Ajax Character Intrigue [Closed; Ajax Only]

[Lyncanestria]

“The Lion and the Phoenix”
Univesité impériale
Villeneuve, Lyncanestria
7 June 2018
(Co-written with Azura and Montemayor)

GUILLAUME

Most students tended to avoid this place for its dull beige paint, it’s creaking floorboards, dank atmosphere and the general lack of lighting among other things. The building was old, you see; at least one hundred years old, perhaps more, Guillaume couldn’t really remember. Yet it had always been here, in this dimly lit and neglected corner in the far back of the library’s second story that he would come whenever he felt in need of a peaceful place to study or contemplate. Despite the room’s stuffy feeling or its musty smell, the quiet that came with it was all he needed to concentrate on his studies. With his last final exam before graduation coming up in a few hours, he had decided to take the better part of the morning to review the material for his international development course. His eyes ran furiously across the page of his class textbook, trying to recap the chapters they had covered through the semester… As it turns out, the Gini coefficient is among a class of measures that satisfy four highly desirable properties: the anonymity, scale independence, population independence, and transfer principles.

Guillaume had been at this for the better part of the last two hours, and he was fast approaching the back cover of the book but by now the words seemed to blur across the page, even with his glasses on. Granted, it was more than likely due in part to this section of the library’s shoddy lighting—but his exhaustion was to blame above all. The Prince took his glasses off and leaned back in his chair, letting out a defeated sigh as he did as though to signal the end to his last-minute cramming efforts. Lately he had been lacking his needed sleep; the final exams, end-of-term projects, and his most recent breakup all had contributed to his recent dysfunctional sleeping patterns. But while he still sometimes mulled over his failed relationship with the Princess of Beroea, he had tried hard to move past it—to a varying degree of success, depending on the day. Today it seemed was a particularly good day, as he was reminded with the arrival of a very special friend.

The Prince of Lihnidos, or rather a prince of Lihnidos, Athan Vasilou. Despite having attended many of the same events, and mingling within similar circles throughout their youth—Athan’s Audonian mother was adamant about rearing her children in Lyncanestria as much as she could—the two had not gotten around to forming a close rapport until this very school year. They found themselves sharing a class together last semester; an introductory course in political theory that they had both found quite boring. For Guillaume, despite his area of study being political science he was never all that fond of theory; for Athan on the other hand, as a student of zoology, didn’t care at all for the nitty gritty of politics.

Throughout the semester they frequently met to review, study and prepare for assignments and projects. And of course, to attend social gatherings held by different clubs and organizations on campus. Guillaume had gotten Athan into Lyncanestrian football, and they would often attend Fleury games on the weekends. Athan had, in turn, gotten Guy to join the photography club; for the few times he happened to tag along that is. The semester had served to bring the two much closer than before, and they had indeed formed a strong friendship. So strong and close, in fact, that Guillaume would sometimes think that there was more there than just a friendship.

“Hey,” Guillaume began, “I’m glad to see you finally; how long has it been like a week? These days have been so hectic for me, I sure hope your finals week hasn’t been going as bad as mine.

“Longer than a week, I think.” Athansios—or Athan as he was known to his friends and family—unshouldered his bag and threw it on one of the chairs around Guillaume’s table. He unzipped it and shuffled things around inside before pulling out a laptop and notebook.

“And, yeah, I think it has,” he complained, his sullen expression confirming his sour mood. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.” He hesitated, looking at the open chairs around the table before finally pushing his laptop and notebook to the space beside Guillaume and sitting down.

He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “One of my cousins told me I was an idiot for trying to get a degree in something practical. Maybe she was right.” He flipped open his laptop and notebook and let out a short laugh. “But you don’t want to hear my stupid complaints. You’ve been going through this for twice as long as I have, you have it way worse than me.”

“Oh please,” Guillaume rolled his eyes, “it’s precisely because I’ve been here twice as long I shouldn’t have left studying to the last minute… yet again.” He moved up in his chair, visibly reinvigorated from his earlier state as he adjusted his slouched posture. “Besides, pursuing zoology is not a walk in the park and you did great last semester; I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.” The Lyncanestrian prince closed his book and gathered his disorganized mess of notes and papers scattered around the desk to make room for his friend. “Anyways I think I’ve crammed as much as I could for today,” he signed, “how many more exams have you got left today?”

“Just one, thank God. My second semester of organic chemistry. I’ve been studying all day and I still don’t feel very good about it.” Athan flipped through several pages of his notebook, barely looking at each page before moving on to the next. The tiny scrawled words accompanied by small drawings fit tightly on each page and would take forever to read over. “I know it’s not a walk in the park, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about dropping it and trying something different. That would sort of ruin any chance of veterinary school after this, though.”

“Oh for sure. And I’m certain future you wouldn’t forgive you if you dropped; you’ve always loved animals. I still remember that one time we were at the Villeneuve Zoological Park,” the Prince recalled, “you knew basically all the animals there as well as their taxonomic names.”

Finally finding the page that he had stopped on earlier in the day, Athan looked over to Guillaume with a small smile. “It’s a bit more complicated than knowing what each animal is, but thanks for the vote of confidence. You said I don’t give myself enough credit, but I think you give me too much.”

“Well that’s because I have to make up for the credit you don’t give yourself,” Guy retorted. “Plus I still think that knowing what the hell a Coquerel's sifaka is without looking at the enclosure label is is pretty impressive. I know Agatha certainly thought so,” he nudged his friend jokingly. Not that Agatha was Athan’s type, what was “Athan’s type” anyways? but he couldn’t pass up a chance to tease him a bit. “You know she’s been dying to get into your pants… or any guy’s pants actually; I heard last week she hooked up with Joël or one of those Sigma Thêta douches. There’s so many of them I lose track most of the time.”

“Joël is an idiot, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they did. One of the guys on the field hockey team told me he heard her talking about me with some of her friends last week. Probably thinks she can luck into getting pregnant and having a child that would be given a place in the line of succession. Not that it would work, but she doesn’t seem like the kind of person to plan things out. Plus, um...” Athan turned his attention back to the open notebook in front of him. “She’s not really my type anyway.”

So he does have a type.

“Wow Athan, cynic much? But yes, I do it’s too much of a stretch to think Agatha could plan anything beyond the next hour, so it’s highly unlikely she was hatching such a nefarious plot against you and your family.” Guillaume chuckled, “Anyways, how goes hockey? Do you guys not play anymore and just sit around the locker room and gossip? You haven’t invited me to a game in months so I was under the impression the season was over.”

“Yeah, actually. The season ended in November. Things won’t really heat back up until August. We still practice every once in a while, but until then most of the time the team spends together is gossiping in the locker room like you guessed.” Athan said the last part sarcastically and let out a laugh. “Not that it would make much of a difference if that was really what we did. We can practice all we like but we still don’t seem to do very well during games.” He grinned. “I blame it on the fact that the majority of the team members are Lyncanestrian.”

“I take extreme offence to that!” Guillaume cried, clutching at his chest. Despite the fact that this place was usually empty, two students had quietly entered the hall while the two were engaged in their conversation. Having seemingly been a little too loud in his exclamation, evidenced by the other students’ menacing glare, the Prince lowered his voice back to an acceptable level. “That actually hurt my feelings, you know?” he whispered, “And here was I thinking it was a matter of practice, apparently it runs in our genes to be bad hockey players… but I’ll concede your point though it pains me. I don’t know much about field hockey, but in ice hockey our teams are terrible so I’m told.”

Athan sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It was obvious he wasn’t going to be studying anymore before his chemistry final. He felt guilty knowing that there was at least two chapters he wouldn’t get to review, but he enjoyed talking to Guillaume too much to end their conversation. “I played field hockey for four years before coming here. A lot of the team members didn’t start playing until they started here. Maybe I’m just too hard on them, but then again, I’ve seen your ice hockey teams play, and you’ve heard right. So maybe it is that Lyncanestria breeds bad hockey players… I’ll have to get you out on the field some day and see if you’re right.”

“Bah, you’ll never get me on the hockey field. I’m notoriously allergic to this thing called sports; I hardly even play football anymore,” Guillaume said shaking his head. “You know the only reason I went to your games was for the good food afterwards,” he joked… and for the company? “But while we’re on the subject of getting out, you should come attend our spring concert; this Saturday is our last performance of the year, and for me, the last performance of my undergraduate career. The repertoire is actually a really cool and I think you’ll like it; even the non-connoisseurs of classical music enjoy Carmina Burana.”

“And here I was thinking that you came to support the team,” Athan feigned disappointment. “It’s probably a good thing the season ended,” he said, glancing at Guillaume’s midriff. “Excessive eating and no exercise can get someone out of shape pretty fast. Even if you won’t come and play field hockey you’ll have to start coming to the gym with me. It’d do you some good,” he joked. “As for your concert, we’ll have to wait and see. I’m scheduled to fly back to Lihnidos tomorrow morning, but I’d hate to miss it. You know how much I like the viola.”

“You’re leaving so soon?” The news had come as a surprise to Guillaume, who looked visibly upset now, indicated by his frown and furrowed brow. “Your rent is paid for the rest of the month, though, no? What’s the rush for?”

Guillaume’s expression caused Athan to develop a frown of his own. “It is, but my mother called me a few days ago and said we were invited to some kind of party at the Imperial Palace tomorrow evening. She wanted to go as a family… But I could probably convince her to let me skip it,” he tried to reassure his friend. He hated to see him upset.

“Oh no, please don’t do that.” Guillaume quickly interrupted, fixing his facial expression to one of sincere denial. “I’ll be fine. Spending time with your family is too important; I’m sure they’re dying to see you anyways. As a matter of fact, I should be thanking them for allowing me the privilege of your company this semester. We can always see each other over the summer anyways right?”

“It really wouldn’t be a problem,” he lied. “No one would even know I’m gone. There’ll be like a hundred people there and none of them are going to be searching me out. My mother would be the easy one to convince, actually. My father, well… let’s just say he’d be a bit more adamant.” He stopped for a moment, thinking about how his father would react to being ignored. It was his mother who had told him about the invitation, but it was undoubtedly his father who told her to get him home for it. His mother would probably be fine with him staying in Lyncanestria year-round. “I don’t even want to go that much.”

“You make a very compelling case, but I wouldn’t want you to upset your family. Honestly, it’s fine; we’ll see each other over the summer holiday anyways, right?” Guillaumes eyes wandered up as if to signal deep pensiveness as he tried to recall the different opportunities for a friendly reunion. “There’s the National Day gala at Beaulieu that your mum’s invited to, and don’t forget that state visit to Lihnidos in August I’ll likely be going on. Plus there’s likely to be a very important wedding or some other fancy event that seem to be happening on a yearly basis.

“Besides if you’re ever this side of the border visiting your family or whatever you know I’m never too far away.”

Guillaume’s willingness to meet over the summer break was encouraging, yet it probably only left Athan with more suspicions and unanswered questions. He was giving a vibe of overanimation at the prospect of meeting again so soon.

“I’m not sure I’ll be in Arcadia during the state visit, but my mother always ensures that we attend any events we’re invited to in Lyncanestria.” He smiled and looked off to another part of the library, thinking about how many times she had made his father reschedule or cancel plans. “I think she feels homesick at times. She has so many pictures from her childhood in Chaumont. I catch her looking at them every once in a while. She just smiles and changes the subject if I ask her about it.”

He turned back to look at Guillaume, arms crossed over his chest and feet stretched out under the table, making him slide down in his chair slightly. “She was the whole reason I came here. It was my idea, but she was the one to convince my father to allow it. He wanted me to go to one of the officer academies and join the military like he did.”

He tucked his chin into his chest and winced at the thought. His father had always tried too hard to make them have things in common. Athan had always tried to oblige, but it had always felt forced and he never enjoyed himself. It wasn’t until one day when his father took him flying in a small Arthuristan-made Bombard Duchess that they finally found something they enjoyed doing together. Unfortunately it didn’t take long for his attitude to sour towards flying as well. After he revealed he enjoyed it, his father took every opportunity to tell him he should try to become a pilot in the Lihnisodi Air Force. His father had spent four years in the air force flying fighter jets, so it was yet another example of him forcing his interests on his son. They hadn’t gone up together very often after that.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” Athan continued quickly. “I thought about it. Briefly. It’s just not something that I wanted to do.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve always been too much of a free spirit for your family’s liking? Can’t say I can I relate much to that, but as you know my mother can be pushy at times. She takes the role of empress way too seriously sometimes; my dad on the other hand, while strict to a degree, would never force anything on me or my siblings. As a matter of fact,” he leaned in closely, scanning the dusty and scantily populated, quiet room as he did, “I was actually considering a degree in music performance,” Guillaume admitted. “Granted, I didn’t actually ever start studying music and went right into pre law, but it was nice to know my dad would stand behind the choices I made.

“I don’t think you should be this harsh on your father; after all, he is your dad. And fathers want what’s best for their children.”

“I guess you’re right,” Athan conceded. He had never had a dislike for his father, their relationship just wasn’t what it could have been. They lacked common interests, and that made it harder for them to spend quality time together. Maybe instead of him trying too hard I’m not trying hard enough.

“Yep,” Guillaume reaffirmed the Lihnidosi’s reply, “C’mon Athan, when am I not right? I could probably be a part-time counsellor if I wanted. I give the most solid advice, huh?”

“Maybe, but you thought getting involved with Teresa was right. Look how that turned out.” Regret washed over him as soon as the words left his mouth. He knew that Guillaume’s now-ended relationship with the princess of Borea was a sensitive topic. He snuck a glance to his right. “Sorry… I shouldn’t have said that.”

Guillaume let out a soft chuckle, but if you looked at his face you’d see that the comment was indeed biting at him. It wasn’t much the fact that he missed Teresa as a lover, or a girlfriend or whatever she had been; but rather because this was his second attempt at a relationship and his second failure. One which had solidified in his mind something that he had tried to suppress for so long.

“It’s alright, Athan. You’re actually striking a good point,” the Lyncanestrian prince began. “I gave myself bad advice; and the sad part is that it was against my better instincts. Who was I trying to fool?” Guillaume sighed as he shook his head, signaling to Athan the disappointment that Guy had at himself.

“It’s like whenever you have that feeling in your stomach right before you do something you just know will end up a disaster. It was just like that. Teresa didn’t deserve this. It’s not that I didn’t know it would end up badly; it’s that I chose to ignore that little voice in your head telling me to stop. We really tried to make it work, you know? But I simply couldn’t get over…” his voice trailed off before he finished his sentence.

“Bah, it’s in the past now. We’re in the present, huh?” Guillaume struck a smile, or at least he tried, as he turned back to Athan. “I won’t make that mistake again, trust me. I’ve come to terms with it.”

Not feeling any better after Guy’s explanation, Athan gave a sympathetic smile while avoiding eye contact. “Well, that’s good then, right? It sounds like she did you a favor. Now you can move on and look for someone you’ll be happy with.”

The pair sat in silence for several minutes. Athan clicked aimlessly between tabs on his laptop’s web browser trying to appear busy while hoping Guy wasn’t paying too much attention to him. He was aware that he should have been studying for his chemistry final, but all that went through his head was what his friend had said.

Who was he trying to fool? Ignoring the voice in his head telling him to stop? Athan knew that he should have left well enough alone, but it bothered him too much. “You said you knew it would end badly,” he stopped playing with his laptop and clasped his hands in front of him on the table. “How could you have known that?”

“I just knew I could never really be fulfilled with her; nor could I, in turn, fulfill her.”

Guillaume smiled as he turned to his friend and took a deep breath as if contemplating whether or not to speak what had suddenly come to his mind. Up to now he had willfully ignored what most others would have probably deemed as something beyond friendly. The embraces, playful banter, long stares and glances. It was dawning on him that perhaps Athan felt the same way. As he raised his gaze back towards the Lihnidosi prince, Guillaume deeply hoped he had not been mistaken in his realization.

The sudden lunge forward in his direction seemed to have caught Athan unaware, but what came next surprised him further: Guillaume pressed his lips on Athan’s, giving into those feelings he had tried suppressing for so long.

Athan knew that he should have pulled away, should have stopped Guy as soon as he leaned towards him, but it happened too fast for him to react. The initial shock kept him frozen in place, his body tense while his mind tried to make sense of what was happening. Just as Guy did, Athan too believed that their relationship had seemed to move past a simple friendship at times. The difference was that Athan wasn’t yet willing to accept what that would mean for him. He had spent so long denying his feelings; suppressing any thoughts he had been raised to believe weren’t normal.

For now though, at just this moment, those concerns disappeared. All of Athan’s suspicions had been confirmed. The shock quickly wore off, and along with it the tension that had kept him stiff and unmoving. He leaned in towards Guy slightly, welcoming the kiss and encouraging it to continue.

The two locked lips in what was no more than a few seconds, but seemed much more than that to the two of them. This is what Guillaume would never have been able to have with Teresa, and he regretted ever wasting his time following a road which led nowhere. Now it seemed he had found what his heart had been yearning for so long; and what he had had tried to repress for months. The Audonian prince pulled back, opening his eyes once more to see Athan, his cheeks rather flushed like his own, smile, if only for a minute.

“This is why it would never have worked with Teresa,” Guy finally spoke up. “As much as I liked her, I could never like her that way.” He raised his eyes at Athan in a manner that could be interpreted as being suggestive, even raising an eyebrow. Extending his arm out, he placed his hand on the Lihnidosi’s, “I didn’t like her the way I like you, Athan,” he finally confessed, as if their kiss hadn’t already evidenced the fact.

Instead of a response, Athan turned his head away from Guy, the smile that had been on his face just a moment earlier turning into a frown. The joy in his eyes was replaced with doubt and denial. The concerns that had been forgotten just seconds ago came rushing back. What am I doing? he asked himself, forcing his eyes to the floor in shame.

The worries that had plagued him for so long began to flood his mind. What would my family think if they found out? What would they say? Most of his family were devout Fabrian Catholics, but even those that weren’t seemed to agree with the general consensus in his home country that how he felt—who he was—was wrong. He had even believed it himself. And unfortunately for Guillaume, part of Athan still did. This simply couldn’t be him.

With scrunched eyebrows, a deep frown, and sadness in his eyes Athan looked back at Guy. Guy had confided in him, trusted him, showed him his true feelings. It had been everything Athan had wanted, but also everything he hadn’t. And now he was going to betray it all, simply because he wasn’t ready to accept himself for who he truly was.

“I can’t do this.” Athan pulled his hand away from Guy’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He rose from his chair quickly, shutting his laptop and notebook and gathering up his things around him.

As Athan gathered his things and turned away, Guillaume remained seated and frozen still, visibly fraught with dejection. Closing his eyes, the Prince shook his head to signal the regret he now felt at opening his heart to the other. Guy slowly lifted his head back up, where he saw Athan fling his bag around his shoulder and, without as much as a backwards glance, shuffle away towards the stairs.

Unburdening his heart of the feelings he had concealed there for so long was a relief, but its price seemed to have been too steep for Guillaume. His actions had caused him to lose a good friend, or at least it appeared so to him. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, as if by instinct he felt a need to explain and apologize; make up for this as soon as possible, admit a mistake was made and try to bring things back to the way they were.

But Guillaume knew there was no going back. Indeed, for a split second he had felt there would be no need to go back and the two of them would move forward together. Alas it seemed this would not be the case. At least not yet. It had taken years for him to come to terms with who he was, why pressure Athan if he was not ready?

He’ll come around eventually, he thought to himself, the heart always wins.

At that moment, Guy put his phone back into his pocket and gathered his things; it was now just a quarter hour until his final exam and he was not about to end his undergraduate career on a bad note.

[Enyama]

AKUTERA, ENYAMA
MARCH 2019

It had been a dull and overcast afternoon in Akutera, the whole city’s aura warping back into a angle of light more reminiscent of early to mid-Autumn than any prospective spring. Tension remained high among the city’s denizens, as it had tended to be for the past decade since the new government’s ascension. As the white blur of the sun slowly tore across the cloudy sky, a dark sedan nonchalantly pulled out of the city’s traffic, turning right and going across the Hari bridge.

As it passed a cavalcade of depressingly blackened smokestacks and other old industry in the drained reservoir below, the sedan kept left at the fork, heading towards the Nordic Quarter. The Skaldanian part of the city, old and connected as it was where it hit the coast, had a decidedly more rugged aesthetic as one went up the river, the old apartments and tenements turning to newer manufactured homes and otherwise clearly suffering storefronts.

This was the status quo which every level of Enyaman government, from President to Mayor of Akutera, had elected to impose. The Skaldanians themselves, both here and across the border to their own nation, had become increasingly privy to this gross misallocation of power over the years, from accusations of unfair labor to accusations of systematic and official xenophobia. And there were the whispers - the rather obvious death of Ludin Ovarset, Chief Editor of the one and only Skaldanian newspaper in the city, had sparked a new wave of terror among the city’s Skaldanian citizens.

And then, as the New Year passed, a shift in the oppressive atmosphere - more whispers, but of something different. Whispers of outside support, from the Confederation itself. Whispers of retaliation, even local retaliation. There had always been the odd policeman’s disappearance, often attributed to street gangs, but now, entire cruisers were popping off of the district map. Enyaman communications would shutter and stop at odd and uncorrelated times. Shadowy figures often lurked among the Nordic Quarter’s many alleyways, whispering vague words and dispersing at the first sign of trouble. Mayor Onata hadn’t the constitution to address the new-found contention publicly, but even the average high school student had heard that he had been considering getting the Internal Troops involved.

Third-year student Arne Geirsson ruminated over the state of the city as he sat quietly in the back of his homeroom class, waiting for the clock to tick the day to the end at South Quarter Gifted High School. A primarily Skaldanian institution since its inception in the early 20th century, many of the school’s attendees were the sons and daughters of prominent leaders in the Enyaman Skaldanian community, often those with more political inclinations. Geirsson’s father, Geir, was a marginally successful record company executive in Enyama - even so, his family was one of the few which didn’t have overt political or media connections - something that helped avert especially close scrutiny of his parents.

The bell rang its familiar four-and-a-half tones, and so the young Arne stood up from his chair, glanced at the waning overcast day through the window, and, with a roll of the eyes, decided that today he would forgo going home for friends and drugs. It was only a Tuesday, but he had no time to hear the arguments his home brought. Without even a call home, he headed off to the west.

Less than an hour later, and with a quick text to his friends, Arne was already seeing their distant clothed silhouettes approaching. First was Kadlin, a blonde senior and the ex-stepdaughter of the recently-assassinated Ludin Ovarset. She’d brought cannabis - a drug often preferred by the druglords of yesteryear for its wide appeal. In this day and age, it was the perfect release from the stresses of life, replacing booze’s debauchery with creativity and its penchant for loudness with a now-justified sense of paranoia. Though Arne had weaned off of doing it too often, as it worried his thoughts too much for his own liking, he thought today required a necessary getaway. Two second-years rolled up on bikes, as scheduled. They were Skaldanian too, though their stock was evidently more mixed, as those in Akutera tended to be. Kadlin walked up, offering Arne a grin and a short hug.

“Arne! Getting tired of home?” she asked as she pulled away and the two second-years approached. Arne shrugged. “You know how it tends to be these days. Hey there, guys.” he swiftly nodded his head to the duo approaching. Vestgeir and Rokir, their names were, and though young, they had made quite the connection with the young Arne and his third-year friends.

“Where are the others?” asked Vestgeir, with Rokir tying both of their bikes to a nearby sign. “Is this it for today?” he pressed his question.

Arne nodded as he checked his phone one last time before pocketing it. “Well, lots of them’ve got too paranoid for...this.” he explained. “Forgetting to live life, if you ask me. Ævar’s still coming, as he should be.” Kadlin looked around the relatively desolate suburban street. The streetlights popped on, emitting a dull orange on the barely-overcast sky. The air smelt of rain and smog, and sirens blared somewhere far away. Nordic quarter, sure, but not here. “Let’s get somewhere snug and somewhere less in-the-way of cops, then, boys. Come.”

She gestured to a small, cobbled path which lined the edge of the abandoned house which they had parked next to. The four of them headed down to a small patch of trees among the houses, a patch in which they’d hidden a bunch of plastic lawn chairs. Sitting down, Kadlin reached into her pocket and retrieved a swiftly-rolled joint. “Here we are.”

“You sure this isn’t any of that overseas shite laced with something-or-other?” asked Rokir, crossing his arms. He hadn’t done this many times.

Kadlin rolled her eyes. “Positive. Just ask Arne here, this will send you on an adventure.” Arne raised a finger, smirking. “Let’s hope not.” he murmured, as Kadlin lit it and promptly began to pass it around, along with compliments about its quality.

“So, uh,” she paused as it came to her again and she took a quick puff off of it. “Hear anything interesting?” she asked the other three. Rokir spoke up. “Well, I heard that the Lorey sisters have got into a row, see, and now they’re not talking to each other - oh, and that prick from Home Improvement got arrested by the police while tryna’ beat him up.” he pointed a thumb at Vestgeir, who had sunk into his chair, his eyes red.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this now. It’s been months -” began Vestgeir. Kadlin raised a hand to shut him up. “Hush. Just enjoy it. I’m not sure when the next time I’ll be able to get this is. And my sis tells me there’s definitely no tests until two weeks from now at the earliest.”

“Admin’s tryna’ keep us happy, you know.” coughed Arne as he put the blacked joint out on the side of the chair and then flicked it into the forest. “They’re just as freaked as we are about this whole Ovarset thing. And well, all this other shit happening here and there.”

“Yesterday - and I could have sworn it,” began Kadlin as she looked behind her shoulder. “I could have sworn I saw a warrior-looking person. Someone from the home country, maybe. Big tattoos - side of his head shaved, sort of thing. Before he...you know, my step-dad was always having these shady conversations on his phone. I was thinking this guy could be a sign.”

“A sign of what?” prodded Arne.

Kadlin looked up at the darkened clouds, which had begun to disperse. “Probably someone trying to rile something up. We’ve all heard the rumors. Gangs, right? Skaldanian gangs, from the poor side of the quarter. Real extremist types. I heard one of them even shot two cops last week. Maybe my dad was talking to them to get to the people they work for - who might be in Skaldafen.”

“That’s not in the news.” said Vestgeir, slumped in the chair. “Not that it would be. But I’ve never...felt so in the dark before in my entire life, you know?”

“Even if- even if there’s a gang like that operating, they won’t last long, you know. Onata’s going to get those fucks from the Internal Forces involved here, and that’ll be it for us. Full-on police state from there!” grunted Arne, though he did have enough of a point that the others didn’t immediately respond.

Kadlin kicked some leaves idly as her eyes turned from the others’ towards the ground. “I stopped hearing from Hiroya, too. Twelve fucking years of talking, you know. That’s more time than I’ve been alive without him, and now he’s just ghosted me.”

“Yeah, but weren’t his parents putting pressure on him? You know, to stop talking with ‘our type’?” postulated Arne. Kadlin sighed. “That’s still on him to talk. It’s not like they’re in our phones, not yet at least.”

