brother. But hanging on to every bit of power is suicide." Alexander frowned. "The ideas you pick up overseas, Nicholas. The Tsar's power is not something we decide, it is something that God has decided. It was no coincidence that Ivan the Great had left his mighty Tsardom to Ivan the Younger, it was a message from God; for a thousand-year Tsardom: A Tsardom that is my duty to defend, as well as yours."

"Then what do you propose we do?" exclaimed Nicholas. "I have seen the people as well, they hide bullets off of assembly lines in their socks when no one is looking. Bullets meant for us!" Alexander sighed. "Then perhaps it is time to find some new friends."

[Mondrova]

January 1st 1920 - Prime City - Capitol of the Empire - The Master Square - Golden Opera House - Opening Ceremony

It was a chilling morning, the whipping winds snapping over the city of Prime, cracking off benches, shops, and even those who walked on the streets, stinging flesh where it was exposed. It cast an almost blue twinge over the sprawling jumble of concrete, brick, and glass, and with the snow freshly caressing the sidewalk, as well as the howl of the shifting winds, one could almost imagine the frigid tundra these lands would be, were it not for the workings of man. Those who had risen from their slumber to go to the factories or buy the weeks groceries where seen carrying cup of piping hot water or coffee if they visited the cafes. It was a particularly cold day indeed, but this would not stop the people of the Empire, for there were industries to run, machines to be built, trains to be operated, and above all preparations to be checked over, last minute revisions to be made because today was a most important day, for the Emperor, in all his splendor, was coming.

Thus, before the sun had even touched the horizon, the streets were bustling with state officials and police officers, watching over the Square, checking for safety and organizing the volunteers. These were people who had been asked, and of course accepted, the offer to service the nation and help setup for the great ones arrival. For while the Emperors residence, Sofia Palace, was in the city, it was rare that he made public appearances such as this, amongst the people, and not from one of the palace balconies, and as such, it was quite the event. Of course, this did not come without its bothers for the people. For days now the Nyekovi had been prowling the streets, asking questions, barging into peoples houses, and in general, being intrusive, to secure the safety of his imperial personage, as well as to find vantage points from which to monitor the event. They also were quite thorough in insuring there would be a large turnout for the festivity, by reminding people that it was considered... unwise to ignore the emperor.

So, to an extent, people didn't really notice the cold, after all, there was more important things to do, like get to work early to get in as many hours as possible, and buy from the squares many stores before they closed for the festivities, and finally, to dress themselves appropriately. After, this was the emperor, one could not simply show up wearing any old thing. Though this was something the Secret Police did not need remind the people of, for, despite how the Emperor might make their lives more difficult at times, he was, in their eyes, perfection itself, and truly a god among men, deserving of the utmost respect. This was especially true today, for the emperor was, once again, showing his infinite kindness, opening a grand new opera house for the people. Never mind that only the rich would be able to afford it, it was the fact that it was from the emperor that was valuable to the common man.

So, when the clock struck 10, with its great bells chiming overhead, the people of the city began grouping themselves in the Master Square, congregating in the designated areas around the platform made for his Majesty. Then the bells stopped and all fell silent, save for the whistles of the wind, waning, but still there, a constant reminder of the weather. People began looking around, searching for the Emperor, perhaps thinking he was hiding somewhere, asking where he was when all of a sudden a strange noise was heard. It seemed to be coming from some ways away, a strange rhythmic sound, something like a march, no exactly like a march. As the sound grew closer it become more and more clear what it was, and as people caught on they began cheering, applauding, for this was a great thing. The armies of the Empire where coming, the men who fought to protect the Emperor and his subjects. Soon the sound grew so great that the snow began jumping as thousands of feet approached from the four main streets leading into the square.

Over 4,000 men emerged, a thousand to each street, all marching in perfect unison, a well organized machine, to the sounds of joy and pride from the people. The officers on platforms atop cars waved to the people, and catching flowers that many were prompted to buy from the Nyekovi in the crowd, watching everything. Soon the men of the proud Empirical military organized themselves around the platform in a rectangular formation, unbroken save for a small opening in their lines from which a carriage approached. It was pulled by 8 white horses and the carriage itself was covered in gold and made with Camphor wood from Indonesia, and was dubbed Breyshic, meaning, "light in the dark", named for four lights at its corners. Upon seeing it and noting the Royal Seal emblazoned upon it, began going wild, screaming with jubilation as it passed, heading for the platform.

As it reached the stairs at the base of the construct, the carriage came to a graceful stop. Then, immediately a purple carpet was rolled out and was flanked on both sides by members of the royal guard, the purple and blue feathers on top of their helmets blowing in the wind. A servant came forward and opened the door, ushering the great man inside the carriage to emerge. As he did an orchestra atop the platform began playing their music, the national anthem of the Empire. The Emperor in all his glory then steeped from the carriage and touched the ground, at thus everyone fell into salute and began singing along to the music. The Emperor ascended the stairs, his great purple cape billowing in the air, they he seemed not phased by the wind. He continued climbing until, finally, he reached the top, just as the music ended. He moved towards the microphone on the stage and everyone fell dead silent.

The great man himself, his most august majesty, Autocrat and Emperor of the all these fine people, Aeschvin VII, took a moment to survey the crowd, smiling at how they celebrated his magnificence. He then, in a voice of honey, rich, and powerful, began his speech. "My subjects, valued citizens of the Empire, look upon me, praise me, know me, for I, I AM YOUR EMPEROR!" At this the crowd began cheering and screaming, all without any prompting, such was the image of glory surrounding the man before them. He waited for them to die down and then continued. "I have come here today, before all of you, to bestow unto you a gift, a small token of my generosity. I have always given to you my people, always insured your best interests were met. Oh, it is tiring work indeed, even for one as perfect as myself, but nonetheless, I do not stop. For you, my humble servants, are worth the effort, are worthy of my kindness." People all over the crowd were nodding, they all would have clapped if they were allowed, for now was time for silence.

"As such, I present to you, with my blessings and utmost satisfaction, this grand new edition to our city. Consider it the first of many gifts to come my people, for I see a new horizon for the Empire, a grand new one, basking under a golden sun of plenty. So, please cast your attention to the structure behind me, the Golden Opera House, for it is now OPEN!" The crowd once again began applauding and cheering praise to the Emperor. The orchestra began playing again, some new upbeat song they would be playing at the Opera House. This went on for several minutes, and then the Emperor began again, entering the more formal part of his speech, and so the day went on.

[New Babylonia]

Bern, Switzerland

It was the beginning. Yes, the beginning. But of what? Of many things. Most obviously, the new decade. The 1920's have begun, and the world is spinning about, yet no one seems to notice. But, it was far more than that. Something greater was beginning. Was churning, the old embers of a long-gone flame, stirred once more. Before the fire of life was given its new breath. For centuries Switzerland had be known, as 'Switzerland'. That was it. When spoke of, it was often slandered, in many ways. Spoken down to. But no longer shall this be true. Today, yes, today marks the beginning, the start of a new rise, a rising Empire. The Swiss Empire. It was a great dream Jeton had had many times over. Each time it played it grew more magnificent, more incredible and amazing than the last. The world would surely laugh at them. Switzerland was small, not only in land, but in people, it was a fraction, a shadow of its neighbors. A shadow of death, to be more specific. One whose dark hands would creep about the guilty, and the innocent, and from them rip their hearts out, and feed upon their lifeless essence. But perhaps he was rambling too much. No matter, he had all the time in the world. Switzerland was small, but impregnable, and un-vanquish-able. Its provided a great fortress, the likes of one which could not be fallen, not even by the greatest cannon, of the biggest bomb. The Alps. A wondrous mountain range, which cut through the heart of his nation. Their military was small yes, but invading through Swiss mountains, while fighting Swiss soldiers, was asking for a personal invitation to damnation from god himself. And if you were foolish enough to do this, he would surely grant you such damnation, as the devil shall feast upon your remains.

But Jeton had a target in mind. Germany. He already had stellar relations with France, and Italy, two of its immediate neighbors. They had formed a trade circle of sorts, France, to Italy, to Persia, to Switzerland. And Sweden seemed to have an eye on this deal as well. If Jeton wanted to fall Germany from its place of height, he must first assemble his allies. But at the moment, they were nothing. Just trade partners. But trade with Italy and France gave his people the food which their land lacked, Persia, the valuable merchandise of the east. And to them Switzerland gave them the metal, chemicals, machinery, and even the measurement of time for them to do it. Now, he had to get the leaders of four nations, in one spot.

Diplomatic Letter from The Kingdom of Switzerland

TO;France, Italy, Persia, Sweden, Levant, Saudi Arabia, Byzantium, Oman.
Subject; A formal meeting of discussion concerning the future benefit, and plans of our nations.

---

Greetings, esteemed leaders of Europe and Asia. For the betterment of ourselves, and the solidification of future plans, i invite you all to The Royal Palace in Bern. All expenses of travel for you will be covered, as well as your place of rest, and any services you may require. I ask for the attendance of all, with the honorable intent of profitable trade, and an alliance bound for glory and power. Please, consider this kind offering,and grace us with your attendance.

Signed,
King Jeton

[Delanshar]

Imperial Palace, Angora, Byzantium
January 2nd 1920

It was a cold, foggy afternoon in Angora. The capital city of the New Byzantine Empire was a sprawling metropolis in the center of Anatolia. To the northeast was the fabled land of Trebizond, and to the east was Armenia. Together these two regions helped forge, through faith blood and iron, what was today the fabled land of Byzantium.

