Palascez goranduern,
Turin,
Celeria,
The Greater Vakolicci Haven
His Celari Majesty, King Blacksen I of Celeria swiped his arm back as he had been taught in
the days of his youth, back when grizzled old men had taught the young Prince, as he had
then been, how to throw a javelyn or grenade. He stood, held his right arm behind him,
placed his left foot forward and turned into the swing, bringing his arm forward with the
strength that only a professional athlete such as himself could muster. The alarm clock
arked through the air, a true and unwavering projectile before hitting the wall with a
satisfying cracking noise. Now satisfied, his morning anger finally satiated, he sat on the
side of his bed and prepared to go through his plans for the day.
Prepared, that was, until the palm of a hand caught him rather unexpectedly in the nape of
his neck, pushing the unfortunate monarch onto the floor with, to the owner of the hand, an
equally satisfying thud.
"How many times," his wife, queen Laura of Celeria told him, a look of iritation blemishing
the beautiful features he had fallen in love with so many years ago, "That the early
morning isn't an opurtunity to see how far you can throw the alarm clock. That's...5 you've
been through this week."
"It's Friday," Blacksen answered matter-of-factly, picking himself up from the floor. "That
figures, doesn't it. Are you aware that Friday is indeed the fifth day of the week?"
"It's a bit of a waste," Laura said blanching further as Blacksen crossed his legs on the
bed.
"Dear...our family is one of the worlds richest. It has been making a budget serplus for
the past 600 years. All that money hasn't gone anywhere, it's mounted up and mounted up,
meaning that I'd have to invent a canon which fires alarm clocks faster than any gun
currently produced in this world if I was ever to exhaust our wealth by throwing alarm
clocks across the room. I can vouch for the fact that tonight, someone will have braught a
fresh alarm clock to this bedroom, and it will be set to the correct time. I can vouch for
the fact that we'll both have a glass of vodka on each side of the bed, and that the fridge
you like to keep stocked with foods that do not befit your career as a football player will
be full. It is what you get when you have a nice title, a large amount of wealth, and a
populus that you don't actively atempt to brutalise."
Laura lay back on the bed; she knew that her atempts to get her husband to see that
throwing the alarm clock across the room every single morning was completely wasteful, not
to mention immature and deeply un-royal would lead to a lecture about how they were some of
the richest people in the world. She knew that the boy she'd fell in love with 5 years ago
had grown into a sarcastic, charming and confident king. She reached out her arm, and
Blacksen lay back on the bed where she wrapped it around him. Completely ignoring the now
shattered alarm clock, the 2 proceeded to lie in each others arms for the next half hour,
occasionally moving or talking, but mainly just looking at each other's faces. She still
loved him, despite all his faults, even if he did throw alarm clocks across the room.
At a quarter past 9, an altogether more unavoidable obstacle arrived to disturb the King's
rest as a sharp rapping came on the heavy old oak door.
"Is this the new alarm clock?" Blacksen pondered aloud. "It'll come you know."
The knocking came again.
"Just open it," Laura said, barely raising her voice.
The door opened without a hint of a creek to reveal the almost expressionless face of Atel
Loni, the families 'first hand,' the most senior pallace servant. He stood in his usual
position; body straight, head raised, hands occasionally straying from his sides to brush a
speck of lint from his crisp, black, emaculate suit.
"Your Majesties," he almost breathed. Blacksen sat up, before stopping himself from
punching the man: he was still knew. Atel Loni clearly had no knowledge of royal customs;
after all, royal customs had changed dramatically since the huge football captain had
ascended to the rank of King following his fathers death at a shooting arena in the Kytler
Peninsulae. The death of one man in a sporting accident had braught his son, a sportsman,
to power.
"My name," he said in the cool, clipped Celari accent that he was expected to use when
dealing with literally anyone, "Is Blacksen. I don't like my name, it sounds like my father
was merely atempting to ensure that he did not have the most ridiculous name of any Celari
monarch in history." As a matter of fact, King Althyus was atempting just that.
"Although my name is horrible and it should never be inflicted on another child, I believe,
however wrongly, that 'your majesty' sounds equally unnecisary. As Blacksen is shorter,
call me that in future."
Loni gulped, afraid he had insulted the King, before restarting his sentence.
"Blacksen," he said in the same smooth voice he had used before. "And...Laura. Our guests
will be arriving in 45 minutes."
"Guests? I didn't invite guests today...oh wait, I'm being inendated with foreigners again
at no notice aren't I?"
"The delegations from Zammora, and also from the nation that was once known as the Finian
empire. If I may say, it's something of a mystery how it stays together...all those little
factions and warlords-"
"That's enough," Blacksen groaned.
"When were these guys announced?" Laura asked, darting a look at the servant.
"Around 12 minutes ago."
"What the..."
"All the preparations have been put in order s-Blacksen," Loni interupted. "Delegations
both from Sondestadt in Velstrania, and from the Havenic confederal government are also on
their way."
"And they're all descending on Celeria for no good reason?" Blacksen asked.
"Apparently, Celeria would provide the best show to the foreign visitors. President O'clane
is hoping to absorb them into the Haven."
