This Too Shall Pass [ Semi-Open | MT-PMT ]

by **Finium** » Mon Dec 05, 2016 8:54 pm

The Conquest and Occupation of Geara

The Summer Palace was a vast, ornate affair of towers and minarets stacked atop one another. It appeared almost crystalline were it not for the harsh red banners than flew in great numbers from windowsills and crowning flagpoles. The flood of red signaled to all that Emperor was residing there, sequestered from the busy life of the capital in his private home in southern Durn. With him he brought the army of servants and bureaucrats that quietly oiled the mechanisms of the throne. Decorous footmen stood in pairs at strategic doors, chefs sweated away in medieval kitchens, and in lofty council chambers the schemers talked in muted tones. The Emperor, however, slept through the morning, safe from the business of his subjects.

In one such lofty chamber of whispered plans was gathered the Emperor’s household committee. It was a group men and women who created the policies of the Emperor. Lucy McKay, a long-lived, short-tempered women was the current private secretary and thus commanded the group of eight. She was still tall, but had suffered the weight of age on her shoulders, which were now slightly bent. She had made her way up through the secretarial staff and had not, apparently, changed her wardrobe upon appointment to this lofty office. She wore the outdated uniform of unimportance—a white blouse and grey sweater—with her hair twisted into a tight bun that did no favors to her hairline.

“There’s no way we can finish the restorations of the imperial palace in Saturne unless we draw on the trust,” a bespectacled financial fellow finished.

“I am not interested in hearing how we should deplete the imperial family’s funds on a public project, Arthur” Lucy rebutted sharply. “This contract should have been completed seven years ago, as I am sure that I needn’t remind all of you.”

A murmur bubbles through the committee: tax deficits in Carynthia; that terrible accident last July; the lead architect’s death three years ago; the marble shortage in the region; they did not lack reasons for the delay. The trouble with running such a vast fortune is that there were innumerable possibilities for its exhaustion. Yearly expenses had pushed revenues to a tiny sliver, relatively speaking, and placed the Emperor in the awkward position of being conscious of his expenses. More accurately, it made Lucy McKay painfully aware of just how easy it is to spend a great deal of money when maintaining the augustness and mystery of the state. The Emperor loved to renovate the palaces and public buildings of yesteryear, but the enormous upfront costs of restoration always seemed to be replaced by the equally disastrous costs of maintenance.

“Madame, if I may.”

Heads turned to the speaker, typically a silent figure, Carl Temmes. He was in uniform as an administrative member of the imperial guard. His role in these meetings was always to listen to the extravagant events to be attended by the Emperor and merely nod when asked if security could be provided. That is not to say that Carl was not intelligent, he was a top graduate of the School of Public Security and had served in several skirmishes with the Emperor’s foes.

“You may have noticed that the current budget crunch began roughly thirty years ago. Of course, it was in that year that the Emperor decided to forgo the traditional invitational tennis tournament due to a shortage of funds,” Carl began with a slightly surprising knowledge of financial history. “Coincidentally, that was the year that the funds of the Imperial Colonial Estate Fund were exhausted on the reconstruction of the Church of the Archangel in Amyr.”

“I don’t see what this had to do with-”

“If it’s not a solution I don’t want to hear it, Arthur, and you have been severely deficient in that department of late.” Lucy said, silencing the financier. “Carl.”

“The Emperor came to power in a period of conquest and is still under the impression that he has access to similar cash flows. Either you should inform him of the reality of his accounts, or set up an ager publicus auction to secure addition revenue,” Carl completed his suggestion and stood. “I am due to oversee the changing of the guard, good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.”

A new murmur spread through the room with the slam of the chamber door: they very idea; a warmongering soldier, so typical; the current climate just isn’t conducive; and finally the real question at hand, who would we target? The ager publics was a Roman custom; it literally meant “public land,” but in Finium it tended to mean the selling of public land conquered abroad. It was indeed lucrative and tended to occur in great cycles. Every few decades a new series of campaigns would spring up, freshening the tree of public funds with blood. Eventually, the hubbub settled into merely disgruntled huffs.

“Unless one of you is volunteering to inform the Emperor that he will not be able to do whatever he damn well pleases, then I suggest we seriously consider this proposal.” No one rose to Lucy’s challenge. “In that case, I will present this to the Praesidium when they meet here next week.”

A shuffling of papers and putting of things away followed this pronouncement. Lucy issued series of curt orders to each of her subordinates as they vanished. Shelbyson, the flowers in the west wing needed to be replaced more often. Rathine, the Crown Prince and the Queen Mother would be arriving Tuesday, arrange transportation. So it continued until the room had drained away to leave Lucy to continue with the business of the day. A visit to the kitchens, a review of the groceries, a walk through the luncheon room were all stops along her journey through the palace. She made it a point to visit every subsection of the household every day, which often meant late nights catching up on her own work but improved efficiency in the servants.

This journey ended immediately when she was summoned by the Emperor—a common experience that seldom went a day without repetition. While Lucy spent much of her time managing the public relations of the family in the office, the Emperor spent his idle hours in the white-gloved hands of his valet and footmen. She was not, therefore, exceptionally close with the man, but had a passing familiarity with him; not at all unlike polite office acquaintances. She thought of this fact every time she met him, it helped her feel a comforting distance between them; it was also something she encouraged with all the staff. The tall doors of the personal residence loomed before her suddenly and her train of thought was at an end.

*****

The Praesidium, or technically the Committee of Presiding Legislative Officers of Finium, was the heart of politics in Finium. It combined the collective authority of the highest levels of government into a discreet group of three nobles who advised, and often told, the Throne what to do. As they had a tendency to make groundbreaking decisions at the wave of a hand, Lucy was always present at their meetings to assure that the Emperor knew everything that transpired in his government. They had, over the years, attempted to expel her from their meetings, but she had defied propriety, circumstance, and acts of the House of Lords in order to maintain her access. She did this by bribing the guards and then making up preposterous legal excuse when she entered; the great lords of Finium had yet to figure out her scam.

“I think our priority for this meeting should be the current coal shortages in Carynthia,” Albert V. Uvarov began after his two counterparts had settled into the deep, plush chairs of the basement board room.

Albert V. Uvarov, Archduke of Imperial Chael, Imperial Councilor, and Patron of Amyn, was not above changing the location of a meeting last minute to the sprawling subterrania of the palace in order to avoid the hated Lucy McKay. This strategy had yet to actually succeed as she always found her way to the table and today was no exception. Albert himself was an odiously fat man. Though he had been known as remarkably handsome in his youth, an injury during the conquest of Tropica Prime had left him bedridden. While his legs recovered, his physique had not improved in the last fifty years. He wore a uniform of his station, a pure white suit with rigid lines of gold that bulged into odd places along with his body. His counterparts preferred the simpler, darker evening dress. On his right was the Margrave of Archonia, known by his friends as Gerald Nigel Almandin and by his inferiors in the Barony Court as Premier Councilor. The final member was Baron John Galloway, Lord Councilor of the House of Lords. Lucy was titleless and irritatingly influential at the same time, but she found reprieve in the alliance of Gerald, who was a close personal friend of the Emperor and liked Lucy a great deal.

There was a quiet mumble of assent—coal shortages were always popping up here and there as domestic mines ran dry. They always had the same solution: redirect coal from the colonies to the home provinces after a furious debate as to which of the six largest colonies could survive best with brownouts.

“Actually, my lords, I would like to propose a different matter of discussion. The coal shortage in Bhalbar is only a projected one at this point anyways,” Lucy earned herself a collective glare for her impertinence. “Domestic economic output has slowed to crawl, the ability of the imperial purse to maintain its current budget is growing slimmer by the week, and the primary use of the imperial army for the past five years has been little better than guard duty.”

“Hardly an emergency, Ms. McKay. Now if you don’t mind the actual members of this committee-” Albert began.

“Thank you for the opportunity to speak, Your Grace,” she continued unabated. “This has led the Throne to consider an ager publicus. I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter before His Majesty continues with his plans.”

“The Emperor has said nothing of this to me!” Albert shouted, chorused by his compatriots.

“His Majesty has no responsibility to communicate his desires to you, Your Grace.”

“Of course, we mean to insult to His Majesty,” Gerald said pleasingly. “But since most of us meet with His Majesty at least once a month if not every week, it seems odd that he would not have mentioned this to us personally. However, there is no doubt that the economic indicators are poor and have been for some time.”

“As I am sure you are all aware, there is a long causal relationship between war efforts and economic health in this nation and, if the empire is to maintain the position is has fought for during the late twentieth century, it must continue to expand.”

There was a general nodding, a nod developed and refined over the course of the fine, upstanding education of Finian youths to acknowledge the irreplaceable force of imperialism in the Finian economy. Not to mention the personal gains that each enjoyed. Albert had seven estates in the colonies, Gerald, four, and the younger John had a large income from imperial bonds issued during the wars in Tropica. War was a lucrative business that everyone Finium participated in and thus Lucy preached the holy gospel of conquest to the choir of beneficiaries.

“Now, assuming for the moment that the Emperor has indeed committed to the idea of an ager publicus, His Majesty would greatly appreciate strategic counsel from the Praesidium.”

“My cousin is commanding the fleet around Oceanica…” John began cautiously, trying to remember what the interest rates were on the evening news. “His reports seem to indicate that there are a number of islands within striking distance.”

“I believe the natives in Tropica have been pushed back sufficiently to launch a new offensive.” Gerald suggested.

“My lords, please. The empire’s economy will not be satiated with uninhabitable rain forest or a few square miles of island real estate,” Lucy scolded. “The Empire needs a large endeavor to control a developing nation of substantial size. Likely with some form of coal reserves, to answer your concerns, Your Grace.”

Silence settled in.

Men like these were accustomed to war, but the declaration itself was always risky. A million possible outcomes tumbled through very word war; allies, neighbors, guerrillas, plagues, and the unthinkable but not impossible word that terrified them all, loss. The gamble of war, however, has always been far too alluring for any Finian to escape. It called to them like a recent dream of glory and insidiously turned their minds to the battlefield. Or perhaps it was inbreeding in the nobility—it was impossible to say what drove them towards conflict.

“I suggest we meet tomorrow, I believe I have a target but I would like to consult with the Board of Generals first,” Albert proclaimed. “However, I only do this because of His Majesty’s interest. I must protest in the strongest possible terms, please convey that the His Majesty, Ms. McKay. In that spirit, it would be best if the government in general and public were unaware of these consultations."

Nothing further could be said, every other matter hardly even seemed worth the time when war was an immediate possibility. It churned their stomachs and filled their blood with a kind of unholy desire. They left the room quickly and quietly, each hungry for something large and not well defended. Lucy settled for a quick bowl of soup before she to her duties. With the last drop of a light lobster bisque drained and half a bite of yesterday’s bread, she hurried to her office phone and barked an order for a secure line.

“This the Hallsind Monitor, how many I direct your call?” A secretarial, but kind voice chirped.

“Hello, is Mr. Frobisher in?”

“I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment, could I take a message?”

“Yes, please let him know that he’s in his office every Wednesday and don’t appreciate being told off.”

“Just a moment, please.”

After just enough time had elapsed to inform Mr. Frobisher that someone was insisting to speak with him, the line reconnected to a very upset newspaper executive.

“I told you never to call here, Marge! Use the phone I bought for you.”

“While I am pleased to know that you’ve found yourself a new mistress, Dalton, it’s not why I called.”

“Ah, Lucy,” Dalton’s voice fell into a more relaxed, if slightly irritated tone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Possible War: Archduke Meets with BoG. I’d prefer Twitter, but you can include it in the evening issue.”

“I see, let me find a pen.”

“Best wishes to Mary and the children, goodbye.”

*****

by **Aldarminia** » Wed Dec 14, 2016 4:25 pm

West of Gholgoth
Sredniygora Stranyoblast, Dalekogoradom
Dalikhara, Stolitzya Domen
Tzarskaya Kroydvora’Azcheyko, Imperial Azcheyko Palace

“Your Imperial Majesty, fifty percent of the missiles have hit their mark. Voynar is calculating approximately ten billion casualties with less than a zero-point-oh-oh-one percent chance of any response from Oriontroika systems in any of the colonies. Voynar also predicts that the fault lines in Harudia will be disturbed, causing a seismic eruption powerful enough to launch a tsunami to Saarghminia. Conceivably, and arguably fortunately, there will be no survivors in any of the target areas, but… But the war is over, sir.

The Grand Emperor said nothing as he stared at the vast array of screens blanketed with red concentric circle patterns. Below the circles were polygon representations of the dozens of territories of the Colonial Imperium of the Aldarminian Empire. Arguably, these great lands were the most beautiful and exotic holdings inhabited by the people of the Panaldarminium, but now they were quickly becoming scorched and irradiated by hundreds of Oriontroika missiles—Orion Arrow ICBM’s, Orion Trident SLBM’s, and Orion Dagger MIRV’s, to be precise—and thousands of three-hundred-kiloton-yield Kaspar YB-Oa.II warheads.

The Strategic and Tactical Operations and Analysis Center of the Dalekogoradom High Command was completely silent except for the faint hints of whirring fans cooling hardware and the periodic beeps and boops and tck tcks of the supercomputer Voynar. The men and women inside this room had executed half of the Aldarminian citizenry to save the other half from the mutually assured destruction that would have been inevitable if the rogue Kosmokratic Armed Forces had completed their hack of the Colonial Imperium’s Orion Shield System, so the moments of silence for the unwitting martyrs were beginning, and they would endure for years in the memory of the survivors of the Usurper War.

Dalikharl II, Grand Emperor of what remained the Aldarminian Empire, trembled. He felt sticky and wet. Blood was not just on his hands. It was soaking his body and soul, demanding repentance. On the anvil of the colonies, he had swung down his hammer of imperial authority to re-forge the sovereignty and security of the Grand Imperial Kosmokratium of Aldarminia. He was seventeen years old, and they called him The Hammer of the People’s Will, or just The Hammer, and this was why. His fortitude unwavering and his power unquestionable, he had given the order which condemned billions of souls to nuclear obliteration so he could save others from a similar fate. But now, there was only guilt and an intolerable itch for solitude because he felt he was nothing but a coward and a murderer.

All rational logic told him otherwise, but emotion is what overwhelmed him now. Fury and sorrow. Fury that the rogues had not surrendered despite certain defeat and the death of the Usurper, and fury that there was no other way the Empire could have achieved salvation. Sorrow that he would never see those lands again; innocent men, women, and countless children and youths filled with insatiable vigor were so easily erased from the world; entire generations of Aldarminian people everywhere, including the Hammer’s own family, had been so carelessly slaughtered in battle because of the avarice of a single man for four years only so that half of the remainder could be executed for crimes that they did not commit.

