His attire would hardly be considered appropriate for a meeting of the magnitude of this one. Of course, he hadn't grabbed and held onto power for twenty-eight years by toeing in line with norms or expectations. And besides, he thought, he was old enough and worn enough that he didn't much care. As he stood, leaning against a window-sill, waiting for the cars with the dignitaries of the Gratenburg Pact nations to arrive, he mused on how he'd gotten to where he was today.
Not the Isle of Draakurr, the Federal Republic's newest state. That was a relatively-simple matter. A flight out of Dunnmaar, where he'd been visiting a friend, a connection in Varangian Gates International in Byzantinoupolis, before landing in the island's eponymous city. From there, he'd taken a waiting government car to the villa, furnished by the Ufdraakurrs, the island's royal family for the purposes of the conference. And now here he was, watching the snow fall on an empty driveway.
No, what bore pondering was how he'd become the emissary of a (more-or-less) democratic government after spending close to three decades as one of Tyrrhenia's autocrats. Even beyond that, how he'd gone from the son of a steelworker and a secretary, part of a typical lower-middle-class family, to, arguably, even now, the most powerful individual person in the Allamunnic States. And how he'd become the right-hand man of its first democratically-elected leader, and was about to watch even that role diminish. And how his place in the society had become so unquestioned, his loyalty to his country so beyond reproach, that he could be trusted to go, almost by himself, to the country's outer regions and meet emissaries.
The way he'd gotten there, he thought he'd finally realized, had been through nothing more than simple patriotism. Well, patriotism and loyalty, a need to see his country take its place as one of the powers of the world, to realize its potential to be a shining example of a civilized society for the world to see. He hadn't always been successful, but the purpose had always been there, and it remained there now, in the casually-dressed man.
Steven Grimmeberger's over-coat was dark grey, and just a little bit of a throwback to his military days. Under it, there was a plain, slightly-lighter grey t-shirt, and along with his snow boots he wore a pair of blue jeans. A webbing belt and a revolver were at his hip; even as a ruler, he'd never managed to shake the need to feel the weight on his hip. All in all, it's not conference attire. He didn't care. He wasn't a diplomat. The last forty years or so were more than evidence of that. A soldier, yes. An administrator, yes. But never a diplomat.
Thankfully, the Federal government had also sent one of those. The diplomat, in fact. John Anderson, the Secretary of State, had accompanied him on the excursion to Draakurr. He was dressed the part, too, and looked a little more anxious than Grimmeberger. Not very anxious, but slight tension was noticeable.
Perhaps that was what had made Anderson a good enough diplomat to get himself to the top of the Diplomatic Office, and then some. It wasn't like he hadn't done this hundreds of times over a four-decade-long career. Yet he approached every meeting with care and tact, almost meticulous in his making sure that he did not offend or misspeak. That meticulousness showed through in a lot of things; he didn't have a hair out of place at the moment, and his speech had a certain precision that Grimmeberger wouldn't even dream of imitating.
Anderson pulled out a genuine, old-fashioned pocket watch from his pocket. He checked the time briefly, and announced "Twelve-oh-one. They are late." A small smile quirked at his lips. Even if many thought the man had a stick up his butt, he still had a sense of humor. "Oh, the shame. I do not think they will ever live it down." Dry sarcasm drifted in his voice.
Grimmeberger made a noise that could only be described as a snort. "I'm sure they, just like the rest of us, will learn to live with it, John. Besides. The weather's shit. The Draakurrae have no idea how to drive in snow. And that's pedantic, even by your standards." He cocked an eyebrow and gave a wry smile to the diplomat. A knowledgeable observer might have noticed the slip of the Piekslynder accent Grimmeberger had once had, but that he had largely lost as he lost his exposure. However, he'd been talking to Skraelings for the last few days, and nothing brought out Piekslynder accents like exposure to similar mannerisms. The slurring of consonants and the way "weather" was pronounced "waether" were pretty par for the course.
Anderson chuckled. "It is. But still, you know I have a quota to meet each day. I am a bit behind, having not spoken much to anyone today." Again, that precision of speech. He pushed his round glasses up his nose a little bit. A motion out the window caught his eye. "Ah, there we go. It would appear that our opposite numbers have arrived. Shall we greet them?"
The old Generalissimo's laugh sounded oddly like a dog's bark. It was the biggest reason he was still known to some as "the Old Wardog." He leaned forward and yanked the door open perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary. "You first," he said. Anderson stepped carefully onto the cleared door-step, Grimmeberger following, buttoning his coat as he went.