Vestgeir let out a loud sigh. “Where’s Ævar?”

“Oh, fuck,” grumbled Arne as he staggered to his feet. “We smoked it without him? I’m going to go see if he’s on the street.” he explained. Kadlin grabbed his wrist, which made his eyes bolt to hers, if nothing then for the sudden and unheard-of physicality. “Fuck that, Arne. Let’s stay together, we’re high and it’s a Tuesday night or something. It’s just the paranoia. Anything on your phone from him?”

The other two still slumped in their chairs, their position in relative darkness inviting the comfort of dreamless sleep. Arne pulled his hand away from her grip, and she again looked away from him, embarrassed maybe. Arne could read her like a book - a rare thing to happen. He checked his phone. “Nothing. I’m going.”

“Listen - we’ll be back, okay?” he gently ruffled her shoulder and headed back up to the path which had led them into the forest. As Arne reached the end of the path and entered the abandoned house’s driveway, he took a glance in both directions down the street. Not a sign of Arne, and not any real change. Not a light on in any of the houses, either. Just him and the sounds of the Nordic Quarter, prodding him every step of the way towards conclusions he knew were far from the truth.

Down the street, his eyes immediately processed something new. A black sedan, lights off, windows black, just sitting there. It seemed beefier than your average layperson’s car - and something more of a luxury stock. Unusual, for a neighborhood this far removed from the rich part of the Nordic Quarter. His mind went to the police, but he didn’t know them to be a particularly subtle type.

He looked at his phone, shining a blue light on his face that anyone watching could undoubtedly see. Still not a single peep from Ævar. His thumb hovered over the “call” button, and after seconds of rumination he pressed down on it and pressed the phone to his ear.

Ringing.

A pause. Maybe too long? Did it stop after one ri-

Ringing again.

Another grueling pause.

And then a click. He’d answered.
“Hey, Ævar, man, where are you? We were going out to smoke, do you remember or what?”

Another click. What the fuck? Did he just hang up on me? Is this just the paranoia?

“Hello?” he talked to his phone again before checking its screen again only to find it black. Instinctively, he looked up again to where the sedan had been. It was gone now. Not finding much time to look nonchalant, as a pang of fear had just radiated out from his heart, Arne decided the best course of action would be a brisk jog back to the others - and then a swift exit out of here, if they could help it.

“Stop, kid.” he heard a voice whisper in Enyaman from what felt like inside his own head. Shuddering, he froze in place, offering a glance to his right only to find a decidedly Enyaman man dressed in a black suit - and pointing a silenced pistol at him. “You’re coming with us, now. We have questions about your father.”

“My...my father?” asked Arne, hushing his words to a whisper as best as he could. The last thing he needed now was to show these people where the others were. “Yes, we think you’ll be able to...elucidate some things for us. Come on.”

The man gestured with the gun. Arne looked him over again - this man wasn't police. Was he from higher up? “We’ve got you now, Engelstad.” muttered the man. Engelstad? They’re after fucking Vestgeir! Now he knew he couldn't fight. Better him than Vestgeir - Vestgeir’s father was Jan Engelstad, and if that man’s money and influence in the Skaldanian community here were to disappear, well - that would be very bad for all of them.

Just then, a white blur entered his periphery, and he saw the Enyaman turn his head to face it. Shit! Not my plan!! he thought, as he willed himself into throwing a sluggish slap for the gun, which promptly sent it flying out of the Enyaman’s hands and into the barely-visible shine of the grass.

A follow-up left hook landed, and he took a second to see who was approaching. Kadlin, hair ruffled, had come out to see where Ævar had gone and had just made the situation much worse. His eyes scanned for the gun on the ground, and after a second of searching, he saw it, but promptly that was replaced by nothing but stars and fractals as the Enyaman’s fist connected with his cheek, and he found himself on the ground moments later. Kadlin sounded like she tried to scuffle with the man herself.

He stood up and felt another pang of adrenaline - the man had Kadlin by the neck, and the gun against her head. “You’ll come with us quietly. Or she dies here, right now.” explained the man. Fuck! he thought. I can still work this into pretending to be Vestgeir. As long as he doesn’t show up - and Kadlin doesn’t get shot.

“That’s a hell of an ultimatum.” he replied in Enyaman. “And you don’t like a cop. Who are you and where's Ævar?”

The man aggressively shook his head. “Kid, this isn’t an icebreaker. We don’t want to hurt you or her - but we can. Ævar understood that. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind before I turn her head into a canoe.” A buzz came from the man’s ear - more speaking in Enyaman.

“We’re short on time, kid.” said the man, trying his best to put on an endearing facade. Arne knew better. “You let me hug her goodbye, okay, and then, yes, I’ll come. No struggle. No texts to anyone.”

The man thought for a second. “You’re pathetic. Come on then, do it. Fifteen seconds.” he said, as he pushed a distressed-looking Kadlin from his arms and into Arne’s, keeping the gun pointed at both. Arne whispered quickly to Kadlin, and in Skaldanian:

“They think I’m Vestgeir. Get yourself and him out of there, like, now. They’re trying to use him to get to his dad? Okay?” he whispered in a nearly inaudible hush. She nodded and wiped her eyes, realizing her best interest would be to feign emotion, and began to sob as she pulled off of him.

Arne backed out and felt the barrel of the gun again press to the back of his head. “This paranoid about a high school kid, huh?” he asked the burly Enyaman.

“If you talk again, I’ll pistol-whip you.” growled the man as they walked up to the now-idling black sedan which had pulled up to the abandoned house. Arne tentatively smirked in the growing darkness - he’d left his phone and wallet in Kadlin’s pocket. I hope this works. he thought to himself, gulping as a bag went over his head and everything went black.

[Enyama]

SOMEWHERE NEAR AKUTERA, ENYAMA
MARCH 2019

The bag came off, and Arne Geirsson found himself staring at the faces of a whole bunch of Enyamans in suits. The weed had been wearing off for that long car ride - he must have been somewhere on the mountain outskirts of the city. The room he was in was lavish, with distinctly Enyaman architecture. Through the paper walls in front of him, he could see the fuzzy silhouettes of even more men standing outside. A hint of realization went through him as he took a good look at the posse assembled in front of him. Enforcers., he thought, noting their well-tailored suits and thuggish atmosphere. Members of the Gokudō, operating outside the law towards the interests in the government.

It was no secret to those who had properly looked up the rise of the current status quo in Enyama - President Muratagi had likely been a prominent member of the Gokudō himself before he’d decided to eliminate drugs from the equation and enter into politics. Confirmation stood in front of Arne, and his mind briefly went to his friends - and, briefly, to his parents, who must have been worried sick after his sudden disappearance.

An older bald man stepped forward from the posse, brushing his shoulder against the earlier man which had apprehended him. He sported a slightly different uniform from the rest of them, for his suit had a distinct red trim. The leader? thought Arne, as the man kneeled in front of him, so close that he could smell the sake on his breath.

Briefly, the man’s face contorted as he sniffed the air, and then he broke into a chuckle.

“You smell like weed, Engelstad.” said the man, as he straightened his legs and adjusted his tie. He spoke Enyaman with a Western accent so thick Arne felt he could cut it with a knife.

“Now,” the leader gripped his cufflinks as he spoke, swiveling around to face the young Skaldanian. “...we’re holding you hostage.”

“Really?” blurted Arne, “I thought you were about to take me on a candlelit dinner.” Arne watched as some of the gangsters around him stifled laughter. Their leader didn’t seem too impressed. “You’ve got some mouth on you - maybe I should have Enjin over here mail it to your father.” He gestured to a hulking beast of a man to his immediate left.

“Now,” and with his words, he kneeled again, close to Arne’s face. “I would prefer not to do that - the famous Jan Engelstad isn’t as likely to play along with our little game if we...modify your appearance.”

“Start with one of them fancy tattoos then, Mr. Sir.”

“What in every spirit-drinking spirit’s fuck did you just call me?” The man chortled, as he stood up briskly and delivered a kick to Arne’s face. Maybe I should lay off the jokes - I like my teeth the way they are. he thought, as he saw the leader turn away briefly. It’s the twenty-first century. There’s no way in Hel they haven’t got an actual picture of Vestgeir somewhere. I need to fuck with them more - they’re gonna kill me anyway when they find out, right?

“Listen here, kid. I am Daimyo Gojiro of the Akutera Gokudō clan. And I have immunity. I can literally liquefy you if I want. This -” He pointed to Arne and then to the rest of the room “- this is just a favor for a friend. He wants your father by the balls, and, well…” he paused.

“...you were the most easily accessible method of doing that.”

“Who’s your friend?” asked Arne plainly.

“The fucking President. Who’s your friend, you petulant brat? Ragnar Ragnarrson from down the block?” spat Gojiro. For all of his power and influence, he was letting a high schooler repeatedly kick him in the proverbial shin. Arne was playing with fire here, but he didn’t care - this exchange compelled him like nothing in his domestic life had for years.

“Well, actually, I would consider Ragnar Ragnarsson as more of a friend of a friend, or a-”

Arne felt another kick connect with his body, and this one sent him awkwardly sprawling on the ground. His arms were still tied behind him, and now contorted into an even-more uncomfortable position. He heard Gojiro mumble something in Enyaman that he couldn’t quite make out, and then a shuffling of feet. He was alone in here - just him and the Daimyo.

“It looks like I may have to give my friend the President a bit of an apology. You - you and your wit, I’m just gonna have to take a little bit of you off - teach you some respect.” mumbled Gojiro at him. Arne tried to shuffle around on the ground, but balance proved particularly difficult - so instead, he cocked his head into a particularly uncomfortable upright position, which let him see Gojiro uncorking a bottle of Sake at a small desk in the corner of the room.

“Oh, this is going to be fun, fun fun…” he heard the man mumble to himself. He kept his mouth shut now, instead groaning. But he saw a way out - again. These gangsters were sloppy - Gojiro doubly so. He appeared to be on the brink of blackout drunk. If I can keep this fuck’s hands away from whatever little bit of me he wants, maybe I’ve got a chance to make his enforcers come in here and take his drunk ass away. But then what? I run, and they give me some polka-dot tattoos...or all of that happens an hour from now, when they call my bluff.

Gojiro stumbled from his minibar to a display on the other side of the wall, where Arne saw the unmistakable display of three swords, of which Gojiro chose the smallest, the wakizashi. This was the time to press his attack.

“Only the shortest sword, you fat bastard? Can’t you spare a little more length for me?”

With that quip, Gojiro sloppily dropped his wakizashi back on the display stand, and instead took the tachi situated upon the lowest rung of the display. “I am going to make you eat your toes, you white shit!” he growled loudly. Arne could see the two sentries outside of the paper door had their heads cocked, listening intently. This would be hard to circumvent. He had to get to his feet, now. Gojiro was lurching towards him, veins on his forehead bulging almost cartoonishly.

Death was imminent, and despite it being out-of-character for him, Arne felt exhilarated. To be this close to the end, it was truly freedom. A freedom to act outside of conformity, and society, and all of the forces which regularly beat him down. This must have been what skydivers and soldiers felt daily.

The Daimyo reached out to grab one of Arne’s feet with his off-hand, and that was when Arne pushed back, rolling to the side. Instinctually, Gojiro swung his tachi at his target, but missed. Arne opened his eyes to find the blade of the gangster’s sword embedded into a plank inches away from his face. I am on a roll today. he thought calmly as he mustered all of his energy and sprang to his feet. He felt no fear - was this a normal human reaction?
Gojiro growled in a primal way, using both of his hands to try and dislodge his sword from the ground, as Arne regained his sense of direction and took a quick look of examination around the room. His hands were still bound. The guards outside - their silhouettes were gone.

He went to the opposite wall - taking a quick glance through the window. A small cliff, with a packed driveway below - this was a mansion somewhere in the mountains. He recognized the black sedan which had brought him here from the Nordic Quarter. When the drunk Daimyo finally broke his sword free of the ground, his eyes focused in their tunnel vision on the Skaldanian standing near the window.

Arne had a hint of an idea of what he wanted to do - but it would rely completely on his captor’s drunken stupidity. Given the man’s pervasive aura of alcohol, he had his hopes.

With a battle cry, Gojiro pointed the sword straight at Arne and charged in a relatively forward direction. His aim now appeared to be to kill - by skewering Arne into the wall. Perfect. thought Arne, as he nimbly sidestepped Gojiro’s blow.

Arne watched as, almost in slow-motion, the Daimyo’s sword tore through the paper wall with all of the man’s momentum, and launched the drunk man into the driveway ten or so meters below - and straight through the glass roof of a rather expensive-looking black sports car.

Arne half-laughed and half-grimaced in his adrenaline rush. His instinct told him the man was dead. The car was wailing. The guards would know. His hands were still zip-tied together, but the only way out was through. It would be a leap of faith - he would aim for the roof of the garage instead of the driveway or the cars, and hope that he wouldn’t break anything important to ambulation.

He jumped.

[Allamunnic States]

Amburg Township, Roesburg Prefecture
Province of Ainslynd, Archduchy of Innia
Wednesday, June 15th, 2016

“Alright, Papap, it’s alright if you want to break. I can handle the cleaning,” Nomi said, eying the clock and shaking out her hands. She had only been helping out with the morning baking for a couple of months, and she still had not quite adjusted to the amount of kneading she had to do to prepare the dough that would make up one of their family’s primary sources of revenue. She sighed a little bit as she realized it was only just now hitting six o’clock.

Making a note to watch the ovens, Nomi grabbed cleaner and a cloth and began cleaning the countertop. Loose flour, batter, and the detritus of baking clung to the rag and before long, Nomi had to toss that rag into a hamper, grabbing another. She wiped her brow where the kerchief she had tied her hair behind had failed to catch her sweat, before resuming her cleaning.

As the clock wound its way toward 6:10, she paused her cleaning to head to a cabinet, grabbing several cooling racks and setting them up. She grabbed some pot holders and approached one of the ovens. She felt her mouth watering as the rich, buttery aroma of freshly-baked croissants mugged her. She pulled the trays out of the oven and began moving the croissants onto the cooling racks. As she did, she there was a moment where she nearly pilfered one of the airy pastries, but her willpower held. Nomi remembered she was already a bit pudgier than she liked, and chided herself accordingly. Besides, you’ll spoil your breakfast.

The descending temperatures that the croissants had called for had set the oven up nicely for its next occupants. No sooner were the buttery, flaky pastries cooling on their racks, a new assortment of trays baring unbaked cookie dough in generous dollops were fed into the oven. She swung the heavy oven door shut once the sweets were safely ensconced. With the cookies in to bake, she was able to resume her prepping of the kitchen for its next use. She and her Papap had finished up a bag of flour, and she knew a new one would be needed for the next batch of bread. She eyed the clock to make sure she had time before the next batch of baked goods would need to evacuate the oven before walking towards the door to the basement.

Her sweatpants gave her plenty of freedom of movement as she quickly descended the stairs into the supply room in the bakery’s cellar. She walked over to a cluster of large bags of flour. She paused, making sure she had a solid grip before she lifted with her hips, throwing the 25-kilo bag over her shoulder before turning to climb back up the stairs. Although hauling the sack was not precisely easy, Nomi had done it enough that there was no danger of her dropping it as she ascended back to the kitchen, finding the appropriate spot for the sack and setting it down.

Checking the clock, she ran back down the stairs, repeating the process. This would be a spare sack to put on the storage shelf, this time requiring her to pick the sack up and actually bring it up as high as her head, wedging it onto the shelf. Again, not easy, but manageable.

By the time she finished, it was time for the cookies to come out. She went to the oven, rubber soles of her non-slip sneakers thumping on the tiles. She repeated the process she had carried out with the croissants minutes earlier, extracting the pans of now-browned treats and taking them to the cooling racks. You’ll burn your mouth, she reminded herself in a bid to avoid poaching one of the cookies, assaulting her with an absolutely heavenly scent. Fighting the urge, she returned to her cleaning. It was another few minutes of work, but it dragged for an eternity, temptation sitting only feet away. It’s a shitty baker who eats all of her product.

The cleaning finished, Nomi sighed, giving herself a five-minute break while she waited for the bread to finish. The bittersweet cocoa and the yeasty croissants were determined to hook her by the nostrils. She dug her fingertips into the counter, so hard as to almost bring her very short nails into contact with the hard surface as she fought herself.

She caved.

The guilt that flooded her as she crossed the distance to the cooling rack was battered down by a torrent of sweet satisfaction. The effect of the bittersweet chocolate chips was almost narcotic, and Nomi fought down a squeal of delight. The cookie was all the more perfect for being a product of her labor, from start to finish (she could not claim credit for creating the ingredients themselves, but! -- beyond that…). The treat would have been delightful even if it had not been fresh out of the oven. But it was, and instead of a delectable crumble, it was an ecstatic melt; she did not so much chew it as the cookie simply dissolved as it met her tongue.

Savoring the poached treat, Nomi leaned against the counter, closing her eyes. It was not exactly a religious experience, but she thought this might be what holy men and women experienced when they contacted their gods.

“Enjoying yourself?” Her eyes slammed open at her grandfather’s laughter and she turned bright red. Mouth still full of her illicit reward, she almost began to stutter before Papap waved her down. “Don’t apologize. I was thinking about swiping one myself. You did well, and the surest sign of success is that you want to sample your own product.” Her embarrassment subsided. “I figured it was time to check on the bread,” he explained. “I can take over. You gave me a good break, and you still have to get ready for school.”

Nomi’s grandfather Piotr was a stocky (or, less-charitably, portly) man in his mid-sixties. He was still strong and moved well, despite the iron in his hair, and there was still a mirthful vitality in his manner, most apparent in the almost-constant smile that reached his brown eyes. She had no doubt he could finish what he had started for the day’s baking. Even if his adult children and their children in turn meant that he and his wife Ellen no longer had to do that baking every day, it was still certainly within his ability.

She nodded to him. “Thanks, Papap.” She removed the brown apron she had worn over her tee shirt and sweatpants, hanging it on a hook before exiting the kitchen and bounding up the stairs into the second floor of the building, the first of two floors where the sizable Bronn clan resided. As she arrived in the residence, she slipped her kitchen shoes off, leaving them on a mat with others like them. She noticed her mother and her Uncle Ruger preparing breakfast in a kitchenette. From the smell, she suspected it was oatmeal and scrambled egg, in large enough quantities to feed a huge family.

As she arrived in the dining room, her elder brother, Andrik, came bounding down the stairs from the third floor. He had grown his still somewhat-patchy facial hair into a beard (It still looks awful, Nomi mused), his brown hair had been pushed under a flat cap, and he was already dressed in blue jeans and a gray tee-shirt.

“G’morning, Gnome-y,” he said, trotting out a nickname that relied on a slight mispronunciation of Nomi’s actual name. “Is Papap working on the bread?” Nomi nodded. “Alright. How far out from delivery time do you think it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nomi said. She thought for a moment. “Maybe… 20 minutes? Not sure how long he’s going to let it cool. Is the bathroom free?” Andrik nodded back.

“Yeah, I told Jor to wait for you to use it first.” Nomi thanked him as they passed each other, and she began to run up the stairs to the third floor. She went to her small bedroom, quickly pulling on her bathrobe and grabbing a towel, and then using the door into the directly-adjoining bathroom that she and Andrik shared directly. She brushed her teeth, while seeing to other business, pausing after standing up to start the shower in order to allow about a minute for the water to heat up. She spat out her toothpaste, rinsed her mouth, and hopped into the now-warm shower. Even allowing time to wash herself and shampoo her hair, Nomi was in and out of the bathroom in about twenty minutes.

She dried off and returned to her room. A quick, if thorough, brush of her hair made it look tidy enough; nobody would confuse her with a model, locks teased into an immaculate ‘do, but that was not her goal anyway. It helped that her hair was short, falling barely past her chin. Her bangs were a little on the long side, but parted slightly to one side. Next came her undergarments, fairly conservative (and focused mostly on comfort). Nomi knew not every girl at her school opted for a bra, but going without simply was not an option for her if she did not feel like dealing with uncomfortable bouncing. Even if the extra layer would mean a little more sweat; her bra was practically a tank-top.

That done, she donned her school clothes. Amburg’s secondary school did not mandate an actual uniform, but students were required to adhere to a palette of blue, black, and white, shoulders had to be covered, and bottoms, trouser or skirt alike, could not fall above the knee. First, she stepped into a pair of white tights, pulling them up to her waist. After that, she donned a white blouse with half-sleeves, buttoning it up before pulling a blue jumper dress over it. She did a quick hop and twirl to make sure the fit was right and nothing was out of place, before she grabbed her school bag (packed the night before), her shoes, and went back down to the second floor.

The second floor was now a hive of activity; Andrik had already gone downstairs, as had her grandmother (or so she guessed; she was usually up early, but she was not in the dining room). Nomi’s Aunt Mara, Uncle Ruger, her father and mother, little brother Jordyn, and her cousins, Wylla and Rikard, were all seated at the table, eating. Her father greeted her as she stepped off the stairs, setting her messenger-style bag down, along with the blue flats she would be wearing to school.

“Nomi! Breakfast is on the stove,” he said. She nodded, walking over into the kitchen, grabbing a bowl and a spoon and serving herself. She mixed about one egg’s worth of scrambled egg in with her oatmeal, adding a pinch of cheese to it before returning to the table. She began to shovel food into her; all the baking had worked up a hearty appetite, whetted further by spending the morning being taunted by fresh baked goods.

With almost the entire second and third generations of the Bronn family sitting together, the resemblances were apparent; Kaarl (Nomi’s father) and Mara were siblings, and their offspring all bore strong resemblances to their Bronn parents. Hints of Rona (Nomi’s mother) and Ruger (her uncle) were apparent in their respective children, but all the born Bronns shared a basically-stocky (or at least sturdy) build, were, without exception brown-haired and brown-eyed, and had friendly faces. Wylla and Rik were taller, courtesy of their father, but had also obtained a need for glasses in the bargain.

“Rik, you’re watching the shop after classes, right?” Mara asked her son. He nodded. Nomi got up and fetched a cup of coffee; she had been up since four in the morning, so she would need the caffeine today.

The day’s schedule was discussed further as the family finished breakfast. Nomi ate quietly; she was done with her work for the family business for the day, she only had to get through school now. Nomi finished her breakfast, getting up and offering to gather the bowls of the others who had finished. She ended up collecting basically the whole family’s used dishes, carrying them over to the sink in the kitchenette. Breakfast done, she grabbed her bag. She saw Rik and Wylla doing the same. Rik was in a blue button-up shirt and black trousers, and Wylla was in a blue blouse with a black skirt that fell to her shins. Unlike Nomi, she was bare-legged and wore her long hair tied back in a ponytail.

“Are you all ready to head in?” Rik nodded. Wylla was distracted by her cell phone. They detoured to grab their packed lunches from the kitchenette, and then turned and walked toward the stairs, stopping to slip on her shoes before heading down. She walked through the hallway that ran parallel to the bakery’s dining room, opening out to the street. She opened the door, holding it open for her cousins, before following behind them.

The streets of Amburg were narrow. The town was not especially large, but was built densely. The Bronn family establishment had actually originally been much smaller, but had taken over two adjoining slots on the building, bolstered by the brisk business it picked up by virtue of being across the street from one of the town’s train stations. The station that sat across from the bakery & cafe was the one nearest to the town center, which made it a logical jumping-off point for tourists and commuters alike.

Unfortunately, that also meant that the Bronn children would have to walk to their school; there was no closer train line. Even the town’s trolley lines were not terribly useful. Still, it was only about a fifteen minute walk; a mile by distance, if that. Rik and Wylla started walking off without Nomi, whose attention had been taken by the sight of a woman in a business suit across the street. She had been leaving the train station when she had stumbled, dropping her suitcase, which, in keeping with the old adage that “anything that can go wrong, will go wrong”, had popped open, strewing papers around, just as a breeze started to pick up.

Nomi looked both ways; the street was light on motor vehicle traffic; most of the roads in Amburg were basically pedestrian routes, but it never hurt to be safe. The way clear, she ran across the street. She grabbed a paper off the ground just as the wind tried to abscond with it. She corralled it, along with several other sheets, and brought them back to the struggling business woman. She was quite harried now, her attempts at saving her work harried by an old, uneven sidewalk, high-heeled shoes, and the limits in mobility imposed by a somewhat snug pencil skirt. She smiled as she saw Nomi approach, bearing several of the sheets.

“Oh gods, thank you so much,” she said, bestowing a frazzled smile on the sixteen year-old. She looked at the sheets as Nomi handed them back to her. “I’d have been completely fucked if those had blown away.” She spoke quickly, in a manner not entirely attributable to her stress. The vowels in her speech were shorter than Nomi was used to, although not to an extent that she could not be understood. She must be from out of town. “I’m in your debt.”

“Oooh, it’s no trouble!” Nomi said brightly. “It’s what any decent sort would have done!” The raven-haired businesswoman narrowed her eyes.

“There were other people closer by that didn’t. Seriously. Thank you. Can I make it up to you?” Behind them, a bus from one of the town’s outlying hamlets pulled up to the curb, and people began disembarking from it.

“Nope!”

“Please.”

“Nope! I gotta get to school!” Nomi was about to walk away.

“Can I at least get your name so I can call and commend you?” Nomi’s eyes widened.

“Seriously! It’s nothing. If you want to do me a favor…” she pointed at the family business. “Got get a chocolate chip cookie there this afternoon. Let us know what you think. That’s good enough for me!” Before the lady could object further, Nomi had walked away briskly. A familiar redhead was waiting for her at the corner.

“Oh, lookit the good neighbor,” Nomi’s maternal second cousin, Anessa Grenn said with a chuckle. “You got circles under your eyes, by the way. You bake this morning?” Nomi nodded back. “Did you make the cookies again? Did you make sure to leave a note for them to save me one?” A shake of the head. “You’re the worst, you know that?” A nod. The two walked steadily toward the school. Other red-haired Grenns walked around them. Nomi was related more closely to most of them than she was to Anessa (first cousins versus second cousins), but the two had been best friends for years, on top of their familial connection.

The two were now on the tail-end of the flow of teenagers moving toward the school. The breeze had returned, and Nomi was now glad she had opted for some layers; even Midsummer in the Ottonian Riverlands could be breezy and just this side of chilly. Next to her, Anessa shivered momentarily. She had worn a short-sleeved (if reasonably-thick) white tee shirt and blue jeans, which was, technically, within the school dress code (although Nomi suspected Nessa would get some looks from their teachers for coming under-dressed). The shiver made Nessa’s red ponytail bob slightly on the top of the black backpack she carried, but she was over it after a moment as the sun came out from behind a cloud.

“Tell me, have you ever considered wearing a coat?” Nomi snarked.

She snipped back. “Midsummer Social is Friday. The Festival is next week. I’m not wearing a fucking coat during Midsummer. It’s the principle of the thing.” She paused, thinking. “Speaking of, what’s your plan for Social? Have you found hot dates for us?”

Nomi rolled her eyes. “That’s your obsession, not mine.” She checked their surroundings before her next words. “But Andr did agree to help me get some cider and snaps, so I’m definitely going to get swishy ahead of the thing.”

