THE LEAGUE OF CROWNS
Welcome to the League of Crowns, a new MT, Human-only region where realistic RP and national statistics are taken to the fore. RP's run the gambit from trade, diplomacy, and the complex interactions of nations, from the highest government official, down the average citizen. We give you the freedom to RP as you see fit, as long as the RP is of good quality. The League of Crowns is an active, welcoming, and diverse community founded with the intention of committing new beginnings and to offer social fraternity and experienced roleplay, as well as debate and discussion. The interests of our members vary from politics and theology, to music and art. We welcome YOU and your interests. If you like good RP, and some thought-provoking discussion on a myriad of topics, the LOC is just the place for you!
If you're interested in joining our region, fill out the application below and submit it. A government official will read the application and attached RP (optional) and judge the application before giving you the green light. If you are accepted, don't hesitate to make a Zetaboards account
(The application will be expanded further as the region ages. If an application update has happened, and if you are awaiting an answer from us, you are not required to fill the new application)
A young woman sat in a subway car, close to one of the doors. Outside, the small lightbulbs that dimly illiumnated the tunnel flickered past each window, as the train hustled its way to the next station. She was alone in the subway car, whose bright lights seemed to sterilize everything in the car.
"Approaching Pardo Street Exchange", said the recorded voice.
She gathered her documents, which bore the coat of arms of the Crown Prosecutor's office. These were case files that were to be prosecuted in court sometime soon. One of the documents was a rape, other one was towards a case of abuse, where a mother burned her child's hand on a hot griddle. She stood and grabbed onto the straps of the car, not expecting a sudden swerve to the right, as the train changed tracks. Her folders containing her cases fell on the floor, and flew about the car. The train's wheels screeched as they fought with the tracks, and as the driver applied the brakes. The darkness of the tunnel gave way to dim station lights, as the train pulled in.
"This is Pardo Street Exchange. This is a Figueres-bound "2" train.Transfer is available to the 1,3,7,8,A,E, and N train.", said the announcer's voice. Shortly after this, a different announcer's voice came on the speakers.
"Due to construction ahead, this is the last stop for this train. Please listen to station crew for further instructions. Thank you for riding the Borjes Metro."
She didn't heed the warning, as this was her stop anyway. She would transfer onto another train which would take her to the city's limits, where her husband would be waiting. As she left the station, she saw that the platform was riddled with construction materials.This was the effect of the War council's decision regarding the Borjes Metro. The extensive Borjes Metro was seen as an viable alternative to fallout shelters, and the War Council ordered that the Metro be converted into a large bomb shelter and underground fortress system, escorting soldiers to faraway parts of the city, under the safety of the earth. There were men working on the platforms, strengthing the walls of the tunnel with braces so they can withstand continous bombings. The young woman made her way to the platforms that the 7 and 8 trains stopped at, but she saw that the corridors that led to the platform were closed off with the gates. She walked back to see if there was a subway worker around to ask, but no one was there. Soon, from the tunnels, emerged a construction worker and stationmaster covered in grime.
"No trains beyond this point, ma'am"
"Yeah I know, but the platforms for the 7 and 8 trains are locked off."
The stationmaster checked his watch. "It's 10:11 PM, Miss. Trains terminate service at 10."
"For what?", inquired the woman.
"Orders from the Imperial Government. We're in a state of war, and we are strenghting the tunnels for bomb impacts."
"Oh, I guess I did'nt hear that. Has commuter service stopped too?"
"No, Ma'am."
The young woman thanked the stationmaster and the construction worker, and made her way onto the mezzanine and then, onto the streets. She was blinded by bright lights, and somewhat bothered by the sound of what seemed to be heavy machinery. She saw construction vechiles on the street. To her right, the street ended and intersected with the "Avenida Maratima", and beyond that, a linear seaside park, where machines were excavating the ground to place machine gun nests, and tanks (the ground was rather hilly). To her left, the street contined onward into the dense center of the city. She went left, and walked to Central Station. As she walked, she passed an inconspicious Beaux-Arts skyscraper. Within the building, on the lowest basement floor, 15 floors beneath the street sat Don Fadrique, Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy.
"What do we know of the location of the Itiusian task rce?"