He did not remember falling, but he was suddenly on his knees as if the mass destruction and vast death had placed the weight of all the doomed bodies that Aldarminian souls once dwelled within on his shoulders, so Dalikharl vomited under the pressure and wailed his guilty woe to the heavens that rarely answered a prayer. Those around the Hammer did not look at their ruler with disgust but with sympathy and empathy. They all had shared the burden of the Obliteration, but all inside the S&T-O&A center understood that it was only Dalikharl who Dalikharl would blame for the seemingly callous actions of the day. Certainly, the entirety of the Aldarminian Empire would feel the Great Guilt, but only the Hammer would know it as a daily truth.

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, but he swiped it away and stumbled upwards and forwards, fighting against a mental trauma-induced paralysis constricting his body. He scrambled out the door, and the guards outside hurriedly stepped outside. Stratonizhtzar Venkhzmr Jormshgalnsvarij, Vice Commander-in-Chief of the Aldarminian military, chased after his superior, trying to calm him with shouted words that held no meaning to the blood-drenched mind and soul of the horrified-at-himself Hammer, “There was no other way! If we had tried to evacuate anymore, the traitors would have killed the refugees and all of us after! By the gods, dead and Enduring, I am sorry! Forgive us and yourself!”

Dalikharl found himself in a hemoglobin-flooded white room with a single wall made of mirroring glass. From the reflecting mural came forth a nebulous and dark aura-cloaked version of himself that laughed maniacally. The bizarre incarnation’s voice raised in pitch in correlation with the rise of the blood. Dalikharl tried to little avail to wade through the ascending life fluid. The walls, including the mirror, began to shake and crack as obsidian ethereal arms reach through them, stretching towards the Hammer to grasp at his crimson and carmine painted flesh, apparently attempting to rip him apart. Wailing all the while, he finally reached his other self, and the Hammer clasped his hands around the Dark One’s neck and pulled down, trying to strangle and drown at the same time.

As the Dark One was pulled into the blood-water, the walls collapsed completely, revealing a barren landscape with forests of black and grey mushroom clouds. The blood swelled into an ocean and the arms twisted around Dalikharl who listened as the Dark One’s voice poured into his ears with condescension, “You are a murderer. A coward of the lowest orders of men. A foolish boy who has become nothing but a rat, a deliverer of an atomic plague. Dalikharl Azcheyko II—The Hammer!—be forever damned to the Hells of those unworthy of dreamless sleep in the void and the fantasy of the eternal paradise!”

A different, softer-yet-firm voice yelled throughout the blood-ocean and nuclear-explosion-forest world just as an army of decaying bodies surfaced to bite, gouge, claw, and pummel the Grand Emperor, “Dalikh! Dalikh! Dalikh!”

Stirring from the small pool of sweat beneath him, Dalikharl shot upright, placing a hand on the gentle fingers on his shoulder. He panted as he used his free hand to wipe salty tears from his eyes and cheeks. While the fingers moved downward to use their tips to caress his back, lips like lavender made their way from the shoulder where the fingers were before to his neck and to his left cheek, placing at least a dozen kisses on the naked and scarred pale skin. The Hammer clenched and unclenched his fists on the sheets of the bed, pulling and pushing the silk in violently undulating waves of wrinkles. Compulsively, he pressed down on the bed with his calming-down palms, flattening the wrinkles and satisfying a small part of his psyche. The hand that massaged his back pulled away to his silent and momentary dismay before it returned with its touch and its partner to pull his face towards the visage which commanded the soft features of the relaxing appendages and soothing voice.

Purple eyes, like his, stared with comforting spirit into Dalikharl’s tormented expression and soul. The Empress’s face only inches away, she whispered rhetorically, “Same nightmare?”

The Obliteration over a decade ago still demanded a heavy toll on the Hammer’s mind which the nuclear massacre exacted through constant nightmares and occasionally an agitation of the Emperor’s anxiety and obsessive compulsiveness. He nodded with a half-feigned smile as he used his left hand to pull his wife’s body closer to his, so they could embrace with a kiss. Releasing, each other’s eyes communicated with silent understanding what they wanted, so they consummated a moment’s passion before Dalikharl’s nude silhouette stood up from the bed to ease his pain in another, more escapist way. At a diagonal to the nearby dresser’s top edge, his fingers glided along the mahogany texture as he walked over to a large, oaken trunk which was coated with engravings of old pagan deities and bejeweling of emeralds, diamonds, opals, amethyst, and pyrite.

Opening the box, Dalikharl turned to the Grand Empress who lay on her stomach with arms crossed underneath her chin as they rested on a pillow and a glimmering smile dimpling her cheeks, “Katya, my love, what wou-“

“Konsygar, please. Two, though. We can pass if you want.”

Dalikharl nodded, and he finished opening the trunk which was, in truth, a collapsible drug preparation and storage table—A traditional furnishing in affluent Aldarminian homes, known commonly as a mezdotrava or “place of herbs.” Like all mezdotrava, this one “unfolded” to display a flat surface at the center and a surrounding series of numerous compartments which were usually labelled by the owner, but this one’s compartments needed no extra labelling and the storage functions never changed because the labels were carved into Mralic runes that circled around the nobs.

From one drawer designated as Svernutbumaga, or “rolling papers,” the Hammer pulled out two sheets of tobacco leaf cigar paper. After place the sheets a few inches apart on the table surface, from another compartment, this one marked Konnaplya or “cannabis,” he grabbed a handful of ground pieces of cannabis and carefully let them fall evenly onto the cigar papers. When his hand was emptied, he wiped the clinging remains of what he had retrieved back into the Konnaplya compartment and closed it so that he could begin the primary work.

Using his middle, ring, and pinky fingers as support for one of the papers, Dalikharl pinched with his indices and thumbs along the carefully-forming konsygar, or “blunt” or “cannabis cigar,” to ensure an equal distribution of green throughout the unfurling cylinder. Once the green was flush with the bottom edge which curled upward now, the Grand Emperor shifted the weight of the konsygar in his fingers so that he could use thumbs to press up against the left side of the bottom. His middle and index fingers guide the top or back end of the paper so that he could begin sliding the opposite edge of the tobacco leaf sheet over and between the weed and the paper. He did this all along the now-coming-together cylinder, and he meticulously-yet-quickly used his seemingly dueling fingers to maintain a not-too-firm, not-too-loose, and equal presence of the cannabis. Finally, after what seemed to him to be an hour but to an observer was only a half of a minute, this konsygar was done, so Dalikharl repeated the rolling process again to form the next one.

The Hammer proudly proclaimed the completion of his smoke-able works of drug art with a “Done” just as Katya’s digits streaked and dashed through his hair from the back of his neck. After a kiss and a closure of the mezdotrava, Emperor and Empress cloaked themselves in fur coats to go outside onto a terrace adjacent to their bedroom. As they smoked the konsygars, they pored over the nightscape around them.

The Dalikhara super-metropolis which dominated the lower echelons of the Arannalsk Pass and the urban-masked banks of the Dalikhostchlen Lake and the Vranic River filled the landscape with light pollution that was mitigated-by-design by the Palace’s altitude above the imperial capital and orientation along the Dom’Aldaric Mountain’s face. Though the city shimmered like a more exuberant and busier night sky, the real one shone despite it with a natural beauty that put the artificial luminosity to shame. One, with a knowing eye, could see the thickest portion of the galactic disk slice through the darkness as if it were a sword of light.

Tendrils of smoke reached for the mighty blade, but they were pulled away by winds that brought a herd of clouds rolling over the shorter summits. In the city, they never saw the stars like the Imperial Family could, but many who reached the peaks of the skyscrapers could watch the masses of water vapor gallop through the jagged monoliths to conquer the city’s highest elevations. From the elongated terrace, Dalikharl and Katya, Hammer and Hearthkeeper, felt as if they could watch every little motion of nature and artifice’s duel for the beautiful Arannalsk and the Alnsvyato Mountain Range, the spine of the Dalekogoradom continent.

Yawning as she extinguished the embers of her konsygar in a platinum ash-tray, Katya leaned her head on Dalikharl’s shoulder, and the two sat in a long, simpering silence as the light of the stars faded and the clouds below retreated into lower altitudes over the Vranic. Sunrise nearing, the lovers kissed before the Grand Empress surrendered, “Alright, you can pull the sun up today. I am going back to bed before I have to walk the children to the academy.”

Dalikharl admired Katya’s standing-up body as if it was the rising sun, and he waited until she had reached the entrance to their room from the terrace before he finally got up himself and let her know of his intentions, “I’m going for a jog through the gardens. I’ll probably stop for a session before I head to my briefing, so if you hurry, we could have some fun.”

As the Empress shut her eyes, the Emperor slowly walked backwards along the terrace’s marble tiles to mime the action of pulling a rope that stretched across the mountain-flanked distances and over the cityscape below and beyond the horizon. Timing the motions perfectly because he had practiced this mimic so many instances before, like Apollo, he carried the cloud-covered and glaring sun over the horizon. Today will be a good day, the Hammer mused.

After donning a track suit in his bedroom, Dalikharl departed the main palace grounds through loggia that extended from a sunroom adjacent to his personal quarters. Steady pace and breath guided him through the corridor to a spiraling stairwell that descended through an obsidian bastion which rested on another, more-foundational terrace. From here the scenery of the Kroydvora became more apparent. The Imperial Palace was more than just a single building; rather, over the decades since the Azcheyko family had liberated the Aldarminian people from Totalitarian rule and ascended to imperial sovereignty, the Kroydvora’Azcheyko had morphed from a humble renovation of a castle that made its guard-post at the highest elevation of the navigable regions of the Arannalsk to a palatial complex that dominated the mountainsides around the capital city.

The palatial complex—Estate somehow belittles the grandiosity—was an omnipresent and omniscient array of renovated and modernized castles and advanced and concealed defense systems either dug into the mountainsides (Like the city of Dalikhara was into the small valley), constructed onto man-made terraces, or built within natural caves and catacombs. The original residence of the Imperial Blood-House Azcheyko was now the Nizkiyprokorm, or “Low Keep,” which sat in front of Tzarskaya Ploshchad, “Imperial Square.” Closer to Dalikharl, there was the Vorotha’Arannalsk, the “Gate of Arannalsk.” After that, ascending in a waterfall-esque pattern on the southern mountain faces were the dozens of the Vodopadi, “Cascades.” Followed by these were the Grotrokirovkai, and then, the massive Vesnakormilo Kriposd, “Springhelm Fortress.” Next, resting near the top of the Aldaric Mountain, the Kroydvora itself, the “Blood Palace.” And weaving all in between were the Dolghysadi and the Menshiysadi, the Greater and Lesser Gardens, which were made possible only by technological virtue of expansive artificial climatization. Of course, finally, a few defenses were visible, but these were mostly a legion of thousands of armed Imperial Guardsmen and hundreds of machine guns. Flanking and dotting the impressive complex were the mountains, streams, waterfalls, and ancient ruins of the pilgrims who made the place their home millennia before.

That was the Old Dalikhara, which was restricted to Imperial personnel only with the exception of educational tours offered to the various academies who applied and were granted the luxury. The “New” Dalikhara was the city itself, a creation born from hectic and eclectic necessities and messy modernity. Piercing deep into the valley was the “Under-City,” the virtually subterranean and impoverished foundations from which the skyscrapers, towers and beacons and columns of opulence, rose to shred passing clouds and greet numerous airborne visitors. Weaving a busy network, maglev trains, superhighways, overpasses, helicopters, and automobiles passed between the pillars of the sky, and on walkways, crowds of people moved from homes to workplaces or workplaces to homes or one of the former to a social gathering of some sort. Reaching out from Imperial Square, monuments of history and modern day looked upon the city’s inhabitants with stoic admiration of their lineages’ continuation of prosperity despite adversity.

Miles burdened on his feet and shoes, the Hammer found rest under the morning sky in a Menshiysad of amethystine roses, velvet tulips, onyx loti, snow-vines, and goldsprites. Murals jutted and spiraled from the gardens’ enclosures as the wall carvings and paintings depicted ancient stories and characters. Runes, old and new, provided narrative cues to the pictures’ tales. Some murals were restorations of the Ancients’ works in the Arannalsk as they built the settlement of Dhalicha’Auhre, as it was known to the proto-Aldarminian Aldnorsians. These murals of the actual “Old Dalikhara” were Dalikharl’s favorite. He sat on a rune-spotted pedestal, a dumalstolb or “thought pillar” for venerable Aldnorsian philosophers, and the Hammer trained his eyes on the old runes carved into an alabaster tetrahedron that had three descending-in-height walls extended from the centerpieces edges. The days before Dalikharl had studied for the umpteenth time the other faces of the tetrahedron and its murals which told the story of the Great Pilgrimage:

“And so the Host Aldarminya had conquered the great seas and oceans to discover a new land and a new home. Ten thousand ships and a hundred thousand souls had departed, and one hundred ships and ten thousand souls had arrived. This land was not to be their paradise on earth. No, Aldaric had given the Great Host claim to this country for the purpose of challenge. And challenged the Aldarminya was. Their first settlement was called Maduchai after their Pathfinder on the Voyage. Maduchai was the first of many, and many failed. There were new plagues, and there were new beasts.

“The Frossenbreath cut down many, and the Blackblood had followed from Narsiana.
Dire wolves stalked every husbanded beast,
Great white bears lurked in the mountains’ and forests’ shadows,
Dread lynxes followed every explorer and his settler entourage,
Field tigers prowled outside every village,
The white fast-foots defied hunt and feast,
And the Elder eagles preyed upon the young or feeble.

“The safety of the fjords became the salvation of the Host Aldarminya. Jarldoms were established so that the people could work, war, write, and writhe. Quarries were dug in nearly every pasture for there was many a stone to be pried from the grip of the cold land. Farms were small but tended vigorously to produce humbling and sufficing sustenance. Hunting parties were tripled from traditional size, so meat, bone, and fur became a trinity of survival. As the Host clawed further into the forests, they found great walls of stone blocking their path. The Aldarminya determined these to be the abandoned homes of the dead gods, and the Host began its final leg of pilgrimage. Summits fell away at the Pilgrims’ feet and hands, and piles of stone below the peaks became the foundations, walls, and roofs of the following generations’ houses. Host Aldarminya became country and nation, and the All-Hearth Shrine was built to found the High God-Host of Aldar-”

The roars of a helicopter’s blades pulled Dalikharl from his reading. The aircraft was unable to land, so a man slid down a rope to the ground between the Hammer and his reading material. An ATV with two armed cut a sharp turn into the garden, and it stopped a few feet to the Hammer’s right. The three men now standing in front of the Grand Emperor bowed before the one who had descended from the helicopter spoke, “Your Imperial Majesty, I believe you have forgotten something.”

The man pulled a gold-trimmed, platinum-encased smart-phone from his pocket and handed it to Dalikharl who laughed in embarrassment. The man, a high-ranking officer as evidenced by his medal-weighted uniform, breathed a sigh of relief, “Sir, you need to keep up with that. If not, I implore you to let us install the tracker in your arm. We n-”

Dalikharl held up a hand to command his subordinate’s silence and announce his interjection, “I know, I know, and again, I know. I’ll try to remember it because I will have everyone’s heads in rows around my bed before I let anyone put that glorified electric roach in my forearm. Now then, I imagine I am late for my briefing?”