Leading this devout nation was Imperator Theodros V, By the Grace of God, Emperor of Byzantium, Leader of the Romans, Conqueror of Anatolia, Protector of Trebizond and Armenia, Prince of Angora, Grand Duke of Constantinople, Van and Antalya, Heart of the Eagle, Harbinger of Christendom. As he sat on his massive gilded throne, the Emperor looked down on his court with an iron face. Beside him stood his wife and son, Queen Theodora and Crown Prince Constantine, both beautifully adorned in regal purple robes and golden crowns.

Before the Emperor knelt a common man sent in for judgement. Georgios Nikola had been captain of the Imperial Guard for 5 years. Yet now he knelt not in combat fatigues but in chains. He had been stripped of all honors and posts two days ago, when he had been convicted of bribery. Now he awaited the Emperor's judgement.

"Death!" Theodros V stamped his foot on the marble floor, his deep voice echoing across the room.

The man was then dragged off to be shot. Despite his crimes he deserved the honor of a firing squad. He had been a soldier after all and thus was spared the humiliation of a public hanging.

With the business of the day concluded, Theodros got up and retired to his chambers where he was to meet his cabinet. An invitation had arrived from Switzerland and it was time to write a response.

To: Switzerland
From: Duke Alexander of Trebizond, Minister of Foreign Affairs

We have recieved your invitation and would be happy to participate in your conference at Bern. His Imperial Majesty has deemed it fit to send me, his loyal servant and Minister of Foreign Affairs, to the conference as the official representative of the Byzantine Empire and her people.


yours,

Duke Alexander of Trebizond,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

[Neo Arcad]

Participants in the Timbuktu-Toulouse Air Race flying over Algeria

Toulouse, France
Air Race Finish Line


The crowd spilled around the airplanes that had rolled to a halt in the wide, grassy field. It was flat and open, with grandstands and all the trappings of a celebration having been set up in advance of the pilots' arrival. The very first Timbuktu-Toulouse Air Race had gone smashingly, with no fatalities and only two crashes. It was a very close race, too, with the two pilots in the lead fighting doggedly for the victory. The winner was a young man named Lionel Alexandre Pierre de Marmier, who was only 23 years old. His uncle, Claude de Marmier, was a businessman, who had invested in the racing plane that Lionel flew to victory. It was this industrialist to whom the General of the Armee de l'Air spoke. Their conversation had begun aimlessly, but General Michaux was interested in finding out some details about the plane.
"So it seems your nephew's plane cannot be outmatched." stated Michaux. "He was head and shoulders ahead of the competitors from the beginning, I hear." "Oh, yes sir." replied de Marmier, beaming. "I am SO glad I sponsored the boy. He is quite the promising pilot, you know." The General nodded sagely. "Might I inquire as to the circumstances by which you obtained the aircraft?" he asked. De Marmier was only too happy to give him all the information. It seemed that the plane was a custom model turned out by the Liore et Olivier company, using a prototype engine of theirs. Michaux was, needless to say, fascinated. This was the kind of plane that would make the French air corps the mightiest in the world.


_____________________________________________________________________________________________

To: Switzerland
From: Director Albert Lebrun

It would be my pleasure to attend such a conference. However, I have matters to attend to domestically, and as such will be sending my lieutenant, Foreign Minister Etienne Clementel, to the summit in my stead. He is fully qualified for the post, I assure you, and any decisions he makes will be representative of my will. I wish the greatest success upon this endeavour.

Sincerely,
Director Albert Lebrun of France

[Ceannairceach]

The Republican Palace, Jerusalem, Capital District,
The Sovereign and Independent Republic of the Levant

Jerusalem was baking. It was quite ironic, that the city of three faiths was doomed to burn under the eternal fire of the sun.

The Capital District was comprised, in its entirety, of the city of Jerusalem. The district, unlike the various provinces of the Republic, was administered not by a local government, but rather by the republican government itself. As such, Jerusalem was, in short, the place to be to influence the policy of the Republic. Being a unitary state, in which the power rested firmly in the central government, the Capital District was a hive of bureaucrats and policy-makers, from parliamentarians to bureau agents.

The Republican Palace was the top of the bureaucratic pyramid, as it were. In its halls, built over the old barracks and prison, the parliament met, the president responded to international events, and the prime minister dealt with the machinations of his government and those of foreign powers.

Despite its small size compared to the neighboring powers of Persia or Italy, the Levant was still quite powerful in and of itself; Due to an agreement with Italy, the Levantines had free access to the Suez Canal in exchange for maintenance and security on their side of it, and this,when considering the large quantity of natural resources, access to both the European and Arab-Asian markets, and a high industrial capacity, the Levant was largely sitting pretty.

Of course, all was not well. As evidenced by Parliament's current debate; Recently, a Catholic priest attempted to call for a return of the Hospitallers to power in the Levant. Naturally, he had the support of Christ's People, the radical Christian party, and the extremist Christians within the three major parties. Though he didn't garner much support in total, as Christ's People and the extremist elements weren't so powerful to begin with, he did earn himself an assassination, as his car was bombed by extremist Muslims, likely from the Alliance of Islam.

The Parliament was debating the possibility of outlawing either party, as an extension of the separation of church and state in the Levant. Even amongst the dominant party, the Parliamentarian-Republicans, the opinion was split; Should the party's be outlawed to protect the governments secularity, or should they be allowed, lest they become terror organizations?

But that debate would last several days, at the least. In the chambers of President Joshua al-Besha, the Prime Minister, Mohammed Darcy, met with the aforementioned head of state to discuss the invitation to Bern, sent by the Swiss king.

"I swear to God most high, Darcy, if I were entrusted with more power, I may have killed myself by now." The president rubbed his temples, staring at the transcript of Switzerland's message. "Switzerland tries to seem all-important, but I don't think they realize how little time I can actually afford to them. If it wasn't for the other names on the list of recipients, I would have simply tossed it out by now!"

"Come down, Joshua." Mohammad Darcy, Prime Minister of the Levantine Republic, sat on the arm of his chair, smoking a cigarello. "No commitments need be made, and we have friends attending anyway. The Swiss won't pressure you into anything, as if they could."

"That's not what I worry about." The president stroked his chin, playing with the light tuft of hair there. "We may be friendly with Italy, and cordial with France, but they are still world powers. And displeasing Italy could mean being shut out of the Suez, even with our current treaty. God knows that the Italians can't be trusted very far. Just ask the Ethiopians."

Darcy sighed, considering that statement. "Perhaps this conference will be a good time to address that issue as well. You know my feelings. You know the feelings of the Parliament. Might as well press them there, where Persia will likely lend support." Putting his cigarello out in the ash tray on the desk, he continued, "So, will you go, or do I have to wake Aila? I don't think she'd appreciate your backing out."

"No, no, I'm just complaining. I'll go. Get the foreign office. Might as well get the response sent..."

---

May Peace and Tolerance Reign Forever
Peut Régner la Paix et la Tolérance Toujours
والسلام والتسامح عهد للأبد
Sovereign and Independent Republic of the Levant
La République Souveraine et Indépendante du Levant
جمهورية مستقلة ذات سيادة من بلاد الشام

Political Communique

From: President Joshua al-Besha

January, 1920

To: The Kingdom of Switzerland

Do Not Recreate

Encryption: Closed

Property of the Presidency

The Republican Palace, Jerusalem, SIRL

With the authority invested in me by the parliament and people of the Sovereign and Independent Republic of the Levant, I hereby issue this official response to your invitation to the Bern Summit.

I would like to begin by thanking your sovereign, King Jeton, for inviting the Levantine Republic to your most important summit in the city of Bern. It is greatly appreciated that you would consider the Levant an important part in world politics such that we are to be considered equal with such powers as France, Italy, and yourselves. It is most certainly a great honor.

To continue, I would like to accept, on behalf of the Prime Minister, Parliament and Levantine people, your invitation, with the stipulation that it is understood that the Levant is not committing to anything but attendance with this message.

Once again, thank you, and good day.

Joshua al-Besha

[New Bern99]

Palácio de São Bento
Lisbon, Portugal

With a whistle the thick bladed sword almost took his head off, passing an inch from his throat. He recovered quickly from the mistake and raised his guard his guard just in time to parry the follow up swing of his much older opponent. A loud clang of metal once again echoed through the room the nerves in his forearms tingled as the blade shuddered with the force of the blow.

"Too slow" His opponent grinned "You should be dead already."

He said nothing, instead using the opponents taunts to launch a stabbing attack, putting all his weight behind a rapid thrust for the other mans chest. Unfortunately the opponent sidestepped and parried with ease, giving a brief chuckle at the effort. His rage was growing, and the apparent levity of his opponent was digging at his temper and drawing on his passions. He attacked again using strong, vicious swipes to push the opponent back and force him to surrender the initiative. The other man backed away, his face losing its amused expression as he focused on stopping the powerful strikes. Every blow stopped just made him more angry and determined.

"Come on you rabid dog, try your best!" The opponent called with a snarl. "You call this a fight? I wasted more effort getting out of bed this morning!"

With a roar he swung the blade again, the mockery stinging him into greater action. The sheer strength of the blows were knocking aside his opponents sword and only the mans quick sidestepping prevented him from being cloven in half. He lunged with great strength, and at the last second the opponent sidestepped revealing a wooden support holding up the buildings roof behind him. With eyes widening in horror he couldn't react in time as the tip of his sword buried itself in the wood and lodged tight. The other mans cold blade came to a rest by his neck, and the shiver that rattled his spine was not due to the feel of cold steel resting against his neck. He had been beaten.

"You want to control that temper of yours." The opponent said. "It'll get you into trouble one day." He lifted the blade away from his neck. "That was very enjoyable António."