“Ooh, can he get me some, too?”

“Don’t you have an army of cousins that can get you some?”

“I guess. So are you coming out to the farm ahead of it, or are we hiding somewhere to do our drinkin’?” Nomi paused to think. The Grenn clan essentially formed their own small hamlet on their farm, with the accumulated households of several generations of family making for a small “settlement” of close to fifty people. If nothing else, there’d be privacy out on the Grenn homestead; Guardsmen were unlikely to interrupt the two of them while they violated the legal drinking age. Of course, then they would have to get back to town from there to get to the social.

“Maybe not. Not sure I want to walk back to town after that, and we can’t drive if we’re sloshed.”

“Ooh, maybe see if Poppy can host! She’s usually up for stuff like that!”

A strawberry-blonde girl in a white peasant blouse and a long black skirt caught up to them. “I’m usually up for what?”

Nessa whirled. “Oh hey, Poppy! Nomi and I were just talking about our Social plans.”

Poppy chuckled. “And you wanted to ask if I could host?” She looked at them. “I mean, I’ll have to check with my parents, but I think that should be okay. Is it just you two so far?”

“So far. Figured it would probably be us three, Kristi, and maybe Erin, if she’s up for it?” She glanced around. “Is it cool if we get swishy there?”

“If you bring some for me, sure,” Poppy answered. “I like cider. Let me know what I owe you.”

“Well, I think Nomi’s our hook-up, right?” Anessa looked back at her cousin. Nomi looked alarmed.

“Well, I was; I dunno if Andr can get that much, but I’ll ask. Kristi might be able to help, too. Oh, speaking of…” Nomi waved to a tall, slender-yet-curvy blonde girl who had just come to the same intersection as them. The girl looked both ways before crossing the street and joining them. “Heya, Kristi. Got Midsummer Social plans?”

“I assume with you all,” she said. “Why?”

“So it’s looking like we’re probably getting together at Poppy’s. Getting some drinks, and tuning up before the actual event. My brother might be able to help with some of the drinks, but I don’t know if he can get us enough for five people…”

“Ah, say no more!” Kristi lit up. “I got the connection. We should be golden.” Something seemed to finally process for the blonde. “Wait, Nomi, you’re not going to be drinking, are you? Usually it’s just Poppy, me, and maybe Nessa…”

Nomi turned a little pink. “Well, I got to give it a try some time…”

Kristi and Poppy laughed. “We did it!” They high-fived. “We corrupted sweet little Nomi! Score one for the bad girls!”

“Oh hush you!” Nomi was scowling now. After the laughter died down, Poppy patted her on the shoulder.

“Oh, don’t worry, we know you’re not going to turn into a sodden slut like Kristi…”

“Hey-- well, okay, fair.”

“...we’re just glad you’re going to try cutting loose a little.” Poppy’s smile was warm; she seemed genuinely happy for her friend. “You’re so responsible all the time, unwinding a little might do you some good.”

“Also we’ll have blackmail material forever.”

“Can it, Nessa!”

“Have you all told Erin yet?” Kristi asked, looking at the other three. All three shook their heads.

“I assumed one of us would when we saw her today,” Nessa said. Nomi looked hesitant.

“Are we sure she’ll be comfortable? If it weren’t for me abstaining, she’d be the odd one out when you three get swishy,” she said. “I’m happy to have her with us, but we might want to tell her that she might be the only steady one there so she can make her own decision.”

Anessa nodded. “Of course she will!” Kristi, Nomi, and Poppy all asked, more-or-less simultaneously, how she could be so sure. “Because I will invite Graeg along!” she said.

“No offense, Nessa, but your bro is a wet blanket,” Kristi noted.

“Yes, but he’s responsible, and also, I happen to know Erin’s real sweet on him. So she won’t be the only steady one there, and she can get some face time with her soft-spot!”

“Are you sure she won’t just melt into a puddle?” Nomi said, skeptical.

“I’m reasonably sure,” Nessa lied. “Andr could come, just in case, though.”

“He can’t,” Nomi replied instantly. Her brother had been playing things close to the vest, but she had managed to wring out of him (after swearing to secrecy) that he had a new girlfriend, who he had plans with on Friday after he was done enabling Nomi’s illicit drinking. “He’s already made plans with his friends.”

“Poo. Well, I’m not just going to invite our other cousins; last thing we need is for this to turn into a gods-damned Grenn family gathering.”

“Aw, but your family is fun, though,” Kristi whined.

“Yeah, sure, if you don’t live with ‘em,” Nessa countered. “Graeg’s opinion of me can’t get much lower, but I’d just as soon the rest of ‘em not see me get plastered.” She paused in thought for a moment, even as the town’s buildings floated past them as they moved toward their school. “Well, I guess I don’t care what Rik thinks, but he’s a dork anyway and I think he was planning on skipping Social anyway.” She glanced at Poppy and Kristi, who were both generally more popular with the opposite sex than Anessa and Nomi were. “Do you two not have dates?”

Kristi shook her head. “No, figured I would find someone to hang out with once we got to the event itself,” she said. “Got my eye on one or two possibles, though.” Anessa snickered, and Nomi turned slightly pink at their friend’s acknowledgement of her own promiscuity.

Poppy looked perturbed. “So I actually got asked yesterday. Twice. I told the first-- it was Jordyn Izaaks, by the way-- that I wanted to think about it. Then Junn Lorning asked on the way home, and I was thinking about going with Jordyn, but Junn’s always a sweetie to me and I don’t want to be unkind, but Jordyn’s going to know if I turn him down for Junn and--”

“Go with Junn,” Anessa said. “Jordyn’s kind of a dick. And they’re both hot. And presumably we’re going to have to interact with whichever one you go with. My vote’s with Junn.”

“I don’t think this is something we’re voting on,” Nomi said, giving her cousin a nudge.

“But she clearly was asking for advice…”

“Nessa’s right. Jordyn’s kind of an asshole. And he might be more of an asshole to Poppy if she turns him down for a guy that asked second,” Kristi pointed out.

“Then we’ll sort him out,” Nessa said, cracking her knuckles. “No one fucks with our girl. Well, unless she wants them to.” Poppy laughed.

The conversation had to come to a quick conclusion as they started approaching the front entrance of the school. They were somewhat surprised (and worried) to realize that there was almost nobody still outside. They might have dallied longer than intended. “Hey, what time is it?” Nomi asked. The answer came in the ringing of the first morning bell that announced the start of homeroom period. Her friends gasped as she snarled. “Ah, shit.”

The five of them tried to run in, to find their home rooms to ensure they were present for morning attendance. They split up; the assignments were by alphabetical order, and while Poppy went to the third section of the third-year home rooms (her last name was Roenyr), Nomi (Bronn), Anessa (Grenn), and Kristi (Gott) were all in the first of the three. Mercifully, they bolted in moments before roll call began, so while their teacher shook her head and sighed at their tardiness, the infraction was not actually mentioned.

With roll call finished, the school’s morning announcements were piped in via overhead speakers. The Student Government officers read their notices and announcements, and it was mostly routine housekeeping matters, or reminders of upcoming events (as if anyone was unaware of Midsummer’s rapid approach). Once those finally ended, the bell rang, and the class rose almost as one, the students filing out to go to their first actual classes of the day.

---

“Are you okay?” Ed Storen’s attempted nap was interrupted by a soft voice. He lifted his head off of the table, looking up at his brunette classmate. Ah, Nomi Bronn, if he remembered right. Not that they spoke.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay? Did you not have anything to eat?” she asked. Ed was about to protest that he was fine when his stomach betrayed him, growling loudly. He looked deeply embarrassed.

“Yeah, I forgot to pack my lunch,” he admitted.

“You want some of mine?” Nomi offered, looking concerned. “There’s not a whole lot, but I’ve got some carrots and can split my sandwich if you want?” Ed was about to reject her offer when his stomach protested again. Sighing, he nodded. “Okay. So.” Nomi set her lunch bag down on the table, pulled out a napkin, serving some of the baby carrots in a zipper-bag onto it, before opening another such plastic bag and dividing a sandwich in half. She did it neatly enough that the jelly and walnut butter stayed between the bread, not spilling out as she split it. She handed Ed one half. “Sorry I can’t offer you more, but I’m a smidge hungry myself.”

Ed shook his head. “No, thank you, this is plenty,” he said, thankful. He began to eat quietly, trying to assuage his stomach. Nomi turned toward the door and waved, and moments later a dark-haired girl joined them. “Umm, Nomi, right?” the brunette nodded. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I’d be cranky if I didn’t get lunch, figured you shouldn’t either. You’re Ed, right? Oh hey there, Erin,” she said, as the raven-haired girl sat down next to her.

“Oh, hello, Nomi.” Erin’s voice was quiet. The girl was in a black-and-blue-plaid jumper dress over a black polo shirt, and her brown eyes were behind thick glasses. “I didn’t realize you knew Ed.”


“Err, I don’t,” she said. “Sorry,” she added as an aside to the boy, still devouring carrots. “But I know you do, so I thought I might find you here. Wanted to ask you about Friday.” Erin nodded. “So the usual suspects and I were going to get together at Poppy’s.” She dropped her voice so that only Erin could hear her. “The four of us were going to get swishy, just a heads-up.” Erin looked alarmed.

“Even you?” Nomi nodded solemnly. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t, then…”

“Well, Nessa was going to have Graeg there to help chaperone…” Erin perked up. “Thought that might help.” She nodded back.

“Actually, would it be okay if Ed joined us, as well?” Erin asked. Nomi glanced over at the slender, dark-haired boy.

“You want in? Pre-party for Social on Friday?” Nomi asked him. Ed shrugged.

“Sure, I suppose. I didn’t really have plans…” he glanced over at Erin.

Liar. Nomi was no social genius, but it was not hard to read what he had been thinking. “Cool. Well, Erin can help loop you in. We’re getting together at Poppy Roenyr’s place beforehand to hang out.” There were nods from both Erin and Ed.

“Oh, Nomi, do you have to cover the shop after school today?” Nomi shook her head. “Do you want to join us at Games Club? There’s this new game that Ms. Bentz found that she wanted us all to take a shot at.” Nomi nodded. “Awesome. It’s called The Haunt and it’s semi-cooperative. I’ve heard really good things and…” Erin started to ramble a bit as she talked Nomi’s ear off about the board game. People tended to think Erin Haaldur was quiet and shy, which was not an entirely unfair conclusion, but get her the right topic… books, writing, board games, more than a few video games… and it became hard to quiet her down.

She figured she would find out what that game was in a few hours, after the second half of the school day, which started when she heard the bell ring to announce the end of the lunch period.

---

Latin was not Nomi’s strongest subject, which meant that, until Erin had started inviting her to Games Club on her afternoons off from the shop, she had not really bothered to talk to Ms. Bentz more than the bare-minimum needed to learn. Ms. Bentz was a very young teacher; she was definitely less than ten years older than her students, although she did not know exactly how much older she was, and it seemed rude to ask.

Nomi was also surprised the club was not more popular, especially with boys; Ms. Bentz was very pretty, and dressed stylishly; today, a yellow sundress was matching her sunny disposition, and she wore enough jewelry to give an air of refinement to a cute face. Not long after the final bell for the day had rung, she had made tracks to Ms. Bentz’s classroom. As Nomi stepped into the room, Ms. Bentz turned and smiled. “Oh, Miss Bronn! Erin said you might be joining us today! Glad you could stop by!” The enthusiasm sparkling in her blue eyes was infectious, and Nomi found herself smiling back.

“Well, thanks for letting me,” she said. She saw Erin, Ed, and two other students sitting around a table. She set her bag down and took an open chair next to Erin. “She seemed really excited, so I’m pretty pumped to play this game. Haunting?”

“Yes! I was hearing really good things from some of my friends back in Alderhall,” Ms. Bentz gushed. “So let’s get this set up…” she opened the green box, which bore an archetypal haunted house on its front, and pulled out an instruction booklet. “Alright, so…” she began delegating set-up tasks to different students, in an attempt to reduce the amount of preparation time they would need.

Moments later, Nomi found herself needing to help with sorting the game pieces. A few minutes had rolled by when there was a knock at the classroom door. Ms. Bentz stood up and walked over, the pop of her heels audible as she crossed the room and swung the door open. Nomi’s eyes widened as her brother stepped into the room baring a tray of chocolate chip cookies. They made eye contact, and he seemed as surprised as Nomi was, but he didn’t break his stride or confidence.

“One delivery of sweet treats for Amburg Secondary’s Games Club!” Andrik announced. “Umm, where would you like me to set these down, Sara?” he asked the teacher. She indicated a desk, and he set them down there. “Oh, hey Gnome-y,” he said with a chuckle to his sister. Nomi sighed at the nickname. Setting the tray down, he turned and walked toward the door.

“What do I owe you?” Ms. Bentz asked, following him to the door, pulling a wallet from the purse on her desk

Andrik made a show of checking his pocket before speaking. “I think I dropped the invoice in the hall, one second.” He turned to exit the room, and the Latin teacher followed him. A long minute passed before Ed wandered over to the tray. Obviously still hungry, he snagged a cookie and bit into it, groaning happily. Nomi recognized it as one of the ones she had made this morning.

“Wasn’t that your brother?” Erin asked Nomi. She nodded back. It clicked that she should probably try to coordinate with her brother about the adjustments to the plan for Friday.

“Yeah, actually, I need to ask him something, I’ll be right back.” She pushed her chair back, and went to the door, swinging it open and stepping out into the hall. Nomi was surprised to not see either of them in the hallway. She searched further, turning the corner and stopping dead, trying to escape before she ruined the moment.

Her brother and her teacher were busy locking lips in the hallway. Unfortunately, the scuff of Nomi’s feet and her start alerted the two, and Andrik and Ms. Bentz broke apart hurriedly, both flushed and alarmed. Words bubbled over from both of them as they tried to explain the situation. In both cases, they were drowned out by Nomi’s happy squeal, clapping her hands over her own mouth in a bid to stifle it.

“Nomi, I’m sorry you found out like this, I was going to tell you,” Andrik said hurriedly.

“Oh gods I can’t believe I just let a student catch me bussing her brother,” Ms. Bentz despaired.

Nomi lowered her hands, revealing an ear-to-ear grin. “I’m really sorry to have interrupted you two. Uhh, I just needed to talk to you,” she said, indicating Andrik “about something. But, uh, I’ll leave you two be…” Nomi tried to walk away, but she heard Ms. Bentz walking toward her quickly. She looked back.

“Err, I realize this is not exactly proper, Miss Bro--ah, Nomi,” she said, glancing at Andrik. “But if you could, perhaps, not say anything about this to anyone until we’re more, um, official, I--we would really appreciate it.” Nomi nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry again, I really didn’t mean to interrupt. It can wait ‘til later...” She beat a retreat back to the classroom, leaving the lovebirds to their own devices.

When she got back, she sat back down next to Erin; the class had managed to get The Haunting set up, and now it was just a matter of waiting.

“You were back pretty fast,” Erin said.

“Yeah, I couldn’t find him, I think he left already,” Nomi lied.

“What about Ms. Bentz?” Nomi had, mercifully, been thinking already about how she would cover for her brother and her teacher.

“She, uh, had to use the bathroom,” she said. It had its weaknesses (moments later, Nomi realized it would have seemed less suspicious if she had just said she didn’t see the teacher, either), but it was the best she could come up with on short notice.

Erin seemed to notice the flimsiness of the lie, looking askance at Nomi, but she held her tongue. “Well, I hope she’s not in there too long,” she said, “we’re waiting on her to start, after all.” Moments later, there was the muffled pop of heels on the tile in the hallway, and the door swung open. Ms. Bentz walked back in. Knowing what to look for, Nomi thought she looked a bit flushed, although the rest of the club did not seem to notice, and the game started only a couple of moments later.

As each of the kids picked their characters, they settled in and began the game, exploring a haunted mansion. As the characters moved, they revealed room tiles that formed the layout of the haunted house, finding items and experiencing spooky turns of events. Ed seemed to have played the game before, so he was able to explain a lot of the finer points of the rules to the others.

Partway through, Nomi snuck over to the tray to find it had been stripped of most of its cookies. She grabbed one of the remaining ones. “Anyone else want one?” Ms. Bentz and Erin both raised their hands, and Nomi grabbed a napkin to put two more cookies on. She walked back over, offering the cookies to them. They thanked Nomi as she sat back down.

“Hey, did you make these today?” Erin asked. Nomi nodded. “I thought they were a little gooeyer than normal,” she said. The revelation briefly derailed the game, as the other club-goers spoke up.

“Oh, the cookies were delightful, Nomi!” “Good job!” “Please marry me.” “Holy crap, are you a witch?” “I am going to get so fat eating these.” “These are so good!” Nomi blushed at the praise, trying to wave it away.

“Oh, it’s really not that hard!” She was about to explain how she made them, but then realized she probably should not share trade secrets, such as they were. “Of course, if you want more, I made a whole big batch this morning, you could always stop by my family’s bakery after club…”

With that, they resumed the game. As spooky events unfolded, the players had to roll dice to check to see if the eponymous Haunting would begin. Nomi had the misfortune to experience the last spooking before it began. Ed held up the rule book.

“Alright! So, which Haunt cards have been drawn?” he asked? The players reported which ones they had drawn for the appropriate events and items. Ed described the Haunting, before pulling out a second, special rule book. “Nomi, you were the one that triggered the Haunting, so you’re going to be the traitor for this one.” At her look of confusion, he explained. “You’re now going to be working against the rest of us. You’re going to have your own objective, in this book,” he said, handing her the second rulebook, open to a specific page. “Go stand out in the hall, because we have our own thing to read, and read your rules. When you come back, the second phase of the game will start!” Nomi nodded, grabbing a second cookie on her way out to stand in the hallway.

She walked out into the hall, leaning against a wall and opening the rule book. The Haunting was called “A Crackling Energy”, and Nomi was pleased to see she would have access to magic for it. Her goal was simple enough: she had to kill all the other characters in the game, and she could summon a demon to help. She read through the mood-setting blurb at the beginning of the section again, trying to get into character. She was going to have to act like the evil wizard her character had become. She would have to try not to be nice to the others.

After a couple of minutes, the classroom door opened. Ed poked his head out. “Are you ready, Nomi?” She nodded. “Cool, so are we. Come on back in, and we’ll get started.”

The switch was total and immediate. Gone was sweet, kind-hearted Nomi, and in her place was Twyla, eight-year-old-girl-cum-evil sorcerer. The game did not last long, as after only one failed roll, Twyla summoned a demon, and spent the next few turns hunting down her one-time friends, dispatching them with fireballs or by making their blood boil, or having them torn apart by her demonic henchman. The other players were aghast as Nomi mercilessly hunted them down one by one.

Nomi read off the flavor-text of the haunting, announcing her victory. Erin was wide-eyed.

“Well, I will make a point of never pissing you off,” she said quietly as Nomi cackled menacingly. Nomi placed the booklet in the box, and began helping the others to clean up the sprawling set.

“Oh, don’t be silly, it’s not like I have any evil magic in real life.” She narrowed her eyes. “As far as you know.” When clean-up was done, it was well past four in the afternoon, and it was time to head home. Most of the club filed out soon after. “Uhh, Ms. Bentz, do you want me to take the tray back?”

“Ah, no, it’s fine, I’ll just return it to your brother the next time I see him.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, this must be weird for you. And I’m sure it makes it harder for you to respect me as a teacher.”

“Not really. But I’m not giving you any free cookies, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” she answered with a grin.

Ms. Bentz shook her fist. “Aw, I’ve been found out! Foiled again!” Nomi laughed back. “By the way, you always have such cute dresses,” she said.

“Oh, thanks! It’s got pockets!” Nomi said brightly, showing off the pockets that sat just above her hips. “Super comfy, too!” The two of them laughed together. Ms. Bentz was gathering her things when it turned out she had to grab a second bag, on top of her purse. “Do you want a hand with things?” The teacher looked at her burden, started to nod, but then seemed to remember something.

“Actually, I’ll be fine. Thank you for offering, though.” She took three steps and promptly began losing slips of paper. Nomi walked over, picking them up, offering them back, before offering again to take one of the binders she was also attempting to juggle. Sighing, Ms. Bentz relented, letting her student take it. Nomi opened the door, flipped out the lights, and they walked out into the hallway.

Ms. Bentz did not live far from the school. There was actually a boarding house that several of the younger, unmarried teachers who were new in the small town lived in, only a few blocks from the school. They approached the door. Nomi perhaps should not have been surprised to see her brother waiting nearby. “Oh, hey,” he said, approaching.

“Hey yourself,” Nomi said. “Again.” Andrik took the binder from her.

“It’s okay, I can help Sar--ah, Ms. Bentz out the rest of the way,” he said. “Go on home, you’ve had a long day.” Nomi did not quite glare at him, swooping in like that, but she did give him a dry chuckle.

“Ookay. Have fun you two,” she said, turning and starting the journey home. As she walked, she turned back, just in time to see amiable chatter give way to a kiss. She kept watching as she walked, seeing them part, and Ms. Bentz started fumbling with what Nomi assumed was her key, Andrik’s arm around her waist. Nomi stopped watching, hoping they hadn’t seen her snooping, and also just in time to avoid falling off the curb.

Ms. Bentz’s apartment had been back the other way from the school, so Nomi had to pass it again as she went home. Nessa was sitting on the front steps in her gym clothes. She stood up as Nomi came along. “Hey, where have you been? I thought Erin said you were at Games Club with her.”

“Oh, I had to--” she paused. She had told Andrik and Ms. Bentz she wouldn’t tell anyone, but at the same time, Nessa was family, and even if Nessa was sometimes a bit of a troll, she could be trusted to keep a secret. “I helped Ms. Bentz home, since she had to carry a whole lot.”

“Going out of your way to help a teacher? That is so you,” Anessa mocked. “Ms. Bentz is the Latin teacher, right? The really young one?” Nomi nodded. “Gods, she always has the cutest outfits,” Nessa said.

“Yeah, well she’s also together with Andy,” Nomi said. “Also, do not tell anyone about it. They’re not official yet, and I wasn’t even really supposed to tell you, it just kind of slipped out.”

Anessa whistled. “Damn. Your bro did good for himself. Have they--?”

Nomi was trying very hard not to think about her brother and teacher’s probable sex life already, and Nessa made it unavoidable. She sighed. “You know, I’ve been trying to not ponder that part of it. It’s weird, okay? But yeah, if how cozy they are is any indication, I’d bet they have.” She shuddered. “Now can we please talk about something other than my brother’s love life?”

“Well, ‘love’ is one way to put it, I guess.” Anessa obliged her friend. “Graeg said he’d be able to help with the drinks,” she said. “I mean, he said I owed him a favor for it, but that should make getting enough for everyone a bit easier. I also heard you invited that Ed Storen kid?”

“Yeah, he was there with Erin at lunch. They’re friends. I figured it would give her someone to talk to if we get obnoxious, and it seemed rude not to since he was sitting right there while I told her about it.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, I just wanted to make sure I knew right.” Anessa looked at her cousin. “We have other important things to figure out. Like what we’re wearing. You can’t wear a jumper to Midsummer Social,” she said, heading off Nomi’s inevitable answer. She nodded. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I suspect I won’t like what you get me into.”

“Just trust me.”

[Allamunnic States]

Amburg Township, Roesburg Prefecture
Province of Ainslynd, Archduchy of Innia
Tuesday, June 21st, 2016

Unlike the previous day, the weather was cooperating marvelously for the second, and the arguable peak of, Midsummer festivities. Of course, that meant that the gray Federal Guardsman’s summer uniform was baking Sergeant Daanyl Faalkenhorst alive, one more contributing factor to a foul mood that he was fighting to contain. There was little he could do about that, though. Around him, the patterns of somewhat unfamiliar speech swirled, and he proceeded slowly down the lane, looking around at the colorful stalls and tents set up.

Glancing around, Faalkenhorst’s dark mood was further aggravated by how naked he felt. The conspicuous absence of mountains on the horizons in any given direction had made him uncomfortable since his arrival at the beginning of June. He suspected his squad had felt similarly, all unsettled after being unceremoniously transferred from Corvik to Amburg on short notice. This place was overly warm, too flat by half, and the locals seemed like they were trying to sing rather than speak half of the time. And it was Midsummer, which meant there were happy couples all about, so much the worse.

He glanced over at his partner for the day, the youngest and greenest member of the squad that had come with him from Corvik. The kid was only eighteen (well, perhaps nineteen; Faalkenhorst could not remember his birthday), and despite the insulation of the uniform from the general public, it was painfully obvious how young blond-and-blue-eyed Willy Koppen was. The Sergeant suspected this was the furthest the kid had ever been from his hometown, a mere six months after enlisting in the Federal Guard.

“Looks like Midsummer’s kind of the same everywhere, huh Sarge?” Koppen asked. Faalkenhorst nodded. “I mean, sure, at home there’s usually street canopies to keep the rain out, but…”

“Yeah, the sun being out is nice. It’s a smidge weird how they planned like it was a given, too,” he said, keeping his tone jovial for the young constable. Even in high summer, his hometown near Rikardsburg was hard-pressed to string together consecutive sunny days. He clamped up as another Guardsman walked by, one from outside his squad. It seemed the entire town had turned up for the festivities, which meant the local Federal Guard detachments were also out in force to keep the peace.

It also meant that Faalkenhorst was getting more face time than he liked with his new “comrades”. The welcome for the squad had been… chilly. He was unsure whether it was due to a dislike of outsiders, or if it was due to the particular circumstances of the Corvik squad’s transfer. Regardless, he could do without the constant cold stares. Especially today.

“Do the others not like us, Sarge?” Koppen asked. Daany sighed.

“Not sure. They’re certainly not thrilled we’re here. Whether it’s personal? I don’t know. Best not concern ourselves over it too much. Hopefully we’ll only be here for another month or so.” The radio on his shoulder hummed to life, and Daany stopped again, listening. It was simply chatter, other guardsmen keeping each other apprised of their locations and activities. Daany disregarded it.

Sergeant Faalkenhorst and Constable Koppen walked along, with the Sergeant keeping an eye on the time. They were only officially on-duty until noon, having been on patrol since four that morning, overseeing the festival preparations, keeping watch for suspicious characters. Although it had, mercifully, been nearly two decades since the last such incident, bombings at festivities had not been alien to the Allamunnic experience, and vigilance was necessary to ensure such incidents did not begin again.

The throngs kept flowing around the guardsmen as they patrolled, simply keeping an eye out for suspicious activity, or to resolve disputes before they could fester into actual fights. But, the festive atmosphere seemed to be keeping everyone in good spirits, and the day had been incident-free. It was much more pleasant than trooping around in the drizzle on much-less-crowded streets the way they had yesterday.

At five minutes to noon, Faalkenhorst spoke into his own radio. “C Squad, assemble in the square for debrief.” He and Koppen began making their way back towards the central square, arriving after about five minutes of wading through the crowd.