Nodding, the officer gestured Dalikharl to the ATV. As the Grand Emperor commandeered the driver’s position and started the vehicle towards to a hidden path from the garden to the Springhelm Fortress, he took great pleasure in imagining Katya escorting their children to the academy, dealing with every manner childish mischief to be endeavored upon by their five blood-spawn. Upon arriving to the Vesnakormilo Kriposd, the Hammer was whisked away from one of the dozen garages to his office by a large cadre of secretaries, business men and women, generals, legislators, and armed guards. They briefed him orally the whole walk to the office, and reports were summarized, disseminated, and reviewed as everyone took their seats in the ovular office.

The agenda was expansive and comprehensive: Mass Nutritional Deprivation Reports from Razulruka and Gholruka; Designated Zones of Imperial Research and Development Projects and Programs Updates; Imperial and National Productions Quarterly Projections; Economic Outlook Analyses; National Infrastructure Restoration, Reconstruction, and Development Proposals, Deals, Reports, and Closures; Beneficial Relocation Orders and Statuses; War Games Reports; Yugostrana Initiative Reports; International Affairs Sub-Briefing; Oppositional Force Analysis and Neutralization; Foreign-Domestic Effect Synthesis; Regional and Extra-regional Events; Notable Maneuvers; Multi-National Logistics Coordination Reports; Miscellaneous Matters…

Today’s most interesting discussion for Dalikharl came surprisingly from the miscellanea. An ager publicus being issued by the Finian Empire sparked a wildfire of curiosity. Some believed that it was of no interest to the Grand Imperial Kosmokratium of Aldarminia and its Empire, but others duly noted that Long-Term Imperial Expansion and National Agricultural Quotas were still being met at minimal standards, if not being morbidly lagged behind. (The quotas were often down-graded so that the appearance of requisite satisfaction was maintained, but in all reality, the Aldarminian Empire was always hungry, especially for more land to grow and produce more food for a population that grew in spite of a lack of readily affordable resources.) A majority coalesced in the de facto advisory: Aldarminia needed more land and resources, no matter how much, even if it was not technically Aldarminian territory.

Over a cacophony of discourse, the Hammer raised an open palm for a few moments before he squeezed it into a fist, simultaneously shutting the mouths of those speaking. He scanned over those present before he relayed his decision and orders, “Aldarminia will place a bid on this land,” the Hammer delicately drew a line around an area on a map-displaying smartpad in front of him that would communicate his alteration to the other smartpads in the room, “And we will minimize our purchase price and future expenditures by deploying the Ninth Imperial Expeditionary Fleet, the Imperial Army’s Third Legion, and any volunteer Jarl Defense Corps to assist in the invasion of Geara. Also, an Imperial Joint Venture is to be established and prepared for the purposes of upgrading the infrastructure—Civil, commercial, and military—of our-err, I mean my Gearan territory.”

Heads nodded obediently and bodies moved rapidly. Papers of orders and negotiations were signed, exchanged, signed again, and delivered all to begin executing the Grand Emperor’s will. To a few more subjects in his presence, he continued, “I also believe we need to increase our familiarity with the Finians. Although, they’re keeping this public, let’s show some subtlety. Make that communique an encrypted one. Nothing flowery either. Just add to it that I would like to meet with anyone available in the Finian government, preferably the Emperor, and any interested nobles, especially those of a similar rank to me once my claim is secured. I want to discuss any concerns that the Finian Empire and nobility may have with a marquis with nukes.”

Fewer and fewer subjects crowded the office until finally it was a trio of guards, Dalikharl, and the officer from the helicopter. After reading a text from Katya, the Hammer turned to the officer, “Venkhzmr, it appears my wife has decided to get a massage from someone other than me. I am insulted! Are my hands not worthy?!”

Venkhzmr laughed, “Your Imperial Majesty, I do not know, nor do I wish to.”

Dalikharl scoffed, “Bah! Nonsense, I say! Nonsense! Anyways, looks like we are finally doing it, eh?”

The Stratonizhtzar nodded with a smile, “Aye, we are. The Aldarminian Empire is moving into Greater Dienstad. Times are changing.”

After pulling and lighting a konsygar from his pocket, the Hammer replied, “That they are. So what should we call my new estate?”

“Therapont, sir?”

“Maybe… Maybe. The ‘Imperial Campaign for the Therapontine Acquisition?’ I like it.”

The Grand Emperor coughed after several puffs and passed it to his comrade. Conquest… Conquest never changes.

by **Mokastana** » Thu Dec 15, 2016 2:19 pm

Carlos the Second of House Lomengo stood on the patio of The Family's Peruvian Home. High in the mountains, the family home felt like renaissance era castle, well fortified but filled with extravagance and foreign treasures. The crisp mountain air did him well, and the beauty of the peaks and valleys around the Family Villa made it a wonderful vacation home that even Antonio Montana himself had been known to visit. Below them, in the valley, a small city bustled with life, a central hub for the local Mestizo farming population. Though Montana Inc had tried, this valley had remained property of the Lomengo Family and Lomengo alone. Carlos II smiled down below on the city before heading back inside to his office.

Named for his Great great Grandfather Carlos Lomengo, the last Great Regent of Gran Mokastana, Carlos II felt the strong urge growing up to carry his family's legacy. Historically, the Lomengos were the wealth that laid the Foundation for El Sur Del Gran Mokastana, second only to the pure Spainard Castille Family. For most of the 1800s they built a country from this jungle cesspool of the Mokan South, and used the local gold to build fleets and cities. The Castilles may have declared themselves Kings, but a marriage to a Lomemgo had been the only way to ensure the loyalty of the South.

Unfortunately, the communist revolution of 1912 wiped out most of the noble families in El Sur, killing the King and forcing Carlos I to become regent during the war. After his death, began the fall of the Lomengo family. Guadalupe I declared herself Matriarch, and made the family power follow the daughters instead of the sons. Carlos’ branch of the family came from Guadalupe's older brother, but because he was killed in the war, and Guadalupe’s nephew(Carlos II's grandfather) was barely a babe at the time, the power change stayed.

By his own beliefs, Carlos II was supposed to be next in line for the title of Patriarch over the Lomengo family, but instead, he was far far removed. His line secured only due to Guadalupe's loyalty to her father's wishes and mandates pasted down. Even so, Carlos II was still only a first born son in a minor branch of the Family, who connection was from before the revolution of 1914. His line was made caretakers for a vacation home. His own cousins didn't even get that much.

Nearly thirty, his days were spent managing the multi million dollars worth of industry the family trusted him with, mostly due to his schooling rather than lineage, and ensuring his father enjoyed retirement. Yet, it seemed his father's favorite pastime was critiquing every decision Carlos made regarding the business. His response was to rent out office space in the city, away from the Family Villa, for work. The personal secretary and masseuse on staff certainly helped him ‘relax’ after a stressful day at home, so he would often go into town for work. He may have been from a minor branch of the family, but the Lomengo name still meant something out here.

After one particularly intense relaxation session in the office, Carlos checked the news on his laptop only to find out that the nation of Geara was to be invaded and sold of. Baronies and titles of nobility granted to those who paid! Estimations of cost were 75 to 100 billion dollars a piece, far more than the few hundred million he could scrounge up. However, if he could convince someone with far more resources than he to back him... perhaps a deal with the Devil could be made.

Carlos did have an in with the main Family branch, and more importantly, Antonio Montana himself. It was an open secret that Antonio Montana was spending billions of dollars of his own money on the war effort against the Ordernites. A friendly port that far West, outside of Macabean influence, might prove to be invaluable. Not to mention a Lomengo in local political power could easily open a way for Montana’s company to expand ever westward, turning a few billion into an investment rather than a cost. It wouldn't be hard to organize a meeting with Montana, owning a Family vacation home had it's perks, after all.

For Carlos II, it would not just be a chance to claim a true title of Nobility, but to be the first true Lord in the Lomengo family since Carlos I and the Communist revolution. While his name sake ancestor had fled his homeland, sacrificing their lands and titles, Carlos II would leave willingly, to reclaim titles and lands. Much like the First Lomengos who came to Mokastana with armies and wealth to make this land theirs, he too would become a Conquistador. It was time to make a phone call or two.

Little did he know, Montana was already interested and looking to invest into a few Baronies.

by **United World Order** » Fri Dec 16, 2016 1:05 pm

[OoC: I am going to assume that Moka has no problem for this RP i'd like to throw my hat in with involvement to be post-fatherland]

Reichskanzlei, Conference room 3,
Central Berlina, Germania.

The Fourth Reich had for quite some time since the climatic sudden ending of what was dubbed the 'Ordenite War' which had transformed what was then the Red Star Union into a war-torn and violate third world country that was for all the Reich knew had been split among the victors as spoils of war. The entire war had cost the Reich and it's Wehrmacht, thousands of men and even more of a loss in currency for all the equipment, vehicles and other expenses that a war of that nature and with what the Ordenites lost in the end was notably worrying some higher ranking officials in the Reich Party and in the national government. Kashubia and it's loss to the coalition headed by the PUF and it's allies was a major blow to the Reich especially economically after several years prior of occupation and the boosting of it's economy with the conquest of most of the vital raw resources and land that had been planned for a permanent Ordenite presence in Kashubia, however the war changed all of that. The Ordenite economy had suffered from it's defeat and expulsion from Kashubia and South Panooly, the Reich had for some time been isolated to it's homeland, Germania. Allowed to re-build and re-arm, something that the coalition had not included in the treaty that had been signed between the conflicting powers which dealt more of a blow to the Reich then the others, at least in a geopolitical stand point. The decision in the immediate after war period by the Economic Ministry to keep the Ordenite economy on a war footing was quite a well thought decision that had prevented a greater loss economically to Germania that would of saw hundreds of thousands effected by it. The loss of capital sustained in the aftermath of the war was quite substantial and was something that was heavily discussed in economic ministry meetings and meetings among the corporate cartels and there national planning boards.

The 2017 Wehrmacht Rearmament Program followed by the newly hashed 5 year economic plan for the Reich had helped in soothing these problems for the most part as they arise. Defeat was something that Ordenites did not handle well and this was especially true for many of the Old guard in the Reich Party, some who were still holding there position for decades now. They were the generation who rose up from the generation before them who had granted them a better world to live in under the Greater Germanic Reich. Victory in there minds were still fresh from nearly 80 plus years ago and with defeat handed to them in Kashubia and South Panooly, they called for action, action that could surely lead to another war or possibly another occupation. The Reich had slumbered for far too long now and those in the higher echelons of the government were growing tired of the inactivity of the Reich in the region as of late even as there closet inter-regional ally fell before them to the same enemy that would see them defeated. Defeat was a hard pill to swallow for the Fourth Reich and conquest and expansion was always on it's mind, recent intelligence briefings from the Reich Security Service Agency operating in Geara under the code name KING had come across what was called 'ager publicus' and was a term that was being thrown around within Geara and was matched with a foreign entity known as Finium. It looked as if not all things were well in Geara and that a expansionist self proclaimed empire known as Finium was setting it's sights on the small fledged Kingdom. The Reich of course was not interested in coming diplomatically to the Kingdom with this conflict on hand and with the Reich also looking to expand it's former influence in Dienstad, it was only a matter of time before Geara was in the sights of the Reich.

Christian Richtofen sat at the helm of the long table that was crafted out of fine oak wood during a restoration project of the Reichskanzlei several years ago. Richtofen flipped open a thick vanilla folder that held sensitive intelligence reports and other documents that gave a political, geopolitical, cultural and racial background of Geara along with all relatively available geographic information. Oswald Grossmann sat on his right side as he looked on at the rest of the cabinet that made up of the upper echelons of the Reich, party officials, government ministers, SS officials, generals and the like. Large window panels let in sun light as a view of Berlina could be seen from them, the high reaching sky scrapers and Nazi architecture that was prevalent everywhere in Berlina. Several civil servants entered the conference room, let in by the sentry that was posted at the doors to the Conference room. Refreshments were then passed out to all that were sitting at the table, folders, papers and other documents were laid out orderly among everyone that was in attendance. Small talk was made in the mean time as Richtofen and Grossmann spoke while the room went relatively quiet as the others waited for the meeting to begin.

"My fellow party comrades, esteemed officials, SS and generals. I am pleased that everyone could attend as this is a relatively new development." Richtofen spoke. Grossmann in the mean time watched the others that were also sitting at the table. "As we all know of the recent past with the wars in Kashubia and South Panooly, we were handed defeat at the hands of our enemies." He continued as everyone in the room put all eyes on him.

"Our Reich has for some time been dormant and out of the way of most affairs now happening in Dienstad, however. " Richtofen said and then took up a small glass of water and sipped from it. "This has of course allowed us to become stronger, even stronger then before during those wars. We are more than capable now to ensure that Dienstad is the future home of the Ordenite Aryan race, lest we doom future generations of our people to overpopulation and starvation." Grossmann took a small sip from his own glass before setting it down. Many in the room felt empowered by the words spoken by there Fuhrer just now, especially those coming from the Reich Party in which most of them too are old guard. Richtofen knew more than most how to appeal to those in the Reich government and society, the old guard were always a interesting but sometimes frustrating group to deal with. He opened the vanilla folder as he flipped through documents and reports done on the Kingdom of Geara as so did all the others sitting with him who had been given copies before hand.

"Intelligence can suggest that the Kingdom of Geara may be facing an invasion from a outside force known as Finium. There has not been any recent developments as of late on this, our intelligence apparatus reports that no large fleet movements have been seen near Gearan waters or into Dienstad as of now." Said a Representative from the RSSA who had come straight from the Interior Ministry to handle the intelligence briefings and such that would be used in the meeting. Someone else then stood up from there chair which belonged to one of the SS officials that were in attendance as he cleared his throat.

"The Kingdom of Geara possesses a ethnic background that is very similar to our own Germanic make up. These Finium are unknown but may be a force that could possibly damage and or wipe out this ethnic group if it decided to. From what we have gathered there is a small region in the Kingdom called Germaea." The SS official said and continued pointing to a screen in front of them which had a more detailed map of what was being talked about. The Fourth Reich was a racially proud nation and seeing those that may be of the same ethnic make up be possibly absorbed by a outside foreign entity was not something that the Reich was keen in letting happen and would ultimately spell into why the Fourth Reich was gearing to become more involved with the Kingdom.

"Germaea as it is known as locally is the region in question that is primarily home to this ethnic group. From the looks of it, sea access is possible to this area, of course after the other necessary actions are done we could see this area rightfully under our protection and inevitable rule." The representative finished and sat down. Next up of course was those that came from the Wehrmacht, Heer and Waffen SS generals, Luftwaffe generals and Admirals in the Kriegsmarine. A full military report and briefing was now to be under way on the Kingdom of Geara.

"If and when these Finium decide to launch there invasion and whatever military operations they conduct within Dienstad and near Geara, I can report at full confidence that the Kriegsmarine can reach Geara with a assorted fleet that meets the needs of our aspirations in Geara in at least a week. The Kriegsmarine as of now are more than capable of securing our waters and the waters in Geara that we will need to keep our claim in Germaea protected and well supplied." One of the Kriegsmarine admirals announced to the room before sitting down in which a Luftwaffe general then stood.