An aide brought him a cup of hot chocolate, a revived fad in the cities of Victorium, save for Ceroulia, where it has held popularity as a breakfast drink.
"The First task fleet has reached its location in the Itiusian straits , Sir. The first ships of the second fleet have taken position, but the rest has to arrive."
Fadrique nodded in approval. He stood up, and approached a large screen. A digital map of the mainland and the Itiusian archipelago with locations of all of the vessels that consisted of the Itiusian Blockade Task Force.
He gazed over Dawinia, and then over Dardanie and Grand Longueville.
"Has anyone of our allies told us about they plan to do about this new threat?"
"No Sir."
Fadrique grumbled and said "This won't do. It won't do. How can we win a war when we're still locked into little cages?" Fadrique asked that the assistant pull up the map of Maritime Ceroulia (The North Sea). The map showed the fleet that was stationed in Grackle Rock, and the fleet that was patrolling the Horn of Farronesia and the northern opening of the Silver Straits. "Last time Dardanie sent us troop movements, they told us the fleets will be amassing in the Silver Straits and in the Lernan Straits...", said Fadrique as he took his finger and drew on the touchscreen. "They must be mobilizing soon. Alfonso?" Silence. "Alfonso!", bellowed Fadrique. Alfonso shook violently as Fadrique's violence broke his peace. "Y-Yes, Sir!?
"I am going to dictate a telegram. Err, Address it to the foriegn affairs ministries of our allies." There was a pause as Alfonso gathered paper and pen.
"Right", said Fadrique. He then cleared his throat.
"Approaching Pardo Street Exchange", said the recorded voice.
She gathered her documents, which bore the coat of arms of the Crown Prosecutor's office. These were case files that were to be prosecuted in court sometime soon. One of the documents was a rape, other one was towards a case of abuse, where a mother burned her child's hand on a hot griddle. She stood and grabbed onto the straps of the car, not expecting a sudden swerve to the right, as the train changed tracks. Her folders containing her cases fell on the floor, and flew about the car. The train's wheels screeched as they fought with the tracks, and as the driver applied the brakes. The darkness of the tunnel gave way to dim station lights, as the train pulled in.
"This is Pardo Street Exchange. This is a Figueres-bound "2" train.Transfer is available to the 1,3,7,8,A,E, and N train.", said the announcer's voice. Shortly after this, a different announcer's voice came on the speakers.
"Due to construction ahead, this is the last stop for this train. Please listen to station crew for further instructions. Thank you for riding the Borjes Metro."
She didn't heed the warning, as this was her stop anyway. She would transfer onto another train which would take her to the city's limits, where her husband would be waiting. As she left the station, she saw that the platform was riddled with construction materials.This was the effect of the War council's decision regarding the Borjes Metro. The extensive Borjes Metro was seen as an viable alternative to fallout shelters, and the War Council ordered that the Metro be converted into a large bomb shelter and underground fortress system, escorting soldiers to faraway parts of the city, under the safety of the earth. There were men working on the platforms, strengthing the walls of the tunnel with braces so they can withstand continous bombings. The young woman made her way to the platforms that the 7 and 8 trains stopped at, but she saw that the corridors that led to the platform were closed off with the gates. She walked back to see if there was a subway worker around to ask, but no one was there. Soon, from the tunnels, emerged a construction worker and stationmaster covered in grime.
"No trains beyond this point, ma'am"
"Yeah I know, but the platforms for the 7 and 8 trains are locked off."
The stationmaster checked his watch. "It's 10:11 PM, Miss. Trains terminate service at 10."
"For what?", inquired the woman.
"Orders from the Imperial Government. We're in a state of war, and we are strenghting the tunnels for bomb impacts."
"Oh, I guess I did'nt hear that. Has commuter service stopped too?"
"No, Ma'am."
The young woman thanked the stationmaster and the construction worker, and made her way onto the mezzanine and then, onto the streets. She was blinded by bright lights, and somewhat bothered by the sound of what seemed to be heavy machinery. She saw construction vechiles on the street. To her right, the street ended and intersected with the "Avenida Maratima", and beyond that, a linear seaside park, where machines were excavating the ground to place machine gun nests, and tanks (the ground was rather hilly). To her left, the street contined onward into the dense center of the city. She went left, and walked to Central Station. As she walked, she passed an inconspicious Beaux-Arts skyscraper. Within the building, on the lowest basement floor, 15 floors beneath the street sat Don Fadrique, Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy.