“Gods above you wouldn’t think there’d be this many people in this town,” Koppen said, aghast as they had their route blocked by an eddy in the crowd yet again.

“Probably tourists. I hear folks come from elsewheres in Belisaria for these. Riverland fests are the prime locations because the weather’s better. Think I heard a smattering of Ghantish and Latin back a ways, maybe some Audonian too,” Faalkenhorst explained. The thought gave rise to others. He wished he had had an opportunity to send for his family. He cut that line of thought off, but not without a pang.

The bright light of a sunny summer day had other effects: it meant that all manner of pastels and bright colors popped out, in buntings, and canopies, and clothing. Not that those colors had been absent the previous day, but drizzle and clouds had muted them. Today, they were dazzling, like a bed of hundreds of different flowers. It lifted Faalkenhorst’s momentarily-drooping mood and as they arrived in the square, he found that the other four members of his squad had already managed to find a relatively unoccupied corner to assemble in. He was unsure if the corner had already been unoccupied, or if the presence of gray shirts had created that gap in the crowd. Tabling the thought, he approached.

“Anything to report?” he asked the squad. Faalkenhorst, only in his mid-twenties, was easily the eldest member of the squad. He was certainly the only one with facial hair. The constables of the squad, without exception, could be mistaken for secondary schoolers when out of uniform. The two corporals were a little closer to Daany in age, meaning nobody would think they were playing hooky if they were in civilian clothes.

Mark Junnsunn, a lanky, ebon-haired young corporal, shrugged. “Had to break up a little scuffle over on the east side of the fest, but it was just a couple of kids being rowdy. Think one of ‘em insulted the other’s siggy or something so they took a swing at ‘em.” He shrugged again. “Otherwise, been pretty quiet, Sarge. Good spirits all around, seems.”

As soon as they started speaking, they started drawing even more sideways and over-the-shoulder glances. Faalkenhorst rolled his eyes. It was not unexpected, but it was still obnoxious how much attention their thick Northern accents seemed to get them down here. Nothing for it, though.

“Good, good. Corporal Jaegyr?”

Corporal Melysa Jaegyr was a sturdy blonde, with steady, hard dark eyes. Her nod, like most of her other movements and manners, was terse. “About the same. Nice and quiet. Some dingus got a smidge loud over a game, but it turned out nothing. Not much to worry.” Faalkenhorst nodded, with a small sigh of relief.

“Excellent. Well, if there’s no problems that need our seeing to, this is the end of our patrol. You all are free to hang around the festival, or you can head back to post, or wander around town. Curfew is relaxed tonight, so just be mindful we’ve got late patrol tomorrow. Any questions?”

“No, Sarge.” The reply was crisp and unified. Faalkenhorst nodded. The squad had, if anything, grown closer over the last month, being the most familiar things to one another in a new part of the country.

“Alright, then. Dismiss.” As the discussion wound down, his voice started flattening. The constables, to a man (or woman), immediately scrambled off into the crowd, likely looking to enjoy the festivities. Jaegyr looked at Faalkenhorst.

“Sarge, I’m gonna head back. Nothing else you need me for?” Daany shook his head. “Good. I’ll see you whenever you get back then. Have fun.” With that, she wandered off in the direction of the train station. Looking to his other side, Daany realized that Junnsunn had already wandered off, leaving him alone in the corner. Pondering his next move, his stomach provided a recommendation by growling audibly. Right. He had last eaten something in excess of five hours ago. He set off for food.

Almost a month after arriving, Daany and his squad had still barely mingled with the town. Part of it was unease: with the chilly reception from their fellow Guards, there was hardly reason to be optimistic about the reception from the civilian populace. Part of it had been laziness; with any luck, the squad would be getting transferred back north by the end of July, and there was no sense getting overly familiar with a town they would be leaving soon enough. Still, he had heard rumors here and there from the odd friendly passerby about places he needed to try on his off-hours. One was a cafe near the train station that he and his squad took between the town and post on most days. He remembered passing by a booth being run by that place. Racking his memory, he tried to locate it again, and wandered into the crowd, searching.

It took about fifteen minutes of wandering before he finally managed to locate the booth. A sign, which appeared professionally-made, proclaimed that this was the “Bronn’s Bakery Booth”, although it seemed the professionally-made black-and-white sign had, at some point in the distant past, been decorated by children, which drew a smile from Daany. The drawing of a happy baker with a big loaf of bread looked like something his own daughter might draw. There was a teenage girl with a brunette bob working the front window of the booth. She smiled and laughed as she spoke to a customer, handing them a sandwich (seemingly ham-and-cheese on fresh sourdough) in exchange for a few hundred Otos. The friendly exchange over, the customer wandered off and Daany approached the booth.

When she spotted the off-duty Guardsman, she turned the same shade as the sandwich bread. The smile disappeared abruptly, and her eyes widened. Oh, fuck, Faalkenhorst cursed inwardly. It’s the uniform, isn’t it? She began to speak, and there was definitely a quaver in her voice.

“O-oh, hello,” she said. “Ah, how can I help you today?” He suspected that if she was not frightened, there’d be a warm musicality to her speech, but it was hard to tell. “Oh, uh, welcome to Bronn’s Bakery. Booth. Uh.” She tried to bring her smile back, but it was so transparently forced that it just made Daany feel even worse.

“Um, is everything alright ma’am?” he asked her. She nodded much too vigorously. “Are you sure?” He thought she might detach her head with the force of her nodding. “Okay, if you say so. Can I get--”

In the middle of placing his order, a solidly-built brown-haired man, probably in his forties, walked to the front of the booth.

“Hey, Nomi, can you go check the coffee-maker? I’ll help him out the rest of the way.” The man bore a strong resemblance to the teenager. Definitely family. Possibly her father? Turning to Faalkenhorst, he smiled pleasantly. “I’m Kaarl. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Oh, uh, I saw some folks with some really good-looking sandwiches. Were those yours?” The man nodded back, even as the teenager disappeared into the back of the booth. “They looked delicious. Could I get one of those?”

“Certainly. What sort? We got options. He indicated a menu board at his back, the sort where the letters had to be individually-affixed to the sign to spell out whatever was desired. Reading down the list, an option caught Daany’s eye.

“Oh, tough one. What’s on that grilled cheese?”

The man recited from memory. “Well, we generally put a slice or two of tomato, and a slice of ham on them. We can omit any of those if you’ve got allergies, though. Cheese, you got options of swiss, provolone, cheddar, or muenster.” The man said the last “moon-ster”. “We can also blend. What will it be?”

“Ooh, all those sound so good. The ham and tomato sound good both, aaaaand…” he paused while thinking. “Muenster and provolone sound fantastic!”

Would you like a cup of lemonade with it?” He made a show of looking at his insignia. “...Sergeant?” Daany nodded back. He also fought back a smile at how he pronounced ‘coffee’, drawing the ‘o’ out much too long.

“Yes, please. And you can just call me Daany. I’m off-duty right now.” He nodded to where the teenager had disappeared from. “Err, I didn’t do anything to make your... daughter? uncomfortable, did I?”

The man shook his head. “No, not you. From the sound of it, you’re not from here, are you?” Now it was Daany’s turn to nod. “Well, welcome to Amburg. Not to be indelicate, but I expect you’re a replacement for that other squad?”

“Oh. Oh yeah.”

“You know why they got transferred out?”

“Uhh, we were told there was a unnecessary force incident…”

The man’s laugh was dry of any humor. “Yeah, calling it ‘unnecessary force’ is like a match to a bonfire. Man got shot near the station. Running away from a guardsman. Shot him in the back. Right outside our shop. Nomi saw it.” He glanced down at Faalkenhorst’s weapon, and he understood. Guardsmen below the rank of sergeant did not carry weapons with lethal rounds. Which meant he was the same rank as the responsible officer, and he was also carrying a lethal weapon. He winced.

“Aye, yeah, no wonder the poor kid’s scared. I’d be, too, if I saw that.” He looked behind him, to make sure he was not holding up the line. Mercifully, there was not one, presently. “I’m sorry if I caused any distress--”

The man shook his head. “You didn’t know. No reason for you to be sorry.” Daany nodded, but his expression was still riddled with guilt. “Not like there’s anything you could do about it, anyway.”

“What do I owe you?” he asked, trying to change the subject before this got any worse.

“So, it’s 1500 Otos for the sandwich, plus another 300 for the coffee, so that’s gonna be 1800 Otos.” The guardsman nodded, pulling a wallet out of his pocket, pulling out a Ø2000 bill. He placed it on the counter with his left hand, even as he tucked his wallet away with his right. “Alright, you’re gonna get 200 in change.” He noticed the ring on Faalkenhorst’s finger. “Is your wife here with you?”

Daany froze. He had not even realized his failure to remove his wedding band. “Oh, err, I’m, ah, not actually married.” He trailed off into a mutter. “Ah, anymore.” Emotions that he’d been fighting to tamp down all day started threatening to bubble to the surface. He set his jaw, and fought down the very slight wetness that had briefly begun working to his eyes. He blinked and cleared them. “No, they’re back up near Rikardsburg. My, daughter and uh, ex-wife, I guess, now.” He’d been in enough of a daze when he signed the papers and set them to be mailed that the failure to remove the ring was not really a surprise, but it was just another unneeded speedbump today.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Recent?” Faalkenhorst nodded. He was about to try to say something stoic, about how that was life and you just had to get through thing sometimes, but as soon as he tried to open his mouth, his facade started crumbling. His jaw felt weak, and the tears welled back up. It took all his self-control to not have a meltdown standing there, and he immediately looked down at his feet.

The man looked at him, feeling a pang of sympathy, and sighing. The guardsman could not be much older than his own son. “You need to talk about it, son?” Faalkenhorst looked up, eyes wide, jaw clenched, and he nodded vigorously. Kaarl pointed around the side of the booth. “Step around back. I’ll bring your sandwich back first, and then I can come back when it calms down. Try to hold up, okay?”

---

Daany had finally gotten back into control of himself when Kaarl walked back with a paper plate bearing a grilled cheese, a paper cup of coffee in his other hand. It smelled heavenly. There was a small folding table next to the folding-up chair that Daany had seated himself on, and Kaarl set the plate and cup down on it.

“Unfortunately, I can’t talk this very minute, since there’s a line forming and the second lunch rush is about to start, but if you’re okay waiting for a few minutes, I’ll be back, okay?” He nodded at the plate. “Make sure to eat up. You’ll feel better. Maybe not a lot better, but every bit helps. No sense discussing tough stuff on an empty stomach.” Daany nodded back at him. “Alright, be back in a few.”

Daany picked the sandwich up, and his stomach yelled at him to just eat already. Nobody else was around, and for the first time in hours he had no other concerns. He bit into the sandwich, and groaned happily as the savory blend of tomato, ham, and sharp cheese flooded his senses. He set the sandwich down before he started eating too quickly, stopping to enjoy that bite. The mild crunch of the skillet-browned bread, combined with the warm gooiness of the filling, settled in his mouth and slowly dissolved. Swallowing, he picked the sandwich back up and resumed. He did his best to savor the experience, but his gut was screaming at him to eat faster, so there were limits to his restraint.

When he had finished, he brought the cool lemonade to his lips. If he had to guess, it had been sweetened with honey, and the sweet-and-sour was the perfect chaser to the sandwich. Daany gulped the lemonade down faster than he probably should have, before crunching an ice cube. Once he had finished, feeling far more at-ease than he had at any point prior that day, he laid his head down on the table, in the shade of a canopy, and closed his eyes.

What felt like moments later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “Are you okay?” A moment of searching his memory, and Daany recognized Kaarl’s voice. “Man, you must have been hungry if the food calmed you down that much,” he added with a gentle chuckle.

Daany picked his head up and nodded. “Yeah it really hit the spot. Oh gods that was good,” he said. “Did rush go smoothly?”


Kaarl nodded. “Yeah, Nomi was a big help. Plus her Mam was helping on the stove. Served what felt like a hundred people. Obviously, probably less, it was only an hour, but…” he shrugged. “Business is good.” Kaarl grabbed another folding chair and sat at the table. “So. What do you need to get off your chest?”

What had seemed like a good idea an hour ago while Daany was in a figurative pit sounded much less appealing after a nap with a full stomach. He started to backpedal. “Oh, it’s fine, I don’t need to trouble you, I think it was just low blood-sugar talking and all.”

Kaarl raised an eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt that. Unless you’ve been getting hammered by all manner of other problems, small things don’t make someone breakdown like that.” He sipped from a cup of chilled coffee. “Now, I can’t and won’t make you talk if you don’t want to, but if the way things are with my boy are anything to go by, talking tends to help. So I’m here if you need it.”

“You don’t know me.”


“That might be better anyway. I don’t know anyone else involved.”

Daany finally caved in. “I guess you’re right. I gotta be ‘Sarge’ for my squad, and none of the fellows in the guard here are likely to listen. Or will make fun of me for my problems.” He sighed. “The local guardsmen aren’t fond of us. I suspect it’s just because we replaced people they actually liked, but…” Kaarl was already nodding.

“Yeah, can’t imagine that helps. It’s a small town, protests by our tourism board aside. People tend not to be super comfortable with outsiders here. We tolerate them a few times a year for the tourism, but…” he shrugged. “When everyone knows each other, it’s real obvious when someone doesn’t belong.” He nodded at Daany’s now-bare left hand. “How recent was the divorce?”

“Um. I finally signed the papers for my wi--ex-wife this morning. Stuck ‘em in the mail before we started our shift.”

“Outta nowhere?”

“A bit. I mean, things had been a smidge rocky for a bit, but--” he shrugged. “I figured we’d make it. Been married eight years. Had a kid that long. Been getting bounced from post to post for about the same.” Kaarl’s eyes narrowed as he thought.

“Eight yea-- how old are you?”

“Uhh, I’ll be 25 later this month.” Kaarl’s eyes widened at the information.

“And you’ve got a kid that’s eight? Gods above, you can’t have been any older than Nomi is when you had ‘er!” Daany nodded, confirming his math.

“Yeah, which is why I’m down here catching dirty looks in this here gray shirt instead of working a normal job in Rikardsburg and seeing my family on the regular.” He shrugged. “When I got Shaela pregnant, there weren’t a lot of good paying jobs for a sec school dropout that would let you support a family. I took what I could, but it means I’ve spent our whole marriage getting punted around the country like a damn ball. Means she and the kid are taken care of, but…”

“But it means you don’t get to be there, yeah,” Kaarl said. “Is that what made things rough?”

“Yeah, Shaela’s pissed, and understandably, that I’m missing little Emmy growing up. That she’s growing up without a Pap. And that Shaela’s having to tend house by herself. I think maybe she thinks I’m having a better time with this than I am.”

“But you can’t resign?”

“What else would I do?” Daany shook his head, before cradling it in his hands. “I got no other skills. As a guard sergeant, I at least got something I’m halfway decent at. But they’re not going to stop moving me around. And a family can’t stay together when you’re not there but a few weeks a year.” He shrugged. “So last time I was home, right before the transfer, Shae and I had a big fight about how she couldn’t handle continuing like this, that Emmy needs two parents in her life, all that, and I said some stuff I shouldn’t have, and she said she didn’t want me in her life anymore. I got down here, and the divorce papers followed me.” He shrugged. “Just been dragging my feet on signing them. I didn’t want to admit it was over. Felt like it was giving up.” By now, tears had worked their way back into his eyes, but Daany was at least mostly composed. “I guess I’ll still get to see Emmy, but… I failed her, didn’t I? Made lousy decisions, and fucked up all our lives.”

Kaarl had listened quietly as it all spilled out. “Look, I can’t tell you how to handle this. Honestly, I’ve never been where you’ve been. I’ve lived here almost my whole life. Been married to the same woman more than twenty years. But we’ve had our rough patches, too. I’ve found that when we work on things based on what’s best for our kids, things work out, more or less. Never perfect, but well, that’s how things are.”

Looking at Daany, Kaarl spoke again after a long pause. “She wasn’t a mistake, was she?”

“What?”

“Your kid. A mistake?”

“Never,” Daany said. He looked cross, almost ready to snarl something back, before realizing Kaarl’s question might not have had the intent he assumed. In fact, the man was nodding.

“Didn’t think so. So if you do what’s best for her, I think you’ll come to the right decision.” He shrugged. “I’m not an expert. If my advice is bad, give me a heads up and we can meet up somewhere and you can take a swing at me. But it’s all I can offer. That and a shoulder.” He pointed at the empty plate. “You’re welcome at the bakery, if you’ve a mind to come by. We’re right by the train station on the east side of town. I think if you come by, it might help Nomi get over her fear a bit. Right, Nomi?”

At the back door of the stall, Nomi was standing there, the door still swinging open as she held a heavy-looking black garbage bag. Her eyes widened as she spotted the too, although as she seemed to relax at Faalkenhorst’s disheveled state.

“Sorry, what?” she said, sounding nervous.

“Nothing, not to worry, just having a chat.”

“Oh, right,” she said, dropping the bag into a wheeled bin. She paused, noticing Faalkenhorst’s tears. “Uh, are you alright sir?” Daany nodded. “Okay. Well, uh, sorry for freezing up on you earlier.” The tremor was in her voice again, but she was fighting through it, this time.

“It’s alright. Your Pap told me what you saw. I’d be nervous around us too, if I’d had to see that. Sorry that you did.” She nodded and retreated back into the booth. He nodded to Kaarl. “Sweet kid. She didn’t have to apologize. I see where she gets it, though,” with a now much-more relaxed smile.

“Aw, thanks,” Kaarl said with a laugh. “Just for that nice compliment, let me get you a croissant. On me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to--” Daany protested as Kaarl stepped into the booth and emerged holding a crescent-shaped pastry. Faalkenhorst had no doubt it was freshly-baked that morning. It looked good, and his stomach promptly reminded him that a sandwich and lemonade was not really that much. “Are you sure? I can pay--”

“If you feel bad about it, come and get another one tomorrow. Or at the shop on Thursday, if you can’t make it.”

“Ay, you’re blackmailing me into being a regular now?” He bit into the croissant, eyes lighting up.

“Well, okay, fine, if you’re twisting my arm, I guess you’ll see me tomorrow.”

[Arkoenn]

OoC Note: Post written with help from The Latin State.

Colonia Augusta, Latium
September 16th, 2017

The door opened as Aysen approached. The sun was beating down on her, and even two years back in the big skies of the Khaganate had not quite cured her sensitivity to heavy sunlight. Even in a relatively light red dress, she was boiling. In hindsight, the leggins were a mistake. In my defense, though, they would have been perfectly appropriate at ho--in Dunnmaar. She mentally caught herself before the traitorous thought had flowed any further. She rushed for the door. Not terribly dignified, but nobody here was likely to judge her for it.

Just inside the door, her nephew waited for her. Demir was a year her senior, a head taller than her, with a solid build and an easy grace to his movements. She was not sure how much of that he must have gotten from his mother; Aysen’s half-brother, Demir’s father, would not remind anyone of a dancer or athlete. He had an easy smile and steady eyes, and Aysen was calmed by his presence. Despite being aunt and nephew, they had been as close as siblings during their schooling far to the north in Ottonia, islands of familiarity in an alien land.

Despite his usual steadiness, he was also far from calm. “-Ay! You’re here!-” he yelled happily, pulling his aunt into a firm hug. “-How are you?!-” His exuberance caught her off-guard, and she half-grunted at the embrace, air being pushed out of her lungs.

“-Hrk. Dem. Please. Not so hard.-” With an embarrassed laugh, Demir loosened the hug. “Thanks, sorry, not that I didn’t miss you, too,” she said. “-But I still need to breathe.-” After returning the hug, she pulled away. “-How have things been?-”

“-Oh, good enough,-” Demir said. “-I’ve been working on a master’s degree, so that’s been going well enough. Keeps me busy, you know?-” Aysen nodded. Almost as an afterthought, he realized what language Aysen had started the conversation in. “-And really, Ay? Allamunnic? And your accent’s as strong as ever. You’ve been slumming it again, haven’t you?-” he said with a chuckle.

Aysen rolled her eyes, looking around the lavish villa. “-Oh stop it, It’s not slumming, Dem,-” she said, with a sigh. “-Just because I can make friends with all sorts doesn’t mean I’m slumming.-” The term clearly bugged her. “-Besides, you spend half of your life someplace and see if it doesn’t rub off on you.-” She sighed. “-But yes, I was in Dunnmaar the last couple of days.-” In a bid to stop that particular line of teasing, she switched to speaking in Oshi, still looking around the room. “<Your father wouldn’t happen to be home, would he?>”

Demir nodded. “<Yeah, he’s in the garden, I think. So you had an ulterior motive, then. Not just here to visit, are you.>” Aysen sighed again.

“<No, I’m afraid I’m not. I do need to talk to Wei about some things,” she explained. As usual, Demir found it strangely disconcerting whenever his aunt, a year his junior, used his father’s first name. “Err, you do know your grandfather’s not doing very well, right?>” Even though Demir’s grandparents on both sides were all still alive, he knew perfectly well which grandfather she was referring to, Aysen’s own father. He nodded back.

“<Yeah, I’d heard.>”

“<Well, I did want to visit, anyway,>” Aysen said, “<but there’s things that do need to be discussed. I’ll be back in a little bit.>” Demir nodded. It had been a little while, but she mostly remembered how to reach the garden from the atrium. Before she left the entryway, she slipped off her flats, picked them up, and started carrying them as she proceeded down a hall, following her memories. It took a minute, maybe two, but Aysen quickly found the courtyard, sliding open a door, placing her shoes on the ground, and slipping them back on before she encountered ground rather than floor again.

Wei was sitting out in the courtyard, comfortable on a well-made bench. Despite the bare wood, it looked comfortable, and Wei was at-ease, reading a book. Aysen recognized it as a classical text on governing, which made a slowly-growing knot in her stomach tighten.

Her half-brother was in his early fifties. His dark hair had mostly held its color, although there were visible streaks of gray. Aysen had memories in her girlhood of Wei being solidly-built, but fit, but years of comfortable living had softened his body; he had a bit of a gut, and there was a friendly ease to his posture. A small smile came to his face as he heard Aysen’s approach. As she stepped into the courtyard, she realized his Latin wife, Alexandra, was sitting with him.

Despite having a good relationship, there were certain manners Aysen was supposed to observe when meeting with her half-brothers, at least to start the meeting. They were her social betters, the children of the Khagan and his spouse, not the offspring of the Khagan’s dalliances with a concubine. Wei could inherit the throne of the Khaganate. Unless Aysen was formally adopted into the dynasty, she never could.

And so, Aysen gave a small bow. It was not especially deep; Wei did not need that kind of sign of deference, and he smiled and gave a casual wave when it was clear was she was doing. For what it was worth, Aysen replied with her own small smile. Wei set down his book, standing up, and walking over to pull his half-sister into a hug.

“<Ay! It’s good to see you!>” He looked at her after they’d broken apart. “<Every time I see you, I swear you look more like a proper Chu lady.>” Aysen sighed and chuckled.

Alexandra slowly lifted her head from her book, offering Aysen a polite smile. “Hello, Aysen” was all Alexandra said. She reached for a bookmark and closed her book, which she laid next to her on the bench.

Turning momentarily to Alexandra, Aysen gave another half-bow. “Hello, Alexandra. It’s good to see you again.” Turning back to Wei, her tone shifted to playfulness. “<And how would you know, Brother? For all you know the pretty girls in Osh are walking around buck naked these days.>” It was good-natured, for the most part, but occasionally the reminders of how foreign Aysen’s upbringing had been got to her. At least Wei understood, given how long he had been abroad, so it did not feel like an actual slight coming from him.

“<Ouch. Fair enough, I suppose,>” he said, joining the laughter. For his wife’s benefit, he switched to Latin. “What brings you here? Just dropping by for a visit?”

“Yeah, for the most part. There are, ah, some things we need to talk about, though,” Aysen said back, following the switch easily enough. She glanced at Alexandra, gave her an apologetic smile, and switched to Xi. “~You heard about our Father, right?~” Wei nodded solemnly in response. “~Doctors said he’s lucky if he has more than a month to live. Probably less. There’s nothing more they can do but make him comfortable and wait.~”

Wei looked over at Alexandra. “Sorry, honey, we usually have tried to keep my Father’s affairs internal. But you need to hear this, too.” He looked at Aysen. “~It’s okay, Alexandra isn’t going to blab. Let’s keep this in Latin, please.~” She nodded back. “Anyway, I assume you’ve come to tell me to come back home as soon as all the farewells are done?”

Aysen was taken aback by how quickly Wei had gotten to the heart of the matter. Aysen prided herself on not buying into the way he was so often characterized back home: as an absent-minded hedonist besotted with his foreign divorcee wife, but even she occasionally fell into the trap. She sighed. “Yes.”

Wei shook his head. “I can’t. You know as well as I do how important it is for me to be there. Unless there’s something I need to know about Father’s will on the succession?”

Aysen shook her head. “No, from what I can tell, he’s still refusing to name a preferred successor. The last time someone really pressed him on it, he said the realm would be in good hands regardless of if it was you or Altan that succeeded him. Presumably, he doesn’t see the votes going past one or the other of you.”

Wei raised an eyebrow. “And you want Altan to be on the throne?”

“I honestly don’t much care,” Aysen shook her head. “What I do care about is keeping you alive.”

“What’s he going to do?” Alexandra finally interjected. “Kill his older brother. Nonsense.”

“You know, before I went back, I’d have said the same thing,” Aysen replied. “And, for the most part, I think our brother still draws the line well before fratricide. But I’m not nearly as sure as I used to be about it.” Turning her attention back to Wei, she added, “We both know Altan’s not all that personally ambitious, but he has some pretty strong ideas on the future of the country, and I’m not sure where he’ll stop in pursuit of that. More to the point, I’m not sure where his supporters would stop in pursuit of that.” After a pause: “Honestly, I’m less worried about Altan ordering something and more that one of his supporters will do something on their own initiative. Same end result, either way.”

Wei shook his head. “If one of his supporters wants me dead, they’re not going to let our borders stop them. And I’m not going to abdicate my responsibility one way or another. If our family chooses Altan over me, so be it, I have a good life here. But if they think I’m the best choice, I’m not running from that.”

Alexandra clasped her hands together above her closed book, letting out a weak sigh. She rose from her seat, and reached for Wei’s hand once she stood next to him. “How long does he have?”

“Our father?” She looked at Wei for confirmation. He nodded. “Weeks. Maybe a month. Possibly a little more. There isn’t much time to make a decision. If any of Altan’s supporters are going to do something drastic, they’d likely try it now. And even if you go, I’m not sure how the votes are going to shake out.” She glanced at Alexandra. “No offense intended, but on top of Wei having spent most of the last twenty years out of the country, the idea of a Khatun who’s never lived in the country and can’t even speak Oshi is a hard sell to a lot of people in our clan.”

Aysen paced slightly. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a perfectly capable leader, but what’s the point of staying longer, putting yourself at more risk, just to lose the vote anyway? And Tulai, Onur, and Demir might all be targets because they’re electors who will likely side with you.” She sighed. “As would I, for that matter.”