"I can report at full confidence that the Luftwaffe are more than capable and prepared for extended military operations in the west involving Geara. The rearmament program has done us well and we can give full confidence in the future success of the Luftwaffe against whatever foes we may encounter while in Geara." The Luftwaffe general then sat down and the floor was now open for the Heer and Waffen SS generals to give there own reports. Hellmutt Manstein took this moment to rise from his seat, his chest covered in medals that he had earned through his long career in the Wehrmacht and especially the Heer.

"I, Herr Fuhrer, can boast will full confidence that the Ordenite Heer upon beginning combat operations abroad can and will maintain heavy success and further glory in Geara. The Heer can be raised for this mobilization in under 72 hours." Manstein nodded towards Richtofen and Grossmann before taking his seat and watching Felix Gehring rise from his chair. Competition was always abundant between the Heer and the Waffen SS as two separate fighting forces, despite the fact that in the two previous wars they fought side by side and shed blood for there Fatherland. Thousands had perished or had suffered life changing injuries both physical and mentally through the course of the war especially in Kashubia where combat there was brute and hellish like, it took quite a toll on the psyche.

"Herr Fuhrer, I can say in full confidence that the Waffen SS upon the begining of combat operations abroad can say that the Waffen SS can be mobilized for deployment in 48 hours." Felix looked at Manstein for a moment before bowing his head a little towards Richtofen and Grossmann and sat down. Manstein returned the look as he sat down, Grossmann then stood up.

"It is settled then and with what has been informed to the rest of us that a Ordenite intervention in Geara to save the peoples of Germaea from savage invaders and to quell our own wants of expansion for the betterment of our race and Reich. In the coming days, I and the Fuhrer would like full mobilization of a task force that will make head way to the west and towards Geara. We will let those of you in the Wehrmacht decide how to take the best course of action regarding all of this. We want to be informed by the next week of all progress. This meeting is over, Seig heil!" Grossmann finished followed by a right arm salute as the rest of the room stood immeidatly and returned the gesture, Sieg Heil!. The Fourth Reich was prepared to step back into the regional stage as it set it's sights on the Kingdom of Geara.

by **Finium** » Sat Jan 14, 2017 6:22 pm

The Summer Palace

The fuse at the Hallsind Monitor fizzed away towards a powder keg of public dissatisfaction. The mere suggestion that the empire might mobilize inflamed responses from every major broadcasting network. Speculation exploded from every nook and cranny of intelligentsia. The popular opinion was that the territories in Tropica were about to be expanded, but the relatively few military experts and former heads of such-and-such government bureaus who dared show their face on television dissented. They more practically agreed that Geara, the silken jewel of Makria, was a cost-effective target.

All of this speculation bore down on the thick shoulders of Albert Uvarov with the terrible weight of amassed public interest. He appeared to take it rather well for being such an incredible oaf in person. He suavely avoided persistent reporters and live-broadcast ambushes with deflections and vagaries. The silence of the duke, however, did little to stem the tide of popular interest. Thus, after being under media siege for four days, the Praesidium was reconvened. Lucy was thunderously summoned before the committee rather than the traditional game of hide-and-seek.

“This is undoubtedly the lewdest display of insolence I have ever seen!” Albert roared as soon as the doors to a new board room had slammed shut. “I’ll have your career for this, and undoubtedly your life if you ever dare to cross the border into Chael!”

Albert’s face may have been the brightest red, but he was not the only one displeased. The other two councilors were obviously disturbed by the subversion of their authority. While none of them could be sure it was in fact Lucy who leaked the story, they were familiar enough with her scheming to know when they were being challenged. It was a row of furrowed brows and puffy cheeks that stared down at her. The tirade continued for twenty or so minutes before Albert finally seemed to have exhausted himself. His threats were various, colorful, and extremely creative, but not limitless.

“At least, that would be the case” Albert continued, now visibly paler, “Were it not for the Emperor. His Majesty feels that the public’s interest in expansion ought to be encouraged—more or less immediately too. Minister Lambin has been dispatched to coordinate the efforts of the Praesidium to begin an ager publicus auction.”

A long silence settled during which Albert mopped his expansive forehead and Lucy focused very hard on not seeming smug. It was obviously her plan to stoke up the flames of public opinion towards a war, but she was shocked to find that, instead of heating slowly to a boil, it had violently exploded. The silence lengthened into awkwardness with the three councilors staring intently at black sheets of paper in front of them. Just when Lucy was about to ask if she had been dismissed, the doors were flung open and Lucy’s plans were again accelerated.

The looming figure of Minister Lambin--she had expected he would begin to plan in several weeks--arrived with a thick folder of very plan-looking papers. Looming, of course, does not quite do justice to the members of the Imperial Ministry. It was not just that he was very tall and dark-haired with a glowering expression; it was so much more. He looked like a caricature of real person. A hollow edifice of marble into which a mess of organs had been poured to ensure that it would bleed properly. He was drenched in a kind of papery black fabric that rustled incessantly and ornamented with a single gold pin in the shape of an octagram. He did not bother to greet anyone or participate in any of the niceties from which his kind was exempt.

“I have here the preliminaries for the coming auction” Lambin produced three bulky packets of paper covered in small type, “The Emperor imparted a sense of urgency, so I completed much of the groundwork already. This is, of course, pending your approval, which should be swift.”

Having delivered much of the contents of his folder, he turned and looked with a mildly surprised expression towards Lucy. That is, of course, if he was really capable of expression, which Lucy had always doubted very much.

“I was not aware that household staff was privy to state affairs, McKay” he said without pause, “But I will need you to look over some of the plans anyways.”

He produced yet another fat bundle of white and tossed it into her hands. The first few pages, as Lucy well knew, were filled with trivialities. The color of the napkins, the selected auctioneer, the ouer d'oeuvres, and so on. About halfway through came the meat, safely nestled in between the proposed meeting room and the budget; a brief valuation of the target. Lucy’s breath flickered excitedly as her eyes swept down the page; perhaps she was suffering from the same burning interest that she had infected the public with.

“Geara, Minister?” she asked, surprised. “Aren’t they… customers?”

“The Imperial Marque Company was going to be disbanded within the next five years—I am surprised you did not know this given your apparent intrusion into the Praesidium’s affairs.”

“I don’t get their reports; I just go to the meetings.”

Another long, blank look from Lambin allowed her to continue flipping through the back section while the rest of the committee was still slogging through inch after inch of decoration details and event security protocols. Geara was a “customer” of the empire in that they employed several divisions of imperial service men through an age-old business called the Imperial Marque Company. Geara was, in truth, the only real customer left as the emperor had grown less and less likely to grant letters of Marque over the years. It had grown to be so inconvenient in modern times to lease inactive military units that Lucy was not entirely surprised to hear plans of its deconstruction. She was just getting to the guest list when Lambin interrupted her with his casually curious voice.

“The Emperor was also very specific that you were not be dismissed—would you care to explain?”

Albert’s ears bust into crimson red and he stared with intense, unreading eyes at his pile of papers. The cue was not lost on Lambin, who caught the sign of weakness in his periphery, but stayed fixed on Lucy searchingly. She cast about for a moment, looking for the right words to simultaneously display her contempt for Albert in a polite way and to reassure Lambin that she was not in fact a traitorous bureaucrat who had overextended herself.

“Erm—see here” Lucy said, picking an odd looking name off the sheet. “Who the bloody hell is Dalikharl Azcheyko, some sort of Zoyf?”

She jabbed her finger down at the foreign name suspiciously. Zoyf was a derogatory term used for a racial minority in Finium, who, coincidentally, had nothing to do with Aldarminia at all. Lambin gave her another long, black stare—it seemed to be all he was capable of doing.

“Dalikharl Azcheyko is the Grand Emperor of Aldarminia” he stated blandly, but continued on seeing Lucy’s befuddled face, “The rampant publicity of the auction has drawn international attention and put the emperor in the very awkward position of negotiating with foreign powers.”

For the first time since her own staff had suggested a war, Lucy suddenly felt very uneasy with her actions. It was as though a torrent of cold water poured down on her, extinguishing her interest in plots and schemes, kings and conquests. She had always proudly been a zealous servant of the emperor and seldom saw her own actions as distinguishable from the wellbeing of the throne. It occurred to her now that the word “overzealous” might be more appropriate. The swirl of emotions drowned out Lambin as he described the difficulty in refusing to admit foreign dignitaries to the auction, which, by law, had no barriers other than wealth and standing with the Throne. To deny a powerful lord of some distant land would be to claim that they were enemies. Lambin was on the verge of delving into the medieval practices that had necessitated international access to the auction when Lucy was able to free herself from the grasp of self-doubt.

“How many foreigners are there?”

“I have been able to dissuade a great number of them from becoming involved, though the prohibitive costs have been more than enough for most. There are, however, two that have remained resolutely interested in a share of the new territory” Lambin explained. “There are also ninety-seven other bidders, all domestic.”

Lucy’s gumption came rushing back to her, assured now that her actions would cause minimal disruption to the vast military-industrial machine and, more importantly, the quietude of the emperor.

“Speaking of which, I’ll need to see you in my office later today, say four fifteen?” Lambin said, filling in the gaps of page turns from the councilors.

“Not to fire me, eh?” She laughed under her breath.

“Not yet anyways.”

Before she could decide if he was being playful or just blunt, there was a muttering amongst the committee. They had, evidently, given up reading the lengthy draft and had settled for a skim and sign technique common for the Praesidium on ministry proposals. Large, shiny fountain pens appeared in three hands simultaneously—it would not do to seem to take longer than any of the others to reach the inevitable unanimous approval—and whisked scratchy signatures onto their respective pages.

“I see the ministry opted Geara in opposition to the Board of Generals’ suggestions on Tropica and Greater Oceanica, would you care to explain?” Albert’s low voice interrupted Lambin as he was standing to receive the signed proposals.

“While there are many strategic and cost-effectiveness reasons behind the decision, it was ultimately the Emperor’s design that there be a certain grandeur to the engagement. In line with public opinion, of course.”

Albert nodded dutifully and handed over his approval. There is, and always has been, a tenuous connection between the efficient and the dignified. Such relationships were made clear here as the enactment of the Emperor’s will was simultaneously the duty of his noble subjects and his administration. The problem, obviously, is that the imperial bureaucracy was so much better at doing it than the rank and file nobility. An accord had thus been struck between the two forms of government; the ministry would do the work of governing and the nobles would do the governing of the work. Lucy was precisely halfway between being a noble’s servant and public servant, something that she did not often reflect on. But she could feel the twinge of tension when both the duke’s and minister’s hand were on the same sheaf of paper.

Having collected his signatures, Lambin stood to leave, but paused at the door.

“McKay, I believe it takes roughly twelve minutes to get to the foyer from this room, is that correct?”

Lucy counted the steps, walking the well-known hallways of her home.

“With a good stride, you could make it in nine.”

“In that case, cancel our meeting later, I believe I can explain everything to you in seven.”

The two of them walked out, leaving Albert to enjoy his first uninterrupted meeting since Lucy had pneumonia and had passed out halfway through the reading of the previous minutes. Lucy, however, was dragged along at a breakneck speed through the twisting corridors of the palace.

“Something the Emperor did not want the Praesidium involved in that deserves your attention: Dalikharl wants to meet someone.”

“He wants to meet someone” Lucy repeated, slightly out of breath.

“This is his letter, which was received on an encrypted channel as soon as the first speculations about an auction started.”

He shoved a photocopy into her hands, which was plain and direct in its intentions.

“Obviously he’s attempting to gain an audience with the Emperor” Lambin said before she had time to decipher the constant-heavy proper nouns that littered the header.

“And?”

“The Emperor has declined, like he always has.”

“I see; how does this involve me?”

“The Emperor wants you there, in Aldarminia. He trusts you, more than the Praesidium.”

Lucy mumbled something about being honored, a little taken aback that she had earned so much confidence, but still quite sure she deserved ever drop of it. Lambin picked up on the high tilt of her chin and the hint of a smirk that played across her eyes.

“I, however, truth neither Vladislav nor you, McKay, which is why Minister Nix will be going with you as well.”

“Who will represent the nobility and the throne?” Lucy said as they rapidly approached the foyer and, waiting just outside, the sleek ministerial car that bore Lambin to and fro across the capital.

“Someone who will disguise the enormous insult of your presence, McKay” Lambin slowed slightly as the door, which was yanked open by one of the velveteen footmen that littered the halls. “Minister Nix’s office will be in contact soon I expect.”

“What about the auction?” She shouted after him as he leapt into the car.

“It was never any of your business,” he took the opportunity to check his watch, seeing that they had cleared the distance in under the allotted time he stopped before closing the car door. “In fact, it will be better for you not to be in the country to meddle in these affairs any more than you already have.”

He slammed the door and the driver sped away.

*****

The Grand Orchard

While Lucy drove away towards a private airharbor and an imperial aeroplane, the hardware of aristocracy ground on. Secret orders were issued from atop the summer palace. An army disembarked from its home shores towards an even more secret destination; the Grand Orchard Chateau. The Grand Orchard was one of many rejuvenation projects the emperor had undertaken, turning a small house that his cousins’ pauper-prince family had long ruled from into a sprawling, garden wonderland that stretched deep into the valleys of the Durnish mountains. It had its own history—the origin of Quintus Solach’s Second Lausting Kingdom, the birthplace of Enok of Grossule, and many other footnotes—but that was merely a flower which now held the sickly-sweet nectar of the emperor’s lavishness.

The house itself had twin dormitories fastened to either side with faux-worn stone to match the ancient heart. One side was for the emperor (or guests when he was not present) the other held the secret army of servants who now bustled through the halls and living spaces, clearing away signs of abandonment and replacing it with fresh, clean habitation. While most bidders in an ager publicus were represented by lawyers and bankers, some few preferred to represent themselves. Thus, every inch of bright red wood had to be polished, every brass knob had to be a mirror, and every person who entered the gate had to be treated like a king. With the auction looming just a few days distant, this was no easy task.

Minister Lambin oversaw this all from his position before the old hearth. The fire itself may have been a trick of gas-lines and cleverly placed ceramic logs, but the hulking shape of a rough-hewn hearth was not. While he may have appeared to be an omniscient force with an eye for even the minutest detail, he was actually just extremely good at scaring his subordinates so badly that fear emanated from him in every direction. That fear manifested itself in a jerky, nervous efficiency in the enactment of his orders. His only task was to remain resolute and take periodic, random samples of the work to ensure that it did not descend into substandard quality. He would stand stock still for hours at a time, staring into the fire or into nothing at all, then suddenly sweep through the house. As he passed by, the polishers and the scrubbers and the dusters would all intensify their efforts. Eventually, the rustle of paper or a menacing shadow would send an entire wing into a vigorous fury.