"What do we know of the location of the Itiusian task rce?"
An aide brought him a cup of hot chocolate, a revived fad in the cities of Victorium, save for Ceroulia, where it has held popularity as a breakfast drink.
"The First task fleet has reached its location in the Itiusian straits , Sir. The first ships of the second fleet have taken position, but the rest has to arrive."
Fadrique nodded in approval. He stood up, and approached a large screen. A digital map of the mainland and the Itiusian archipelago with locations of all of the vessels that consisted of the Itiusian Blockade Task Force.
He gazed over Dawinia, and then over Dardanie and Grand Longueville.
"Has anyone of our allies told us about they plan to do about this new threat?"
"No Sir."
Fadrique grumbled and said "This won't do. It won't do. How can we win a war when we're still locked into little cages?" Fadrique asked that the assistant pull up the map of Maritime Ceroulia (The North Sea). The map showed the fleet that was stationed in Grackle Rock, and the fleet that was patrolling the Horn of Farronesia and the northern opening of the Silver Straits. "Last time Dardanie sent us troop movements, they told us the fleets will be amassing in the Silver Straits and in the Lernan Straits...", said Fadrique as he took his finger and drew on the touchscreen. "They must be mobilizing soon. Alfonso?" Silence. "Alfonso!", bellowed Fadrique. Alfonso shook violently as Fadrique's violence broke his peace. "Y-Yes, Sir!?
"I am going to dictate a telegram. Err, Address it to the foriegn affairs ministries of our allies." There was a pause as Alfonso gathered paper and pen.
"Right", said Fadrique. He then cleared his throat.
Night covered the Dardanian Empire; A dull glow surrounded cities, foxes encroached onto farmers' territory, the flow of activity through the infrastructure was reduced to a mere trickle, and only two groups of people remained awake: Libertines in their half-hidden hives of vice, and the armed forces standing vigilant. One such night-watch is the RADAR facility in the shell-keep on the Isle of Saint Hadrian, - an overbuilt rock off the northern shores of Albion. Waves lap against the stone jetty, disrupting the pools of brine below the tall stone walls, while fog flows around the motte, and not a single vessel could be sighted from the battlements. In the reinforced subcellar of the keep, against the whirr of the [wholly unnecessary] cooling fans, a beep could be heard.
- - -
"You look wonderful tonight, Philip."
"Go bugger yourself, Emily. Why have you dragged me here at this hour?" Sir Émile smiled, and turned from the groggy-looking Admiral, - clad in a dressing-gown and nightcap, - to face the large, slanted screens which dominated the central chamber of the Royal Bunker. It was standard protocol for key personnel from the Armed Forces to spend their nights sleeping in the subterranean stronghold, in case sudden developments required immediate attention, and rapid authorisation. This necessity didn't make being dragged from their slumbers any easier on the High Command, however. The Marshal of the Air Fleet, Sir Émile Fortescue, picked up a remote and clicked a few buttons, bringing up on the looming screens a green-tinted map of the Dardanian Empire, with clusters of small dots flickering at various location. Sir Émile looked towards the Admiral with an expectant expressiom; the Admiral, who was steadying himself against the table, stared blankly. "I seem to be missing something obvious, so if you'd get to the bloody point I'd be glad."
The sound of the great doors being opened alerted the two men to the arrival of the Field Marshal: Lord Sir Rupert George Harris, the 14th Baron of Dancaster - commonly, and erroneously, known throughout the Armed Forces as 'General Dancaster'. The Field Marshal marched towards his comrades, wearing his uniform and a pair of slippers, mumbled something in greeting, and collapsed into a chair. Sir Émile nodded to the Field Marshal, and turned back to the screen. "This little cluster to the north of Albion is our problem, gentlemen. They're airborne, approaching fast, and they're not ours." Sensing that he might be needed, the Field Marshal piped up, "Are they transports?" - "We don't think so. Don't seem big enough, so there wont be any paratroopers to apprehend. These are fighters or bombers." The Lord Dancaster seemed to deflate with relief, as he slumped back down into his chair. The Admiral, however, scowled, "Sounds more like your problem than "our problem", Emily."