Wei was silent, clearly thinking.

Pressing her lips together, Alexandra waited in silence for a moment. She looked to Aysen with a raised eyebrow before showing an uncharacteristically solemn look. “I’ll stand by whatever you think is best,” she spoke to her husband, gripping his hand softly.

“And Altan didn’t put you up to this?”

The question caught Aysen off-guard. She had spoken to Altan not long before she left, but… “No, he didn’t. In fact, he specifically told me he wanted you there, which is why I’m worried.”

“So did speak to him?”

“Yes. And normally, I’d have taken him at face value. Maybe I’d ask our Uncle Orhan for advice.” Aysen’s face was knotted with worry. “Except I can’t because he died before I was born. Along with all of his primary children. In a plane crash. While our grandfather was sick.” She kept stalking. “I might ask one of the other Ekinji Bala who was around at the time, our Aunt Darya, except she died under suspicious circumstances right around the same time. Incidentally, she and Orhan were pretty close and she was a vocal supporter of his.” She sighed, but her pacing finally stopped. “I’m scared because in case you’ve forgotten, there’s an entire cemetery in Osh that’s full of Ekinji Bala. People like me. Who all died prematurely, usually right around the time one Khagan died and their successor was selected. And there’s a not-inconsiderable number of actual dynasts who didn’t get much better of a fate.”

“If you’re so scared, go back to Ottonia. I’m sure nobody will target you there,” Wei half-snapped, now somewhat irritated. “I’m not going to be intimidated. Maybe Altan’s playing you like a fiddle. Maybe he’s trying to make me doubt whether or not I should return at all. But my duty’s clear. I’m going to be present. I will not campaign the electors to vote for me, but I will be present for anyone who wants me on the throne to make their choice,” he said. Aysen’s heart sank.

“Wei please--”

He softened somewhat. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t doubt your intentions, I realize you’re just trying to keep us all safe,” he said, “but it doesn’t change my duty to our family and realm. I’ll just have to tread carefully.” He looked at Alexandra. “That said, you don’t have to come back with me, if you’re not comfortable with it. Not at first, at least. It might be safer for you and our children if you didn’t.”

Alexandra looked at her husband with a nod. “I’ll stay here with the boys until it’s all settled.”

Wei nodded, and gave her a quick kiss. “Thank you, dearest,” he said. “I’ll try to make it quick. Either I’ll be back home soon enough, or I’ll have things settled for you and the boys to join me quickly enough.” He turned back to Aysen, whose face was blanketed with worry. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m confident that with you, Demir, and whatever other supporters I have at my back, we’ll at the very least make it out of this in one piece.”

Aysen did not seem convinced. “I hope you’re right. I wish I was as confident as you are.”

Wei nodded. “There’s no sense in fretting too much. The worst is yet to come, one way or another.” He smiled, and he put his hands on Aysen’s shoulders, trying to stop her resumed pacing. “Onto more cheerful things. Your nephews are eager to see you.” He turned to Alexandra. “Let’s go bring Aysen to see the boys,” he said, indicating the door from the courtyard.

Aysen had to admit defeat. She knew well enough that continuing her attempt to sway Wei was only going to harden his resolve. She would just have to navigate them through things the best she could. Alexandra and Wei walked toward the door where their children awaited. With a resigned sigh, Aysen followed.

[Communist Xomaniax]

Rdo Soltsho
Socialist People's Republic of Jhengtsang
Union of Socialist People's Republics

Khandro's eyes opened groggily. He reached a hand up to shield them from the light, golden rays coming in through blinds he' forgotten to close the night before. He yawned and stretched, slowly taking the blanket off himself. He already missed its warmth. He sat up, bleary eyes cast towards the alarm clock. Nine-twenty nine. He looked to the other side of the bed, an indention in it where his wife previously was. He felt a hand there. Still warm. She must have just gotten up herself. Khandro was confused, his wife's shift didn't start for another few hours. He smiled, that could only mean one thing. Dear Dhakpa must be in the kitchen.

He crept through their room slowly, agonizing over each creak in the floorboards. He put his ear to the door. Through it he heard music, the latest pop hit on the radio. Some woman sang about losing her lover, the wailing tune just enough for Khandro to slide the door open without the creaking hinges alerting his wife. Or, at least he hoped so. He crept into the room, his senses immediately overpowered by the strong smell of food cooking. His mouth watered as he crept up closer, moving in to wrap his arms around his wife in a loving embrace. They kissed, though Dhakpa immediately broke away.

"You haven't brushed your teeth yet, have you?" She asked, the edges of her mouth twisted into a slight frown. Khandro smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck. In his rush, he'd forgotten. She put her hands on her hips and pointed back towards the bathroom.

"Go get ready, the food'll be done when you get out." She said, turning back at once to continue cooking. Khandro obliged, sauntering through their small apartment's corridor to the bathroom. He adjusted the settings on his bathroom's control panel, setting the shower at the right temperature. Another few button presses and the lights dimmed and softened, the artificial white glow replaced with soft gold. He turned the radio on just in time for the mid-morning news, catching the last few notes of the jingle.

"Good morning again, comrades," the newscaster began, "the weather today will continue to be rainy. . ." Khandro listened to the news drone for a few moments before getting into the shower. The hot water felt good. He watched it, and the soap, run down across his body, going over the bullet scar on his thigh. He rubbed it affectionately. It was a souvenir from his time in the army, a kiss from a Timargi sniper. But those days were long gone, he wasn't even sure he could fit into his old uniform. He chuckled and patted his belly. Not if his wife's cooking had anything to say about it.

"In other news, the Supreme Chairman today condemned imperialist aggression. . ." Khandro finished rinsing off and got out of the shower. That was enough news, he could barely muster up the energy to care. He knew whatever it was, things would work out. He finished his morning routine to the sound of a moody blues number, though he couldn't understand the language. But it had a nice rhythm to it, the words alien but the singer's soul clear as day. Slapping on some aftershave, he left once more for the kitchen.

Waiting for him was his meal. He sat down at the table and looked around, seeing Dhakpa nowhere. Maybe she's got drills. He thought to himself. Dhakpa had worked at the pharmaceutical plant up until a few months prior when the planning committee automated her portion of the line. The committee had given them a brief vacation and his wife would receive a higher turnout percentage on her stock in the firm. They got back to find a draft notice in the mail, Dhakpa doing her mandatory three-month training at the Red Guards base in town. In truth, Khandro was jealous, though he would never tell her. Her work hours had been more than his, now cut down to less than ten a week. Meanwhile, he was stuck with the monotony of a full twenty-four. It wasn't fair, they weren't going to automate his job any time soon.

He finished the vegetable stew in no time, soaking his fried balep in the broth. Quickly he loaded his dishes into the washer and headed back to put on his uniform. He polished the red, tin star on his cap, putting it on his head as he walked through the door. The corridor outside his apartment was long and narrow, a concrete ring that led around the entirety of the building. He quickly got into the elevator, the old steel thing slowly taking him down to the lobby. Khandro stopped by the building's cyber-shop on his way out. Swiping his ration card, he got himself a can of tea and a pack of cigarettes. The skunky smell of the cigarette smoke was sweet to him, it made him slouch in relaxation. He took in the smell of earth and rain, sighing contentedly.

He checked the time on his phone. Ten-forty. Plenty of time to get to work. Having no need to hail a cab, Khandro walked over to the streetcar station, thankful for the roof that covered it. He watched the traffic pass lazily by, the enormous roads home only to the occasional passing military vehicle or cargo truck. Few people could afford to drive in Jhengtsang, even fewer chose to. The traffic laws were strict and much of the city inaccessible. Soon enough, the streetcar was there, pulling in front of the stop with much clanking and hissing. The man dabbed out his cigarette butt and flicked it into the trash, then melding into the crowd as it boarded. Through luck or perseverance, Khandro secured himself a window seat.

He watched the city go by, throngs of people in rain coats or under umbrellas going about their day. The rainy season was in full swing, though that would hardly stop them. Rows and rows of buildings passed him by, each one a concrete cube of varying dimensions, each one painted a different pastel, though some were so thickly covered in greenery that you could scarcely tell. They passed along a revolutionary monument, this one an immense bronze statue of a man and a woman, one a worker and the other a peasant, clasping one hand and raising the other in triumph. Men and women huddled from the rain underneath their colossal forms.

After much time and many cigarettes, Khandro got off the streetcar. The stop was a block down from the work site, and though the rain soaked him to the bone on his walk there, he didn't mind. When he got there, he saw the work crew already gathered underneath a hastily erected canopy. He was right on time. Khandro half-listened to their supervisor drone on about the day's safety, desperately wanting another cigarette. Oh well, he'd only need to wait a couple of hours for his break.

They soon got to work, Khandro in the pit with the others. They had been rebuilding this area for a while, most of the buildings in the immediate area had been construction during the project. Khandro cast a glance back towards the block and beamed, taking great pride in his small part in their construction. He got back to work, smoothing the freshly poured concrete for this building's foundation. It would form the base of a new commune's Party headquarters. The work was hard, the monotony of it broken only by the frequent rests they took. The grind of it went smoothly though, time drifting by in a haze of sweet cigarette smoke. Before long he was eating lunch, and soon after that the alarm bell rang.

"Day's done!" The supervisor barked. At once the men began to wrap up their tasks or put down their equipment, the early finishers milling about. The replacement shift was there a few minutes later, Khandro doing his part fill them in. With the work over Khandro began to leave, though a hand on his shoulder quickly stopped him.

"Hey Khandro, me 'n some of the boys are gonna go the Comrade's. You wanna join?" His coworker asked.

"Yeah, let me just fill my wife in." Khandro responded, removing his phone from his lunch pail and sending Dhakpa a text. Go ahead, won't be home til late. Her text said.

Khandro soon found himself aboard a bus, packed in with half a dozen of his coworkers amidst the inter-shift crowd. The ride was short and uneventful, his group soon getting out at their stop. Soon before them was the Comrade's, the words painted in bold, crimson lettering. They strode through the doors, Khandro's eyes taking a minute to adjust to the low lighting. The Comrade's was a standard workers' club, part bar, part restaurant, with a theater and dance floor. He'd been on his feet all day, he didn't much feel like dancing. Didn't much fancy a movie, either. It was the slow season, they'd only be showing shit anyway. He didn't have it in him for another dry historical drama.

He sat down at a table with his friends, his supervisor ordering a round of drinks. Khandro and a few others ordered food as well. This place made a mean num sakoo. The group ate, drank, and conversed amongst themselves, some flirting with the waitresses while others argued incessantly. Khandro himself got into a heated debate with his supervisor over who was going to win that Friday's pradal serey heavyweight match. His supervisor was adamant that the bigger Chakriya would dominate, but Khandro had seen Aukatsang's heel put grown men to sleep. He was sure the man would take Chakriya's title. They decided it would be a spectacle no matter what and decided to watch the bout together.

"Hey, I gotta go take a piss." Khandro said, excusing himself from the group. The others grunted in affirmation. He soon found himself in the restroom, having finished his business. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot. He looked drunk. That made him laugh. His eyes caught another man approach the sink next to him, he looked as drunk as Khandro was, though he wasn't laughing. The man caught Khandro looking at him and spat angrily into the sink, turning on wobbly legs to face him.

"Wha'da fugger you lookin' at?" The man snapped. He slapped the sink angrily. Khandro froze up. He hadn't expected such aggression, he was just seeing who it was!

"Woah, relax buddy." Khandro replied. He took a step back and put his hands up in front of him. He didn't want any trouble. The man just looked at him and scoffed. They shared eye contact as he walked out of the room. Khandro waited, his heart slowing down. How could he have just stood there! Goddammit, he'd been in the fucking army. That was supposed to mean something, was supposed to make you a man. But Khandro had just stood there, sputtering. His ears burned. Eventually he wandered out of the restroom, his hands trembling.

Khandro tried to focus his mind, his eyes darting first to the bar. He shook his head, another drink was the last thing he needed. He didn't need any food, either. His eyes then drifted to the house band, who had just wrapped up one song and were in the beginning of another. It had a jazzy, bluesy sound to it. The singer sang about being drunk on the moon, his voice low and gravely. It was honey to Khandro, who felt like he was being lifted off his feet and carried to them. He approached the stage, never taking his eyes off their perfectly coiffed hair and gold sequin jackets. He was nearly at the stage's lip when he collided with someone holding two pitchers, the liquor spilling everywhere.

"Watch where you're goin'!" The man yelled, shoving Khandro. His eyes met the man's and he knew. That's the fucking guy from the bathroom! Khandro welled up all his anger and shoved the man back.

"Hey, hey!" The bartender yelled, slapping his palm down on the table to get their attention.

"If you two're gonna do that, you go outside first!" He said, pointing towards the rear exit. The man looked at Khandro and nodded, twisting his face into a grimace. Khandro gestured for the man to lead. He obliged, and Khandro followed him. In a scant few moments they had crossed the threshold, the backdoor swinging wide. It was colder out there, the rain coming down in fat drops. The club's music was a faint hum out here, the alley lit only by the moon and stars. Khandro stared him down, his teeth clenched tight and his fists balled, his nostrils flared. He'd never felt more sober than in that moment. His counterpart spat at Khandro's feet.

"Ruined m'best fuckin' shirt." The drunk bastard mumbled. "Y'owe me a new shirt. 'N some new drinks too."

So that's his game. Thought Khandro. The man moved forward and reached a hand out as if to grab his collar, but Khandro was too fast for that. He shifted his weight onto one foot and dipped low, easily slipping the man's hand. The drunkard stumbled forward, meaning to lean into a body that had moved positions. Khandro got on his side, loading up and throwing his wildest haymaker at the back of the man's head. He fell to his hands and knees and Khandro felt a jolt of pain in his knuckle. The man looked up at him and tried to rise on unsteady legs. Khandro through another wild swing, this one hitting him in the nose.

The man went down again, laying on his back this time. Blood welled from his nose. The man groaned and tried to rise up on his elbow. All the hate in Khandro's heart welled up, he'd had enough of this drunk. He'd been a decent soccer player in school. Kicking the ball was a skill one never really forgot. At that moment, Khandro summoned everything he had into that kick, putting his foot square into the drunk man's chin. His head hit the pavement and his body went limp. He was breathing, but Khandro had beaten him badly. He'd gone way too far. Fear started to well up in his heart. What if he got into trouble for this? Would he go to jail? No, he shook that thought from his head. It'd just been a bar fight, nobody even got seriously hurt. He nudged the man with his toe and got a twitch in reply. Yeah, he thought, this guy's fine.

Khandro ran as swiftly as the wind, not paying the slightest intention to the cold rain or passersby. He had to get out of there, had to get away from the Comrade's. He couldn't go back there, not for a couple of weeks. He didn't think it would be a big deal to ditch the guy. After all, he was breathing and that meant he was fine. His footsteps thundered across the wet pavement, his lungs on fire as he barreled towards a bus stuck at a red light. He reached it and pounded on the door, the bus driver finally lamenting and letting him in. Khandro swiped his ration card and got on. Before long he had passed the revolutionary monument again, the communal gardens.

By the time he got off at his neighborhood stop, the rain had let up somewhat. No longer was the rain trying to pound poor Khandro into the dirt, it had reduced to a drizzle, just enough to let him know it was there. He found his apartment complex and ripped the door open, quickly going inside. He went by the cyber-shop again, getting bandages and some chocolate. He devoured the chocolate immediately, then wrapped the bandages around his hand. The skin was split on two of his knuckles, but his hand was otherwise fine. He'd go to the clinic in the morning to get it checked out, but at that moment all he could think about was sleep.

The elevator ride to his floor felt like an eternity. Every step to his door a herculean feet. It was late, Dhakpa was probably asleep already. He scanned his card and twisted the knob as slowly as possible, cursing again the creaking hinges as he swung the door open. Khandro kicked his shoes off into the corner by the door, peeling his wet clothes off and throwing them to the ground. He softly opened their bedroom door, tip-toed to the bed. He slid into the bed in one motion, moving close to her. She stirred but didn't wake, nuzzling into his embrace. He kissed her on the head, but winced when she grabbed his injured hand. He'd have to tell her what happened in the morning, but for the moment he would rest. Khandro closed his eyes and was asleep a moment later.

[Cynereth]

Kanani's Tavern, Alely Way on the Harbour
Remirah, Seam Siariah, Concordance of Cynereth

20 May, 2012 - 0330 Hours

There is a fire in his eyes that I have never seen before. Crixan is usually quiet, reserved, contemplative; I have never seen him so determined, so focused. The bourbon in his glass swirls, and the melting cubes of ice clinking as he rocks back and forth in his chair. The long drag on his cigar casting the faintest of glows in the otherwise-gloomy backroom. My father had been gracious enough to allow them the use of his parlor above the family tavern for the occasion of this impromptu-conference. It smells of sweat and liquor, the faded felt on the table tops better suited for stud poker than subterfuge.

“Your father should update his décor – this place is a fleabag’s paradise,” Crixan muses, taking another long drag on his ’37 Ralvia. “I’ve felt cleaner in a Caenari whorehouse.”

I feel the insult course over me like a hot wave. Damned ungrateful. “You gave me two hours to set this up. You wanted privacy, I got you privacy. Options were limited.”

“Well,” he snaps back, interrupting his dressing-down with another drink from his half-empty glass, “I hope our contacts can accept the need for secrecy. I would hate to see them drawn and quartered in Arai for the violation of their sacred oaths.”

The meeting had been arranged through clandestine channels; my superior was powerful, but not that powerful. While his position as Dralin made him largely-untouchable, the conspirators within the Malthudians, Sadeans and Thaenul were not. If the Orders’ Elders discovered what their underlings had planned, they would be tortured for information, then have their skin flayed before finally being dismembered and hung from their temple walls. Suva’s plan to nationalize the military would be exposed, and control of the country’s defense would fall back into the hands of the Elders once more. We have to play the long game, and play it well if we mean to rest control from the old bastards.

“Do you have it ready?”

The ‘it’ was the payoffs his conspirators were expecting to stick their necks out for him. I scowl at him, as if I would be so incompetent. Neatly stacked Vaedrils, clean and washed from his psychotic brother’s unseemly enterprises. Literally, washed: there’s no telling what that asshole had done with the cash before giving it over. I half-expected to find some sort of sticky fluid, human or otherwise staining the bills, but then Castar’s reputation for sociopathy colored anything he did. If he went to the bathroom, you prepared to hide the body of the attendant he decided to butcher. If he ordered a cheeseburger, you would have to pay the restaurant to keep the beating of their waitress quiet.

“It’s right here: $200,000 for each one.”

He nods towards me, but his scowl was unmistakable. “And if they try to screw us?”

I tap on the tabletop before me, letting my knee rest on the street howitzer hiding beneath. “We’re covered.”

~

The seconds pass like hours. Slipping out of the barracks was no small feat for the conspirators; this sort of meeting took special care. The eyes and ears of noisy rats were fine-tuned at this time of night. Downstairs, the last of the revelry is winding down – the winos and the lonely, ready to succumb to the misery of their drab existence. How pathetic they all are, lost souls with no future, no hope. This is what Cynereth was: a nation of drunkards, wallowing in the muck of retched filth, too wasted to care that their lives were deplorable and meaningless. All that potential, forsaken in the name of a goddess that probably cursed them as harlots in her hall.

And then, the doorknob turns. My salvation is finally at hand, and the meeting is about to begin. The door swings carefully, cautiously: Madris Toth enters first, his sweaty brow visible even in the gloomy light of the darkened parlor. His eyes snap back and forth nervously; maybe he thinks we had set him up; maybe he had to fortify himself with some liquid courage to go through with this. Personally, I don’t care for Toth that much; he’s a schemer, a weasel that can be trusted only so far as you could throw his fat, balding ass. But, his acumen for strategic planning made him invaluable. He was a useful rat to keep around, so long as you fed him crumbs to gnaw on. Never turn your back on a Thaenul.

Ithric Marron and Jon Haeron follow him in; now these two were far more to her liking. They were go-getters, eager to serve and even more eager to screw their Elders – when they weren’t screwing each other. On the surface, both men were honorable members of their respective orders; on the surface. In the corridors of power, few in the know harbored any illusion as to the nature of their ‘special relationship’. I marvel at their capacity to keep their necks above the fray; only their talent for organization save them from dismissal or worse. It’s all hypocrisy anyhow: wet your wick in the wrong manner, you wind up dead. But fill a role that no one else can fill, and you could murder someone in the street and find a way to skate by unscathed.

Ithric bears more confidence than Jon does; funny, he looks like the spitting image of a Malthudian, alright – barrel-chested, hair cropped, all squared up and strac. Jon is a little less imposing; also the spitting image of his order, the Sadeans. His slim, svelte physique would never give himself away as a soldier to those that didn’t already know him. But he was one of the best field operatives the Sadeans possessed. Even Crixan respected his abilities, and Crixan doesn’t respect anyone. Probably because he needs people in the field to put his plans in motion.

Astallan Valnus is last in, the least impressive of the bunch – and the one I know the least about. He’s a bureaucrat of the worst kind, a pencil pusher that traded in the beat for donuts and a gut. But he has powerful friends in powerful places, and the national police were critical to Crixan’s plan to centralize the country’s militias into a unified whole. The fat bastard can barely squeeze himself into the wooden chairs by the poker table, the disgusting pig. It takes all of five seconds to realize I’m going to loathe this chunk-ass with the passion of a burning sun.

All three men take their seat at the table, all three of disparate thoughts and means. I can’t help but notice that Crixan eagerly turns on “The Charm”, as its known among his circle. When he wants to, he can huff himself up and use his icy-cold stare and rough-hewn forehead to intimidate even the divines themselves. It was a trick he learned through years of practice dealing with his psychotic brother and that bitch of a sister who always curses people behind their backs. One would never mistake the Suva siblings as good friends, or even good people – definitely not the latter. But they paid out like a sonuvabitch if you proved yourself reliable and trustworthy. If you were willing to get dirty, their Clan offered career advancement opportunities few private enterprises could match.

The Charm has the desired effect on Toth, the ruddy jackass; he slinks in his chair like a whimpering pup. Ithric and Jon lock eyes on Crixan, but make no real movement either way. Only the desk-rider Valnus reacts negatively, his piggy little eyes squinting in the low light, his potbelly shaking as he chuckles. Bad move, pal. You’ll come to regret that, I think…

“Gentlemen,” Crixan starts in, “thank you for coming. I know this little parley was quick in the making; I appreciate you taking the time to meet with us. I’m sure you remember my assistant here, Sarin Linis.”

I can’t so much as nod before Astallan interjects: “I expected more from you, Suva. You drag us out here in the wee-hours of the morning to some cheap dive on the wharf. To be the second-most powerful man in Cynereth, I would have thought more of your choice in venue.”

“What would you prefer,” I blurt out before Crixan can silence me, “a posh room at the Valindah? I do what I must to keep your asses out of a sling – you’re no good to us dead.”

Suva motions for me to shut-up, and I obliged him. They can’t do shit to me; he can. “Obviously, we’d all rather be someplace else. But my loudmouthed assistant is correct: secrecy is imperative at this stage in the game. Our work can still be undone if the wrong ears take a liking to our talks.”

“How many contacts have you managed to secure?” As usual, I find Jon’s attention to detail impressive; the man knows where the chips lie. “Are we on schedule still?”

“We have thirty-two targets in the system, and another fifteen soft points ready to flip,” Crixan nodded with the pride of a father watching his baby grow into a success. “Laeleath is ready to back the change; with the Orders circumvented from within, we-”

“What about the money?” Valnus interjects.

“-We can be ready to move in as little as forty-eight hours,” her boss finishes his statement, irritation dripping from his voice. “The last dominos topple, and we are ready to roll. And yes, I have your money here, every last cent of it.”

Astallan doesn’t seem very impressed. “I want to make it clear: I don’t give a shit about your machinations here, Suva. I’m here because my superiors decided to play cheap and lost my allegiance. You pay my fee, I’ll sacrifice a virgin in the streets if you want. But don’t lecture me on the virtues of your little power play here – I’m not your zealot. All I care about is my money.”

Crixan’s eyes lock on Astallan’s for a moment; I already know what he’s going to say. He’s made this speech before: “You may not be a believer, but you are involved. I’m not paying you to stay quiet, I’m paying you to work. Work towards building a new system that will take this country from the ass-end of the neighborhood to the pinnacle, where it belongs. We’re talking organizational restructuring, new defense contracts worth billions, the whole show.”

Toth chimes in, cautiously. “We’re still factored into the leadership, correct?”

“Your payoff today is an investment in the future,” I remark candidly. “Two hundred as a down payment, and terms favorable to your continued success once you assume your new stations.”

Ithric seems comforted by this, and remarks favorably: “As long as you have Pathaes and Welir, I can move on this. Kanren and Matha will follow them, and they’ll give me the resources I need to make the switch.”

“Pathaes and Welir have already been paid,” Crixan reassures him. “They’re ready.”

The group shoots a look at one another, then back at Suva, who finishes the last of his drink in a loud gulp. “The time for talk is drawing to a close, friends. Our soldiers are as tough as razors, but this idiotic system has repressed their true potential. Once we nationalize the Orders and give them the proper tools, nothing will stop us from taking our rightful place among the powerbrokers. The corridors of power will tremble, and we shall be the movers.”

Suva rises, and the others follow suit. “Stand fast, and we will succeed...”

The meeting, brief as it was, is in adjournment. Toth salutes, while Jon and Ithric merely nod their approval. Astallan makes no gesture either way, but instead moves to straighten his tie; with the flick of a wrist, Crixan darts forward, the long, slender blade sliding effortlessly out of his sleeve and into his sweaty hand. With a quick thrust forward, the cold steel finds his copious intestines. Valnus stammers, his beady eyes wide with terror and anguish as Crixan twists the blade in deeper.

“–But you screw me, I screw you back. Bare. Raw.”

The others recoil in a fright; I whip the shotgun out from under the table, training it at Toth’s whitening face. Suva takes his free hand and places it behind Astallan’s quivering neck, using his right hand to force the dagger up into the greasy pus-bag’s abdomen. I’ve seen this look before, and don’t much care for it, but I can’t say that I’m sad to see him go. His eyes start to roll into the back of his head, his respiration shallowing by the moment. As quickly as it went in, Crixan withdraws the bloody blade, letting Valnus fall to the floor in a heap. A few quick jerks and the bureaucrat expires, his face frozen in terror.

Crixan turns to the others; I keep them steady with the scattergun levied at them. “This is your only warning. I own your souls; I own your asses. Cross me and you’ll wind up at the bottom of the harbor – some of you will, at least. Stay in line, stay alive. Stay alive, stay in power and stay well paid. Clear?”

Toth, Ithric and Haeron nod, though poor Jon has to wipe a streak of blood from his collar. Crixan motions for them take their satchel of cash from my bag; none of them make eye contact with me. Suva is correct, in a sense; he very much owns them now, lock-stock-and-barrel. What he neglects to mention is that his ownership of them is only temporary. When the play comes, these three will be useful tools in the gambit. But once the gambit is concluded, they will have exhausted their usefulness to him. The two lovers may survive, but Toth was a guaranteed dead man walking.