Though none saw them arrive, the shadowy minister was joined by ghouls of equal mystery and distress. Two other ministers cloistered themselves in the great hall with Lambin, reviewing the strategies to be employed in Geara. The first to appear, like a skulking hyena following the scent of fear and death, was Aaron Hebron. He had the cut of a soldier for he was cut from the soldiery, but bureaucratic life had softened him from stoutness to mere squatness. Fortunately, the black, stiff robes of the ministry were custom made, just like the automatons who filled them. Roosting with the rigid crows, Constance Alby arrived with her feathers ever so slightly feminine. A robe is a robe on anyone, but it seemed as though Constance had taken extra care to ensure that the creases and lines of her uniform were every bit as unflattering as any of her male counterparts.

The doors remained fast closed once Constance arrived with an external hard drive and look of a woman about to decide the fate a nation. Constance always had that look. So did Aaron. So did all their ilk.

*****

Over the Bay of Zahal

Lucy stared at Nix and Nix stared back. He looked directly through her, as though she was merely a pile of humanity that needed to be washed, but that was his way.

“Your first name is Johnathan, isn’t it?”

Her question seemed almost a whisper in the pressurized capsule. The roar of engines and rush of wind outside the plane was reduced to murmur and it seemed her voice was a victim of the same forces. Nix continued staring undisturbed, Lucy began to think he was asleep so resolute was the glassy disinterest of his gaze.

“John? Nathan? Nate!” she suggested each name louder and louder, failing to draw him from his trance.

“Nix!”

He started awake with a soft shift his feet and looked curiously at Lucy. The curiosity drained away, leaving the same placid mask she had seen many times before on the faces of his predecessors and, she assumed, the same look that would haunt his successors.

“You sleep with your eyes open?” she asked, forgetting momentarily the reason she had woken him.

“Nocturnal lagophthalmos: it allows me to process small information packets when I am asleep and speeds my ability to regain awareness after slumber. All ministers have their eyelids malpositioned to assure we do not suffer from the same level of grogginess in addition to other, psychological methods.”

“Can’t you shut your eyes then?”

“Of course.” With a look of concentrated effort, he pried his eyes closed with a soft, wet smack that somehow defied the muting effects Lucy had observed about the plane. “Though it is not necessary, we supplement our tear ducts with pharmaceuticals.”

His milky brown eyes came open with the same languid motion. The glassy sparkle of sleep receded and he hooded his eyes ever so slightly, hiding even the smallest glint. Instead, the swirling earthen tones became dull imitations of what human eyes should look like.

“Did you wake me only to assuage your apparent fear of eyes, or is there something more pressing?” his question buzzed mindlessly past Lucy who shuddered slightly at the thought of having one’s eyes constantly open. “I suppose that is enough sleep for now anyways, we should be landing in the Cairn soon.”

“Will I finally get to meet our mystery guest?” asked Lucy.

“Given your proclivity towards leaking government secrets, you will not be told anything unless absolutely necessary. In fact, I considered having our guest travel separately for this very reason” Nix said, ignoring her condescending tone. “For example, something that you probably should know is that a tribunal of the secret police is reviewing your case for potential indictments.”

That finished the conversation, Lucy kept her mouth tightly shut until they arrived. It was not long, however, before their flight crossed the choppy blue bay of Zahal and the Cairn came into view. It was, like all cairns, a manmade stone monument. It was also a cyclopean mass of grey that seemed to defy gravity with its immensity. The natives often said that every stone represented a great Poorv lord of old, built long before Finians had occupied the vast grazing lands of Bhalbar province. The Cairn, as it was so often called, was not just a mass of stones, but also an underground military base from which many expeditions were organized and launched. It also housed a military airharbor and it was towards this that Lucy’s aeroplane descended.

They dipped into the shadow of the hundred-meter monument and quickly came to a halt. Nix looked out the window briefly before standing and issuing some low orders to the bridge crew. He settled back into his seat and resumed staring out the window. Lucy tried to do the same, but discovered that her seat’s window had been mysteriously fastened shut.

“Is it the Governor-General?” she pressed. “He’s hardly suitable for this mission.”

Nix gave a her a look that said ‘neither are you,’ but did not open his mouth.

“Is it the Jagir? He’s been known to dabble in international affairs.”

“It’s a Raval.”

“All the nobles are Raval here.”

“Then stop asking so many questions.”

Silence was resumed. It seemed to last so long so that Lucy found herself dozing off. The last few days had been short on sleep and they had been waiting for an hour. Nix was almost perfectly still, the plane was almost perfectly quiet, and Lucy was completely asleep. By the time she awoke, they had already departed and were speeding over the blackish blue deeps. Nix was exactly where she had left him, perched on his shelf, waiting to be taken down and aimed at a target. Over her left shoulder, however, the scent of cloves and tobacco cast a new mood on the room.

Behind her, in a row separate, she could just see the olive skin left exposed atop a head of thinning white hair. The source of the smoke was a kretek smoldering in the new occupant’s left hand. This was most definitely not the governor-general, for Finians despise the use of cigarettes and carry pipes instead. It was a Raval, a Carynthian lord. Lucy did not know many of them, they kept to the east and the Finians kept to the west. Everyone stayed happy, no one needed speak to the other save through the emperor.

Lucy stood, casually as her curiosity would allow and walked slowly towards the small toilet located in the rear of the plane. Features of the man came slowly into view: a bristly beard still struck with grey that faded into the bright white crest; a yellow uniform with every inch aflame with red embroidery; a sharp, bronze tan that outlined equally poignant wrinkles on his hands and wrists; deep set eyes that looked lazily at the ember on the edge of his kretek; and a sharp, hooked nose. The individual pieces of the man seemed disjointed until she stopped stock still and crept back to her seat, no longer interested in the bathroom.

“Is that King Tamal?” she whispered to Nix.

“Yes.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“It was the Emperor’s idea.”

It was not that Lucy, or Finians in general, were racist. They were however, very particular about which lineages were the highest ranking. Most Carynthians, or Ravals as they were so often called, were considered the lowest of the low. Their estates were little more than large houses compared to the rest of the nation and their titles often irritatingly short and to the point. However, in order to placate the turbulent east, emperors long passed took to called the Kings of Carynthia their friends and brothers. It did wonders for the revolutionary temperament of Carynthia, but also elevated one Raval above all Finians. This was, of course, the man who now fouled the air with a cloud of indispersible smoke.

Lucy had never met him, though she counted most of the highest lords of Finium amongst either her personal acquaintances or enemies. She had only seen one picture, for only one picture existed. The old, brooding king watching as his wife was sentenced to death for aiding a rebel cell at the Cairn. Most did not know the circumstances, but all had seen the small, grainy photo of the man in their secondary school textbooks. He had held a kretek in his left hand.

The silence moved back in and despite her great excitement and being so close to such a great recluse, she subsided into slumber again under the watchful, glassy eyes of Nix.

by **United World Order** » Mon Jan 23, 2017 11:12 am

Munich, Braunes Haus(Reich Party National Headquarters),
Central Germania.

The Reich Party National Headquarters situated within what was called the 'Braunes Haus' or Brown house and before it's use as the headquarters of the party, it had been used as a opera house in the 19th century. After the war that brought the then Third Reich under control of all that is now considered Germania, it had ushered in multiple projects that included the refurbishing of some of the most important building structures in the Reich. Which would include the national headquarters for the now Reich Party which had expanded it's once four floors to six floors. Munich had been expanded greatly during the population boom the country experienced coming in the 50s and 60s due to the success of the lebensborn facilities and the encouragement of Ordenite couples who were rightfully married to conceive as many children as they could. The population in Munich in the mid 20th century was a little over 800,000 while as of 2016, the official population census of Munich recorded that an upwards of 150,000,000 people now lived within Munich and it's outlying municipalities. Having the national headquarters of the party originate within Munich meant that most of the population were members of the Reich Party as a national census on Reich Party membership documented in 2015 that 9,897,000,031 citizens were registered as members of the Reich Party. This was done more so to keep official records on all citizens within Germania which included places of residence, age, citizenship and occupation. The wars in Kashubia had done little to sour the populace's morale in the country and despite the rather horrendous casualties suffered on there which by the war's end costed the Wehrmacht over half a million men which included the casualties suffered by all branches during the war. The war in Holy Panooly however ending in defeat for the Wehrmacht and the Reich, reconciliation with the Golden Throne of The Macabees occurred quicker than many foreign critics would have expected. It was becoming obvious that The Golden Throne had no qualms with the Fourth Reich once the conflict with Holy Panooly was finally put to rest and the two countries could become warming allies again.

It had only been two months since former Reichparteifuhrer Oswald Grossmann was crowned Reichsfuhrer after former Reichsfuhrer Richtofen called for a change in leadership. The call for a change of leadership first went through the Reichstag and then eventually to the Reich Party National Headquarters before it was approved. Reichsfuhrer Grossmann was quickly crowned the successor to Richtofen and went through the prestigious ceremony that came with crowning a new Reichsfuhrer. A large celebration was had in Berlina and soon enough across Germania with Grossmann becoming Reichsfuhrer, he immediately began arranging more contracts with the arms industry with corporate cartel giant Krupp. He also began organizing his domestic policy as he began expanding the SS and more importantly it's security forces as joint conferences were held between Grossmann and SS-Oberst-Gruppenfuhrer Karl Heydrich who was chief of the Reich Main Security Office and that a motion was set to be passed that would see the National Police in Germania absorbed into the SS to act as the new SS police force that would see to policing within Germania's borders. The Reichstag would see to the passing of the new legislation and the absorption of the National Police into the Reich Main Security Office. The Allgemeine SS began work to fold the National Police into the SS and it's ways, new policies and general 'updates' were then prescribed for the National Police force now under the command of the SS. When Grossmann became the new Reichsfuhrer, he also dictated that the Party Chancellery and it's Deputy Fuhrer would take over as the second in command to the Reichsfuhrer which would see the title and position of Reich Party Fuhrer abolished and stripped away from the government.

Grossmann would now be able to take his rightful seat inside the Chancellery of the Fuhrer of the Reich Party which was the first Chancellery building created and then refurbished during the time of the Grand Fuhrer. He would then be introduced to his personal cabinet which were the main offices within the Fuhrer's Chancellery. After wards he would then meet with the cabinet within the Chancellery for the Reich Party along with the Chief of the Parteikanzlei Johann Kiel. These meetings were partially televised as to celebrate and record the newly crowned Reichsfuhrer over the Fourth Reich. While this was occurring the Wehrmacht were finishing up their modernization projects which were slated in the annual Wehrmacht Review which would see the Armed Forces reviewed by a panel of generals and military theorists and Arms Manufacturing elites such as those from Krupp. The Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe were updated and rejuvenated the most through the two years following the aftermath of the 2nd War in RSU. In total the Kriegsmarine including the Merchant fleet lost over 2,100 vessels to the former coalition that sought to bring down the Kreigsmarine's supremacy in Central Dienstadi waters. The Luftwaffe however lost only 540 aircraft in doing it's part during the 2nd War which was still quite a blow to the Luftwaffe who had lost a large number of it's pilots, many who were experienced from the 1st war that saw them score dozens of victories against the Unionist Red Army across what is still known as Kashubia. In turn the Luftwaffe received an entirely new line of domestically produced aircraft to take over the roles largely done by the Macabeean Lu-45s which were now what was left of the ones exported to the Reich, left in reserve airfields and warehouses.

Following the crowning of Oswald Grossmann as Reichsfuhrer, a newly hashed five year economic plan was quickly put into place as the new economic policies that Grossmann wanted to see fulfilled in the next several years. The Reich government had produced at least 200 billion in debt due to the war and the loss of it's former overseas territories from which the debt had come from, demobilization of the Wehrmacht was a topic that had been talked about furiously within the government and had been a issue before when Richtofen was still in power. Part of Grossmann's new economic policy was the partial demobilization of the Wehrmacht by a small margin as to not upset the Wehrmacht completely. Therefore at least 10,000,000 servicemen from the Wehrmacht were demobilized and allowed a early retirement from the Armed Forces and were assured that they would immediately be given new employment with several public works projects that were also planned for the coming year. However this would only relieve some of the debt that the Reich had accumulated and that expansion would eventually be necessary once again to prevent economic stagnation. Elsewhere the sound of marching men singing tunes of glory and patriotism rang out throughout the country side;

Singing we want to march
In the new time.
Adolf Hitler is to lead us,
We are ready

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Our hands want to lift
German people's need.
Our work is to give it
German people bread.

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Our will is to force us
In the brotherhood,
Re-penetrate our lives
With the power of faith

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Our camp and the flags
Are the new time.
We're making an alley
To eternity

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

Left and right and left and right,
Take a look at some lovely girls out of the house!
We, we, are just marching out.

by **EsToVnIa** » Thu Feb 23, 2017 7:43 pm

Kreposknis
Eldansvik Square 6
Saint Traisjaborg, Auspicious Realms of the Crown of St. Helena
Former Cornellian Empire

The Kreposknis, literally “fortress,” was one of the very few government buildings that still retained the native Slavic name. It had a long, colourful history that reflected the nation state in which it was located. Originally built in the 6th century, the Kreposknis became the seat of power when the Varangian Chieftain Alrik Válgardsson invaded the territory that would make up the Jarldom of Njórðafik. The Kreposknis underwent its first major renovation in 1024 when Kristijan I established the Varangish Kingdom. Since then, the palace has undergone sixteen major renovations and two reconstructions, the latest being in 1933 following the small fire that burned down the west wing.

The nation, known internationally by the far more modest “Estlandic Realm,” had gone through much in the recent decade. The ousting of Elder Thegn Litingursson in 2017 by Chairwoman Vera Ljukaneiva did much to shake up the internal political landscape of Estland, not nearly as much as the Crown wrestling away and retaking nominal control of her nation after willingly giving it away in 2013. This was no without compromise, however. While Her Most Holy, Anastasia IV, recovered much of the political power of the monarchy, she was still constrained by a newly drafted constitution and a sort of de facto distrust of the monarchy by the Ljukaneiva and her hardline faction of the National Socialist Agricultural Labourers’ and Workers’ Front. Ana’s abdication from being the head of Conventry was also another one the concessions that had to be made, albeit one that she was not overly upset about given her views on organised religion. Although they were far from being friends, or even acquaintances, the two women managed to at least form a working relationship if only because the two were entirely dependent on each other for maintaining their own spheres of influence.

The Tea Room of the Kresposknis was a modest-sized room that had been constructed by Ana’s great-great grandfather, Emperor Andraj-Maksimilian II. Four stained glass windows depicting the now-mythical tale of the Varangian Conquest of Estland lined the wall farthest from the sitting area. The mid-afternoon sun lit up the room in a brilliant display of blues, reds, yellows, and greens as it entered through the windows. The furniture contained four chairs and couch, aligned in a way where the couch faced the windows, with the chairs facing perpendicularly to the couch. The furniture itself was rather plain, eggshell white fabric with black legs and black satin throw pillows. The Tea Room served as the informal meeting area for Anastasia, Ljukaneiva, and the National Praesidium for the Preservation of the State. Initially, the meetings between her and her “elected government” had been very cold and short. Once proving herself to be politically savvy, after all, she did hold a B.A in Political Science and International Relations, the meetings had become much more welcoming to her input.

