Revjakoyia Estate,
Commonality of Syara
Revjakoyia Estate had been built back in 1851, back when the young Syaran Republic had first established itself as an independent state. It had stood for nearly 70 years, owned by local landlords and governors until it’s owner had died in 1965. The outbreak of the Civil War five years later delayed any assumption of ownership until 1981, when Banjia District Government officially began renovations of it under the order of the national government, placing it under national ownership for usage by the Executive Branch. The main attraction of the Estate was the Revjakoyia Villa, which since it’s reconstruction and renovation had been used by various national officials for a variety of purposes, mostly related to hosting state events, or as a get-away by senior politicians, including former Executives.
Radovan Kostović, Executive of the Syaran Commonality, had used the event on only two previous occasions, both for corporate summits. He preferred to remain in Zovahr for his relaxation, and when did decide to leave the Desopya District preferred to travel south. Even so, he had arrived early in the morning to ensure that all final preparations had been carried out, though it would prove unnecessary. The two story villa, situated in the foothills of nearby mountains, bore a strong classical bearing to its architecture, both externally and internally. Smooth tiled floors reflected the light from ornate chandeliers above. Around the villa, dozens of tailors, stewards, cooks and staff worked to ensure all final preparations were completed.
An open bar, living quarters, a gourmet banquet and various other amenities were all available, befitting such a carde of honored guests. It had quickly become clear to the Syarans they would be hosting not only honored representatives from some of Tyran’s most significant nations, but also some of the most powerful people in the region. The Syaran staff that was responsible for ensuring the complete comfort of their guests toiled under the watchful eyes of their civil overseers, until no I was left undotted and no T was left uncrossed. It took thousands of hours worth of effort, but at least, on the day before the summit, Revjakoyia Villa was ready to receive it’s honored guests.
The nearest city to the estate was the metropolitan city of Corchia, home to just under four million citizens. Like many cities in Syara, Corchia was an urbanized, over developed mess of overlapping zones, industries, and choked with warehouses sometimes stretching as far as the eye could see. Corchia was an ugly city with a city-scape brimming with smokestacks and blocky apartment buildings. The Syarans were an industrious people, but it was clear by the prevalence of brutalist structures that architectural design was not their cultural strong point. A few exceptions were the glass and steel skyscrapers that belonged to the corporations that dominated Syara. These towers of business were a sharp contrast to much of Syara, including the sums of Corchia itself where underage girls could be found prostituting themselves to feed their families.
Flying into Corchia was the fastest way to get to the summit, and would’ve been the recommended airport for foreign dignitaries. Corchia’s international airport was one of the oldest in Syara in fact, despite it’s smooth and modern feel that one would get from it’s embedded lights, walkways, and granite walls. It had first opened up as a single airstrip back in 1922, so old and dated that when the representatives passed through they wouldn’t have been able to miss the old Divide War memorial: chiseled from solid stone was the image of a Syaran rifleman in his contemporary attire, standing proudly with one boot firmly placed on the back of what was clearly the corpse of a Cacertian Imperial Marine.
In order to facilitate the fastest route to Revjakoyia, Syaran officials had cordoned off an entire section of the airport, along with the nearby highway, entirely for the representatives. When disembarking their aircraft, the representatives would have been greeted by an entourage of Syaran officials led by Foreign Minister Dubravko Lenković. The Foreign Minister would offer his firm thanks to each representatives for choosing to attend the summit, speak a few words on the importance of diplomacy and negotiations before sending them on their way towards Revjakoyia. A motorcade specifically curtailed towards each delegation would’ve been waiting for them, and after everyone had taken their seats would’ve made their way towards Mount Uznesenja, the highest mountain northern Syara, and part of a small mountain chain that ran from east to west across the Banja and Desopya Districts of the Commonality.
The trip to Revjakoyia would take a little less than an hour (made possible only be stopping all other traffic on the highway), and the first sign of the impending arrival would be the steady rise in elevation. As they drove up the well kept paved road, the representatives could’ve peaked out their windows to gaze eastward towards the valleys that Corchia dominated. If they arrived later in the day, they might even have seen a new sun appear on the horizon; the artificial sunlight of a thousand neon signs of the city-scape.
There were three checkpoints each convoy had to pass through, though to the delegates each security station would’ve been only a short pause in their journey. After a few more minutes, the motorcade would’ve slowed to a crawl and the actual vehicles transporting the foreigners would’ve made their into the garage that housed all the transportation for the event. Stewards and assistants dressed in crisp dark green and gray uniforms would’ve been on station to offer any help to the delegates and guide them into the villa itself.
Entering into the estate would be like entering a portal to a new world. Dazzling lights from chandeliers suspended off the ceiling were gently reflected by the tiles on the floor. Gentle music played by a quartet in the foyer was complemented by a seemingly endless stream of stewards and stewardesses on hand to offer a selection of small delicacies and drinks. Against the walls of the spacious entrance room were security guards, sleek and slim in their black suits and ties, earpieces and steady gazes the only indication of their role and purpose.
Standing just off of the entrance was the Executive himself, Radovan Kostović, adorned with his typical black suit and green tie, small Syaran flag proudly displayed on his lapel. Any intelligence service or foreign office worth their salt could have provided some details of the Executives life; he had been one of millions born into poverty in the chaotic years after the Syaran Civil War, had a less than stellar childhood that resulted in his imprisonment at the age of 17, being released after three years for good behavior. He had subsequently worked his way up the corporate ladder of Syara’s arms industry, which steadily elevated him higher into the Commonality’s political sphere, where he was voted in as Executive in 2013 as a compromise between the three major mega-corporations of the Syaran economy. Since then he had embarked on a number of endeavors to strengthen and stabilize Syara’s internal security and resolve it’s domestic issues, most of which appeared to have been successful.
Kostović himself was not a particularly imposing figure; he was of average height, average build, his hair thick but shortly trimmed. When greeting a delegation, he would say with a pleasant smile a rehearsed greeting; “Welcome, friends, to the Syaran Commonality and to our personal home away from the hustle and bustle. I hope you enjoy your time here and our endeavors here result in lasting peace in our time.” Everything seemed totally normal, save for some small details that stood out; with a roll of his shoulders or a stretching of his arm the Executive’s collar and cuffs would reveal small inklings of the tattoos that covered his body, intricate designs that would’ve been alien to those not familiar with Syaran prison life. A firm handshake didn’t hind the crooked and bent nature of some of his fingers, clearly broken some time ago and never fully healed.