António straightened up taking in large gasps of air as he did so. "A few more seconds and you would have been mine." He strained against his sword, yanking the weapon out of the wooden support. The weapon was a short sword with a thick blade used to stab or bludgeon enemies. It was a simple design similar to the Gladius. A weapon that the Roman Empire had equipped its armies with. It was archaic now, in an age of guns and artillery few men really practiced the art of dueling. Sure there were a few men still around who knew how to swing a saber from horseback. Experience gained in decades past leading cavalry charges but dueling required much more finesse than wildly chopping at a man from atop a half ton animal.

"I admit you have improved." His opponent Fernando Pessoa smiled. "If it hadn't been for the dastardly interference of the engineer who placed this large wooden pole here I might have even broken a sweat."

"Yes, yes." António grumbled. "Very amusing." He paused. "I still don't understand your insistence on practicing with this." He threw the sword aside as he removed the padding and gear that prevented he and his opponent from harming themselves in the course of the duel. Something especially important as he was dueling with Ferando Pessoa. Emperor of Portugal and ruler of vast lands in South America. It simply wouldn't due to have the older man impaled by someone. Of course António was fairly certain the older man didn't need the pads but wore them just the same.

"Come now António. If it weren't for your willingness to lose to a man twenty years your senior on a weekly bases I would have gotten fat many years ago. And likely have used this blade remove the heads of a few of my enemies." He paused to examine the the blade António had carelessly thrown aside. "And likely a few of my so called supporters as well."

"So long as the notion of removing my head does not appeal to you I think I could grow to like a fat Emperor." António said as he began to examine the wounds the Emperor had left behind. Nothing life threatening of course, the padding had seen to that, but the bruises and small cuts left behind was enough to ensure that he would have an uncomfortable few days. "And if removing the head of some member of your opposition will avoid the bruises you give me then ill do it my self."

The Emperor merely chuckled. "Its a new world António. Its simply not as efficient as it use to be to solve problems by arranging for your opponents die a gruesome death." He sat down and almost immediately several of his attendants began to remove the thick pads he wore. "At least not here, in the more civilized parts of the world. In the Americas I think there a many people who would still be properly motivated by such actions."

He rose from the bench and waved the attendants away. "Which is why I am sending you to Panama."

"Panama!?" António replied as tried to control his outrage. "Surely there is someone better suited than I....I know nothing of building a canal."

"There are many better suited that you António. Men with decades of experience in managing the natives, engineers known around the world for their skill, and hardened Generals who have led their men men through the horrors of the Panamanian uprisings then rained down horrors ten times worse upon those responsible for the uprisings. They are already there and will advise you. Watch them, listen to them, and most importantly learn from them. Too many men in our position think them experts on everything. If I allowed you to grow up here in the comfort and safety of Portugal you would become one of them."

He paused as he watched his son deflate. The younger man knew all too well when his father had made up his mind. Nothing could be accomplished by arguing save for looking like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. Not something expected of the future Emperor of Portugal.

"Very well Father. When do I leave?"

"The end of the month. When you return you will return a man with first hand knowledge of what it takes to manage of the colonies, what sort of depravities the natives are capable of, and most importantly you will know what it takes to lead your own people without your Father standing over your shoulder. Perhaps you might have been better served spending time in the Army but your mother, god rest her soul, thought the university would suit you best."

He made to leave the dueling room and motioned for his son to follow him. "Your schooling done know though and I admit your a smarter man than I ever was or could ever be. You still have many things to learn though and, in the Jungles of Panama, you will learn what you need to rule or I will learn that my son is not fit to rule."

António took a closer look at the blade and raise it slightly towards his father. Nothing threatening about the movement merely bringing his fathers attention to the blade. "The Roman Emperors always feared their sons returning at the head of an army father. If your plans for me go as you plan I will return with the loyalty of our most veteran forces and generals."

The Emperor smiled. "When you you return I will be a fat old man content to pass on the throne to his son."

[Unicario]

Benito packed his bags for the International Eugenics Conference in New York, America. Now, usually, he would never go to the United States because of their association with the Papacy.. but after his stop-off in Florence to talk to the House Savoy, he would directly go with his loving girlfriend Alessandra Garibaldi, also his Foreign Minister, aswell as his two closest aides, Gugliemo Marconi and Nikola Tesla, the two largest supporters of the Italian Eugenics Program in Africa.

He quickly departed Rome via train to Tuscany, set to arrive on the Seventh, giving him ample time to arrive in the U.S. by the start of the conference.

---

January 7, 1920

Arriving at his villa in Florence, his motorcar pulled in, and he greeted 51-year-old Victor Emanuele, the current claimant to the throne, who as accompanied by his 16 year old son, Umberto. Greeting the two, Mussolini sat with them in his drawing room and discussed a potential Constitutional Monarchy.

The conference went well, with both Savyards agreeing to stipulations given by President in which a monarchy could be established.

"Now, to convince the Parliament" Mussolini thought as his biplane gently floated off towards America.

[Chemaki]

Ganden (Calcutta)

"What do you mean, the Bhikkhu want families?" Kaur the Mighty, Emperor of Tibet, Chief Arahant of Theravada, The Incorruptible Lord, glared in anger at his adviser, who knelt prostrate in front of him. As he deftly rearranged his crumpled orange robes, the governor looked up, his voice controlled and unusually steady, a technique he learnt whilst he served as a monk. "My Lord Emperor, Jaywant Misra, General of the Ganden garrison wants to rewrite the old doctrine. He does not wish for Bhikkhu, whether they be warriors, monks, or governors, to be castrated, or forced to remain unmarried."

"Remain unmarried? We take them off the streets, feed them, clothe them, house them and train them, give them positions of power and responsibility, and they complain about not having a woman to screw?" The adviser winced at that last statement as Kaur raised his voice, and sensing his inferior's discomfort, Kaur gave a sigh and moved to the balcony of his office room. He opened the windows and stared out at the city and the shimmering Ganges that ran through, heard the sounds of his subjects moving around the city for their morning business, and felt the humid heat that began to spread through his airy office room. He liked it when he could move down to Ganden to conduct business, it was much more accessible, busy and generally more pleasant than his palace in Badghaon, high in the Himalayas. However, moving to the huge city meant that he was a lot more accessible to his subjects than he felt comfortable, and he did not look forward to this unplanned meeting with Misra at all. Nevertheless, being their leader, Kaur assumed that he did have a duty to his Bhikkhu, the children of the state, who serve and defend him and happily pay their lives in battle so that his legacy, and that of the Tibetan Empire could continue.

"Fine. Send him in."

A few moments after his adviser scurried out of the room, Misra entered. A burly man, with bushy facial hair and dark skin, Kaur didn't recognize him from any previous encounters. He looked and acted like a commoner, and from what Kaur could tell, he was chosen to be a General more for his skill in battle rather than any of his other traits. Nevertheless, despite his awkward movements and clumsiness, he still knelt to the floor on one knee and waited for his lord to speak, though when Kaur greeted him, any polite pretense quickly diminished as he lunged into his complaint.

"My Emperor Kaur, my men are angry at the archaic rules bestowed upon us by past emperors to protect us from romantic lust and so-called 'love'. We are honored that we serve you as Bhikkhu, and we can train and use our skills to serve our nation. But we wish for our rights to start our own family, when we have grown older and are of less use fighting afar, and when we wish to settle down and lead simpler lives. We do not wish the Bhikkhu to be anymore a lifelong commitment for those who do not wish it, and though the monastics and governors amongst us wish to carry on all our lives, we do not want to follow the same path as them. Please do not insult me, oh noble lord, when you point to the amendment of the Seventh Council and state that we can retire when we want, take our pay and live our own lives. For those who do retire before their time are simply taken away to serve again as Bhikkhu, unless they find a job as a lowly tradesman or craftsman or bankrupt themselves trying to build their own factory. We do not wish to become impotent and rest until our old age, but we wish to serve our country in a different way. We ask that you consider relaxing the laws on unemployment, to give former Bhikkhu the support they require to set up their own businesses and industries, and to let them have their own families, so they can use their talents and continue to be successful."

Kaur paused and rubbed his heard as he listened to Misra - His opposition of the current system was expected but the fact that he had the foresight to draw up an amendment was indeed suprising. The old argument against giving the Bhikkhu (that is, the monastics, the military and the governors) the right to a family was that a family life would detract from their duty, and give their offspring the expectation that they were to have the same privileges as their fathers did. The last thing the Imperial family wanted was for the Bhikkhu to become a new aristocracy, and to use their trusted positions of power to oppose the status quo. However, the idea that those Bhikkhu who wished to have a family would be stripped of their political and military power and instead be reimbursed in financial compensation was indeed a tempting one - To create a powerless, yet rich middle class which would spearhead Tibet's industrialization, and also placate the soldiers, governors and monks who wished to have their own families?

"I'll consider your proposal."

[Katyuscha]

Jan. 1st, 1920
Tehran, Persia

Central Square, Tehran

It was a special day in Persia. The people of Tehran, usually running to work or coming home from church, were all standing on the sidewalks, waiting for something. They stood quietly on the sidewalks, looking around in expectation for something. It was quiet, with only the occassional crying of a baby or laughing of a child to break the dead silence. Suddenly, there was a sound. Distant at first, and then grew into a sound that could be heard far off in space. It was the sound of drums and horns, and the marching of boots, slowly getting closer and closer as the ground began to shake beneath the people's feet. Then, from round the corner, they came. The Imperial Army of Persia, came marching down the street of Central Square, marching to the glory of the nation's glorious anthem. The crowd cheered as the the soldiers marched by, displaying the greatest military might the Middle East has ever seen. As the parade continued, the people's cheers only got louder, but none were so loud as for when he, the Great Shah of Persia, Rezā Shāh, came round the corner in his pearl white government vehicle.