As the last of the conspirators exit the room silently, Crixan sheathes his knife in his waistband, taking pains to clean it with a tablecloth. I can’t help but look down at the cooling corpse of the bureaucrat and sigh. “I wish you hadn’t done that. He’s going to be a bitch and a half to haul out of here.”

“Get used to it,” he blurted. “You’re going to have a busy summer.”

Ain’t that the damned truth.

[Cavarzere1]

Under the Lion's Gaze - Part I

Pałaso Ennin
Sant’Marco, Duchy of the Archipelago
Most Serene and Auspicious Republic of Cavarzere
3 May 2019

High up in the sun-drenched hills of Sant’Marco, the largest island of the Durosduro archipelago sits an ornate baroque villa, surrounded by lush vineyards and cypress trees. Here was a palace, a true monument to wealth, luxury and name. The islands of the Duchy of the Archipelago boast hundreds of such villas, all owned by the greatest Thirteen families, down to the most successful self-employed businessman. Yet, it was the villas of the Thirteen that counted, vast and ornate.

The Palaso Ennin, owned by the House of Ennin, of the Thirteen and one of the most prominent within Cavarzere, was a delightful abode. With twenty rooms, three guest houses and a vineyard bringing in at least 22.8 million florins in revenue. If one draw back could be noted, was that it was within view of the Astronomer’s Tower on the grounds of the Caxa de Ixołe, or House of the Islands, the largest estate centred around a medieval castle, naturally, owned by House Dandorana, the family that turned a maritime republic into a monarchy in all but name.

To the Ennin family, the view was not a nasty reminder of those arrogant, pompous and vicious Dondorana’s position, but a sight to energise the shared agenda – of unseating the Dandorana and establishing an Ennin dynasty.

The Ennin, while harking back to the 13th century and boasting a history of mercantile success, patronage of art works and buildings, were forever stuck within the shadow of the Dandorana and perhaps fouler, their allies of House Candreva. In truth the Ennin’s ambition often stood greater than their station and capabilities, but under Alberto-Enrico, the Ennin may have found themselves on the cusp of a masterstroke. Alone, the Ennin’s business empire of textiles, jewellery and publishing could not take on the Dandorana’s conglomerate of shipping, finance, banking, fashion and pharmaceuticals, but merged with another, they could just manage it.

For within view of the Astronomer’s Tower was the terraced garden and its Olympic sized swimming pool. And within that, a plan coming to fruition.

Laying on a sunbed by the pool, was Elisabetta Tapsena, a daughter of the House of Tapsena, an even older family and one with a long and bloody history of feuds with House Candreva, and a family eager to see both the Candreva and their puppet masters in House Dondorana brought low. At 27, she was a sleak, smart and compassionate manifestation of Periclean beauty. Olive skinned, luscious brown hair and piercing green eyes, she was a model of fertility and wealth and the pride of her father, Giorgio.

Laying on her front, her bare back to the glistening sun, she smiled flirtatiously with the man leaning against the poolside, bobbing in the warm chlorine water. Opposite her, smiling back was Alessandro Ennin, the heir to his house and a less model product of the Thirteen. At 31, he had already been married once, to a school sweetheart, only for it be annulled by force of his father because she was the daughter of a “bank clerk”, if Elisabetta was the pride of her father, Alessandro was the deep disappointment of his. Alberto-Enrico viewed his eldest with oft-shame and oft-pride, yet let this plot be the making of his first-born, for the sake of the family.

“You know, our fathers would have us pretend” Alessandro smirked.

“Yes, I know, but this is so much easier, we’re lucky, being actually liking one another, rather than being forced together like those poor people in Ochran, you know, an arranged marriage for two donkeys and a cart” Elisabetta laughed.
“I don’t think I’ve enjoyed the closeness of one woman for an entire week, until you came along” Alessandro smiled, tilting his head in awe of this beauty before him.

“A few months ago, I would have slapped you around the face for that, I used to think you’re a typical sexist pig, who treats women like nothing but notches on a belt, but here you are, a week on, proving quite sweet” she smiled back, extending her hand and caressing his face. Alessandro was a handsome fellow, equally Periclean, equally chased on social media, his brief and mother-led career in modelling only fuelling the following he could boast, with his looks came the much expected self-confidence and lordliness he would hold over his brothers and cousins, such behaviour that limited his own potential within his father’s expectations.

“You’ve changed me Elisabetta, for the better. Which makes this all the more worth it, though I don’t know it will exceed the look on the Dondoranas’ faces when they find out” he laughed, looking over at the Astronomer’s Tower with a giddy grin.

“I don’t know, I can think of something else that’s been better than that” Elisabetta leaned in and kissed Alessandro, holding his face with her hands.

As she did, the clicking of a camera whispered within the Astronomer’s Tower. The long-distance lens catching in colour the romance below. Each click a nail in the coffin of this audacious plot.

For Palaso Ennin has two pools, an outdoor one and one naturally inside, which boasted a faux-stone waterfall, a steam room and Jacuzzis. While Alberto-Enrico had misgivings, he trusted his son to keep attention and keep his actions inside, away from any prying eyes, but naturally, his son had failed him.

The camera clicked once more and the master behind the lens smiled, removing the memory card from the camera and placing it inside his laptop. One swift email and soon, the Lions of the Periclean would act.

Caxa de Łaguna
Cavarzerian Lagoon
Most Serene and Auspicious Republic of Cavarzere
5 May 2019

To the north-east of the great Canaled City, the Jewel of the Periclean and most Serene City, was an island of utter exuberance, luxury, secrets and power. The Caxa de Łaguna, while modest from the outside, with an eight-room villa, swimming pool and a small vineyard for personal use, it was the peaceful idyll of House Dondorana, the masters of the Serene Republic since 1867. Inside, the walls were bedecked with original artworks, portraits of great historic Dondorana, from Doges, to Captain-Generals, to Grand Admiral Francesco Dondorana, the man who decimated the Ghantish following their most vile, barbaric and nauseous sacking of Fabria.

At the top floor, with a terrace and view of the entire Lagoon was the office of the patriarch of the family and the Doge of Cavarzere, the Great Lion, Leonardo III Dondorana. The floor was a tiled map of Cavarzere at its height, with specs of maroon across the Periclean, at each corner of the mosaic, four roaring lions, winged and furious. An inscription sitting before his desk was, that of the family’s motto, “Quid Leone Fortius” – What is Braver than a Lion? And every day, it was the task of the patriarch and Doge, to prove that nothing truly was braver than a lion.

Through the windows to the terrace, a figure in white could be seen tending to the small farming plot on the island, added in 1903 by Leonardo’s grand-father, to provide the Doge a place of solitude and fresh sustenance for the household.

Clipping away at the weeds, the 74-year-old in thin cotton overhauls tutted as he pulled away the wastage. Beside him, sat a series of coloured and black and white photographs, of the sordid display 400 miles to the south across the Periclean and beside them, laying on the grass was Girolamo Doro, his life-long aide, confidante and personal enforcer.

“This proves nothing” Leonardo uttered softly as he caressed a grape vine.

“It lends credence to rumour, and you’ve always said rumours are the embers of a plot” Girolamo replied, twiddling a blade of grass between his fingers.

“The rumours we’re operating on are that the Tapsena girl was having relations with that Ennin man whore, here we are with confirmation of what you told me, that she would be with him at that hovel of theirs on Durosdoro, proves nothing of a plot to get a bastard out there to bring the families together” Leonardo raised his eyebrows, turning slowly to his friend and servant.

“I could ask the Lagunari to wiretap them” Doro smirked back.

“No, my father used the state to further this family’s plans and he almost got caught for it. I am not my father, he was stupid, weak and rash. We maintain our position with our own means, we merely use the state within the confines of the law” Leonardo explained, his stern face unflinching, like a long-suffering teacher.

“Fuck the law” Doro laughed; Leonardo quivered.

“The law is the thing that keeps us from the beasts, you want to be like the Nekulaturnyans? A circus of a dynasty, plus every good family knows what happens when you throw law out of the window, you end up like the Hechenreyts… mutilated in your own wine cellar” Leonardo spat back, though giving way to a half-smile.

“We must act carefully and safely as it is meant to be, because this family…” before Leonardo could lecture further, Doro waved his hands in objection.

“Please, I know, family legacy, a dynasty for a thousand years. What do you need?” Doro rose to his feet, drawing a sigh from Leonardo, his eyes even failing to squint under the glare of the dusk sun. Leonardo looked at his long-time thug, a burly man, balding and scarred, his only redeeming feature being that he fits immensely well into a suit.

“Confirmation, of this plot, be it a bastard, a fake marriage or whether this is all just the lustful bestial urges of two immoral sex addicts” Leonardo listed, his head lowering to glare once more at the photographs.

“We could release them?” Doro suggested, picking them up slowly.

“No, no one would care after a week, the Candreva, the Sboarina and the Mastropiero would care for a bit longer, but again, it’d be no different from the other rubbish those gossip rags print. No, we will keep hold of this, I want you dig deeper, listen wider and find out the truth” Leonardo bobbed his extended skeletal index finger, Doro nodded. Patting his boss’s shoulder, he walked off toward the jetty to return to the city of canals.

Leonardo returned to his weeds, clipping away, with a whole island to keep him company.

[Pulau Keramat]

Kopiona Poi, Pulau Keramat
June 22nd 2019
(Co-written with Mutul)

As far as atmospheres for intimately private meetings between government officials, the almost enchanting and vibrant grotto that surrounded them certainly was a pleasant one. Enormous sprawling ferns almost obscured the sunlight, tinted by fractaled panels of rose and jade glass overlooking the courtyard. A single stone woven table and path marked the only readily visible signs of structure, with an array of varying pitcher plants and other sweet-smelling flora laying low to the earth, and the melodies of crake birds emitting from further into the greenery, the trickle of running water faint as well. A duo of flycatchers flitted overhead, a playful dance between the two helping to note the lack of more annoying insects around the party at the table. It would almost be paradise, save for the note it was located on a remote island off the shore of Kopiona Poi, patrolled by government ships on a regular basis.

Dewan Emas Councilmember Anunak Leekpai sipped on her chilled Raji Tea, almost entirely tranquil and still save for small movements to bring the glass to her mouth, and down once more. She wore an expression of reserved peasantry, a hint of fatigue in the humid environment, but nonetheless solid and welcoming. Adjacent her sat her fellow councilmember Maurani Rahmkha, more enthusiastic and animated as he finished placing each of the pastries dishes on the table, a wide variety of traditional Pulaui goods a sweet aroma. He wore a smile far more exuberant, an extroverted hospitality with every welcome and formality he had made up to this point. Both of their expressions, those of unceasing positivity regardless of circumstance, seemed thoroughly genuine, intriguing in contrast to the requests sent for a private audience with entities of the Mutulese government.

“We have quite a selection available right now, as the harvests in Sina’Uia were quite vibrant this cycle in my opinion. I’ve brought an array of teas, alongside condensed milk and honey for additives, as well as several fruit pastries, the mango rice cakes being a personal favourite of mine.” Rahmkha’s Mutli was nearly perfect, a service of several years spent in shipping companies and international bargaining with the solidified trade neighbors of the confederacy. His own tendencies towards smalltalk, albeit brief, were always in a tone of good grace and a sly joy, as if taking some humor from every exchange.

Leekpai, whose own knowledge of the tongue was rather broken, seemed fine to have her words translated through her companion. “~Ah, let’s not waste their time Rahmkha, the flight is long and we have much to discuss.~” She spoke in her own regional dialect of Ilocano, something that her fellow council members had quickly picked up on due to the frequency of her lapses into the tongue. “~At least we had the good graces to inform them of the topics at hand, however brief it was presented. It really is time we discussed Kalakora.~”

It’s a rather small hand that, from the other side of the table, took the cup of tea and brought it upward, first to a nose so it could enjoy all the aromas and the perfume of the beverage. Said perfume was delicate enough to bring a smile on the nose’s face. Then, the mouth took but a small sip of the liquid, and kept it for a moment, just enough to bring out all the flavours. “I must say.” declared the mouth in Mutli. “I’ve travelled far and wide, seen most countries in the world and yet nowhere they do a tea as good as here.”

These sweet words, smiling mouth, broad nose, and small hand all belonged to a rather short but sharply dressed man. Sir B’ajal was a dwarf, but this was apparently of little concern for him. He had in his gestures, in his voice, the calm, joyful, confidence of someone who held power. The kind of power that required no ordeal or permanent show of strength to be demonstrated. The kind of power that made it his responsibility to be present at this table, in this garden, on this island, a cup of tea in his hand.

But B’ajal was not alone, beside him was a large number of Mutuleses agents. Representatives of the secret services but also of the military, while interpreters and other diplomats stood behind them, experts of their fields, both loyals and discrets. Their presence here, around B’ajal, only reinforced the dreadful sensation that the dwarf’s presence already brought with him. This chilling wind that fell on the paradisiac tropical island, for the aptly nicknamed “Divine Mouth”, the man on no record, no registry, and with no official file. The “favorite creature of the Divine Lord”, was not one to travel across thousands of kilometers of ocean to drink tea on a remote island just to enjoy the company of two of Pulau Keramat’s leaders. Such a collection of men, officials or not, was indeed the most telling indication of the importance of the matter at hand.

Rahmkha smiled at such a remark, the hospitality unwavering despite the circumstances. He himself was familiar with the reputation and rumors that circulated around the man across from him, a plethora of whispers on how deeply entrenched his guest was to the extent of matters across the entirety of Ajax. The entirety of the current Dewan Emas held some level of familiarity to the existence and influence of the dwarf, yet the only one completely unphased had still been Leekpai, the consistent dry placidity her only reaction to the indication of meeting him.

Even now, her attitude was still consistent, seemingly apathetic by the circumstances even still, as a translator shakily repeated every word to her in hushed whispers. Leekpai put her own tea down, the clink of glass against the smoothed stone subtle, without the usual vigor that would indicate some demands to be heard. She herself understood how power was held and used in the world around her, having always been the one to try and deal with it directly in the stead of most of her compatriots. “~Hmm, if anyone else in the world was able the brew Teh Tarik like we did then the complement would mean far more. The only tea I’ve had that even compared was years ago, at a small cafe in Kaiemi. Tell me,~” Her voice raised slightly, looking directly at the informant that stood closest to B’ajal. “~Have you ever visited Kaiemi? The city itself wasn’t much to look at, but the tea was the closest I had been in years to actually finding worthy to finish. The secret, I hear,~” She speaks to the room now, no longer singling the figure who had been close enough to address plainly, “~was that they had infused the tea leaves in traditional Mutulese Honey from Mamkab, and let them dry until the leaves were coated, in what looked like amber.~”

She takes another sip of her own drink, Rahmkha unfazed as he simply looked through files an aide had brought close, translating every word without hesitation. “~The lady who served me told me it was a family secret that they were quite proud of. I’d imagine she’s dead now. Last I saw, the entire street of that cafe had been ripped apart in a Loyalist attack, and then gassed by Matou agents looking to cause a little chaos.~” She spoke with little shift in tonality, as in entirely unaffected by the rather immediate drop from the wistful reminiscence of the story.

Rahmkha gave a solemn nod, the smile not yet disappearing from his own expression despite having repeated such a recollection. “Ah, the tea is most certainly nice enough here in my opinion, yet it’s a shame to see such fine opportunities wasted. I suppose that’s really why we’re so eager to have a chance to discuss further with you, and by extension, The Divine Kingdom.” He infers to the nation with utmost formality, taking a small bite from the mango rice cake in front of him. “There lie an opportunity ahead of us both hear, two allies throughout our histories, to display once again how fair and, how I say, reasonable, powers are to respond with one another. It’s no secret that both the Army of Kukulcan and the Monouo Legion are heavily tied to the nations sitting at this very table, so it only seems fitting that they would heed advice, if given from those who are so graciously providing such aid, wouldn’t you agree?” The question is given playfully, Leekpai herself refilling her drink with little care whilst Rahmkha engages with their guest.

B’ajal sat back for a couple of seconds, thinking on the question while he took another sip of tea. “His Holiness the Divine Lord indeed has Kalakora on His mind. Who doesn’t ? He may have sympathies for the Army of Kukulcan -after all Pilgrims should travel together- and the formation of this organisation was considered to be great news in the Chak Yaxnah Ho Kan, back then. However it would be overplaying things to say we have heavy ties with them.”

“They don’t have a port, and the only decent airport they have is surrounded on all sides by Loyalists and Monouo Legionaries, disconnected from the rest of their territories. They struggle to obtain any decent hardware and it shows. And in that, we cannot really help them : the path is blocked.”

“As for the Monouo Legion, we do have sympathy for them. And it’s a shame that they and the Army of Kukulcan don’t share this mutual understanding we, the Divine Kingdom and the United Confederacy, share. There are Austronesians in the Army’s territories and Nuchanuns in the Legion’s and the least we can say is that they’ve not been treated correctly, since each side considered these minorities as potential traitors, for good reasons too I’m afraid. On a larger scale the Legion control what comes in and out of Onekawa-Nukanoa, and it’s an inroad for resources and materials the Army of Kukulcan wish it could have, while it’s limited to what can only be described as glorified tribal warfare for the lands contested between them and the Legion.”

“So yes. If you believe you can rein in the Monouo Legion, please do so. But you know how diplomacy goes with militant organisations : you need to give something to get something, and we’re not sure they’d be willing to compromise on many points.”

At the response, both Dewan members seemed to be contemplative, Rahmkha nodding with a now serious gesture replacing the near-cheshire grin, while Leekpai continued to stir her iced coffee, the clink of metal against glass consistent as she kept pursed lips, eyes locked onto B’ajal at this point. The two look at one another, before a slight nod, and a sliver of a grin, graces Rahmkha, turning as he prepares for translation, his opposite putting her beverage down.

“~We’re glad to have reassurance that the Divine Kingdom holds such sentiment to suchpotential as well then, it makes everything much easier. All the petty squabbles and theatrics that are emerging from this war have been tedious, but there are a few things that have been made concrete. Most importantly, are incentives to hold over the Monouo and Kukulcan both, being access.~” Leekpai threw a folder over to the Mutulese representative, thin paper with neatly written Mutli. “~The promise of a ceasefire allows for easier access of the airport for the Kukulcan, and would most certainly draw a functional boundary at the river locations. Their neighbor to the east shouldn’t be too great of an issue, and with the ceasefire, and approved flight routes to alleviate concerns of city proximity, especially with the ones providing such aid calling the shots, the logistical elements can play out in a positive result heavily to the Kukulcan for such an arrangement, one I’m confident you’d be able to spin for them. As for the Monouo, we have some more...intimate discussions to be had with them.~”

Rahmkha stepped in at this note, having pulled out yet another file, the contents similar in orientation and script, save for each word translating into Raji instead. “The Monouo’s claim is a rather simple one, in that they wish to expel all traces of colonial heritage from their territories, and that includes the loyalist bubble that has been an issue to the east as well. Having one less concern is good, if we can assure them that the Divine Kingdom has also backed this ceasefire as a prime supplier of goods to Kukulcan forces, but it’s not enough in it’s own. However, what benefits not only the Monouo in large extent, but the Kukulcan Army, would be to have agreements made over a common threat. That file details heavily on movements, bases, and locations for the Matou that has been accessed to. The legion’s territory is far too removed to do anything in the territory of the terrorist group, and that’s where the Kukulcan may come in.”

Rahmkha smiled once more, flipping to a map of the country, several locations circled and marked. “The existence of the Matou doesn’t help anybody, especially us. If the Kukulcan army, having a surge in access to weapons and supplies, would happen to make a dent in their forces, and thus ensure they won’t be as much of an issue for the Monouo as they are now, It would add up. There are a few other solutions of course,” the politician states, skimming through the pages, never focusing too long on any one. “Aid in taking Pulpolis, providing outlets to exile unwanted denizens within the territory, even simply a public declaration of recognition and autonomy towards one another, so as to make a more credible outreach to the Free Republic as being ‘civilized’ enough, you name it. Point being, the most important part of this plan, is us. If both factions see that their primary facets of aid and supplies find a ceasefire to be essential, and are able to occupy them afterwards with places to expand upon, the shared border should be fine, and there is far less concern on both parties to the flight of planes, as long as we make it clear on what defines a safe path. It isn’t perfect, by any means, but it’s a start.”

The air stills for a moment, Leekpai’s gaze still on B’ajal, her calm demeanor providing little insight on her emotions to the man. “~If you have anything to criticise in the plan, now’s certainly the time, before it’s too late and the two destroy one another beyond our capacities to repair.~”

B’ajal took the files and, patiently, at his own rhythm, read through it. Both diplomatic and military advisors immediately leaned over his shoulder to better gaze at the written document. It’s only after long minutes of silence that B’ajal and his advisors started talking to each other, with strict expressionless faces even if the tone of some of the agents may indicate some concern, it was hard to tell. The exact conversation was unintelligible for they spoke very quietly and in a language the Pulaui Councilmembers couldn’t recognize, with sonorities eons removed from those of Mutli. Finally, B’ajal raised a hand, shutting down the chatter. He gave the files to one of his aids, took a sip of tea, appreciated it, and then answered.

“An interesting offer, if anything. The promise of a stabilize, defensible, border will be in everyone’s best interest. Recognizing the Legion’s claims is also possible, but with a few caveats that we think you’ll find most reasonable. As to avoid further tensions. One : that it is mutual. The Army of Kukulcan has its own claims that shouldn’t overlap too much with those of your favorites, and if they agree on this border it won’t overlap too much. And two : no matter how this border is drawn, there will be minorities of Nunchanuns and Austronesians on either side. We believe that the Three Generals won’t agree to any de-facto permanent border if the safety of the Nunchanuns minorities in Monouo’s territories isn’t ensured, as well as their freedom of cult. These demands met, a ceasefire would pose no problem to either side, on the contrary. And we’re sure both sides will find in each other a powerful ally.”

“When it comes to the Matou however, we believe you had your own problems with this group. His Holiness the Divine Lord has already publicly denounced in numerous occasions their exactions. We believe that the Kukulcan Army is more than capable to hold against them and even push them back if given the time, but it won’t be easy nor quick. His Holiness has been thinking of a joint public statement on this situation, and maybe the creation of a more official solution against. A task-force of a sort, preferably limited to intelligence operations at first but if cooperation between our two nations prove to be fruitful, then further actions could be taken into consideration.”

With this, both of the Pulaui officials looked towards one another, their reactions having been subte approval and concession until the acclaim of the task force had been mentioned. With a brief glance towards one another, and some quickly exchanged words that seemed more inquisitive than anything else, they went back and forth until it seemed a consensus was reached, Rahmkha giving a short nod as Leekpai picked at an Ube roll.

Rahmkha sat up straight, smile unwavering still as he placed his own folder against the table. “To all concessions and agreements made for the sake of the border, including insurances of protections of Nuchanuns presence in Monouo territory and a recognition of sovereignty, we find more than reasonable and there should be no issue in making sure that we can have our friends in Kalakora agree. It would have been hypocritical of us to demand such standards in treatment of one party without extended the same hand to the other, in any occasion, and we are glad to create an even footing here. On the point of the Matou…” At this, Rahmkha looked to his partner, an eyebrow raised in suggestion as if imploring her to continue on with the discussion.

Leekpai sighed, rolling her eyes as she tore a chunk of the roll away, cradling it in her palm as she started. “~It really would be faster if you just spoke for this part. Regardless, while not initially what we had anticipated, a task force solution could be sufficient, especially so if we treat it as an evolving process. We only need to ensure that our operations are to be kept intimate, as Pulaui investment and movement in the region can be very sensitive material if given the chance to be made vocal to the world. The technicalities of such unity forming inevitably must be discussed in length, but if we can have the security and privacy of such exchanges confirmed on your end, we have no reason to deny.~” She popped the pastry in her mouth then, looking at at B’ajal with passive eyes, indicating for him to respond.

“Yes of course. We are conscious of the need for discretion in this kind of matter. After all we wouldn’t have gone this far to organize this meeting in perfect seclusion if we didn’t believe it. His Holiness is more than aware of the tragic repercussion a direct involvement could have. But at the same time, despite their rather impressive names, neither the “Army” or the “Legion” are close to professional forces, no matter how good their guns are and how plentiful is the ammunition. It would be a close battle against the Matou, the kind of which the results are decided by luck. The idea of the task force is just to make sure the right side is lucky. Nothing less, nothing more. Strictly between us, and with the standard safeties for this kind of operation.”

Rahmkha nodded, and looked to Leekpai before turning to B’ajal, a calm in his expression blending with the grin. “In all, my friend, we would find the terms that have been discussed at length here to be more than fitting on both ends, especially with both of us understanding the need for such, ah, ‘luck’. While we must obviously come to more discussion on the ramifications and intricacies of such an arrangement, I would even characterize this meeting as a success. And what other way to celebrate such success, then a refreshing drink?” With this, and a short clap of his hand, three tall glasses, filled with hues of orange and red, were set at the table, decorative fruit adorning each rim. “What say you, do we deserve a chance of celebration to our meeting?”

B’ajal smiled and grasped one of the colorful glasses. “Of course. As the old masters said, “No meeting should go without cheerings, for it is a blessing when two pilgrims to meet each other.” And this was a most enjoyable and fruitful reunion.”

“Now, let us raise our glasses to the past, present, and future unity between the United Confederacy and the Divine Kingdom.”

With a look towards one another, Rahmkha’s grin widening even further and Leekpai herself a subtle smirk gracing the room, they raised their own glasses, and nearly in unison, “To our unity.”

***
Aftermath

The sun was setting down and it's twilight was giving both the cloudy sky and the ocean such dark red color it was hard to say where either stop. And it’s in the seemingly endless chaos of red colors that the small private jet was flying, like un unreal lone spaceship going through some gas cloud. The name was at the name of some Mutulese high ranking diplomat who had been on vacation in Pulau Keramat for a few days with his wife, and now was coming back to his homeland. The diplomat indeed was there, but he was not alone. Indeed, the jet was somewhat crowded, as B’ajal the elusive dwarf and a crowd of experts were all discussing the past reunion with the Pulaui councilmembers, and agencing the details. The kind of preparations B’ajal didn’t care for. Instead, he took out a large, old looking, phone. Its massive size was required to hold all the electronics required to make sure any conversation from this phone was secure.

A moment of silence and then, on the other side of the line, a cavernous voice came out. “Report” is all it said.

“It went well, as we expected. The groundwork had already been laid beforehand so the negotiations went quickly. We can contact the Generals, and present them the new situation. I have the encoded files with me, as proof of our agreement.”

“Good. Come to us as soon as you arrive. We will discuss all of this in more details.”

“Of course your Holiness.”

The man on the other side hang up, and B’ajal put away the cumbersome phone back in its dedicated case. He then laid back in his seat, closed his eyes, and prepare himself to enjoy the rest of the travel the best way he could think of : with a good sleep. He will need it, because as soon as the plane will land, then the real work will start.