“Must you smoke in here, Chairman?” Ana, wearing a cream coloured sundress with yellow and blue polka dots, chastised the Foreign Affairs Chairman. “My father smoked nearly a pack a day and lived to be only 54, Chairman Virtanen.”

“Yes, of course, your worship” Virtanen replied sincerely, stuffing the freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray on the table. He leaned back in the chair he was seated in and crossed his legs. “An ager publicus... a publicised one at that,” He announced, setting down a map of Geara on the expansive oak table.

Vera impassively sipped her tea. “An open invitation to claim land… for a price, naturally.”

“More importantly, an open invitation to spread Liberationism,” Leyvr Karlsson, Deputy Minister for the National Praesidium, chimed in.

“No, the cultural and ethnic make-” Virtanen began to say before he paused, looking at Vera who put her hand up to stop him.

“No, those details no longer matter, Jirki,” she said meticulously. “White, black, yellow, it doesn’t matter. All peoples have a purpose under Liberationist thought.” She paused momentarily to look around the room. All eyes were fixated on her, even Anastasia’s, as this was a new train of thought for Ljukaneiva. “All that matters is its expansion and adoption. We tried ‘peaceful co-existence’ under Demydenko and that failed miserably. The policy of ‘world-wide liberation’ that I have implemented has been fundamental at home and our immediate neighbours. We have a chance to expand the Liberationist sphere once more and you…” she cast her steel eyes on Ana, “...are going to do it.”

“Surely one of the Iarls would be a better choice, Elder Thegn,” Ana replied, slightly shocked at the proposition. She was not overly opposed to such a drastic measure. True, while she disdained the Liberationist ideology, she had managed to set aside her personal politics and work on improving the country through other means. Having foreign land de facto under her control would do well to supplement the homefront.

“Forgive the bluntness, your majesty,” Ljukaneiva was quick to respond. “But let’s be realistic here. The Iarls are, for lack of a better term, completely wrapped around your finger. They are entirely subservient to you, and frankly, I very much doubt any of them have the monetary capacity to even make an offer to buy the land.”

“Yes, but willingly subjecting myself to a foreign ruler is something I dare not do,” Ana stated. “I am Empress of the Lands of the Crown of St. Helena, rightful ruler of Onneria, Skraelingia, Spaal, etcetera. I will not subjugate myself… not like I did before when I first ascended the throne.”

“If not you, then who?” the voice of Virtanen broke the brief silence that descended onto the room.

“Lidya,” She blurted out without really thinking about the weight that name would have carried. “Lidya will act as the intermediate for us and the Finians.”

Princess Lidya was the youngest sister of Anastasia and had proven to be quite the handful in recent years. Once word of her homosexuality got out, she had become a sort of pariah. Ana still loved her sister dearly, of course, but the general public’s view on homosexuality sort of made her hands tied on what she could really do. Lidya becoming the proxy ruler for the Crown in Estlandic Geara would both get her out of her heavily scrutinised life in Estland, but also give her something to do.

Vera didn’t say anything and merely shifted her piercing glance between Ana, Virtanen, and Karlsson. When nobody else spoke up against the proposal, she took it as her cue to “formalise it.” Setting the porcelain teacup and saucer on the table, which still had the map sprawled out on it, she spoke. “Fine. Her Highness will make the claim… you will tell her this, however. I’d rather not deal with her unless absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, of course, Vera,” the words stung a little but Ana was fairly good at masking her emotions now. “I believe now we can discuss the movement of forces and material…”

Banaðaborg
27 Južnokorejski St
Krisuvik, Duchy of Njórðafik
Former Cornellian Empire

Following Anastasia’s consolidation of power, she had become partially estranged with the more immediate parts of her family. The worst had been with Lidya, who now lived in the old royal palace in Krisuvik, the former capital of the Estlandic Realm. Being a member of the royal family, the palace was technically hers just so much as it was her two older brothers’ and Ana’s. Following the fallout of Lidya’s very public “coming out,” it was sort of an unspoken agreement between the siblings to let Lidya live in the Banaðaborg. Which is where Ana found herself today. It was an odd feeling, being a guest in the place where you grew up and had called your own for the majority of your life.

She waited in the central foyer of the palace, a grand, decadent entranceway lined with marble columns, silk drapery, and marble flooring. Ana still kept her thick, mink fur jacket on despite changing from her boots to light tan flats. The loud footsteps of Ulf Walhgren, Lidya’s personal secretary, caused her to remove her coat and hold it by her side. The removal of the coat exposed her fairly casual clothing, black leggings and a teal blouse with the top three buttons undone.

“Her Highness is ready to see you, your worship,” the stern yet welcoming voice of Ulf called out.

Ana nodded and followed him through the maze of corridors and hallways. Despite living here for just over six years now, Lidya had done very little redecorating of her own. The same paintings that had been around since even before Ana took the Sunburst Throne in 2013 still hung in the exact same spots; the same vases and other decorations remained in what seemed like a temporal stasis had been cast over the palace.

After a silent, slight awkward walk, the pair arrived at the main guest room. The room was a large, almost elliptical room with the entire wall farthest from the door made out of glass panels, almost making it seem like a greenhouse. The centre of the room had a small, circular cherry wood coffee table, with four leather reading chairs thoughtfully placed around it. The walls were mostly bare, the visible parts at least. Lidya had moved in six large bookcases filled to top-to-bottom with various lexicons, manuscripts, novels, textbooks, anything that was written. It far surpassed Ana’s personal library, which at this point in her life was mostly for decoration more so than for personal use.

“Nastja!” the cheerful voice of Lidya chirped as she stood up from the chair and rushed over to greet her sister. The fury of her movements concealed the other woman that was sitting in the other chair. It was only when she rose up that Ana noticed her.

“Ana,” the woman said flashing a quaint smile and walking over to the sisters.

“Lidya,” She returned the greeting, embracing her slightly shorter sister and air kissing both her cheeks. Ana released and did the same to Lidya’s significant other. “Niki, how are you two doing? I’m not interrupting anything, no?”

“No, of course not, sister,” Lidya said cheerfully, and led the other two over to the sitting area.

“Right then, I’d rather not beat around the bush and just get right into why I’m here,” Ana said flatly as she sat down. “I’d like to offer you something.”

“Oh?” was all Lidya replied with. Her mood had seemingly soured after Ana declared that she was making a business meeting rather than just visiting to be nice.

“Yes,” She reached over to her suede tote and pulled out the map of Geara from yesterday’s meeting. Unfolding it and trying her best to smooth out the heavy, deep creases that had formed from being folded up for so long, she placed it on the coffee table. The edges draped over the circular edge of the table, but the circled area on the map was very clear to anybody looking at. “This… I am going to move money over to your account so you can buy this for me.”

Lidya’s hazel eyes studied the map, almost wanting to absorb all the terrain features laid out on the map. “What’s the catch, Nastja?”

“You’d have to swear fealty to the Finian emperor… king… whatever they call themselves.” She said, leaning forward and clasping her hands. “Listen, it’s a chance for you to get out of the country, and I mean really get out. You coop yourself up in here, and I think this would be a good thing for you. Both of you.”

“So voluntary exile then?” Lidya sighed.

“No!” Ana quickly protested. “You know I would never do that to you. I just want you...” She paused but only for a few seconds. “...Both of you, to be happy, and I think this is the best way for that to happen.”

“Okay…” Lidya tentatively responded.

“Was this your idea or hers, Ana?” the shrill voice of Veronika chirped.

“Mine. Solely my idea.” Ana replied with a sense of genuinity. “You will retain your title as Princess of the Crown, and be given the title of Vicereine of Vinland. You’d have plenipotentiary powers, as well.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” there was a faint hint of contempt in Lidya’s voice as she spoke those words.

“Thank you… Both of you,” Ana said, disregarding Lidya’s apparent ungratefulness. “Now with that out of the way, there’s some other stuff I’d like to discuss…”

Embassy Row
Berlina, Germania
Greater Dienstad

“Yes… Yes, I understand, Comrade Chairman,” the defeated voice of Ambassador Pjetur Kristijansson was the only one in his office. “Of course, Saksi. If Her Most Holy wills it, then we must do what we must… I agree it would be far easier… Yes, I shall see to it, Saksi. Thank you, you too.” He hung up the phone with a loud clang.

His oak desk was much more presentable today than it had been in the previous weeks. The clean, polished surface shimmered under the fluorescent light bulb from the desk lamp, creating a glare at certain angles. Framed photographs, mainly of his six-year-old daughter and wife, were positioned along the perimeter facing the door. The table that had served as an impromptu meeting area for the past week or so had been removed. In its place, three armchairs and a small ottoman intended for glasses had been moved in.

A man of convictions, Pjetur was appointed to his position shortly following Ljukaneiva’s coup against Litingursson. Although the phrasing and other political jargon differed, the political machinations of both the Estlandic Realm and the United World Order were essentially two of the same. Liberationism and National Socialism were just two sides of the same coin as far as Vera was concerned, and that mindset was reflected in her policy in dealing with the Ordenites. The result of this was the Ordenites being one of, if not the, strongest extra-regional ally for the Estlandic Realm. Whether or not the Ordenites reflected that sentiment was to be determined, but following their defeats in Kashubia and other areas of Greater Dienstad, she mused that they could not afford to be picky in their alliances while they remained politically isolated.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he said aloud and began writing.

Recipient(s): The Rt. Hon. Valentin Voelker, Minister of Foreign Affairs

Date: 22 December, 2027

Sender(s): Rt. Hon. Pjetur Kristijansson

Subject: Discussion for a Personal Meeting

To the esteemed Minister Voelker or a representative of,

First and foremost, I wanted to wish you and your family a Merry Christmas and New Year, Valentin. Like always, I hope that this letter finds you in both good spirits and health. I understand that you must be incredibly busy given the recent state of affairs your nation must find itself in, so I will make this brief.

On behalf of Her Serene and Apolistic Majesty Anastasia, the Fourth of Her Name, and her elected government, I would like to request a meeting with yourself or a plenipotentiary representative to discuss Geara. The Committee of State Security and the Standing Committee of Interstate Affairs and Relations have noted growing Ordenite involvement in the Gearan nation state. Given the ager publicus, I'm sure that both the Ordenite Ministry of Foreign Affairs and associated agencies had noticed the emergence and interest of Her Most Holy's Government. Taking in consideration Ordenite foreign policy against non-Dienstadi nations, I believe that it would be in the best interest of both our respective governments to discuss the possibility of a joint policy regarding the entire situation.

I await your response.

Best regards,

[Electronic Signature]
Pjetur Kristijansson
Ambassador and Representative of Her Most Holy to the United World Order

Vera Grigorievna Ljukaneiva
Elder Thegn of the Auspicious Realms of the Crown of Saint Helena

Her Serene and Apostolic Majesty Anastasia, Empress and Supreme Autocrat of All Bergorans

by **The Macabees** » Tue Feb 28, 2017 7:24 pm

Finqa de las Almenas, Ruska

One hundred and nineteen cows. That was the head count today. The herd was getting smaller by the day and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

The problem was that no one ate meat anymore. It was all about the synthetic shit these days and only the true diehards wanted real beef, and these grew fewer and fewer by the day. It was a sign of how the world had changed for the worse that a bunch of labcoat-wearin', gumby-lookin', nerdy motherfuggers with their little scientific tools had finally managed to beat out the ranchers at the latter's own game. People said it tasted like the real deal. People are idiots. Synthetic meat is cheaper, though, a lot cheaper.

Just over the hill, a cloud of smoke had kicked up into the air trailing a rider and his stallion as they bolted down the slope in his direction as soon as the rider recognized him. The man wore a broad-brimmed hat, with one side rolling back up and folding back. Across the pommel lay a bolt-action hunting rifle, the wood finishing on the stock smooth, glossy, and clean — just the way it ought to be. The grazing lands were full of chotyrs, small cats of prey, and ekeshes, howling, vicious wild dogs that loved to attack livestock. They moved so fast you hardly had enough time to see them when they made their move. It was easier to kill 'em when you saw 'em, rather than wait for them to attack, so all men carried rifles with 'em out in the grasslands.

"Lord val'Guerza! Lord val'Geurza!" The man's horse was galloping at such speeds that he just barely avoided running in the lord and his retinue. He held on to his hat as he rode, lest it blow right off his head as he jerked the reins back with as much strength as he could. The rider was visibly anxious. "Lord val'Guerza, a guest has arrived at the villa. He comes representing His Imperial Majesty, he says."

The emperor? What could the emperor want with a low-ranked Ruskan nobleman?

The lord, who rode a strong, black stallion of his own, nodded and said, "Thank you, Mat'raím. Now go back, and ride as hard as your mount can stand, to tell my guest that I will see him soon. Instruct Mrs. DeMarco to pull one of our finest bottles of wine and seat him comfortably with a platter of our most savory cheeses."

"Yes, My Lord," replied the rider before he turned his horse around and galloped back in the direction he came from, the trailing dust once again marking his passage.

Lord Enric Val'Guerza turned his attention back to the herd. Cowboys were shouting as they trotted from position to position behind and around the cattle, gradually pushing the mass of cows back towards their pen in the ranch. It was not a difficult process, but it was time-consuming. In the old days, he would have just fed these cows in feedlots. In fact, if one looked around the ranch long enough they would find the remnants of old yards. But, the cheap synthetic meat had pushed men (and women) like val'Guerza out of the affordable beef market, forcing them to compete for the dwindling patronage of the posh folk who only bought 'free-range' products, as if the rich city folk truly knew what that meant. It was funny how markets worked. Funny to some at least, not to val'Guerza.

He sat there for some time in silence, his mind at work within his head. Those with him let him be, though some looked at him wondering why a representative of the emperor had been sent to the finqa. This was a rare occurance indeed, and it would cause a flurry of conspiracy theories to float the halls of the villa tonight. Finally, their lord turned to them. "Drive them home, boys. Bring 'em before the sun's gone down completely and I'll tell the servants to put somethin' exquisite together for tonight."

"Lobster, My Lord?" asked one. Some of the men laughed, most cracked a smile.

Val'Guerza barked a hearty laugh of his own. "Don't push your luck, Joen. I may just have the servants bring you chicken feed!" The group howled at that, but soon their lord grew solemn again and their thoughts traveled back to the guest who came representing the emperor. What could that person possibly want? Was he, or she, a kríerlord or simply a lesser mortal? Who it was could make a world of difference. Oh, how the rumors would circulate indeed.

Without further ado, the lord set off in the direction the messenger had gone at a calm trot. He would not keep his guest waiting, but neither would he rush himself. For he was a lord and not some slave to be called upon by the emperor at His every whim! That led Val'Guerza's mind to wander towards the thought of whether being a lord was much to celebrate about these days. His father was perhaps the last great lord of the House. That's what everyone thought anyways, most likely. He could only guess as to whether anyone talked behind his back, but he was sure the servants — that were paid and had rights! what was this world coming to? — gossiped between themselves, and he did not even want to think of what his fellow noblemen and ladies thought of him. He shuddered. There was only one explanation, which lay the fault at the feet of synthetic meat and those damn scientists.