"Au contraire, my good Filly. Shooting them down may be my area, but where they're heading is - Field Marshal, are you fully conscious yet?", - the Lord Dancaster spluttered back to attention, - "...Where they're heading could affect any one of us. Ports, army bases, et cetera. You see?" The Field Marshal groaned, "Are the Austianese suicidal? Our coastal defences aren't ready yet, but there isn't a military installation in the entire Empire which doesn't have SAM sites ready. Save for those of the Yeomanry, of course." "And more to the point," protested the Admiral, "How would they even get close enough to threaten such facilities? Where are the little dots of your boys going to greet them?" The Admiral waved his hand, indicating towards the large on-screen map. "It will take another ten minutes to get our twenty-strong welcome party in the air, and then they have to move to intercept the invaders." "Come again? Why aren't they airborne already, damnit?" "I'm a little short on available vessels, at the moment. His Grace ordered no less than sixty aircraft to be available at all times to respond to attacks on the Armadas. That's sixty per Armada, by the way." "And can none of those be deployed for this?" "Absolutely not, His Grace was very clear on that point."
"Oh... Well, that's just perfect."
- - -
Eight minutes had passed.
The Admiral of the Fleet sat with a mug of cocoa, the Marshal of the Air Fleet alternated between checking screens and playing Patience with a deck of cards, and the Field Marshal had fallen asleep in his chair.
"Sir," - two men turned to look at one of the officers manning the computers, while the third blinked awake, - "The Armada in the Silver Straits is detecting a fleet approaching, high altitude, at least thirty craft strong." "Ah merde, scramble the Air Fleet, then. Let's see if we can drive them away before they hit anything expensive. Admiral?" The Admiral was mid-way through dialling a number on one of the rooms many red telephones, and looked to Sir Émile, awaiting a question, - but then shook his head, "Don't worry yourself. We've got plenty of missiles for any situation: Anti-air, anti-missile, anti-everything, - We'll make the Sky tremble as soon as they get close enough. If they're smart, they wont even try to close for a strike. Unless the "Noble" Austianese pilots are willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, that is." "And you are about to ring who, exactly?" "Oh," - the Admiral gave a small chuckle - "I'm just going to alert our quartermasters that fresh missiles will need to be taken to the Armada by the morning. They might have caught you with your trousers down, Emily, but the Imperial Navy has higher standards."
"Your nightcap has fallen off, Filly."
- - -
"You look wonderful tonight, Philip."
"Go bugger yourself, Emily. Why have you dragged me here at this hour?" Sir Émile smiled, and turned from the groggy-looking Admiral, - clad in a dressing-gown and nightcap, - to face the large, slanted screens which dominated the central chamber of the Royal Bunker. It was standard protocol for key personnel from the Armed Forces to spend their nights sleeping in the subterranean stronghold, in case sudden developments required immediate attention, and rapid authorisation. This necessity didn't make being dragged from their slumbers any easier on the High Command, however. The Marshal of the Air Fleet, Sir Émile Fortescue, picked up a remote and clicked a few buttons, bringing up on the looming screens a green-tinted map of the Dardanian Empire, with clusters of small dots flickering at various location. Sir Émile looked towards the Admiral with an expectant expressiom; the Admiral, who was steadying himself against the table, stared blankly. "I seem to be missing something obvious, so if you'd get to the bloody point I'd be glad."
The sound of the great doors being opened alerted the two men to the arrival of the Field Marshal: Lord Sir Rupert George Harris, the 14th Baron of Dancaster - commonly, and erroneously, known throughout the Armed Forces as 'General Dancaster'. The Field Marshal marched towards his comrades, wearing his uniform and a pair of slippers, mumbled something in greeting, and collapsed into a chair. Sir Émile nodded to the Field Marshal, and turned back to the screen. "This little cluster to the north of Albion is our problem, gentlemen. They're airborne, approaching fast, and they're not ours." Sensing that he might be needed, the Field Marshal piped up, "Are they transports?" - "We don't think so. Don't seem big enough, so there wont be any paratroopers to apprehend. These are fighters or bombers." The Lord Dancaster seemed to deflate with relief, as he slumped back down into his chair. The Admiral, however, scowled, "Sounds more like your problem than "our problem", Emily."