***

The two Pulaui sat on stone-hewn benches, the crash of water of the man made spring in front of them a moderate roar, decadent hibiscus and orchids surrounding the two. The Mutulese delegation had long since left the island, drinks finished and pleasantries exchanged, leaving only the two Dewan to stir in the aftermath.

It’s a break from the natural silence, Leekpai looking out amongst the ponds, various turtles and frogs laying out amongst the sun. “It went better than expected, I suppose. I anticipate we provided enough information to appease them, and nothing essential has been compromised on our end. If all goes well, it seems that this may provide something worthwhile. And you’re confident that we made the correct choice in approaching them first?”

Rahmkha remains silent for a moment, before rising from the bench, a short walk towards the flowers with a smile still on his face. “In my own opinion Leekpai, it was never even a question of being able to gain support from Mutul. Their interests lie amongst our own inherently, and any machinations they push at aren’t going to hurt us. Of course the dwarf and his king have something planned, but this isn’t about them. It’s about building support, building a stronger claim altogether.” He picks at a red hibiscus flower, five petals twirling as he hands it to Leekpai. She takes a moment, before looking at her opposite with a grin, something now sly.

“You want a better claim and structure to get to the Tsurushiman factions, don’t you? If we can provide them with enough reason and structure to assist even further with the Daitoan forces against the Matou, then you cross out their other supporters, don’t you?” She chuckles, picking a petal as she lay the flower in her lap. “I’m happy to see you’ve actually put thought into this.”

The prime councilmember smiles, walking back to the bench to assist his senior in standing. “Not only do we have a better structure in removing the Matou and the plague they represent to our dealings in Kalakora, but we can ensure that the Daitoan separatist faction ends up being one oriented towards our own interests, and any other support won’t mean a thing. The last thing we need are less cooperative interests being prominent.” The statement is sour, although his grin doesn’t fade, a mask that barely hides a tinge of irritation. “Tsurushima gets some aid in keeping the Matou filth out of their little pocket of Daitoan ideology, and we gain a better chance at having neighbors that are actually bearable by the end of this.”

The older woman nodded, giving a short sigh of consideration, having discarded the flower into the pond as she arose. “An interesting trinity, isn’t it? Just maybe it will be enough for us. It doesn’t seem that anyone has truly taken into account the weight that comes every moment this war continues.” She walks down the path, Rahmkha by her side with a quiet elegance as he watches her with intrigue. “If we can reach the end of this war with even a sliver of our benefit preserved, even a single port belonging to the needs of the Monouo, this will all have been worthwhile I suppose.” She smiles, watching as an aid approaches at the edge of the garden. “You, get me in contact with the ambassadors to Tsurushima. I suppose we have another meeting to arrange then. Air Hangat, Councilmember Rahmkha.” With this, she makes her way down the stone path, quiet steps leaving Rahmkha behind.

He nods once, watching as she departs, surrounded by the lush vibrancy of the Pulaui flora, songbirds crying in harmony as the setting sun reflects in tinted glass. “ Air Hangat, my friend."

[Pulau Keramat]

Kopiona Poi, Pulau Keramat
June 25th 2019
Co-written with Leasath

The rush of salt-tinted air around them was refreshing, an emerald sea disappearing behind cresting foam as the speedboat skimmed across the water, the hum of its motor a constant buzz. The sun was at its peak, the sky cleared from the rain clouds that had consumed the better part of the morning. A pair of Ibis are the only hints of life around them besides the island looming ahead, a splotch of vibrant life bursting amongst the waves that grew ever closer. Panggabean sighed, a short explanation of, “We should be close now.” the only reasoning provided. She looked to those accompanying her on the vessel, barely turning as to not aggravate the bandages still wrapped around her waist, tentative scars that still burned to touch. She had not expected the Seredinians to have contacted them first, but the result was still welcome, in the end.

“I believe you’ll be the first Belisarians to actually enter the Tea Garden, surprisingly enough. The Dewan have always used it to host our more intimate meetings, so I suppose it was only a matter of time. Councilmember Leekpai is awaiting us no doubt, Prime Minister Vyrubova. She’s most likely prepared some pleasantries, but in my own opinion, in may be best to simply start with the matters at hand.” She looked towards the island once more, the files she held in her Sinh kept close. “And once again, Councilmember Rahmkha apologies for his absence. It truly isn’t my place to elaborate, yet...” She sighed once more, a hand ghosting over her own injuries. “It’s sufficient to say that he hasn’t exactly been taking everything well. I hope you understand.” Her Velik was surprisingly well-composed, the slight mistakes in intonation almost negligible. She had spent time learning immediately after the festival, the emissaries sent having been quite the entertaining group.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Vyrubova, Prime Minister of the Seredinian Federation, uncharacteristically dressed casually in a light white linen shirt and dark blue pants, nodded along as Panggabean explained. She had left most of her diplomatic contingent behind, bringing along a few significant advisers on the area and Kalakora as well as a translator who had been left relatively bored thus far. Watching the horizon, she turned to Panggabean as the latter finished speaking. “I am honored to be among the first to visit such a well-regarded place,” she said measuredly, trademark half-smile on her face. She had been told it was intimidating, especially at the despatch box during Prime Minister’s Questions, but to her it was simply nature.

“I would appreciate beginning at once, in truth. I have little time for small talk and pleasantries,” Vyrubova continued, smoothing the arms of her shirt. “Councilmember Rahmkha’s absence is totally understandable by the report I received from minister Mizin. I appreciate your willingness to meet with me on such short notice; we’d like to get on top of this as quickly as possible, as I’m sure your people understand.”

The councilmember took a moment to process the statements by the native-Velik speaker, it’s differences from the tongues she had grown accustomed to still notable as she went over each sentence in her mind. After a short hesitation, she continued. “Likewise, rest assured that we share very similar sentiments in the topics at hand. The more we allow the situation in Kalakora to fester, the greater exacerbated the issues seem to cost everyone involved.” Panggabean turns to the skipper, a short blurb of Raji met by a call in response, and with a nod, she faced back to the Seredinian Prime Minister. “We’ll be arriving in just a moment, if there’s anything that needs to be prepared.”

Even as she spoke, the skiff slowed into the natural harbor, ivy and vine covered cliff faces on both sides as the crystalline water breaks onto a pearlescent sand beach. A dock of jet black stone, engraved markings across the jutting outcrop like runes of a temple, sat at the very end of the bay, the boat clearly making its way to dock at the very end of the stone structure. Panggabean made her way onto solid land, a quick scan of the beach only revealing a few solitary Ibis, the ambience of life in the compact jungle almost soothing.

Offering a hand to the Belisarian company, she looked out to the obsidian-inlay stairway, a gentle incline into the lush overgrowth that would lead to the renovated temple that sat at the heart of the island. “It should only be a short walk from here. This temple was kindly offered by the N’nhivaran order for our usages. They still maintain some presence, but it should be of no issue.” The statement is made slightly terse, the Dewan member already making her way down the path. “And I do hope Minister Mizin has been alright as of recent. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with him since the festival.”

Nadezhda nodded, glancing around at the natural outcroppings and formations around them. Seredinia was rather different in its environment, and to Pulau it was almost the antithesis; the majority of the country was steppe, with valleys and fertile lands like its capital Zolodolina a prize so far from the coastline. The Prime Minister could appreciate a change of scenery, to be sure. “The N’nhivarans are an interesting… group,” Vyrubova said quietly, with no real expectation of privacy. “I cannot think of any equivalent peoples, anywhere else in the world.”

Following the Dewan down the pathway, Vyrubova clasped her hands in front of her, exchanging a glance with the translator. “Mizin is well, all things considered. He had many positive things to say of your government’s handling the terror attack,” she continued, holding back the rebuttal she had given her minister: ‘there should have been no terror attack to handle.’

As they traveled up the pathway, the stone-cut stairway clean and steady as it climbed into the face of the cliff, Panggabean couldn’t help but chuckle, bitterly. “It would’ve been a positive experience, truly, if we had handled the issue before it had even threatened any of our lives. Kiambbang had been so assured in the security detail and screening that he had held so highly, but I suppose it’s all of the Dewan’s fault for simply accepting the documentation presented. Let’s not fool anyone, Miss Vyrubova.” She turned to look at the Seredinian Prime Minister, eyes tired and dulled, as if there was simply little emotion that could be mustered. “The Dewan failed that night, and we’ve most certainly a price to pay. Yes, we can pay our reparations and fire every single incompetent soul that had worked for the purposes of security, but until we can assure the Matou can never harm our nation, or any other for that matter, there is work we must do.” She continued up the stairs, hand using the cliff face for support as she winced at the pain in her ribs.

She continued up the staircase, having let herself stir in a moment of silence, before continuing, the weight in her voice not fully dispersed. “Kiambbang’s succesor is admittedley a member of the N’nhivaran Order, to all of our surprises. It’s an adjustment to make, but even before her election she had helped in rooting out several Matou insurgents trying to flee the country.” She sighed, voice a somber melancholy as she watched the entrance to the temple loomed ever closer. “I don’t dare question how exactly she managed to apprehend them, but it was enough to win over the vote it seems. She won’t be present to our meeting here, yet I expect she would have interest in introducing herself, eventually.”

Vyrubova pursed her lips, nodding when Panggabean turned to look at her. “It is a lucky thing more were not killed,” she sighed, eyes scanning the ground before her. “Something that could have happened anywhere. Truly,” she continued after a moment.

Following after Panggabean, Nadezhda remained relatively impassive, though not entirely without empathy. “I’m sure it is an adjustment, considering the way the Dewan Emas seem to work, as an outsider,” she said, filing away the information on Kiambbang’s successor. “It sounds almost as losing a member of my cabinet, or a cabinet secretary, though I doubt there’s a real equivalent in our system.” Looking with veiled interest at the temple entrance, Vyrubova turned again slightly towards Panggabean, continuing, “effectiveness is key to any government. I am sure we will find a way to work together.”

Panggabean hummed at the thought, a slight nod an indication of reciprocity to the statement. As she walked past the stone archway, ignoring entrances to both left and right to continue into the courtyard, she took a moment to address her Seredinian accompaniment. “Councilmember Leekpai is most likely awaiting us at the garden already, although someone will show you around the temple if there are plans to stay the night, or rest before proceeding on the journey to the mainland once more. “ She continues through the temple, the compound littered with heavily intricate engravings to each wall, statues of tinted glass and carved marble decorating a central fountain. A few officials walk back and forth from the pathways against the walls of the temple, walking in and out of various doorways with papers, a lone monk disappearing from sight holding a small watering can into another wing of the temple. She opens a door at the very back of the open antichamber, ornate mangrove wood creaking slightly to unveil another open space, this time filled with lush flora and alive with a plethora of color.

She awaits the envoy to travel into the grotto before closing the door behind them. “Please, stay on the path, the clearing for our discussion should be straightforward from here.” She stops for a moment, watching a king quail stumble across the path, stubby legs fumbling as it disappears into the brush at the sight of the party. “And rest assured, none of the wildlife here should be of any nuisance.”

Nadezhda smiled slightly at the bumbling creature, nodding. “I’ll trust you with that, then,” she replied, proceeding down the path after the quail had made its way. “Thank you for your straightforwardness, councilmember Panggabean. It is much appreciated, especially in times like these.”

It took a brief moment to cross through the manicured jungle, the cry of various songbird overhead and the occasional glimpse of some small creature rustling amongst the fern palms. At the heart of the garden, lie the large, circular stone table, an enormous helping of fruits, teas, and other small delights already prepared, while crisp vanilla folders lie perfectly in front of each chair, all empty save one.

Councilmember Leekpai rose, a quiet, composed elegance as she placed down her Raji Tea, the elegant patterns on her Kebaya almost blending with the flora that surrounded her. She held constant a permanent boredom in her face, looking over the recently arriving entourage with a quick glance over the entirety of the party. With a curt, “Salam Sejahtera” she took a seat once more, a hand gestured as to encourage others to follow suit. Panggabean took her seat next to the senior member, a translator scurrying from behind the group as to take a position at her right, and what seemed to be a naval officer securing a position as well. The senior Dewan Emas member looked to Vyrubova, a moment passing as she examined the Seredinian official. “Hello, Prime Minister. Shall we begin, or do we feel it necessary to repeat formalities?” Unwavering in her succinct introduction, she took once more to drinking the iced beverage, awaiting the Belisarian response as her translator recited from her native Raji.

Nadezhda inclined her head for a moment, making eye contact with Leekpai. “Zdravstvuyte, Councilmember,” she said respectfully, moving to take a seat. “I would appreciate beginning at once. We’ve not much time before we’re missed at the official reasons behind my visit.”

Leekpai nodded, grabbing at her own file with a short, “Excellent. Let’s begin then.” The councilmember opens at her own file, opening with, “We’re interested in working with Seredinia not only to rid all of us of the Matou threat, but in ending this outrageous war once and for all, especially in a way that favours those composed enough to deserve some benefit from this whole ordeal.” She scoffs for a moment, flicking through a page, nodding towards Panggabean to continue.

The other councilmember clears her throat, opening her own documents as well, handing a file to be passed over to the Prime Minister. “This war is costing the world a great deal, Miss Vyrubova. While the consequences of a decade of conflict cannot easily be repaired, it’s inevitable that we must think of what’s left over. Most important, is our goal. If you may, would you care to elaborate on why you’ve come to speak with us on Kalakora?”

Now seated, Vyrubova put a hand in the air; one of her aides, who’d also been carrying a sheaf of documents, handed them to her quickly. She set them on the table before her, taking up the other papers offered by her hosts, and perusing them while the councilmembers spoke. “Peace, and peace under a regime we can trust the lives of millions of Kalakorans with, has always been the goal of the Seredinian Federation,” Nadezhda began, setting the documents on the table before her. “Our operations as pursued under Admiral Kharitonov and through the Golubev have all been to that end, as I am sure your government is aware.” Leaning forward to look over her other documents, she selected one.

“You’ll find here the publicized range of our multi-use fighters and other equipment used via the aircraft carrier Posadnik Maxim Golubev, as well as publicized range numbers when operating from a land base,” Vyrubova said clearly, eyes flicking between councilmember’s faces. “My goal, as it were, is to explore and if possible negotiate such land basing with your government, in Pulau, to further an air-strike campaign on the Matou, and general air superiority operations in the region to the benefit of all… advocates, with whom we find common cause.”

Panggabean and Leekpai looked to one another for a brief moment, a quiet exchange betraying little emotion as the two composed figureheads nodded, and turned to the Prime Minister once more. Leekpai took a sip of her tea, watching Panggabean scan over the information provided. “The possibility is on the table, and approved of already, Miss Vyrubova. The pursuit of a greater peace is one that we both share, rest assured to all ends, and to hear that another desires to find some sensibility in going about such operations is rather welcome.” Panggabean starts with a reserved, yet complacent grin. “We’ll have documentation for basing, and everything accounted for refueling and such necessities by the end of the night. It is the point of the advocates that we truly yearn for now.”

Leekpai took over, Panggabean happy to begin writing in numbers and calculating expenses. “There is no contest that action needs to be taken towards the threat that is the Matou. However, we’ve been engaged and accustomed to this war for a very long time, and while the actions of this group are quite obscene, it’s a single head of this poisonous hydra to deal with. It’s not been unknown that Seredinia supports the Free Republic in its ventures. Likewise, it hasn’t exactly been kept quiet on where we stand to the Monouo.” Leekpai makes each statement with blasé ease, having grabbed now for a plate of rambutan at the center of the table. “Nobody in Kalakora is exactly at ease with one another, but their supporters, and more importantly those who are responsible for their success, have the keen gift of being rational. Our wish is for peace in the region, but it won't come with any one regime, Prime Minister. It comes with breaking Kalakora. We want to segment the state, and it starts with your aid in the Free Republic.”

Vyrubova listened quietly, leaning forward and taking up a cup of tea to sip on as Panggabean and then Leekpai spoke. She made no movements of affirmation or denial, and remained quiet for a few moments after Leekpai finished speaking, setting her cup down carefully.

Directing her words at Leekpai, Vyrubova began, speaking confidently. “Seredinia’s aid to the Free Republic isn’t something that’s on the table,” she began, relatively impassive for the weight of the statement. “However,” she continued, “the Federation is in agreement on your analysis. Our own affiliates have said much the same; there is no united future for Kalakora, unlike in our home countries. If it must come to dismantling the state, Seredinia would have a part in that process, and we view Pulau as a preferable partner to certain other elements in the region.” Taking a moment to take another sip of her tea, Nadezhda then clasped her hands, eyes flicking between the two councillors. “I assume you have a proposal aimed at compromise, so I won’t waste our time trying to guess the terms,” she concluded.

Leekpai smiled at the response, a satisfied, subtle grin more than anything, as she slid her own document to the nearest translator, waiting for them to bring the papers across. “The detailed explanation resides in there, and we’re happy to see Seredinia share the same sentiment to the quality of partners to work with.”Leekpai pauses for a moment, as she rips the skin of a rambutan off with her mouth, spitting the shell onto the plate before she continues. “Pulau will, ‘persuade’ the Monouo to organize a ceasefire and agreement on air traffic and the flow of aid with the Free Republic for the time being, to go along with that we’ve already certified with the Kukulcan through the Divine Kingdom,” the statement is made instead in Multi, the name ringing through clear as the identity of the Mutul. “on the grounds that such arrangements would be reciprocated by the Free Republic, now receiving a majority of it’s aid from Seredinia due to its new position in the Karaihe, thus allowing for more fixation to less hospitable elements in the war. We’re in the efforts of ensuring the same end to hostility with the Daitoa, but nothing can be assured from them yet, unfortunately.” The senior councilmember sips at her tea, a content wave of her hand to Panggabean as she seems content to flip open her file once more.

Panggabean picks up, now openly scanning a map of the region, one that had been supplied in every folder. “With shifting the primary position of aid and influence to Seredinia for the free republic, it would be easy for our favoured allies in the nation to listen to the same nations supplying their aid and funding their efforts, and thus have less issues to focus on. Targeting the Matou and Central Government can become priorities for parties involved, and once they’re taken care of, it should be simple to deal with the petty arrangements of territory, what with several, relatively untouched militaries advocating for peace.” She sighs, closing the folder to look up at Vyrubova. “The full proposal as written goes over procedure for airways, border insurances, and dealing with each of the autonomous entities, but the essentials lie in getting these factions to work together by placing our own influences with destabilizing the Matou, and running the central government, and the Daitoa if need be, dry due to a more solidified agreement on control to both maritime and land borders.”

There is silence for another moment, before Leekpai starts once more. “We’re certainly an odd group of allies, at least in political ideology. I suspect to quite a few, it would be entertaining to see Mutul, Seredinia and Pulau cooperate on a common goal. But we all wish for similar things here, and that’s peace that can come without destroying life, and it’s with an arrangement like this that we can most readily ensure it. Mutul is on board, so truly, it’s up to you to decide if this is worth pursuing.”

Vyrubova remained quiet during the explanation by the two Pulaui leaders, eyes flicking back and forth with no real rush. Eventually, as they concluded, she leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled in her lap. “It paints a pretty picture. Something akin to the programs my predecessor had hoped for, when the conflict began,” she said passively, focused on Leekpai. “There are many assumptions, least of all being the assumption that the Free Republic will adhere to Seredinian advice. I have faith in our associates there and the negotiators with their foreign delegation, but these people have been fighting each other for nigh on a decade.”

Turning her head towards Panggabean, the Prime Minister continued. “What of the other powers involved? I am sure Latium, Tsurushima, even Tarsas may want a place at the table. While some of those are easier dealt with than others, breaking apart a nation at war with itself will take certain wherewithal, especially with outside interference,” and at that Vyrubova turned her gaze back to Leekpai. “Naturally, regardless of the outcome here today, we will review the proposed agreement strongly. I may seem skeptic, but my mandate includes ending this war; I’d not have another Seredinian airman die over Kalakora, nor any more innocent civilians dying on the ground, nor indeed the just-as-salient continued disruption of global trade.”

With a slight nod to each point made, it was at this point that Leekpai actually seemed content with the discussion at hand, her drink still at hand as she listened keenly, a quick look to Panggabean as the Seredinian finished her statement. “Such consideration is truly all that we could wish for, Prime Minister. There are always answers that we can provide to resolve concern, of course, such as on how the decade of conflict provides only more reasoning for a war-torn and weary faction to be more open to even the thought of ending conflict, especially in consideration that many of the factions at hand haven’t had much direct conflict in years. On the topic of other nations, at the very least it appears that Tsurushima will be more than rational in all of this, but I understand the apprehension. This was never to be an easy solution, but it’s a comprehensive, and certainly a feasible one. I don’t expect this to be the last discussion on the matter of course, but to know that there is some hope of settlement is all we can hope for.”

Panggabean nodded, and rose in tandem with the military official to her side. “Once more, it’s a pleasure to know that we can find agreement on a shared outcome and desire, Miss Vyrubova. As long as we stand on the ground of ensuring that peace can come to Kalakora, and to an extent to all of us involved, I’m confident that we may get to see a brighter future together.” She bowed, a slight wince that was quickly ignored as she moved to graze over her bandages. “I’ll begin having the documents and necessities for air base usage filled at once, if you’ll excuse my absence. Air Hangat, to each of you.” With another bow of her head, the younger councilmember makes her way out of the grotto, a few officials trailing behind as they begin to rattle off statements in various languages, quickly disappearing into the surrounding lush.

Leekpai waits at the table, her tea near empty, before looking to the Seredinian official. “Would you care for something stronger? While I can’t speak for you, I refuse to believe that I’m alone in thinking a little rum would be a welcome addition.”

Vyrubova nodded her goodbye to Panggabean, remaining silent as the councilmember departed and then looking impassively at Leekpai before she spoke. “Considering our official business is essentially dealt with,” the Seredinian said, straightening in her chair, “I don’t think that would go amiss, though I admit it has been some time since I last had rum. Was there something else particularly you wished to speak of, councilmember?”

The older woman looked to her right, a quick call of, “Bri Kr!” a serving aid bowing quickly as the hurriedly made their way down the path. She turned back to Vyrubova, a modest shrug as she feigned a faux confusion at the question. “Mm. There are many things we could address, but I’d rather not sully the rest of the afternoon with pointless droll. I’m simply contemplating our little cooperation is all.” With a frightening pace, the server returned, two roemer glasses holding a blend of pink and orange, a mango wedge floating in both concoctions. Leekpai gingerly took her own glass, setting it down as she gazed at the garden around her. “Tell me, what do you think of Pulau Keramat? It’s quite different from your own homeland, or so I’ve been told.”

Setting her glass before her and studying the liquid inside, Vyrubova hummed her agreement with Leekpai, raising her eyes up to look at the older woman as she asked a question. “It is very different from Seredinia, that’s true,” she began, taking up the glass again. “I was born in the north, Dominigrad; snow through the spring months has always been common there. I’m rather certain this place has never seen snow,” and taking a sip of the cocktail, the Seredinian looked back at Leekpai. “Pulau Keramat is a very exotic place to my people, but it is beautiful. I know certain ministers of mine have been eager to obtain diplomatic postings and the like here, for any number of reasons.”

Pausing for a moment, Vyrubova took another sip of her drink, looking at her counterpart with interest. “I have always found it curious, the thoughts of one peoples on another, especially with such a vast distance between them,” she said musingly, setting the glass down.

Leekpai hummed with the answer of the Prime Minister, a satisfied noise as she raised her own drink, stirring the glass as she watched the other. She kept her gaze fixated on the drink, watching the hues of pink and orange swirl with one another, the colors clashing with one another. “These vast distances are what matter most, Prime Minister Vyrubova. I’ve been on this council for a greater part of my life, and when not on it, working alongside it. It’s no secret that I love my country, as I suspect you do your own.” She takes another moment to enjoy her drink further, a contemplative pause before she procures a flask from the inside of her Kebaya, a clear liquid being poured into her own glass. She continues, as if nothing had occurred, “It’s why I know you’re willing to go great lengths for the security and happiness of your nation, more so than most would likely try and find comforting. It’s why I’m interested in seeing you here, across the world in a foreign garden, speaking on the behalf of a war that has brought it’s curse upon the world.” She takes a new sip of her altered drink, seemingly finding it satisfying as she places it onto the table.

“It’s no secret that the Dewan is trying to reach out to a world we’re still cautious of. Pulau Keramat, is as many of your ministers may have discovered, a treasure to the eyes of many, with our food, our music, our lifestyle being enticing to most visitors I’ve seen. I want to protect it, make sure that the nation takes the right steps, especially in who it can trust.” She looks to Vyrubova, a new emotion in her gaze outside the usual antipathy, instead something far more inquisitive. “One day, I want to retire to the beachfront, with nothing but a good drink at hand, and the life of my nation to keep me happy. My greatest ponderance is if a relationship with Seredinia can help me keep this dream. What say you, to the dream of an old woman?” She chuckles at the question, the more focused expression unwavered as she nestles her drink.

If Vyrubova had been surprised at Leekpai’s brazen addition to her drink, her reaction had been almost entirely muted; while she kept an eye on the flask for a moment, she refocused on the Pulaui leader’s face directly. “I am sure there have been many conversations about my service to the Federation since our foreign office contacted your own,” Vyrubova conceded, reaching out to pick up her glass and take a larger sip of alcohol within. “I can only say that I have found many ways to be effective since becoming Prime Minister, and using that effectiveness to create the necessary capital to pursue aims I know Seredinia ought to be fighting for has been successful.”

Setting the glass down again, the Prime Minister leaned back in her chair, resting her hands in her lap. “I have only been the chief executive in Seredinia for four, nearly five years. I hope to serve for many more years, and so my idea of a future retirement is perhaps less definite than your own. But I can understand your aim; and if that aim is coinciding with the betterment of your country, then perhaps someday I will share it,” Vyrubova said, a musing tone re-entering her voice. “Our country has had no conflict with yours in the past, or at least none worth worrying over now. Indeed, the potential benefits of uniting against the Matou and the so-called Kalakoran government are myriad for us both. If my envoys can persuade the Free Republic into talks, then I will endorse them wholeheartedly,” Vyrubova continued. “My goal remains the furthering of liberal, democratic life for those living without; and while that may not be the precise goal of Pulau, it is one of the few nations which can be designated as both of those things without the asterisk that is a monarch or outright dictator.”

The Pulaui woman sat still for a moment, as if going through every statement once more in her mind, before setting the flask on the table, an ornamental skin that was beaded and wrapped in delicate chain, and sliding it over. “It’s called Lambanóg. It’s a little strong, but enjoyable enough even on it’s own.” She huffed, a faux irritation that was clearly for play. “Just don’t enjoy too much, I suppose, it’s the only source on this whole island of a drink fit for a stronger soul.”