The crowd cried with joy as the Shah passed by smiling and waving to his people. It was obvious that they loved him, for he was the Shah who finally dragged Persia out of obscurity and into the 20th century. Because of him, Persia was finally a western power and the people loved him for it. Truely, he was blessed by Allah himself to rule over Persia's great lands. He continued to wave at his beloved people as his car made its way to the Capital Building.

---

Later
Capital Building, Tehran

The white vehicle of the Shah came to a stop in from of the Capital Building and the Shah stepped out. Joined by two imperial guards, he began to make his way us to the entrance. As he reached the doors, he was net by a government aid, who was waiting anxiously by the door.

"Yes, what's the news?" he asked the aid in a tired voice.

"Great Shah, it would appear that we've revieved a telegram from the Swiss government regarding our current trade pact with the European and Middle Eastern powers." responded the aid who began to follow the Shah as he continued to walk through the halls of the capital.

"The Swiss?" he began. "What could the Swiss possibly want regarding Iran?" He took the telegram out of the aid's hands and ready it thouroughly. "God dammit! As if I didn't have enough on my hands already!"

The Shah reached the doors to his office where the guards stopped. He opened the doors and motioned for the aid to follow him in. "Well, seeing as all of our major trade partners have been invited, it looks like I'll be sinding someone as well." he said as he sat down at his desk. "Okay, write down everything I am about to say and have it sent to the Swiss government at once."

"Yes, sir" replied the aid who took out a pen and paper and began writing.

---

Official Communique of

The Imperial State of Iran

---

To: The Government of The Kingdom of Switzerland
From: Prime Minister and Great Shah of The Imperial State of Iran, Rezā Shāh

---

We of the Imperial State of Iran have recieved your message and are honored to be recognized by such a great European nation as yourself. We will also be honored to send our minister of foreign affairs, Muhammoud Gorbani, to said meeting to discuss the matters at hand.

We appreciate you kindness and are anxious to begin discussions.

Sincerely, The Great Shah, Rezā Shāh of Iran

[Aeken]

أول يناير، قصر السلطان، مسقط المركز، سلطنة عمان
(January first, the Sultan's Palace, Muscat Centre, the Sultanate of Oman

Oman had been flourishing in its newly established wealth by the hands of President Ali Al-Khaled, the current premier of the People's Republic of Oman. The revolution had done wonders for the nation, mainly due to the discovery of oil in the north. The Muscat Centre had also been growing at a high rate, where buisinesses and corporations continually traded in the Omani market. Most of Oman was in relative happiness, although there were hostilities growing in Gwadar, Oman's exclave on the Indian subcontinent, where the Balochi people constantly fought against the Gulf Arab majority that colonized the area years ago. Troops were positioned specially in Gwadar to prevent any sort of terrorism by both sides to subdue the conflict. The President, as knowledgeable as he seemed, did not enable a solution to occur.

---

Al-Khaled had just finished his manatory radio broadcast to the Muscat Centre when one of his aides altered him of the Swiss message.

"President, it seems that the Swiss are proposing a Eurasian trade agreement with the listed countries."

"Ah, yes. They would include the Italians. After all, they do own a profitable market in their north African chunk. But I will agree to it."

Al-Khaled summoned pen and paper immediately and began to draft his response to the Swiss.

To the Kingdom of Switzerland
From the People's Republic of Oman
إلى مملكة سويسرا
من جمهورية الصين الشعبية في عمان

Regarding the Issue of a possible Trade Zone
وفيما يتعلق بمسألة منطقة التجارة ممكن

Highly esteemed leader of the Swiss- President Ali Al-Khaled of the People's Republic of Oman would like to accept your offer of the agreement and will personally arrive to the meeting to discuss the terms for a Eurasian trade sphere.
والزعيم المحترم جدا من الرئيس علي السويسري الخالد من جمهورية الصين الشعبية في عمان ترغب في قبول عرضك للاتفاق وسيصل شخصيا إلى اجتماع لمناقشة شروط التجارة الأوروبية الآسيوية الكرة.

Allah Akbar
الله أكبر

President Ali Al-Khaled of the People's Republic of Oman
الرئيس علي الخالد من جمهورية الصين الشعبية في عمان

[Mishmahig]

5:45 pm, January 9th, 1920
Madison Square Garden, New York City
New York, United States of America

The setting sun shone over the buildings of New York City, casting shadows in the streets and spraying light over the tiled rooftops. The city thronged with thousands of people, hustling and bustling, shoving to and fro, hurrying back and forth. The air rumbled with the sound of motorcars, and the roar of steam engines filled the harbor. The veins of the city throbbed with the beat of commerce, as the wealth of the world flooded past, pouring into the coffers of American companies and businesses. Yet, despite their capitalistic foundations and hearts, New Yorkers were not uncultured brutes; they flocked to the presentations held by Lyceums, gawked at the World Fair exhibitions, gasped at the greatest works of art, and gazed upon the greatest archaeological treasures of the day. Today was no different, as thousands of citizens flooded the streets, heading for the latest and greatest in the passion that had so gripped America: eugenics.

The main hall of Madison Square Garden was filled with the murmur of hushed conversation and whispered discussion as the seats gradually began to fill up. Rank upon rank of New York elites descended upon the main floor, filling the hall with the twinkle of diamonds and the whisper of fur coats. The less fortunate occupied the balcony seats, where they whispered across to each other, craning to hear bits and pieces of muttered conversation from below. Occasionally, the din was punctuated by a shrill laugh, an occasion that occurred more and more as black-suited waiters whisked to and fro, carrying hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne on elegant silver platters. Throughout the seated crowds, one could spot foreign dignitaries, painfully out of place in the sea of Americans, despite composing a sizable minority. A group of Italians lurked near the front row, while a few lone French and German representatives sat sprinkled throughout the hall. A large contingent of Englishmen sat as a bloc, their signature bowler hats giving them away. At the front of the hall, a large stage took up a goodly chunk of room, groaning under the sheer amount of patriotic bunting that had been hung across the front. A series of chairs had been set up along the back end, and a group of smartly-dressed men and women milled in front of them, talking quietly and occasionally shooting quick glances out at the massive crowd.

At the appointed hour, six o'clock, the great bells of Madison Garden began to strike out the hour, and the crowd quieted, the last few guests rushing to their seats as the last bell pealed its message out across New York City. Stepping to the front of the podium, a smartly dressed young woman tapped the primitive microphone in front of here, smiling as a squeal of noise emanated from the primitive loudspeaker mounted at the end of the hall. Self-consciously patting her hair down with gloved hands, she extracted a sheaf of notes from her pocket, tapping it lightly on the podium as she waited for the last few murmurs to die down in the audience. Leaning forward, she began to speak, her clearly enunciated words audible over the hisses and pops of the loudspeaker system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, greetings. Welcome to the opening ceremony of the Second International Eugenics Conference."

She paused for a few moments as the assembled crowd erupted into cheers and applause, before subsiding briefly.

"My name is Margaret Sanger, and I have the honor of being the Coordinator of Affairs for this most noble institution. In addition, I am the Assistant Secretary of the National Eugenics Record Office, and the Assistant Undersecretary of Education in the upcoming administration. I tell you this not to flourish my own credentials, but to instead impress on you the seriousness of our stated mission here, as well as to demonstrate the commitment that America has to ensuring the racial purity of our countries, as well as the world around us."

"America has taken steps towards maintaining and protecting the racial purity of our people; the National Eugenics Record Office has established a network, a system if you will, of Fitter Family competitions. These, along with their younger partners, the Better Baby competitions, allow top eugenicists to measure the rough purity of the average American. By collecting this data, which will be released to all of you during this Conference, the National Eugenics Record Office can then take steps to correct what needs to be corrected, or prune what branches of the American tree that have grown wild and unruly. It is our belief that...."

As Margaret Sanger continued speaking, two people stood backstage, speaking quietly to each other, listening to the muffled sounds wafting through the thick curtains that hid them from the audience. They stood rather formally, the woman fussing with the lapels of the man's suit, whispering so as to not be heard by the armed guard three feet away. They were, arguably, the most powerful people in America: the President-elect, and his wife, Charlie and Mildred Chaplin, yet for all their power and success, only the First Lady was calm and composed; Chaplin, on the other hand, looked small and rather bewildered. Slightly agitated, he kept fidgeting until Mildred tapped him lightly on the chest, whereupon he looked at his wife with a most pained expression on his face and whispered:

"Is this right?"

"What do you mean, Charlie?" Mildred said. "Of course it's right; you've worn that suit to every political rally--it should be perfectly fine."

"No, no, not the suit," Chaplin said dismissively. "This! This whole...thing!" he said, gesturing to the backstage, the curtain, and by extension, the audience beyond. "This whole Conference thing leaves a rather foul taste in my mouth. Are we sure it's the right thing?"

"Charlie Chaplin," said the First Lady, kissing the President lightly on the cheek, "This will be what you are remembered for. Your bold words. Your strong and determined actions. Future generations will look backwards upon this moment, Charlie, and they will remember you as the strongest and most confident President America has ever known. Do not be troubled by these doubts---all great men have them. Only a fool is utterly confident that what he does is right."

"Still, Mildred. Can you truly tell me these fears are unfounded?"

The First Lady paused and pursued her lips for a few seconds. "No. But I can say this--there are over eight thousand of your citizens out there, and thousands more will flood the exhibitions over the next few days. There will be dozens of scientists presenting hundreds of papers--scientists, Charlie, with establish credentials, from the top schools in America. Do you honestly think that all these people can be wrong?"