Turin royal multi-port,
Turin,
Celeria,
The Greater Vakolicci Haven
Runway 8 at Turin Royal Multi-port was never busy, unlike all the other runways on either
side no families rushed onto jumbo jets looking for adventure; equally no aircraft came,
loaded with hundreds of holiday makers who wanted to catch the sounds, sights, sea, sun and
sand of this particular corner of the Haven. Instead, every 2 weeks or so the odd plane
would land, carrying one government dignatary or another, strictly on official state
business: for this was the official Royal entry and exit port into Celeria.
The Vakolicci and Velsturmen delegations had arrived quicker than had been expected and
now, several minor dignitaries in an impressive range of clothing from the stark black of
the Celari black legion to the flowing green dress won by one particular Vakolicci
financial woman waited, enclosed on 2 sides by stern-looking guards, for the arrivals of
their far more higher-profile guests: the appointed representatives of both Zammora and
Finium. These men and women would make smalltalk, and treat the guests to some
refreshments, but crucially they would be granted with the permission to answer any of
their questions as regards to the Haven or to Celeria during their short ride in the 2
hulking green limozines that were parked smartly in front of the airport. Already, the
media was gathered around them hoping to get a shot of whoever was going to be entering
such luxurious-looking vehicles: as was the Celari way, the press were not to be hindered.
At the end of their journey would be yet more media photographers and broadcasters; however
crucially the leading corpus of Havenic leadership were waiting for their arrival inside
the cathedral-like interprovincial conference centre; its walls hung with stunning paitings
and other depictions of Celeria and the Celari people.
In the centre, President Ronan W. O'clane sat reading the extensive notes that his aids had
spent hours into the night preparing for him. He circled some points, before sitting back
in his over-stuffed leather seat and catching the eye of his vice-president, the leader of
the Havenic coalition for unification and Fascism, Jonathan Blazen. Blazen looked at the
president's notes, before nodding and handing them back to the man who he hoped in the next
few months to be replacing extremely soon.
Dianne Stevenson sat, as was her want throughout her political career, straight-backed and
almost entirely still. Her severe-looking, aged face was locked in a picture of displeasure
to the general world around her as she waited for somebody to aim that look at in
particular.
Alyana Della Barecci, one of the 2 other women in the room, couldn't have been more
opposite. The minister for trade was young, only around 20 years old. Her long, flowing
blonde hair was allowed to fall in waves down to her shoulders and she wore a simple form-
fitting black dress that did an excellent job at emphasising all that their was in the yong
woman's body to entice any man who looked upon her.
Lord-admiral Branislav Ivanovic sat to her left, stern and judging, his eyes roving around
the assembled Havenic delegates. His face, though it was old and lined, still displayed the
spark of charisma and intelligence that men had come to respect in the 82-year-old general
who had survived a spell in Kravenite solitary confinement and won countless battles for
the Haven.
He sat beside the only other representative from the military that was present, and she
looked nowhere in particular. Her features were made almost impossible to glance due to the
multi-faceted glass mask that covered her head, reflecting the light in front of her around
her head, making it extremely difficult for her opponents to focus on her head. She was
slim, though not to the point where people would start to think her health in danger, and
her arms sat crossed on the table. This was Vrone, the head of the Haven's most secretive
units in active service: the Vaktrieiga, the active terrorist units that funded and
assisted foreign terrorist and rebel groups in their own nations.
A little way apart from the Vakolicci sat the Celari and Velsturmen delegations, and at the
end of that group sat their host. His Celari Majesty, King Blacksen I, sat on a slightly
larger chair than the rest of the groups, his arms outstretched and the golden-crusted
headpiece he wore on royal occasions that did not call for the uncomfortable crown was
affixed on his head. His clothes were richly taylored and his eyes, usually calm and
placid, seemed to be sparkling as the light reflected off of the diamonds that covered his
forehead.
His Queen, Laura, sat by his side bedecked in jewels which did their best to hide the
bulging muscles which were clearly visible through her loose-fitting dress. The 2 were
talking in animated whispers between themselves, and looking at a vast shieth of notes.
The only other 2 seats were occupied by men of truly enormous proportions, the stark
resemblance in their faces making it clear that the 12 were a father and son. Oorjin
Velstraire, Mazhrit of the Velsturmen, sat, with his knees drawn up before him. His huge
chest seemed perfect for emitting from it a deep and resenant laugh, but his strong, well-
built arms seemed capable of crushing a man's skull. If he had stood, he would easily
reached 7 feet and 6 inches, and his son was even larger. The 2 men shared the same glaring
red hair, yet Otto Velstraire seemed to be lighter in general; the younger man was actually
smiling. His giant hands were folded in his lap as he checked the time on the watch that
was struggling to fit around his treetrunk-like wrist as he noted down some observations
about the Vakolicci delegates.
Velstrania must always have its say, he knew, especially if the 3 Velsturmen provinces were
actually about to be eclipsed by even larger entities within the Haven.
But right now, the group waited...waited for the future of the Haven; waited for the events
that would bring the Haven further on its quest for unification.