His House, the val'Guerza name, had lost prestige in recent decades. These days, history held no bearing. It was a barbaric culture, but it was the one that Enric had inherited after his father had died during the final years of the wars of reunification. Instead, one's status was now determined by economic prestige. A 'meritocracy' they called it, although the truth was that success was as often arbitrary as it was merited.

The odds, in any case, had been stacked against the House of val'Guerza for quite some time now. The family business had been on good footing as the 19th century came to a close, but the world was changing and it was doing so at a teriffying pace. If new technology and the cosmopolitanism of the markets weren't bad enough, it had been the Ruskan cattle ranchers who were among those who lost the most during The War. Entire herds had been butchered by Havenic soldiers south of the Styx and by allied troops on the northern side, and those that weren't commandeered by the military were massacred by bombs, artillery shells, and the savage crossfire of infantry weapons. It took Enric's family savings and what he had earned as an officer in The War to restore the finqa to what it had once been in simpler times, and now it was all beginning to whittle away by the indiscriminate forces of capitalism anyways.

C'est la vie, as the Pantocratians would say.

Still, it irked him, his House's fate. In fact, he would tell the emperor's representative just that when he saw him! He would tell him that, despite having borne the brunt of the damage during The War — aside from Weigar, of course — the minor lords of Ruska were some of the worst treated in the empire. It just wasn't right for His Imperial Majesty to leave his fellow aristocrats to the dogs.

His sprawling villa popped into view just as he rounded the crown of a hill, surrounded with the daily commotion of commercial life on the ranch. If he had just come from grasslands, this one was like a different world. The valley in which the estate sat was covered with neatly rowed vineyards whose curling green vines, rich and heavy with nascent grape clusters, winded and curled around wooden posts and steel wire. To the north extended a vast olive grove that rose and fell with the undulation of the small hills and shallow valleys. It was the empire his forefathers had built, the one they had entrusted in him by virtue of name and blood, and the one that was slowly dying.

As he approached, the dirt road was suddenly flanked by a row of ruskan dogwood trees, its white, bee-ridden flowers in full bloom, on either side giving shade to the otherwise sunny afternoon. Towards the end of the road, he turned left into a stable, where a stableboy helped him down and took his horse from there.

"Lord val'Guerza! lord val'Guerza!"

Enric was nearly startled out of his boots by the short, white-haired man who had come as if from nowhere to pester him. It was his loyal majordomo, the elderly Don Juan Cruzeros who had worked for the family for over sixty years now. Sometimes, though, the majordomo could be quite...ominous. "If you are here to tell me about our guest, I already know Don Cruzeros. Why do you think I am here before time?"

"Ah, uh, yes, of course, My Lord," tripped the majordomo. "He awaits you in the library room."

The lord continued walking and left the majordomo to keep up. "Magnificent," he said, as he walked briskly through halls and down passageways. "Was he, or she, served our finest wine and our sweetest cheese?"

"He, My Lord," replied the majordomo, who was struggling to keep astride as they navigated through the throng of servants and other laborers who swelled these parts of the estate grounds. Just as he was about to speak again a kitchen cook very nearly knocked him off his feet as she came out from a pantry carrying an amphora topped with oilive oil. She swore at him as if it were his fault she was in a hurry, but the old man paid her no mind. "And yes, Mrs. Demarco has treated our guest to the best the house was to offer. You insult us by insinuating that it would be otherwise, I assure you."

Enric rolled his eyes. "My wholehearted apologies, Don Cruzeros. Now, go tell our guest that I have arrived and that I shall see him in a quarter hour. With haste man! This is a representative of the emperor!"

The ancient little majordomo scurried away in the opposite direction, and the lord went to his quarters without pause. There he freshened up and changed into a dark blue suit, courting to who no doubt would be a city boy. It did not take him long and soon he was on his way to the library room.

A two-story marble colonnade surrounded a garden that ran down the center of the villa and around which were arrayed the estate's various rooms. There were eloquently trimmed shrubs, colorful flowers, and fully- At the very end stood Enric val'Guerza IV, chiseled from stunning marble, an ancient predecessor of this Enric's and perhaps the most powerful of the val'Guerza to have over presided over the House. He was surrounded by bronze-cast sirens who groveled at his feet and who spat fountains of water in a beautiful patchwork. This was the legacy of his House, the legacy that he had been unable to protect.

Sitting in the back corner of the gardens and hidden by giant palm leaves, the library occupied what must have once been a mid-sized shrine, for the building still retained much of its original ornamentation. Its big oak double-door was flanked by a couple of stout columns, one on either side, and the building was topped by a glass dome, very much like a modernized version of a far-eastern temple.

A sensor must have seen him approach, for the large doors opened very nearly just as he reached them. He couldn't even have servants to open the door for him anymore! Technology had replaced them, just like it was replacing him.

The library had been around for centuries, since even before the villa had first been built during the fourteenth century. It hadn't started out in the hands of the House of val'Guerza, but in some war of the tumultuous 18th century its previous tenants had lost out and it was Enric's original ancestors who gained. Enric could not remember which war it was, he was not a historian and never had much interest in the subject anyways. In any case, he knew that the library had been around for quite some time, originally as a temple and only later converted into its current purpose. It was a beautiful building, but truth be told he appreciated neither the architecture or the building's contents. He was simply not that kind of man — he was just a simple rural rancher looking to maintain and protect what he saw as the source of his family's one-time glory. Nevertheless, he liked meeting his guests here because he thought it would make him seem erudite, which was much the same reason why Enric even wore a suit (one of the few he owned, in fact).

The representative of His Imperial Majesty sat in one of the leather, high-backed chairs in the middle of the large, round room. All around, up to three levels high, bookshelves surrounded them like rings. They were laden with books of all kinds, neatly organized by genre and placed in alphabetical order within the correct silo. Some said that this was one of the largest private libraries in all of Ruska, although Enric rarely paid attention to such trivialities, especially when they dealt with as dreary a subject as books. Regardless, he figured that others must find it impressive. He hoped that the man the emperor had sent did, although truth be told they must libraries twice the size or more of this one in Fedala's plentiful palaces.

That last thought got Enric particularly nervous. But, he put it aside as the man rose to greet him, "Lord Enric val'Guerza! How do you do, good sir? It is so tremendous to have finally met you, as I've heard so many wonderful and beautiful things about your House and family." He outstretched his right arm.

Enric took the man's forearm in his hand and, with a big smile, replied, "Have you? Like what?"

The man stared at him as if he wasn't expected to be asked that for just a second, but then carried on, "Yes, quite, well I should introduce myself. I am Lord Ankus Vaharmel, Duke of Hirinja." Modern Hirinja was a mid-sized county in Sidi Rezegh. "I come to you on behalf of some friends, with a business proposition."

"I was told you came representing His Imperial Majesty," said Enric, now feeling somewhat confused and even a little...disinflated. He nevertheless motioned his guest to sit and he took a seat himself facing him, with a small coffee table between the two. There were cheeses and a glass of wine, and a servant did not take long to bring another glass to her own lord.

At this, Lord Vaharmel cleared his throat. "Uh, well...a shortcut, if you will, to introduce myself to your staff. You know how it is." Enric did in fact not know how it was or what he meant by that, but he let it slip lest this Rezeghan lord believe him to be ignorant or uncultured from a lack of greater familiarity with the typical pain points suffered by aristocrats on the road. The duke continued onward, "Regardless, I can say that I represent on some level Jogornos Andru Agostal, who oversees the empire's diplomatic mission to the Fourth Reich. He has been looking to invest, but he needs a partner, and both he and I see you as our ideal candidate."

"Hm, the jogornos to the Fourth Reich wants to partner with me?" Enric was not very good at hiding the bewilderment from his voice, but he soon corrected himself and snubbed out the meekness from his voice. "I mean, yes, of course. It's natural, as the val'Guerza have been some of Ruska's premier businessmen for over three centuries now! Or longer!"

"Yes, of course," repeated the other man. "Your House has built itself quite the legacy here. Only the most successful of men could have built this vast and gorgeous ranch, and that is exactly the talent we seek."

Enric rose his right brow. "Wait a minute, this doesn't involve selling my ranch to you, does it? That I will never do. I would rather cut off my own arm than dismantle my House's heritage!"

"No, no, that won't be necessary," chuckled the Rezeghan. "How could we ask you to give up your stunning family estate, especially as...profitable as it is." You could almost tell how pained the man's face was from having to say what he evidently knew was a lie, just for the sake of kissing his victim's bottom a bit more. Enric, of course, did not catch on. Lord Vaharmel continued regardless, "We could use a man like you, Lord val'Guerza. A man of convinction. A man of iron. A visionary; someone who can take our project to the finish line and continue leading it thereafter. You are the man we're looking for, aren't you?"

"Of course I am!" he boldly exclaimed in return. He was a bit peeved that this Reghezan would think otherwise. Then, more cautiously, he asked, "So, tell me, what exactly is this business proposition that you've come here to pitch me? I must admit that I am quite excited. The val'Guerza finqa has been looking to diversify and this would be the perfect opportunity to do as much."

The other man leaned in very close and asked, "How would you like to be Baron of Silversmere?"

"Silversmere?" Enric had never heard of the country.

"Yes, Silversmere," repeated Vaharmel. "It is a rather large county in Geara. It has a respectable population and many low-hanging opportunities for investment, and it could be an important source of wealth for you and your family. Indeed, as the person chosen to lead our endeavor, you will be entitled to a percentage of the revenues of our business."

If Enric hadn't already been sold, he sure had been by now. "Revenue? What is the bussiness model?"

"Taxes, my dear Lord...or should I say Baron val'Guerza, taxes." The man took a sip of his wine. "You will earn ten percent of all annual tax revenue as your base rate. We would offer more, but you will find that running a county may be more expensive than you think." That was ominous, but Enric didn't care. He had already been sold. "And twenty percent if you manage to hit your objectives for the year," finished Vaharmel.

"Objectives?"

Another sip of wine was taken. "Yes, objectives. You know, expected revenue growth, net rates of emigration, and metrics of that sort. I will provide you with these before the end of each year and you will be expected to meet them by the end of the next. It should be simple stuff for a man of your mettle, good sir."

"Ah yes, objectives, of course." Enric took a sip of his own wine, which he hadn't as much as touched this entire conversation. Truth be told, he did not have much of a palette for wine. He had inherited vineyards, but otherwise he did not dabble in the hobby outside of producing the stuff. His drink was ale, which he made as well, but in meetings like these it was best to appear as cultured as possible. So he begrudgingly drank a bit of his wine and then placed the glass back on the table. "You are quite right, I will be more than able to meet whatever outcomes you set for me. You shall find Silversmere in good hands with me, I assure you."

"Good then!" said his guest. "We will need you to make the trip to Finium to claim the title. Don't worry," he added, when he saw Enric's face (who clearly had not yet even thought of how exactly he was to acquire the land he had been told to oversee), "it will all be taken care of. Your flight leaves in two days from the Mosnoi Bor airport and it will take you Hallsind International, in Finium. We will have a car there to take you to the so-called Grand Orchard Palace, where the negotiations will take place. Be aware that you will meet with an associate of mine, Herr Dietrich Schildknecht, at the airport. Consider him your right-hand man and," he put emphasis on this last part, "allow him to take point at first. It is imperative that you do not interrupt him or alter his plans, for he is your ticket to the barony. I will send you all the details to your inbox tonight, along with additional documents. Understood?"

"Yes, but what exactly—" started Enric, but not before his guest — well, business partner now, apparently — cut him off.

"I must go, Lord val'Guerza," the man said suddenly while looking at his watch. "But, before I do, allow me to admit that I am particularly excited about our endeavor together. I sense that good things will come from our partnership and I am more certain than ever that you are the right, nay perfect, man for this job."

Enric looked at him leave, still not quite sure what he had gotten himself into, but nonetheless ecstactic that things were suddenly turning around for him. Maybe he could save his ranch after all.

by **Finium** » Wed Mar 08, 2017 2:51 pm

The Grand Orchard

Quite suddenly, everything was finished. Every surface was free of dust and every inch of floor glimmered in the soft light of chandelier the glow of wood paneled walls. The lower halls were filled with servants stretching out sore backs and resting worn feet on benches while an eerie silence settled on the upper house. Once the air, forced through the dim, empty rooms was the only thing to be heard, the trio of Ministers reemerged from their locked apartment and glided to the foyer, where they stood in a short, black row.

“30 minutes ahead of schedule” Hebron observed, no clocks visible anywhere.

“I hired two additional staff to help with the cleaning” Lambin explained.

They nodded at the wisdom of this, bobbing their heads up and down in jerking, birdlike movements. A bell struck the hour in a distant parlour: 1530. A faint shuffling of feet announced the arrival of several footmen long before the twin, velveteen servants entered. One carried a sheaf of forms and the other a box of pens. Approaching a small, rudy bureau, they laid the implements in careful formation before retreating to a hidden alcove where they could wait for the doorbell to ring.

“I predict Lord Klein is the first to arrive, thirteen to seven minutes before any other guest” Constance pronounced.

“You’re being too conservative, fifteen to nine minutes is closer.”

They set about earnestly discussing the probability of Lord Klein--a notoriously early patron of all events from christenings to funeral--making it from the 1300 flight out of Mavros and get to the 1430 train from Hallsind to Bingley. At precisely 1545, Lord Klein arrived.

He was not actually a bidder, his pockets were too shallow for that kind of thing, but he was an indispensable socialite who appeared at all gatherings of more than five Finian nobles. He did not bother to knock as he knew he was the first arrival. He wore a businessman’s attire--prior to buying his title he was the owner of an insurance agency--and hung his own coat in the cloakroom before greeting the ministers.

“Alby, Lambin, Hebron” he greeted them each in turn. “How are my favorite ministers this evening?”

“Are you here to bid Mordecai?” Alby asked, ignoring his cheerful demeanor. “This event is organized for bidders only.”

“Well, I suppose I shall bid then!” Klein rooted through his pockets and pulled out a worn, leather billfold. “Here’s twenty… twenty three… twenty three ingots and four billets--that ought to buy me a jar of dirt, eh?”

Alby gave him a glare of displeasure, to which he mockingly shrunk back.

“Please don’t hurt me!” he wailed miserably. “I’m just a penny-lordling looking to improve my fortune by pillaging a few barbarian huts!”

He followed this with a laugh and wandered away towards the kitchens, leaving the three companions glowering at the door, waiting to devour whoever came in next. Klein giggled to himself all the way to the kitchen where he was served up a servant’s luncheon of thick-sliced ham and even thicker barley bread. He was known to the servants, just as the hallways of the Orchard Palace were known to him; he spent a lot of time in imperial palaces at various events. He enjoyed his late lunch as the rest of the guests began to arrive.