"No, no, you're right as always, Mildred," Chaplin said, sighing slightly. "It's just all these niggling fears--they worm away at me, night and day. I can't get a moment's peace, and I-I, I sometimes wonder if I know what the hell I'm doing."

"Charlie Chaplin," the First Lady said again, this time more firmly, looking deep into Chaplin's eyes. "You will be one of America's greatest presidents----I swear upon my dear mother's soul. How could you, such a wonderful, marvelous man, not be? Now," she said, hearing the change in the audience's reaction outside, and tugging Chaplin's lapels straight once more, "go, and change the world!"

"It is my sincere pleasure to introduce, our future leader, and the 29th President of the United States, Charlie Chaplin!" Sanger said, stepping back from the podium amid rousing applause. Bounding onto the stage, Chaplin fixed his trademark smile on his face, and waved vigorously at the cheering crowd. Walking to the podium, he shook hands briskly with Ms. Sanger before turning once more to the crowd, which redoubled its cheering, until the very rafters shook with the din. Waving his hands to calm the crowd, he waited a few minutes before leaning in to the microphone to speak.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that most enthusiastic response," which of course, prompted yet another bout of cheering and applause. Chaplin let this die down, smilingly good-naturedly the whole time, before beginning anew. "Thank you. Now, let us begin.

"The world is in a state of flux. With the dawn of a new decade comes new ideas, new people, new things, and above all, new principles. Yet, even as we seek to embrace such newness," Chaplin began, reaching inside his coat to extract his notes, "we must also remember the old. We are the United States of America, founded on the three guiding principles of that age: Freedom, liberty, and justice. Our forefathers, and their forefathers before them, sought to build a country on those ideals, working diligently and eternally to codify such principles into our nation, and for the most part, they succeeded, and America has reaped the benefits. We have grown rich through following such ideals, and our power has expanded as well."

Chaplin paused before licking his lips nervously and flipping to the next sheaf of notes, conscious of every eye in the audience staring fixedly at him. "Yet, even as we have grown rich and powerful through such ideals, we have also grown fat, fat and complacent. We have allowed decadence to seep back into our world. We have allowed dangerous ideals to roost in our home, our families, our people. I speak, of course, of the dangers of impurities in the American race. It is known that darker blood, more pigmented blood, leads to a host of dangers in the population. Kidnapping. Larceny. Assault on both god-fearing men and women. Insanity. Physical mutations. This is not an opinion; these are scientifically validated facts, supported by years and years of research by dozens of scientists from different countries, and they have come to one conclusion: the American tradition has failed."

"In the past, America arose from a great 'melting pot,' so to speak, of hundreds of different cultures and ideas, from dozens of different countries and peoples. We were proud of this fact; we flaunted it, cherished it, prized it. We were wrong to do so. Such actions, such absorptions and acceptance allowed the impure races to mix and merge with the American people, forever delivering impurities into our race. The problems that plague our great nation---the recession of 1918; the quarrelsome Indians; the rising crime rate---these are all problems originating from the impurities in our country. These impurities should never have been allowed to arise in the first place, but they have. We must deal with them quickly and efficiently, so as to allow the American race to rise, unfettered and unrestrained."

"Throughout this Conference, you will hear a variety of ideas and proposals, some of them radical, many of them not. Some may seem to be unreasonable, or implausible, or inconceivable, but I urge you---remain open. These people, these noble scientists and eugenicists, they are working diligently to preserve America, to protect our future, our race, from undesired contamination, and I urge each and every one of you to do what you can to support them in their noble quest. To my citizens, my fellow countrymen, I call upon you to defend the American people from undesired contamination from sources both inside and outside the United States. Petition your Congressman, and ask him---no, tell him---to act to defend America now! The future and prosperity of the American people is at stake, and your government has begun to act. The National Eugenics Record Office has begun the process, and now it is up to Congress, the voice and will of the people, to do the same, to act to remove the threat before it does too much damage."

"But enough of such talk; for now, let us take this time to honor those who have already toiled and sacrificed so much to preserve the integrity of American blood, as well as our friends overseas who have acted similarly in their own countries. To all of you, I offer my personal thanks, and those of my family, for all that you do. Your work may not be as visible as the workers and soldiers in the factories and battlefields, but it is no less urgent, and certainly no less important. To those of you who do this, we give our thanks and eternal appreciation," Chaplin said, finishing his speech and stepping back from the podium, clapping as he did so. The crowd surged as one, rank upon rank of people lurching to their feet, cheering and applauding as they did so, until plaster began to drift from the already-shaken rafters.

After a few minutes of this din, Margaret Sanger returned to the podium, her gloved hands patting softly as she applauded and shook Chaplin's hand, leaning in to mutter a few words that were lost in the cacophony. Waving for some silence, she plastered a smile on her face as she waited for the noise level to diminish before continuing.

"Thank you, Mr. President, for those excellent words. Now, for the rest of the Conference, there are a series of lectures planned, including Professor Davenport's The Effect of Race Intermingling, Professor Laughlin's The Origin and Control of Mental Defectiveness, and Doctor Danielson's The Racial Element in both Religion and National Vitality. From overseas, we have Professor Herman Lundborg, of the Swedish Embassy, presenting his paper on Eugenics and Racial Hygiene. These lectures will be staggered throughout the next three days in the major Lyceum Halls, and will be announced extensively ahead of time. In addition, screenings of the latest moving picture by D. W. Griffith, Birth of a Nation will be shown each evening at the close of the day's activities. Please, enjoy your stay here, and do not hesitate to inquire further into various topics. Remember, we're all here to build a better world for each and every one of us," she said, stepping back from the podium and smiling.

As the crowd began to break up into coherent groups, merging and clustering together, the chatter of animated discussion filled the air, and the black-suited waiters made another appearance, clearing away the chairs and bringing out long tables full of various delicacies. Smiling and beaming, Chaplin made his way to the side, where Mildred was waiting with the service agent. Offering his wife his arm, he began walking past the various groups, pausing occasionally to talk and shake a few hands. Pausing to snatch a small canape off a passing platter, Chaplin popped it into his mouth, chewing quickly as his wife quickly negotiated him past a few more groups of awestruck fans.

[Garwall]

Somewhere outside of Astara, Persia
The Caspian Sea, Russian Destroyer Nikola
January 14st, 1920
Dawn Hours

"Admiral on deck!"

The sailors snapped to attention, forming two columns saluting Flotilla Admiral Viktor Suvorov: a short, stout man clothed in a long trench coat bearing the Imperial markings, as well as several medals crowned for participating as a volunteer officer in various foreign conflicts. He viewed the crew with disdain. "They tremble too much," he remarked to a nearby officer, who nodded. "I can understand why soldiers would get nervous when their commanding Officer orders them to breach a foreign nation's territorial waters," stated the officer, staring straight ahead. Suvoruv waved his hand in dismissal. "At ease." The crowd relaxed. The Admiral gestured to a small speck in the distance, closer to land. "That is Astara, a Persian city. You must know how to operate so close to within the range of foreign cities, which is why I brought you out here today."

Suvorov sauntered towards a small crate on the deck, kicking it open with his foot, and withdrawing a small artillery shell, of French origin. "We are within range of Persian artillery," he announced with a smile. "In a possible wartime situation, you must be ready to operate under the threat of enemy fire." He tossed the shell nonchalantly towards a crowd of soldiers, which nearly toppled overboard as the shell hit the deck next to them with a metallic thud.

"Let's take her in closer", remarked the Admiral to the attending officer. "B-but Sir, we are already violating Persian territorial waters, are you sure this is wise--" The Admiral turned abruptly. "Bring us in closer. Just close enough so the wharf workers will see the Russian flag flying so close to their precious city." He walked away, muttering to himself. "Damn Persians. Not even worthy of the fleas that share the dirt with them."

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg
Grand Duchy of Novgorod, Russian Empire
January 14th, 1920
Mid-day

The Tsar sat at a table of thick mahogany, two glasses and a pitcher of wine sitting in the center of the table. His eyes were thick with boredom, eyeing a map of the provinces of the Russian Empire, divided between the Novgorod dominions and Muscovite principalities. His eyes did not move from the map when the opening and closing of a door shattered the silence. "I told you not to be late anymore when I summoned you, Sergei."

The man, no taller than five and a half feet, fiddling with a finely combed head of hair entered the room shaking his head. His name was Sergei Ivanovich, one of Russia's finest diplomats. He sat down across from the Tsar, setting down a small briefcase. "Your highness, with all due respect, it is quite rude to rip an Ambassador from his... Duties", he finished, with ambiguity. "You mean courting my Cousin's daughter?" he mentioned dryly, looking at the man. The Ambassador seemed quite embarrassed. "I did not know you were familiar that George's daughter was in the country, your Highness." Alexander smiled, and shook his head. "I know everything. And for the things I don't know, my attendants know. Which is why I called upon you today."

The Ambassador nodded. "Very well. What do you need assistance with, my Lord?" The Tsar gestured towards the map of Russia, closer towards its western borders. "It has been some time since I have warmed the throne, since I have heard word from our Bulgarian friends. I understand that they have been long-standing friends of the Romanovs, have they not?" The Ambassador nodded. "Yes, their diplomats visit the city often, as well as members of the Royal Family from time to time." Alexander frowned. "How come I am never informed of this?" Sergei shrugged. "You never bothered to read their Christmas cards, what would you have to talk about with the Bulgarian Royal Family?" Alexander stood abruptly from his seat. "You mean I've been getting Christmas cards from them all this time, and I've never returned a single one?"