"Au contraire, my good Filly. Shooting them down may be my area, but where they're heading is - Field Marshal, are you fully conscious yet?", - the Lord Dancaster spluttered back to attention, - "...Where they're heading could affect any one of us. Ports, army bases, et cetera. You see?" The Field Marshal groaned, "Are the Austianese suicidal? Our coastal defences aren't ready yet, but there isn't a military installation in the entire Empire which doesn't have SAM sites ready. Save for those of the Yeomanry, of course." "And more to the point," protested the Admiral, "How would they even get close enough to threaten such facilities? Where are the little dots of your boys going to greet them?" The Admiral waved his hand, indicating towards the large on-screen map. "It will take another ten minutes to get our twenty-strong welcome party in the air, and then they have to move to intercept the invaders." "Come again? Why aren't they airborne already, damnit?" "I'm a little short on available vessels, at the moment. His Grace ordered no less than sixty aircraft to be available at all times to respond to attacks on the Armadas. That's sixty per Armada, by the way." "And can none of those be deployed for this?" "Absolutely not, His Grace was very clear on that point."
"Oh... Well, that's just perfect."
- - -
Eight minutes had passed.
The Admiral of the Fleet sat with a mug of cocoa, the Marshal of the Air Fleet alternated between checking screens and playing Patience with a deck of cards, and the Field Marshal had fallen asleep in his chair.
"Sir," - two men turned to look at one of the officers manning the computers, while the third blinked awake, - "The Armada in the Silver Straits is detecting a fleet approaching, high altitude, at least thirty craft strong." "Ah merde, scramble the Air Fleet, then. Let's see if we can drive them away before they hit anything expensive. Admiral?" The Admiral was mid-way through dialling a number on one of the rooms many red telephones, and looked to Sir Émile, awaiting a question, - but then shook his head, "Don't worry yourself. We've got plenty of missiles for any situation: Anti-air, anti-missile, anti-everything, - We'll make the Sky tremble as soon as they get close enough. If they're smart, they wont even try to close for a strike. Unless the "Noble" Austianese pilots are willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, that is." "And you are about to ring who, exactly?" "Oh," - the Admiral gave a small chuckle - "I'm just going to alert our quartermasters that fresh missiles will need to be taken to the Armada by the morning. They might have caught you with your trousers down, Emily, but the Imperial Navy has higher standards."
"Your nightcap has fallen off, Filly."
Palais d'Sant Paul
9:30 AM
The church bells rang throughout Mazarin and indeed the world as news broke along with the dawn that the Pope, Clement XV of Lignelli, was dead at the age of 82. The news had been broken to the College of Cardinals the night previously. In a telegram to all the college, the Dean of the College, Cardinal Luigi Salon labelled the death of the Holy Father as a natural cause.
The great Cathedral of Saint Paul inside the Walls of Mazarin was in a bustle as Cardinal Francis had been told previously that he was amongst the Papabili for the Conclave, though the clearly stressed prelate dismissed it as sycophancy. The Cardinal began vesting. Donning the Choir Cassock, the surplice, and finally the Mozzetta. Donning the scarlet watered silk biretta of his rank. He looked into the mirror of the Vestry and came to the realization that his hand had been shaking all morning. Monsignor Sheffield assisted the Cardinal with the Pectoral Cross and his ring.
As the Cardinal turned to leave, Prince Henri appeared in the doorway, adorned with a gray tunic with gold braids. His dress shako rested on his palm and white gloves softened his hands. "Is Your Eminence ready?" the Prince inquired expressionlessly. The Cardinal opened his mouth but words alluded him, and he responded with a brief nod before hurriedly walking passed the Monarch out into the brightly lit hallway where he was joined by 40 other Prelates ranging from Monsignors to other Bishops. It was not often when the prelates showed more outright reverence to the Cardinal than they did for the Prince, but this was one such occasion. Upon seeing the vested Cardinal, like a wave of piety came over them, those in eyesight genuflected. Leaving the Prince and the Cardinal's entourage the only to be upright. The Cardinal paid no mind and continued.