With the little jab out the way, she sighed once more. “I’ve always been concerned to the machinations of over nations, but rightfully so I hope. It seems I should at least attempt to find some consolation and comfort in what you say. Our nations are most certainly different, but I can respect what you’ve done for yours, and at the very least, the opportunities you can give to it. Just perhaps, further work between our two nations won't be the death of me, and I can only assume the rest of my councilmembers should follow suite in agreement. I applaud then, a future between our two nations standing out amongst the rabble. “ She lifts own drink in a sort of celebratory fashion, watching for her counterpart’s response.

Nadezhda had measured out a small amount of the liquid into her drink, swirling the larger glass around in her hand after handing the flask back over to Leekpai. Taking a sip of the new concoction, she nodded appreciatively, listening closely to her counterpart speak. After Leekpai had finished, she nodded, raising her own glass slightly. “To a future between Pulau and Seredinia,” she said, and then her eyes flashed, “and to the end of the Matou, and this God forsaken blight on Kalakora.”

[Mutul]

co-written with Arthurista

---

Somewhere in Tikal, one year ago

The boat was patiently waiting at the dock. No crew visible and no light made it look abandoned, even in the gold-and-red light of the end of the day. It looked almost exactly like all the other boats and small recreational boats blocked or abandoned there because of the civil war. Even if the junta was on its death throes, the Belfro-Arthuristan forces had yet to lift the Maritime Exclusion Zone they had established around the island, and no civilian was mad enough to try and break in on their own for a luxury yacht.

And so, the docks were empty. Until suddenly a few cars arrived in the parking lots, stopped, and men got out of them. They wore orange bandanas and black leather jackets. In their hands a few cheap but efficient weapons they openly showed, as a form of passport in case someone was too blind or too dumb to notice the golden symbols, encrusted directly in their dark clothes, which betrayed their allegiance. they were religious militants of the Hands of Thunder, ready to kill and massacre in the name of their faith. But today their mission wasn’t to exact divine retribution on anyone threatening the community of the Faithfuls. Instead they were merely escorting an handful of other people whose skins were too pale and their clothes too close to something resembling a proper military uniform to be mistaken for members of the Hands. They seemed tired and exhausted, yet there was still a cold strength in their eyes. In that instant they felt many contradictory emotions : doubts, an hint of regret, a wish to get over it as quickly as they could, some fear for the future, but also hope.

These men and their escort walked straight to the boat. Once there, the armed militants made it clear that they had to get on board, while they themselves remained on the docks. But even once they were on the bridge, the crew remained invisible. They wait a few minutes in the silence of the empty port, until finally the sound of an engine starting could be heard and the boat started to vibrate. It moved and left the bay, seemingly heading for the horizon, leaving the port behind and the sun to its right, seemingly unconcerned by the no-sail zone. Finally someone appeared, coming out from a trap door that led to the shadowy lower deck below. it was clearly a man of Mutulese ancestry, yet he was taller and leaner than many of his people. His face was half-covered by his silver hair, yet one wouldn’t give him more than forty years at best. It was really bony and triangular. His nose was curled back, pulling back the corners of his almost non-existent lips, freezing his face in a sort of permanent unnerving smile. A few almost invisible scars and marks betrayed the reason why : a large part of his face had been chirurgically reconstructed. One of his brown eye was clearly a fake, never moving when the other did. The rest of his body was hidden by a large black coat. Even his hands were concealed by leathery gloves.

The man took from one of his pocket a pack of cigarette and offered one to each of the “guests”, before lighting up one for himself. They savored a few inhalation in complete silence, before the man finally spoked with a somewhat reedy voice, but in a perfect Latin.

“So. Heard you and your men wanted a way out of this mess?”

“That is what we need,” the mercenary savoured the rough smoke. Over the last couple of months, he had enjoyed more high quality cigars than he’d previously had in his life. Sometimes, it was a joy to return to more simple pleasures.

“I don’t think you would make the error of mistaking us for simple supplicants, of course,” he said. “The political operation you have pulled off was masterful. However, it is clear that this approach had limitations. You managed to render the island ungovernable. However, in military terms, and ultimately this is what counts - ultima ratio regum and all - all that was achieved was a stalemate against what barely counted as an army. It took the Belfrasians to deal the knockout blow, didn’t it?”

“Political operations are well and good, but ultimately you also need those able to put the hammer down when there was no other alternative. I think my crew fits that description.”

“You know who we are. You know where we originated - we have no real country to go back to. No ideology to follow. We’ll fight, and fight well, for anyone who may be in need of our services, in return for the most reliable guarantor of allegiance in the world.”

“So, I take it you have need of our services?”

The man seemed to smile at the remark from the mercenary. It was hard to tell, because of the permanent grin his scars gave him. He nonetheless took the time to enjoy his cigarette before answering, his working eye scrutinizing the Milostians in front of him.

“It’s one way to see it. Yet you suffer from judging the situation a posteriori. the Belfrasian-Arthuristan intervention was a possibility we foresaw and we decided to bet on it. It was successful. It may not have been. The same way the creation of the Junta was unforeseen by all parties involved. It’s a towering pile of gambles and you are part of it. That’s why you’re here."

"Your timely rendition is a credit for you and your men. I had recommended your services to my, eh, superiors. They were difficult to convince but they have authorized me to offer you a job. If only because they agree with me that you have a potential role to play in future events. But to tell you the truth, I think they found your boldness, surrendering to the people you helped massacred and whom had an open vendetta against you and your men on the supposition that we would save you from them, endearing. You were right of course, but it’s the kind of calculated risk they favour."

"However, before we continue on, they want you to explain why you accepted the Junta’s offer, why you fought on with them for as long as you did, and why exactly did you choose to surrender to “us” and not to the Arthuristans or the Belfrasians. We want your reasoning in details. We must warn you : this is not a trial. Don’t seek to please us nor to minimize your involvement with the Junta. The truth, only the truth, in as many details as possible, can save you now. As you said : you are a stateless soldier without ideology. Just be yourself and tell us how you saw the events and how you handled the choices that presented themselves to you.”

Major Dordevic had, of course, known that a situation such as this would arise. After all, there had always been the possibility that he would end up as the subject matter of a war crimes trial, and it would be to his benefit that his defence counsel was well-briefed. As the situation stood, he could simply redeploy some of the arguments he had planned to raise.

“A few months after the beginning of the insurgency, the Junta made a momentous decision. They decided that the most optimal use for around half of the country’s gold reserves was to shift it away, before the international community could impose a blockade. As far as I know, most of it cannot be traced - God knows my friends elsewhere have tried. A week or two later, my...promoters-slash-agents were approached by gentlemen bearing an offer. For 80 million Belfrie - half then and there, half in an escrow account at Lion’s Rock to be released to us when the task was completed - we would assist the Junta in dealing with the insurgency. As far as we could tell, it was a nice and proper offer, and would certainly be a much better proposition than chasing some guerillas in a dusty Scipian hellhole. So, we accepted, and had our gear smuggled to the island in containers nominally intended for second hand cars, televisions and household appliances.”

“The resistance we encountered on the island wasn’t very different from what we had expected. Most insurgencies which managed to survive the first few weeks are usually state-sponsored to a greater or lesser degree and given the politics, we expected that the Mutulese state was probably funding and arming the rebels. We were prepared tactically and psychologically to combat the sort of threat the Hands posed.”

“However, we did miscalculate on one issue. We were hired because, as usual, these junta’s running banana republics believe in the overwhelming moral superiority of the tank against untrained rabble. There is some truth in that - modern armour is in a sense a development of the heavy cavalry from the middle ages. Whilst its weapons and armour and mobility are all very important, it is the shock effect on the defenders’ which tips the balance in battle. Against well-trained footsoldiers, armed with modern anti-tank weapons and fighting on the defensive in rough or urban terrain, tanks cannot operate alone, but most work as part of a combined arms team, with infantry and fire support, just as the medieval mounted men-at-arms had to be supported by crossbowmen when fighting pikes.”

“The regime, unfortunately, did not have properly trained infantry, prepared for high intensity urban warfare. They had a gendarmerie, backed by some militia. Neither were sufficient for our purposes. We retrained some of them, of course, and employed them in the final slum battle where WP was deployed, but in the end that was too little, too late. With more time, say another month, with some more training or experience, the junta could have fielded a battalion or two of well-trained urban warfare infantry. That would have put your insurgency on the back foot.”

“We did not have time, of course, because the Belfrasians showed up. As a professional, as a soldier, I must admire the way the operation was carried out. They used air power to neutralise any anti-aircraft guns the junta had. They landed a battalion of paratroopers at the airport to secure the perimeter whilst special forces stormed the terminal building to rescue the hostages. Just for good measure, two Arthuristan sloops showed up to wipe out the junta’s navy - for what the so-called fleet was worth, whilst a BAF heavy strategic bomber dropped a pair of satellite-guided Grand Slam bomb right onto the 18th-century masonry of Fort St John and decapitated the junta leadership, just at the right time to paralyse the defenders’ command and control. I presume nobody has managed to dig through the rubble to find the unfortunate Brigadier Murphy? Well, that’s to be expected, given the circumstances.”

“With the junta being indisposed, command in the field fell to me, and I elected to shift the focus of the battle by redeploying the best-trained infantry from the slums - the militia and the other regular companies could hold off the insurgents for now, and redeploy to assault the airport before the hostages could be evacuated in full. Paratroopers tend to be lightly equipped, and don’t as a rule do well against armour. I thought we genuinely had a shot - if we could crack the outer perimeter, and make it onto the runways, then we could have overrun the entire battalion and defeat the invasion at source.”

“Of course, that didn’t work very well. Our presence on the island wasn’t exactly a secret and the paratroopers had placed anti-armour teams on the control tower and the terminal building’s roof. Our weapons could not elevate at a high enough angle to fire at them, whereas their anti-tank missiles could reach us. They left quite a few of our tanks burning. We saw that the situation was hopeless and fell back.”

“What to do then, at that juncture? The paras didn’t control much beyond the airport. The junta was dead. The slums were controlled by the Hands. It was anarchy all round. We didn’t have an independent means of escaping the island. Surrendering to the Belfrasians would guarantee our safety, for now, but we would inevitably be placed before a war crimes tribunal of some form. This would likely have been carried out by the post-war Tikalese authorities, which is, considering the methods used to wage this war, problematic.”

“Or, we could try an alternative solution. It looks like a gamble, but only if one doesn’t think it through. The Hands were, of course, run by Mutulese agents. Mutul wouldn’t throw away what amounts to a major asset, just to satisfy the islanders’ desire for revenge which, the political impetus for which, with the destruction of the junta, had faded somewhat. We are valuable. We knew that those who command the Hands would see value in what we represent. This was the step which, as you know, brought us to this boat.”

The man nodded before throwing his cigarette butt away. “Right, right. A good evaluation if I say so…” he stopped himself mid-sentence, seemingly interrupted by something only he could hear. “Hm. As I said, you had already won my superiors attention. Now, you have their interest.”

“Tell your Promoters that you won’t need any job opportunity for… an undetermined amount of time. But we think you and your men will like your new position. You have experiences, and that’s something hard to come by. Your expertise will be well spent in some schools for a while, alongside a few other teachers we officially don’t have. Same for a few trainings here and there… vacations compared to what you just went through, hm ?”

“Anyway, of course this would only be the beginning. Take the time to recruit new men, command new tanks to replace the ones we, eh, won’t be able to retrieve. We’ll cover the necessary expenses. And once you’re ready it will be time to send you on some actual operations again.”

“Thank you, that sounds reasonable. I assume my men and I will be paid a monthly retainer per the market rate, plus the expenses?”

“Indeed. You’ll find the contract to be fairly usual in its terms. Send it to your lawyers if you want to, not that it would change much… welcome on board, Major. The rest of your crews should arrive soon after ourselves and once you’ve all enjoyed the “joys” only a teacher life can offer, well…”

The already permanently grimacing face distorted itself into what was probably supposed to be a smile but transformed into a malformed, disturbing, grin as the man’s dark eye lightened up. A cold, cruel, light.

“... there will be a lot of work. For all of us.”

[Enyama]

The inside of the pub served to create a stark contrast to the distant and looming grey-and-yellow towers of one of Karsko’s many color-coded New Society districts of boringly square, albeit decorated brutalist towers. Inside the pub, nestled in a some centuries-old building typical of the older and untouched sections of Karsko, browns and warm reds, as if still emanating from a medieval fire, danced on the walls and on the planks of the tables, and a light bustle of voices and jazzy music broke up the quiet hum of the larger city outside.

So with a large mug of Karsken-brewed beer did Albin Volf sit down, peering at the stiffly-suited man sitting across from him as he adjusted his rather drab grey jacket.

“Enjoying freedom, Albin?” asked the man with a smile, raising a glass and a bottle of wine towards his stern-faced counterpart.



The indifferent Albin huffed, taking a sip of beer that left a foam mustache briefly imprinted on his real one before he rather tidily wiped it up with a handkerchief. “It’s swell,” said Albin with a dejected half-smirk in his barely-noticeable Ludz accent. “But I must say, Agent Horvath, that this little “IDR” experiment likely wasn’t worth smearing my face on every mid-level wanted list this side of the Karmin River. The prison time certainly wasn’t worth it. I wonder if anything else was at all.”

"What?" Agent Karmin set his bottle and glass down and leaned forward, his expression turning from unusually cheerful to one of disappointment. “Worth it for whom, Albin? The PRCO has only provided materials to accompany your ideas. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Please don’t dance that dance with me, Horvath,” muttered Albin, watching the foamy liquid coalesce at the edges of his mug, the minuscule bubbles reminding him of people in a crowd. “You brought me in because I was outspoken when I was in the film industry, and I was outspoken indeed, and I would continue to call myself a socialist and a democrat. But how can you sit there with a straight face, and say that I, in the end, was the mastermind of the whole thing? You brought in a whole lot more militarist goons and crazies than me, I just happened to have the prettiest face and the loudest voice.”

Another sip of beer later, and Horvath hadn’t yet spoken, instead just staring at Volf as if waiting for him to finish. Albin gesticulated towards his former handler. “Well?”

“The Commissar won’t be happy to hear that this whole thing fell through…” he almost seemed to drone off in his statement, mulled in his own mud of bureaucracy and consequences. Albin smiled, enjoying the warm atmosphere of the place around him.

“Horvath, we’ve had a drink before, and I think you’re fine. Honestly, I do, you’re a decent human being and you’ve done your job as it was directed to you admirably. But look at it from my perspective. You recruit me, on behalf of Commisar Voinea. You tell me to walk my walk, if I’m going to talk my talk. So I do.” Albin stopped, to take another sip, looking at the red-faced agent.

“And I make one little video, the United News picks it up, and now what? Some inflammatory platitudes, some of your goons with assault rifles in the background, and I hear that the People’s Congress is furious, and there’s just debate after debate on that floor every day. In an election season. You tell me it’s engineered, that it’s all going to plan, that it’ll all make sense soon. And then you just toss me off to the Ottonians, and I’m sure, you told them that I was their problem now or something like that? Put that whole "IDR" project on the backburner while you focused on something else, eh?”

“We never did any such th-”

“So why did their own supposedly democratic squads go after me? Why was I in prison for four months, only for you to walk me out as if nothing ever happened?”

“The Committee should have been more forthcoming,” admitted Agent Horvath, looking far less enthusiastic about the wine now pushed to the far edge of the booth. “But what’s done is done - your face is famous now.”



“I’m not a tool. Make sure the PRCO knows that before they put my face anywhere else. This is how it works now. I’m a free citizen, yes? Or are you going to kill me like your boss surely would have when he was young?”

The Agent stared at Albin tensely, knowing that it was a gamble that he had barely passed the threshold to be able to take. Ostrozavan intelligence hadn’t even liquidated any monarchists since the end of the 1950s, yet that reputation still hung over them like a dark cloud, giving the PRCO an aura of shadiness and mistrust amid citizen and Progressive councilor alike. And now, Albin reckoned, they knew they’d just done something with the IDR that would only add to that long list of shady dealings.

A smug smile began to form on Albin’s face. “No? Good, we’re still friends.”

“...Indeed. I really thought you were cooperating on this.”

“No, no, no, you lovable fool, Agent Horvath. I love my cause, but I’m not going to spend time in a foreign prison for your half-assed way of pulling it off. And, as I am a free citizen, I’ll tell you what. You tell your boss to clear my name, not just for Ostrozava, but for the world, and you tell him I’ll find a damn good way to do it. Or else, I might just post an internet confession about this whole damn thing, and the world will know that the PRCO still isn’t as clean as it purports to be,”

He stood and looked at the Agent, stern-faced. He was testing the man, that was for sure, because he’d turned from friendly face to political adversary in a span of thirty seconds. It would have been stupid, through-and-through, in the older days of the Prime Republic. But in the new Ostrozava? Free speech sure mattered a lot more.

“Blackmailing a Prime Agent is a serious offense, Albin.”

“So are gun-running, domestic terrorism, threats to assassinate world leaders, inciting a riot, loitering, trespassing, and assault with a vehicle, yet I am already accused of all of those, and you assured us nothing would go wrong when this whole thing began."

Albin stood up, tossing a 1Ͱ coin on the table as he loomed large over the federal agent. “Enough of this strongman barbarism, please. I know you won't shoot me in the back, this isn't the thirties. I know you represent a working government. Exonerate me from this whole thing, and I’ll screw off and live on royalties from my books, or go back to making art films, or something, but I won’t be in your hair anymore. But don’t fuck me on this, Agent, or I will find a way to make you regret that.”

And, as abruptly as he’d come in, Albin Volf exited the pub and looked at the serene towers of the darkening night in front of him, igniting a cigarette as he walked down the almost-empty street, offering himself a glance behind his own back every fifty paces or so...

[Cynereth]

－Ｔ　Ａ　Ｎ　Ｒ　Ｕ　Ｓ－
SUNDAY,15^THSEPTEMBER2019
0700HOURSCYNERETHTIME

The sound of distant artillery was providing a quasi-rhythmic beat for his footsteps on the wooden footboards tracing the layout of the field camp. The hard clay soil on the southern slopes of the Cauzen Range weren’t prone to becoming muddy bogs during the wet season, but nonetheless the engineers were careful to mark the rows of tents with oak wood planks for the benefit of the officers. It was a matter of prestige, a mark of respect for the officers in the command quarter of a field camp not to sully themselves by walking around in the dirt like the rest of the common rabble. Crixan Suva thought it to be a waste of time and resources, lying out the plank roads, but Rukka forbid any of the officers have their feathers ruffled.

With each clack his boots made on the plank road, the Dralin of the Concordance drew closer to his destiny. For years, everything had been building up to this one seminal moment; a moment greater than all others. Finally, the long road of hardship would be fulfilled – the fruits of his labors, the result of suffering the season of travails would be realized. Today, he was going to order his troops into battle for the first time as the supreme commander of all military forces in Cynereth. No longer would he be bound to obey the orders of those above him; today, all that mattered was his judgment, his skill, his greatness. All of Heaven would be host to his glory this day, and the thundering trumpets of artillery fire would herald his ascension to high honor and prestige.

The trip to Voxe Calla had not been an easy one, but there was no alternative; he had been on a junket to Arai when his old military order, the Saedeans had uncovered time-sensitive intelligence on one of the Concordance’s priority military targets, a rebel insurrectionist operating in Caenara named Eldris Maal. The Saedeans’ ENL scouts had good reason to believe that Maal was gathering weapons in the hamlet of Vicus, a small railroad junction of some two thousand people. The Colsil Voyd was eager to use the railways to move men and supplies around the southern provinces; Crixan meant to deprive the rebel faction of that advantage by razing Vicus to the ground and burning Maal out of his hole. If innocents had to die to achieve those ends? So be it; innocents lost now would be repaid ten-fold in the lives saved by ending this pointless insurrection once and for all.

The Dralin had hopped a transport out of Arai under the cover of darkness to Tanrus, then had been escorted via convoy down the southern plateau to their field camp in Voxe Calla. For so much damned effort, he was going to certainly extract additional penance from Maal if he took the bastard alive. In truth, there was very little chance of that happening; the artillery barrage that he was about to order was going to put an end to him long before his rangers could ever go in and scoop up the pieces. Still, the idea of having Maal’s head on a pike at Castle Valsia would be quite the prize, indeed. The rat bastard had been drumming up more and more local support for the CV ever since Laeleath authorized using their southern field camps as “proving grounds”.

Reality was a bit more complicated than that, naturally. The guns moving south were meant to be used as a show of force, the same tactic that Laeleath had been employing in Caenara and Illewei for more than a century. And for more than a century, the result of that show of force was the same: the hornets get stirred up, the military marches in to restore order, people chafe, rinse and repeat. This time, though, there was a wild card in the deck, and it was going to change the entire paradigm of the conflict: Maal had made a tactical error by killing Fievar Keenel, a low-level bureaucrat that was politically connected to a Malthudian Marshuul, Avedon Keenel. Predictably, Keenly was right-pissed, and decided to make an example of the insurrectionist assassin.

And so it was that fate had led him here to these mourning fields, where the fiery tempest of artillery would rain down a maelstrom on an insignificant little hamlet in an insignificant corner of the Concordance. Were he a man of faith, he might feel some compunction to avoid the apocalypse that was to befall the poor people. Ostensibly, he was about to order the death of his kinsmen, Cynerethens; there was no getting around that, even if they were Caenarans and Illewei savages. There would be swift fallout from the action in the corridors of power in Laeleath, but such machinations were of little concern to him. The Aunura, as feckless as she was, had the good grace to yield to his discretion in the matter of the Caenara question, freeing his hand.

The Draelin sighed, exhaling sharply before lifting the flap on the canvas tent which served as the end of his long, sullen road to personal absolution. Though the unit had been specially-prepared to serve as a C4I post for the division, it had been repurposed by his top field commander for a private audience. The Vicax, Liador Bannice was one of the top artillery officers in his class at Rol Gotha; the perfect choice to lead the volley, and the perfect patsy should anything go wrong. The young officer was still wet behind the ears, but distinguished enough in his command grays. The beret perched on his furrowed brow had neither wear nor tear upon it, the sure sign of a leader new to the command. He could almost taste the excitement hanging about in the camp.

"Report, Vicax," Suva barked, marveling at how the mere octave in his voice could engender such a frantic desire in his subordinates to slink from his greatness – oh, how he loved putting the young whelps in their place. "Are we ready to proceed?"

"Sir, our field artillery is in position and ready to fire on your command," the Vicax responded. "Batteries A and B have assumed the ridge overlooking the town from the south, while Battery C has positioned itself along the riverfront here to triangulate a crossfire. We'll raze the whole town to ash, should you deem it so, sir."

Suva looked down as Bannice pointed on the map to back up his assertion. "What about the contingency for a follow-up? Are your men ready to proceed into the kill zone to mop up?"

"Our rangers are on hot standby, Honored Drealin," the Vicax replied. "Each outfit has been fitted for close quarters combat; if Maal is in that shithole, we'll flush him out by hook or by crook."

The Draelin nodded, affording the Vicax the slightest of grins. "Then please, by all means, put the spurs to them, Mr. Bannice. You may commence firing at your leisure."

－Ｔ　Ｗ　Ｏ　　　Ｈ　Ｏ　Ｕ　Ｒ　Ｓ　　　Ｌ　Ａ　Ｔ　Ｅ　Ｒ－

Bair Kellor had awoken earlier in the day as a city magistrate in Tanrus, dutifully carrying civic affairs as best he could under the circumstances. His day was ending with him dodging mortar and small arms fire, ducking from building to building with the freaking apocalypse apparently bearing down on them. On a normal day, the walk from his apartment to the central police hub was less than ten minutes; instead, he'd been running for his life from alley to alley for a solid hour before he could safely enter what remained of the station. Only the Chief of Police, Kath Jethos and the city comptroller Herhean Riila were there to greet him; they looked about as disheveled as he felt, despite the seeming improbability of that sordid reality.

Kellor struggled to keep his balance stumbling over the debris that littered the control center; pieces of dislodged ceiling tiles and broken drywalling were strewn amongst scattered paper and cracked floorboards. “Vator District is burning; emergency services can’t bring it under control!”

“We know, we know!” Jethos stammered, waving him over to their console frantically. Bair had never seen Kath so rattled before: “twelve constables are dead on the riverfront, and another six are missing in the bazaar. The central battalion headmaster refuses to send any more officers out.”

It took every ounce of his resolve not to curse the buffoon at central as a traitor, and even then he only just made it in under the wire. “We’re losing containment, damn it! What about the hospitals, do they still have power?”

“Power’s out all over the city, Bair,” a familiar voice piped in, every bit as spooked as Kath’s. Kellor shot a glance over towards his friend Herhean Riila, her expression a frozen mask of abject horror: “we can’t reach Lorean at Ithemir or Krenn at Fanoan. Cedrin Tanell said that Concordance forces were shelling our positions less than two hundred yards from the emergency ward at Sylneda, but that was well over an hour ago. He could be miles from there by now…”

“–Or dead,” Kath glibly added, his eyes straining in the low hue of emergency lights to read printouts that his staffers kept handing him. “The roads are almost impassible from Sylneda all the way to foothills. The whole damn world has gone mad, and we’re stuck in the soup trying to make heads of it all!”

Bair gave his friend a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder; as hollow a gesture as it was, it was all he could think to do in the moment. “You’re doing all that you can, Kath. No one could make headway in this madness.”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, “my best doesn’t seem to be good enough. Every power substation from here to Cailania has been knocked out. What few routes out of the city remain passable are choked with refugees trying to get away from the fighting. Half of my utility crews are lying dead in the underground when the ventilation system went offline; noxious fumes choked them before they could get back to the surface.”

Herhean sighed: “the rest are Rukka-knows-where trying to do what they can, but this shit is utterly hopeless. It’s like trying to put a band-aid on a gunshot wound; all we’re doing is adding bodies to the pile out there!”

Things were worse than he realized; and Kath and Herhean were supposed to be the rational voices in this maelstrom. Kellor turned towards a pudgy-looking stooge hunkered down underneath an empty desk, his shaking hands holding an emergency radio receiver up to his ear. “What are you getting through that? Anything official on the band?”

The terrified clerk pulled the receiver down from his ear, looking up towards Bair with trepidation. “The Concordance just hit the eastern front with three divisions; Command just ordered all civilians in our Seam to begin evacuating north.”

Rukka preserve us…

Kellor couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what he was hearing. “The hell you say! Command orders us to evacuate over the damn emergency band, without so much as a courtesy call to city administrators? What the fuck do they want us to do, send smoke signals out to warn people? I – Kath!”

The comptroller nearly collapsed, the news overwhelming him; only Herhean’s quick reaction had kept him from hitting the floor. Bair grabbed a hold of the heavier man to keep Riila from getting drug down with Kath, steadying him long enough for an orderly to grab a chair for him. He didn’t so much as sit down as he did collapse onto the seat, the sheer exhaustion – mental and physical – sapping him of his last reserves. “Hang on, Kath! We’ve got you, bud!”

“Bair, we have to get him out of here; we need to get out of here!”

[Allamunnic States]

Obsolete thread. Please do not delete for archive purposes.

Moved to the new Ajax Character Intrigue Thread.