Sergei smiled. "They get a card every year of you and the Empress, two weeks in advance before the 25th, signed by the Tsar himself." Alexander sat back down, slightly dazed. "I forget sometimes how good you are, Sergei. You learn things every day, even being Tsar for more than a decade." He gestured towards the pitcher, and they proceeded to pour themselves each a glass of wine. "Regardless of this Christmas card matter, It has been too long since we have had true Bulgarian dignitaries seated in the Palace. Hell, Russia could come to blows with half of Europe tomorrow, and they wouldn't even lift a single rifle in protest." Sergei took a sip, and proceeded. "What do you propose, my Lord?"

Alexander raised from his seat, and sauntered towards the map. "My father... My father was good friends with the Aeschvin Empire, he made sure we had a strong ally in the Balkans. He slid on the ring, and it seems I failed to arrive at the wedding. I am a fool for letting our relations stagnate as such. Did you bring some paper?"

The diplomat tapped the briefcase, drawing fancifully gilded paper, a well of ink, and a pen, as well as the Tsar's official seal. "I never leave home without these instruments. Forging the Tsar's signature can come quite in handy, especially when you tend to gamble as much as I."

Official Communique of the Imperial States of the Crowns of Muscovy and Novgorod, united underneath His Royal Highness, Tsar Alexander IV of Russia

To: The Aeshvin Empire
From: Tsar Alexander IV of Russia

Greetings, life-long friends, fellow Slavs, and comrades. It has been far too long since we have met and re-affirmed the pacts that have united our two glorious Empires in the past. It is a sin that such strong bonds of faith and friendship have been left to stagnate and rot over the years, an act that I assume full responsibility for allowing to take place. I seek to rectify this lack of communication with due haste.

Therefore, with the powers vested in me as Tsar, I formally extend an invitation of friendship and goodwill to all diplomats, ambassadors, foreign dignitaries and members of the Royal Family of the Empire of Aeschvin. May our friendship be ever-lasting, under the loving watch of God.

Signed,
Tsar Alexander Alexandrovich IV of Russia

[Unicario]

January 9, 1920
Madison Square Garden

As Chaplin walked on stage, Benito Mussolini, Nikola Tesla, Gugliemo Marconi, Alessandra Garibaldi and Joseph Kennedy all sat in their seats in the front as representatives of foreign governments themselves. Listening to the speech given by Chaplin and the itinerary for today, the five representatives raised an eyebrow at the mention of Birth of a Nation. Mussolini had seen that moving picture recently as it had been shown for one night only at the University of Rome as part of an American Studies segment... It had made him nearly throw his wine at the picture screen.

He also looked over his shoulder, in this country, he was an enemy... The leader of the anti-Catholic, and the supporter of liberalism in such a Catholic country.

He adjusted his collar and kept an eye on things. He stepped forward and caught up with Chaplin and spoke in broken English up, "It's very good to meet you, Mister Chaplin. I'm Benito Mussolini, Prime Minister of the Italian Republic." He grinned and extended his hand, "Can-a we talk privately? I'm on here than-a just more than eugenics, y'see? I'm here to-a restore relations that have lacked since-a my predecessors."

[Neros]

January 1st, 1920
Stockholm, Sweden

Gustav V, King of Sweden, walked with a relaxed pace in his garden at the Drottningholm Palace, the personal residence of the Royal Family, observing his snow-ridden greenery with distaste. Flanking him where two Jägare Marines (known as J3), dressed in gentlemen-like suits. They were an elite force, heavily trained and deadly, but these men got perhaps the least favorite and most boring job of the force: Protecting the King.

Gustav V however, tried to brighten their day. “Perhaps you could fight to the death.” He said with a smirk, grabbing a wilted tulip with a bit of frost on it. The King was fond of jokes, and the guards grew to expect it.

“We cannot do that, Highness. A loss of one of your personal guard would put your security at risk.” A guard said dryly.

Gustav V contained a smile. “Very well,” He said, taking a look at his garden again, a frown growing on his face. “This is depressing me. Let’s go back inside.” He began walking back up the steps to his residence, his hands tucked away in his pockets. “I have much to attend to, it seems. I cannot just procrastinate with my work for much longer, I suppose.” He continued, walking through the doors and stomping his boots on the rug. He calmly took off his jacket and gave it to a butler. He began to transverse his palace, coming upon his personal study.

“Ah, you’re back. Did you enjoy your walk?” An Advisor said as the King entered his study.

“Only slightly, I’m afraid. What’re you doing here, Frans?” The King said, plopping down in his chair.

“A telegram came for you. From Switzerland.” The Advisor said, handing the envelope to the King. The King promptly opened it, and began to read its’ contents. He breathed a sigh, and placed it on the desk.

“It’s a meeting of sorts, of which I am invited. I must attend, send them confirmation.”

“Very well, sir.”

Kingdom of Sweden and Colonial Possessions

To: Kingdom of Switzerland, King Jeton
From: Kingdom of Sweden, King Gustav V
Contents:

I humbly accept the invitation and shall make travel preparations to attend. As I have full trust in the Riksdag to continue government affairs in my stead, I shall personally attend and provide insight where applicable.

Signed,
Gustav V of Sweden

January 1st, 1920
Near Fort Buske, Swedish Afrika

Commander Bjoern Frisk held firm to the dashboard of the Army Car, the shaky roads of the Far Lands would make even the most hardened sailor sick. To the side of the road a few groups of soldiers were marching the same direction that the car was headed. With them, rifles of various models due to the unpredictable nature of the Savanna, but most notable was the Swedish Model 1905 Repeater to be used by Irregular Forces, but found its greatest use against the tribesmen of Swedish Afrika and the dangerous animals found in the inlands of the colony.

Frisk took a deep breath of the Savanna air. "Halt." He yelled, causing the driver to slam the brakes entirely too hard, throwing the Commander off balance a bit. Visibly pissed and flashing the driver a sour glance, he hopped out of the car and made his way to a tent off the side of the road. "Commander of Group 2 East, Bjoern Frisk, requesting entrance." He said, stopping outside of the tent.

"Granted." A deep, heavy Swedish voice called. Strange, it sounded a bit foreign as well. Frisk entered, and to his surprise, saw a black man looking over a map of the geography of the land, with a few aids giving suggestions and making guesses as to where Kgosi Gwandoya, the notorious leader of the Namib Uprising of 1910, might be hiding. The black man looked up from the map, and noticed the Commanders' surprise. "Lt. General of the Afrikan Militia, Josef Baako. Welcome."

"I, uh...thank you, sir." Frisk said, nodding to the Lt. General. He had heard of black officers since the Military Act of 1904 that established equality for military men in the Colonies, but had not seen nor met one, and was quite surprised to see that an African was delegated to such a task, as the Revolt was only 10 years ago and he could have some....ties with the rebels.

"Before your mind begins to wander, I was educated and trained in the fatherland, Sweden. I have loyalty to God and King, and have no family in Afrika." He smiled, showing all of his pearly white teeth. "I hope this will not be a problem, Commander."

Frisk straightened up, thinking that he should treat this man as his commanding officer than a colonial subject due to his military obligation. "No, sir."

"Good. I have your orders here." He said, grabbing a folder from the table with "G 2 E" marked in charcoal. "You will be entering the wildlands a few miles to the east. From there, we have no fort, hell, civilization of any kind is hundreds of miles away in all directions. Once you reach the point dictated, establish an outpost before continuing operations." Frisk was reading through the folder, making mental notes when needed.

"What of supplies?"

The Lt. General chuckled. "The Afrika Korps can live off the land, no?" Frisk was taken aback, but before he could answer, the Lt. General continued. "Supplies will be transferred as soon as the outpost goes up. Your initial provisions should last 3 months for your group, which is more than amble time. Also, if you could make contact with some tribes in the area, we could find a peaceful one at some point to support you if things get hairy. Dismissed."

"Yessir." Frisk said, exiting the tent into the moderately warm air. Flagging down another car, he hopped in and directed him in the direction of his groups' position.

[Vortiaganica]

Welcome to Iceland, intellectual capital of the world.

For centuries, Iceland has been ruled by its parliament, the Althingi, which traces a lineage all the way to 930 - one of the oldest continuing political bodies in the world. The Althingi of January 1, 1920, is run by newly elected King Aesgeir Asgeirsson, Minister of the Church of Iceland, just one in a centuries old line of University of Reykjavik alumni heads of state, boasting a Bachelor's in Theology (Honours).

And for its tenure, the Althingi has been responsible for running the affairs of a small nation of only 95,000 citizens. However, it does exercise some global influence - how?

How would such a small nation in such an out-of-the-way location be so successful for so long?

Capitalism, and the power of intellectualism.

---

The Icelandic Steamship Company is Iceland's gateway to the world. For a few years now, it has played a key role in the Atlantic shipping routes between North America into Europe - from New York to Iceland and then to various north European operators based from Reykjavik, its interests represented by the Maritime Tradesmen Union, a political lobby, in New York. Its interests are varied - among others, it also supports the Icelandic Steamship Company's relations with the highly important Icelandic universities and the major Icelandic bank - the Bank of Iceland, operating internationally.

The Icelandic Steamship Company currently runs under the helm of Emil Nielsen, executive manager.

At its beck and call is a fleet of ocean-faring vessel, the likes of which many other nations have never seen.