Once near the balcony, he could hear the cheers of the crowds gathered below. Upon hearing that the Pope had died, thousands from Mazarin rushed to the Palais d'Sant Paul to see the Cardinal before he departed for Lignelli. As the velvet curtains of the Balcony were drawn and the Cardinal emerged with his Court, the crowd cheered. "Viva il Papa!" and "Papa subito!" and other encouraging cheers were heard as the Cardinal blessed the crowds and waited for them to calm.
After several minutes, the Cardinal began speaking:
"Greetings and Apostolic Benediction, children in Christ, Our Lord.
It is with great sadness that We address you today regarding the death of Our Holy Father, Pope Clement XV. It is with honor, however, and privilege that We can say that as Pastor of this most ancient Archdiocese, We will be leaving this afternoon for Lignelli to make preparations for the Conclave. It is with a forlorn heart that We go, so that a triumph can be made.
We humbly ask for your prayers for the repose of the soul of Pope Clement and for the voting Cardinals."
After this short address, the Cardinal began chanting the Dies Irae and a number of Requiem's for the Holy Father.
At the end, Cardinal Francis again bestowed his blessing and retreated as he came.
Nervous, and still shaking, the Cardinal walked briskly back to the Vestry, "I'll leave at once for Lignelli".
9:30 AM
The church bells rang throughout Mazarin and indeed the world as news broke along with the dawn that the Pope, Clement XV of Lignelli, was dead at the age of 82. The news had been broken to the College of Cardinals the night previously. In a telegram to all the college, the Dean of the College, Cardinal Luigi Salon labelled the death of the Holy Father as a natural cause.
The great Cathedral of Saint Paul inside the Walls of Mazarin was in a bustle as Cardinal Francis had been told previously that he was amongst the Papabili for the Conclave, though the clearly stressed prelate dismissed it as sycophancy. The Cardinal began vesting. Donning the Choir Cassock, the surplice, and finally the Mozzetta. Donning the scarlet watered silk biretta of his rank. He looked into the mirror of the Vestry and came to the realization that his hand had been shaking all morning. Monsignor Sheffield assisted the Cardinal with the Pectoral Cross and his ring.
As the Cardinal turned to leave, Prince Henri appeared in the doorway, adorned with a gray tunic with gold braids. His dress shako rested on his palm and white gloves softened his hands. "Is Your Eminence ready?" the Prince inquired expressionlessly. The Cardinal opened his mouth but words alluded him, and he responded with a brief nod before hurriedly walking passed the Monarch out into the brightly lit hallway where he was joined by 40 other Prelates ranging from Monsignors to other Bishops. It was not often when the prelates showed more outright reverence to the Cardinal than they did for the Prince, but this was one such occasion. Upon seeing the vested Cardinal, like a wave of piety came over them, those in eyesight genuflected. Leaving the Prince and the Cardinal's entourage the only to be upright. The Cardinal paid no mind and continued.
Once near the balcony, he could hear the cheers of the crowds gathered below. Upon hearing that the Pope had died, thousands from Mazarin rushed to the Palais d'Sant Paul to see the Cardinal before he departed for Lignelli. As the velvet curtains of the Balcony were drawn and the Cardinal emerged with his Court, the crowd cheered. "Viva il Papa!" and "Papa subito!" and other encouraging cheers were heard as the Cardinal blessed the crowds and waited for them to calm.
After several minutes, the Cardinal began speaking:
"Greetings and Apostolic Benediction, children in Christ, Our Lord.
It is with great sadness that We address you today regarding the death of Our Holy Father, Pope Clement XV. It is with honor, however, and privilege that We can say that as Pastor of this most ancient Archdiocese, We will be leaving this afternoon for Lignelli to make preparations for the Conclave. It is with a forlorn heart that We go, so that a triumph can be made.
We humbly ask for your prayers for the repose of the soul of Pope Clement and for the voting Cardinals."
After this short address, the Cardinal began chanting the Dies Irae and a number of Requiem's for the Holy Father.
At the end, Cardinal Francis again bestowed his blessing and retreated as he came.
Nervous, and still shaking, the Cardinal walked briskly back to the Vestry, "I'll leave at once for Lignelli".
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