---

New York
The Icelandic Steamship Company Transatlantic Americas Headquarters

A young American lady placed a final flower of indiscriminate origin in the vase on the dark wood table that took up so much of the room. Another
dusted the chairs, with Icelandic woolen upholstery. A few of them were still occupied - blonde Icelandic executives peering over pages of legal gibberish, one of them surreptitiously filling out a form to update his contact details with the Maritime Tradesmen Union membership list.

A silver platter was still home to a few small open-face sandwiches.

A monthly operations meeting had just ended - the formulation of ISCTA's operations for the rest of the month and the year, and its official statement of sponsorship to the Maritime Tradesmen Union had been drafted.

This month, the Maritime Tradesmen Union will be expecting the University of Iceland to release its preliminary findings on Icelandic racial purity, to appease the fanatic thirst for eugenics in the United States of America, Iceland's major trading partner. It certainly seema subscribing to the idea would be a prudent business move, so barring the existence of mitigating academic research, it is in Iceland's best interests to put some effort into encouraging the idea.

In addition, the Maritime Tradesmen Union will be communicating with its contacts in the New York political scene, regarding America's curious predisposition to silence in international affairs. Perhaps a grotesque exaggeration, but anything that would serve as an impetus for the United States to influence its neighbours and create openings for the shipping industry will only assist the US, and Iceland. Already, Mexico and the US discuss joint endeavor in the field of oil extraction. More open borders between the two nations could possibly give the ISC the space it needs to expand across the Americas - into the lucrative but notoriously difficult Asian markets.

[Katyuscha]

Jan. 14th, 1920
Astara, Persia
Coast Guard
Dawn Hours

"Russians spotted off the coast!" Screamed a Persian coast guard as he ran accross the deck toward the Admiral's quarters. He opened the door quickly to find Rear Admiral Omar Gorbanni starring out of the window at the incomming Russian destroyer. Unlike the rest of the Coast Guard which was scuttling and shiffling around the beach, preparing for a Russian attack, the Admiral was calm and collected.

"Sir!" The soldier started. "That Russian Destroyer is headed straight for the city!"

The Admiral turned toward the paniced soldier. "Yes, I can see that, private." He retorted "Now, return to your post. I'll deal with the situation."

"Yes, sir." responed the soldier who quickly shuffled back to his post. Grobanni made his way out of the room and into the open air, where he could hear the whispers and murmers of Persian soldiers betting on whether the Russian Destroyer would be sunk or spared. He made his way to the artillery post, where he met with the artillery officer, a tall, unpleasant looking man stood, binoculars in hand, watcing the Destroyer get ever closer. "What do you suppose we do with it?" the artillery Officer grunted, keeping his eyes on the ship.

"Send them a message ordering them to turn m\back now or face deadly force. These Russians don't know the meaning of the word Boundries".

The message was sent.

---

Warning
You have breached Persian Territorial Waters
Turn back now, or you will be met with deadly force

Repeat: Turn back now or be met with deadly force

[Garwall]

Somewhere outside of Astara, Persia
The Caspian Sea, Russian Destroyer Nikola
January 14st, 1920
Dawn Hours

The Persian message was communicated to a stoic Viktor Suvorov. "Bring her up even with the city," he barked. "But sir," a soldier exclaimed, "They will think we are preparing to bombard them!" Viktor shook his head. "No, because our guns will be angled upwards in the opposite direction--that's also an order," he stated. "The Caspian Sea is Russian. Hundreds of Russian sailors have done as we do now, do not fear. The Persians risk calling the thunder of the entire Imperial Army, they wouldn't dare even point a paper rifle in our direction."

The men were scrambling on the deck, re-orienting the large guns away from the city, as the Destroyer continues its lofty cruise atop the Caspian. "We will continue at this speed and latitude for the next hour, before returning to Astrakhan. This is a training exercise, mind you--if it were the real deal, we would already be home for supper--and Astara would be a crater."

Suvorov stared at the small city in the distance, unmoved by the potential threat he faced.

[Sorisati]

City of Gracemeria
Capitol Building
January 14th, 1920
http://searcharchives.vancouver.ca/uplo ... A06941.jpg

Prime Minister Bail Marshall sat at his desk, reviewing the latest details submitted by the foreign affairs office of the ongoings of the world. The new year had started out well, the past two weeks of 1920 had been relatively uneventful aside from a ship that was set ablaze in the Gracemeria harbour by a malfunctioning New Years Eve firework. For the rest of the world, the same could not be said. The eugenics conference in New York City had begun. A few representative scientists had been allowed to attend upon their request, despite parliament's disapproval. The Federation of Cascadia was founded by immigrants from around the world, and continues to accept them. Eugenics would obviously offend the diverse people of Cascadia; the parliament looked on the conference with disdain, seeing it as an unholy and slightly whimsical dream of self-absorbed, conceited nations. In other news Switzerland had called a mass meeting of several trading partners, which would surely have some effect on the Cascadian economy due to her vast exports of raw materials to the more industrialized nations. This meeting would be watched closely, despite Cascadia's exlclusion from the summit. Bail sat back, the world would continue to spin on. It upset him that the well-being of his people depended on the actions of others. Neutrality had always been the key position of the Cascadian government and, Bail believed, it would save his people from the turmoils of the rest of the world.

Bail noticed the latest reports of a short skirmish on the American border. He turned to Clark Soto, Commander of the Cascadian defense forces,"Another attempt to sneak through the passes?" Soto nodded, "Yes sir. The latest skirmish was inconsequential though, only 4 casualties, none fatal. The Americans are still testing our defences to try and find some way through the Rockies. We have teams surveying our mountain borders 24/7, looking for and sealing potential cracks in our lines, but the work takes time. But as usual we're still just staring at each other over a line of peaks." Bail tossed the papers on the desk and stood up, "I think both sides are getting sick and tired of this pathetic border dispute, I'm going put through a proposal to parliament tomorrow to re-open diplomatic channels with the Americans. Perhaps we can take another stab at ending this eh? They need to realise that their "manifest destiny" stops at Cascadia."

[Katyuscha]

Jan. 14th, 1920
Astara, Persia
Coast Guard
Dawn Hours

The message seemd to fall upon deaf ears, as the Destroyer continued to make its way toward Astara, even going as far as orienting their ship's guns in the direction of the city.

"What the hell do they think they're doing!?" exclaimed the Artillery Officer, keepig his eyes uncomfortably trained on the Destroyer. They're practically begging to be sunk, now!"

"These Ruskies just don't know when to stop, do they?" stated the Gorbanni as hemoved closer to the edge of the artillery platform. "The Russians never did understand when their own boundries started and stopped.", he said. "Looks like we'll just have to remind them... Fire a warning shot off their port side." he shouted. The Artillery Officer hesitated. "I'm not sure that'd be the best ide-" he was cut off by a growingly impatient Gorbanni.

"I said fire a warning shot." The Artillery Officer obliged. The cannons were then aimed so that they were aiming only several yards away from the port side of the ship. "FIRE!" The ground shook as cannon fired a single round, which barreled into the water, just a few yards away from the ship, creating a large splash. The Persians awaited a Russian response.

[Garwall]

Somewhere outside of Astara, Persia
The Caspian Sea, Russian Destroyer Nikola
January 14st, 1920
Dawn Hours

Suvorov frowned, tilting his ear towards the city. "Do you hear that?" he turned to a nearby sailor, questioningly. The man opened his mouth to respond, but was abruptly and harshly cut off by the explosion of the shell, mere feet away from the frigate.

The shock of the shell rocked the ship from side to side, and was met with frantic yells and shouts from the crew. Two sailors tumbled overboard, taken completely aback by the assault on the ship. "Men overboard!" the cry went up and down the deck, and two of the stronger swimmers hopped in after the two men. Another pair scurried for a rope ladder to help hoist the men back to the ship once they surfaced.

Surovov regained his composure, nearly tumbling over himself, appearing stunned. His shock was quickly converted to cold fury. "All guns port-side! Prepare to return fire on my mark!" One sailor rushed towards him, grabbing the Admiral's cuff. "Sir, with all due respect, you're asking us to fire on a foreign city! There are innocent people in there!" The Admiral turned to the soldier, and delivered a quick, sharp strike across the man's face with the back side of his hand, and kicked the man down to his back. "Insubordination, sailor." He turned to two other sailors, staring at him with blank faces. "Don't just stand there, god damn-it! Take this traitor to the brig!"

The trio rushed off. Suvorov was not stupid. He would not fire just yet. He grinned. "Make your move, you brown bastards. Fire on us again, I dare you."

[Mondrova]

January 14th - Prime City - Sofia Palace - Emperors Office

The Emperor stretched tiredly as he sat in his chair, a venerable throne, made of Redwood and cushioned with fine cotton pillows, stuffed with pheasant feathers. He then gave a slight yawn before returning his hands to his lap, and letting his eyes gaze over the map stretched before him. It sat almost lazily atop a large mahogany table, and on the map was a collection of finely drawn borders, geographic features, and carefully colored countries, giving an over view of Eastern Europe. His eyes landed on the Empire, appropriately colored in a dark purple, the color of the royal family. Adjacent to it was a deep red, symbolizing the Russian Empire, as well as a plain Grey for the nation of Germany, and a vile green given to the Italian holdings in the Empires lands. However, truthfully, the Emperor has lost interest in these colors and borderlines a while ago, not long after the meeting he was in started. Instead, he found himself mesmerized by the paper upon which the map was illustrated. It seemed to him to be so alluringly soft, so fine and dare he say it, creamy. Much like a dream, he longed to touch it, but felt, that to do so would bring only disappointment. So, he merely looked on, wonderingly at that map before him, a cozy silence surrounding him.

"My Emperor? Emperor? Ughh, MY EMPEROR, PLEASE!" Thus the silence was disturbed and the emperors head abruptly shot up, his eyes blinking furiously as if to give the look of a man who had been perfectly attentive all along. He cleared his throat, attempting a poor try at distracting the man from the situation. "Ahh, yes Zlata, sorry, I merely was pondering something concerning the map. I apologize." This was quite the unusual site indeed, the Emperor apologizing so meaningfully to another, much as if he was not infinitely superior to this man, Zlata. However, in the eyes of the Emperor, Zlata, surname Myuchova, was worthy of this respect. For this figure, clad in all black seemingly at all times, with his often expressionless face with the small scar on his pale face, was the head of Nyokovi, the Empires secret police, and certainly the second most powerful man in the nation, and if not, certainly the most feared. However, this man, known in every town and city as the most coldhearted man to ever live, even more surprisingly, simply grinned.

"Yes, of course you were Aeschvin, probably pondering battle plans as I speak are you not?" The Emperor merely raised his hands in a questioning way, "what can I say Zlata? I mean, this meeting of ours, as invaluable as they are, and I do mean this, they drag on and on and on, for what seems like eternity! I simply cannot keep interest in it at all times. I'm used to banquets, gossip of the highest order, praise, and glory, not the finer details of the underground police network or of our informant system. And, while I may enjoy strategy, you know I'm no general, or at least no one good enough to consider every single little variable." This of course was a lie, for the Emperor was in fact very fond of all of what Zlata talked about, and loved thinking about it. His only problem was that Zlata simply piled it all on at once, and Aeschvin simply despised lectures.

Zlata shrugged. "I cannot do much about this Aeschvin, you know that. So please, for the Empires sake, for your families sake, listen at least to the most important news. Like this, what I'd just been talking about. It's all about the Slovakian invasion, which as well you know, we have been planning for years. We have spent years spying on them, establishing informant networks, and planning, accounting for every variable all the while their economy fell as the fools pumped everything into their military." The Emperor let out a deep breath, "Look, I know Zlata, this is important. It's just, I'm not the way I was all those years ago when I first was crowned, we've grown into different lifestyles. Still, I refuse to allow a man of my stature to act so impudently. Do go on, I will listen." Zlata nodded and then produced a fairly thick file slapping it on the map and pointing to the Empirical-Slovak border.

"Well, as I was saying, we have spent years planning, gathering information, thinking of all the possible variables, and given the way the world is for the moment, we have decided plan H is the best way for us to go. In the simplest of terms, the plan involves the utilization of our informants and our agents of subterfuge to destabilize the region. We have made a few powerful connections in the border provinces of this Slovak nation and believe that through a systematic series of bribes, political assassinations, and propaganda spreading, we can create enough strife to merit intervention in several of these border regions. After all, problems in these regions could effect us, the small Slovak population we have at the border begs for help, etc.... So we enter, subdue the region and then use this new lands to create disunity throughout the nation and hopefully generate some sort of war in which the Slovaks strike first. Thus allowing us a legitimate reason to retaliate and claim the rest of the nation. This is of course a gross oversimplification, but it is a road map of the plan. Your thoughts?"

"Well, naturally, I have faith in your plans Zlata, and have no doubt our agents can generate the needed affects, but I do have to ask about the nations industrial and production sectors for this conflict. Exactly how much...." The next words of the Emperor were then lost as a violent knocking was heard on the grand double door of the office. The door was then opened by an Imperial guard, most unusual as the Emperor had not requested the door opened. As soon as it was wide enough, a thin, almost wispy man came in, his eyes glowing with intelligence and his stride filled with confidence. His name Ivo Bealtza, a senior member of the Department of Foreign Affairs, and a lifelong friend on the Emperor. He had a excited look about him, so Aeschvin simply allowed these strange events to occur, wondering what had triggered them.

"Sorry to interrupt you your majesty and Lord Mychova, but this news is of the utmost importance, so much so that it could simply not wait. It is an official communique from our Slavic neighbors, singed by the Russian Czar himself. If you will allow I shall read it for you both." The emperor simply nodded. "Excellent", and so he read aloud the message, occasionally professing his excitement in odd sounds. "You see your eminence, it could simply not wait. I should imagine that you would like to respond immediately?" The Emperor looked to Zlata and then back to Ivo and nodded. "Sorry Zlata, we'll finish tomorrow. In the mean time, find out how much this will all cost, what amount of the nations industries will be diverted to supply this war, and so on." "Of course, I will get right on it." Ivo then handed the letter to Aeschvin and gave a curt bow, practically skipping off, probably thinking about how he would be able to more, what with him being in charge of the Russian diplomacy department. So, already knowing the contents of the letter, Aeschvin produced the kit in his drawer for just such an occasion, taking out his pen, paper, and sealing stamp.

Official Communique of the Aeschvin Empire, Lord High Ruler of the Balkan States, United Under his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Aeschvin VII

To: The Imperial State of Muscovy-Novgorod
From: Emperor Aeschvin VII of Bulgaria

I would like to first of all, profess my deepest joys at your offer of friendship, and most heartily accept. I would secondly wish to express similar feelings of regret at allowing our two mighty and proud nations, to drift apart, something that I, as Emperor of a fine nation like your own, and as a fellow Slav, must also take the blame for. I take a vow, and may it be known across that lands, that such negligence on my part shall never occur again, and that I shall work to strengthen the ties or Empires have.

As such, I accept, without hesitation, your most generous invitation of goodwill and comradery, and extend my own in return. I you would allow, I would like to send my son to your nation, so as to affirm these relations in the flesh, as well as one of my senior diplomats, so as to properly discuss this, surely prosperous friendship. May our unity be everlasting, and our nations forever strong.

Signed,
Emperor Aeschvin VII Phfazia of Bulgaria

[Sorisati]

January 15th, 1920
Capitol Building, Gracemeria

Minister of External Affairs, James Lancaster, fiddled with his pen, half-listening to the proposal being presented to parliament. Once again peace-talks would be attempted with the American government… As if anyone truly expected the Americans to agree, they’ve been war-mongering for decades, believing that the Cascadians were simply a stumbling block to a coast-to-coast domination of the North American continent. Lancaster waited for the closing remarks concerning the so-called diplomatic talks and then stood up, “Ladies and Gentlemen of Parliament, speaker of the house, today I bring to you some rather disturbing news. I’m sure most of you are aware of the growing Mormon population in the American state of Deseret. At first the rumours were simply held as just that, rumours. But now our intelligence has confirmed that Mormon leader Heber J. Grant is attempting to lead his people across the Cascadian border in an attempt to spread their… faith.” Whispering filtered through the room, one woman gasping quietly. Lancaster continued, “Obviously we cannot allow such action to be taken. For the sake of the people’s spiritual well-being, Grant must be stopped. I hereby recommend that the remaining immigration offices for the state of Deseret be closed.” A loud hear-hear came from the parliament and a soft applause greeted the minister’s ears.

After parliament adjourned, Prime Minister Marshall beckoned his minister of external affairs over to him and they walked to the Prime Minister’s office, an awkward silence over-shadowing them. Marshall sat down behind his massive redwood desk, “This Mormon situation is disturbing.” Lancaster sat down across from the prime minister, “agreed, but if they can’t get across our borders then no harm can be done. With the immigration offices closed and the borders naturally sealed due to the border conflict, we should have nothing to worry about.” Marshall sighed, “No, that is not enough. I have heard several accounts of this radical leader of theirs. Grant is tactful and too clever for his own good, he will find a way to spread this disease across our borders. He must be removed from his position of power.” Lancaster caught his breath, “With all due respect sir, surely you don’t mean an assassination.”
“Of course not, the last thing we need is an international incident on our hands. No, I’m asking you to contact the Cascadian Secret Service. Grant must be removed from Deseret and brought here, at least temporarily. Without a leader the Mormon threat will be rendered benign.”
Lancaster folded his hands on the desk and gave his old friend perhaps the most serious of looks he had ever given, “You realize that if our agents fail, the American government will be quick to shove artillery shells up our asses.”
“All the more reason to make sure the job is done right James. See it done.”
Lancaster stood up to leave, “Grant will be across the border in no time.”

Somewhere near the Cascadia-Deseret Border, January 16th 1920
00:30 hours

Captain Brandon Hock gazed across the shallow valley that marked the border between Cascadia and the American state of Deseret. It was a typical January night, damn cold. Hock thanked God for the cloud-cover, crossing the border would have been hell with that full moon bearing down on them. He looked back at his two comrades; Corporal Peter Vyn, long-time friend and sharpshooter looked back at him with that typical wild look in his eye, ready to dive into hostile territory as if it was his favourite past-time. Corporal Frank Kissinger was still fixing his snowshoes, “I hate wearing these damn things, I’m telling you, skis are the way to go.”
“Quit your whining ya big baby and hurry up, we’re waiting on you big man,” Pete walked silently over the soft snow to the captain’s side, “it’s about time we got a mission into the states, I've been ready to mix it up with the yanks ever since that bull-shit up at Lillouette.”
Brandon grinned at his friend, “If only. Remember, we’re not to engage American forces unless all else fails, so keep your trigger finger tied.”
“You got it cap. Hey Frankie lets go, we’re set to cross the border in ten.”
“Get off my ass Pete, usually you’re the one we’re waiting on princess. Okay I’m good to go, let’s shake it up.”
The trio, clad in white, strode across the snow toward the valley. The captain planned to cross the border in the more heavily forested part of the valley, ensuring that they would not get caught. Getting in would be the easy part. Getting out would be a whole new ball-game altogether. Captain Hock kissed the small silver crucifix hanging around his neck, whispered a prayer, and led his comrades into the forest.