The second that Lord Enric val’Guerza first stepped on Finian soil he realized how very terrible this country was. Earth, burdened by centuries of punitive agriculture lay barren and cracked with only the yellowed memory of flora and stunted brown fauna. Desolate plains reached out from Hallsind in a seemingly endless region of death. The long drive out of Hallsind was dreary, almost macabre, in its state of absolute desertification. Quite suddenly, Enric crossed the massive steel edifice that spanned the river Narki and he was in the Lowlands. Yellows became brilliant greens and the dusty skeletons of the plains were replaced by herds of Bison and fields of barley. In quick succession the land became rough and hilly until it reached the Grand Orchard, where row upon row of heavily laden fruit trees decorated the low valley in which he traveled. The valley widened into a large pasture and, at the top of a small rise, the palace stood like a squat grey toad at its center.

With him in his vehicle was Mr. Dietrich Schildknecht. Tall, blonde, and with eyes as blue as ice, he was what you’d expect to come out of an Ordenite woman. He was quite pleasant in all actuality and he spoke Díenstadi well enough, although the thick Ordenite accent did irritate the Ruskan lord a bit. Nevertheless, the overall journey to Finium had not been entirely unpleasurable and, for what it was worth, Enric was buoyed by the fact that he had never visited the country. In fact, he was quite sure that he was the first Macabean of note to visit — he’d have to rub it in the faces of all those posh city-dwelling lords that attended those lavish estate-side parties that Enric was never invited to.

“I am very excited, Herr Schildknecht,” he saying, as they drove through the pasture, up the hill, and into the palace grounds proper. “This is an incredible opportunity. Think of the new markets that we will open...especially in meat.” He said that last part under his breath. Enric was sure that this was his chance to save his House’s name from burning out into infinite obscurity.

The Ordenite smiled back. He had been quiet the whole trip, too quiet. When he and the Ruskan lord did speak it was typically in short spurts, and almost wholly business. But, it was only business that the man wanted to shed light on, not the kind that Enric wanted to know more about! Of course, the Ruskan had done some thinking between his meeting with the mysterious Lord Ankus Vaharmel and the flight to Finium, especially thinking regarding the purchase of Silversmere. He had developed a suspicion of sorts that Ankus had not revealed the whole picture to him and that something grander was at play. These suspicions slipped in and out of existence within Enric’s simple mind, but that he did not forget them altogether was a sign of just how great they were. But, if Herr Schildknecht had picked up on that he gave no sign of it. “Yes, quite,” was all he said.

“Don’t you say anything else?” burst Enric, finally. He had had it up to his neck with the man’s — this entire endeavor’s — cards-to-chest attitude! “Here I am, following you to the end of the Earth itself it seems and still I hardly understand why exactly I am here and why exactly I am being paid to become a baron in this Germama, Garea, err...where exactly is this county again?”

“Geara, Lord val’Guerza,” he said, rather politely. That angered Enric even more for some reason. Those damned city folk always liked to patronize didn’t they? Schildknecht, in any case, did not seem to notice that the Ruskan lord was flustered at all. “I do apologize for the apparent secrecy around this matter, my Lord,” the man continued, “but, you must understand that it is not my preference that you be kept so much in the dark. If I could, I would tell you everything and, in fact, I assure that I will once our stop in Finium is successfully complete. The only thing I can do, as your friend my Lord, is beg you to simply follow my lead here. Will you, please? I promise that it is for the best.”

Enric thought about that for a moment. It was good to have friends, especially on battlefields he did not know. That’s exactly what a smart person would think. And Enric, if he was anything, was smart. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly, “but I will go on with this charade only as long as we remain in Finium. After we are done with this ordeal I do expect to have a full explanation of what all of this is about exactly.”

“Of course,” responded the Ordenite, as their automobile pulled into an outside courtyard.

The trees had been replaced by imposingly large stones--unpolished and stern grey. The green, however, remained in vibrant veins of ivy. In green livery--but a smoother, velvet green--rows of footmen outlined the path to the foyer. Passed from white-gloved hand to white-gloved hand, they were delivered into the unmerciful, calculating eyes of the ministerial trio.

“Val’Guerza, I presume” Alby said as six eyes locked onto him. “You’ve been expected, Minister Hebron will assist you with any questions that you have. Since you are… a stranger to our customs.”

The six eyes slipped swiftly from the dark gentleman to the icy glare of the Ordenite. Fascism was a political obscenity and the source of active rebellion in the far east. While the ministers were not given over to political frenzy, they were very fond of censorship; in fact, the Bureau of Public Confidence was part of Lambin’s portfolio. Alby may have had the sense not to say the two would be watched, but their impassive stares somehow displayed intense distrust, even spite.

“I was not aware you would be accompanied by a… I am sorry, I do not know your name” Alby continued.

The Ordenite seemed momentarily taken aback by that, as if it were an unexpected question, but the moment passed quickly. He bowed his head in ever so slight a nod. “Ah, I apologize of course for the lack of proper communication prior to our arrival. I must blame myself for that. You see, my partner — not Lord val’Guerza here, but the man you spoke to on the phone, Lord Vaharmel — was responsible for that particular detail and apparently he forgot all about me. It matters not. My name is Dietrich Schildknecht. You all may, of course, call me Dietrich. I am here representing Lord val’Guerza, both legally and financially. He was vested in me final say in today’s auction and any subsequent negotiations, and any questions you have for him must first pass through me. These are the wishes of My Lord.” He said it at all with impressive naturality, as if it were all actually true.

“Your administrative structure is of little interest” Lambin stated, almost rudely. “But I will have another chair set out for you.”

The conversation was cut short by Hebron prodding them away into the dim interior of the building to await their summons to bid. Alby and Lambin took extra care to glare at Dietrich until they were out of sight. Lambin may have been undiplomatic, but he was not dishonest in admonishing the discussion of deals struck to gain land at auction. Many partnerships and corporations and not-for-profits handshake deals were created for this purpose, but in the unwavering eye of the imperial government, only one person could be hold a title. Everything else was, in the infinite disinterest of the ministers, irrelevant to efficient operation of the government.

The flight from Estland to Finium was a long one that included a few stop-overs in countries that Swána Þæklasdotta and the other chosen representatives for Her Serene and Apostolic Majesty had never heard of. The foreign land in which the Varangians found themselves in was immensely different than their home. The Finian lowlands were a colourful palette of bright, rich greens that echoed the fertility Mother Nature granted the peoples living there. The desolate plains south of the River Narkis sharply contrasted the Lowlands. The rolling hills of the parched earth were far more familiar for the Lady Swána, having lived all her life amongst the steppe of Skaðinei. Being the daughter of the Iarl Þækla, Swána had little say in her assignments, and despite her protests, still found herself in the foreign land. It could have been worse, she could have been Lydia who would be forced to live in, what Swána presumed would be a far worse country.

Her entourage had been picked for her, naturally. Alongside herself, she was accompanied by an attaché from the Standing Committee of Foreign Economic Relations. Along with the government representatives, Swána was accompanied by Revered Matron Þorgærd Jogæirsdotta from the Conventry, no doubt here to begin almost immediately orchestrating the conversion of the populace in whatever land Swána ended up buying. Accompanying the Revered Matron was Lady Seeker Tý Iolksdotta, who had been granted a “divine mandate for the conquest and conversion of Therapont.” Divine mandate or not, Swána had been given the funds necessary, she hoped at least, to make imagination become reality. The seemingly religious zealotry associated with such a thing was lost on her. Land was bought and sold with money, the days of simply taking what you thought was yours for Goddess, King, and Country were long over in her unpopular opinion.

The two executive cars transporting the Estlandic delegation effortlessly traversed the road up towards the palace of the Grand Orchard. The cars parked in a courtyard or something, and the drivers disembarked to let their occupants out. Swána was the first to exit her car, wearing a light blue, frilled dress with a cream half sweater. She had been riding along with Orn Irisson, the representative for the Standing Committee. The short, portly man, dressed in a poorly fitted dark blue suit and matching shoes, exited shortly after her. It had been a dreadfully boring - even awkward ride. Orn was nearly three times the age of the 24-year-old Swána and she was pretty sure his gaze had been fixated on her for the entirety of the trip. Getting out of the car almost had the equivalence of being released from prison. From the second car, parked directly to the left of the one Swána had been travelling in, emerged the Revered Matron, who was dressed in a religious habit not too dissimilar from a Roman Catholic nun. She wore a deep red tunic that hung loosely from her aged figured. Embroidered golden flames, with gold flake embedded in the fabric itself, lined the bottom third portion of the tunic and shimmered in the sunlight as her body moved gingerly towards Swána and Orn. On top of her head, she wore a black cornette typical of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament. The last to exit was Tý, who was dressed in an all-black utilitarian uniform that one would associate more with a military branch than a religious institution.

“Let’s get this over with,” Swána said flatly and proceeded to the entrance.

“Þæklasdotta” Alby said, running her Finian accent through the name like a steel comb through tangled hair. “You have been expected.”

Alby and Lambin surveyed the dull-clad theocrats with no small note of disdain. Black was considered altogether to ostentatious for polite society, most Finians wore extremely faded greys or, if the occasion with especially formal, shimmering whites. This was, however, merely a vague scratch of social discomfort and most of their disdain came from the mere existence of people who rubbed up against the soulless nature of the ministers. Swána politely smiled at Alby’s greeting. There was no need to point out the obvious She thought to herself as she walked through the foyer, government lackeys in tow.

“This is a… lovely area,” hopefully she sounded sincere enough to at least get a feigned cordial response in return.

There was, however, no need for pretense. The ministers did not care and the rest of the chattering lords of Finium held their spite for foreigners in sideways glances and turned backs. The experience was therefore much the same for Val’Guerza and Þæklasdotta. The dim, grey backs of grey-haired barons and their comital overlords slowly squeezed them towards the edges of the room where they were confined by a cage of pointed indifference. Some nations are filled with tactful or honest people, but Finium was not one of them. The insidious scent of prejudice filled the antechamber for what seemed like an interminable stretch, but was ended by the ringing of a faint, silvery bell. The grey human sludge drained away into a large auditorium that may have once been a ballroom before the needs of the bureaucracy had demanded it for administrative space.

Rows of little wooden chairs had been laid out, each with a small paddle on it, numbered in red. Once the room had shuffled itself into marginal quiet and the foreigners had been shown to their own chairs, the writ of lands was read. It was an exhaustive list of the assets available. Bits and pieces of land in all shapes and sizes were named with vague, geographical references that meant nothing unless the bidder happened to have a detailed map of the Gearan countryside. It was not just land and title at auction; there were forestry rights and military supply contracts and cultural artifacts being sold off. One Lambin had finished reading through his sheaf of papers, all eyes slid to Alby where she was seated at the front of the room with a yellow legal pad.

“In deference to the Emperor’s guests, we will begin with the March of Therapont and the County of Silversmere respectively” She announced.

All eyes turned wordless to the rear of the room where Val’Guerza and Þæklasdotta sat in close proximity. Someone murmured a slur about zoyfs, but the unblinking stares soon returned to Alby’s glacial expression and the bidding began. Val’Guerza and Þæklasdotta both left with their desired titles, though several lords had bid out of spite, raising the already high costs of acquisition by adding a tax of unwelcomeness.

by **United World Order** » Fri Mar 10, 2017 11:48 am

The Office of the Reich Treasury, Reichkanzeli,
Voßstraße, City of Berlina,
Central Germania, United World Order.

Sebastian arrived by private transportation from his quiet loft in one of the many high end neighborhoods to the Reichskanzeli compound which housed the national government and was the seat of power for the country. It was another long tedious day at his work as Reich Treasurer and typically spent his days reading over and approving sums of funds that would be used to purchase a vast variety of services, resources, and or arms from others in far away countries, and typically required a wire transfer that would send the funds to a bank account of that organization and or nation state. Sebastian's vehicle stopped up ahead at the entrance of a vast underground car park for those who worked within the Reichkanzeli complex, specific spots were of course reserved for certain officials, civil servants, and regular staff. The driver lowered the window and was met with a uniformed member of the SS Liebenstandarte which were the personal guard unit of the Fuhrer and typically could be found guarding the Reichskanzeli and other highly important government buildings.

"Present your identification, please." The Liebenstandarte guard said, he as did all the others wore their ceremonial uniforms which were a coat of dark black with some bright red due to their armband which sported a swastika, the symbol for the Fourth Reich. A compact rifle was slung over the shoulder of the guard as the driver presented the identification which detailed who was arriving, and other minor details. The guard gave the documents back and waved the vehicle in. The vehicle continued into the parking garage as industrial lights omitted from the ceiling as the sedan pulled next to a service elevator which would take those arriving up to the ground floor of the main Reichskanzeli building. Sebastian thanked the driver before leaving the vehicle and walking towards the elevator, pressing the button in the middle which signaled one of the elevators to meet him there. Once the double doors opened and he stepped inside, he pressed another button which made the elevator jolt slightly upwards as it ascended up to the next floor. The elevator stopped at the second floor, in which Sebastian left and walked down a corridor passing other offices and doors, each floor had a small detachment of the SS Liebenstandarte inside as well. After a short walk did he finally reach his office as he pulled a key out from his inside coat pocket before twisting it inside the door knob, the glass window on the door had the words Reich Treasury Office inscribed on it in black block letters as he opened the door.

He also pulled out some enveloped documents from the small mailbox hung by the door, Sebastian closed the door behind him as he scoffed. The office was rather tidy with a traditional wood desk with typical office supplies and a nice leather chair. A small shelf which stood on the side held several novel books which were more there for show then for his personal taste. Sitting down at his desk he began opening the envelopes which had been delivered to him, using a small knife he cut open one smoothly as he took out the document. The document before him was one that asked for a appropriation of funds to a PMC company based out of tarn that was run by Gerhard Mohrmann a 62 year old decorated veteran in the Ordenite Wehrmacht, specifically the Heer. He had reached the rank of Leutnant before retiring. Since then he had been in and out of the Private Military market and had served in several PMCs in the beginning of his new career before creating his own PMC. The relationship between the Fourth Reich and military veterans from it's armed forces going to serve in the private military industry, was quite complicated due to the past experiences of private military companies being used to fight the Wehrmacht in battlefields like Kashubia.

Of course after looking over the first document, he pulled another one from the same envelope. Opening it and reading it's contents it was a official correspondence from Freikorps Germania and it's financial representative, Dietrich Schildknecht. Reading over the correspondence detailing the need for the funds and it's importance, he set that document down on the table before reaching into a drawer in which he picked up a stamper which he would use to stamp the approval of the transaction between the Reich and the PMC. After putting the stamped document into a different envelope and having it be sent to the appropriate location from where the funds would be immediately wired to the PMC which would complete the transaction. Already a piece of the over all plan had gone through smoothly as appropriate funds were wired to the PMC and a fraction of that would find it's self going through the various banks in the Golden Throne. From there, time would play the rest of the cards out and soon enough the Wehrmacht would see themselves off to the foreign lands of Geara.

Office of the Reich Foreign Minister, Reichskanzeli,
Voßstraße, City of Berlina,
Central Germania, United World Order.

Valentin Voelker was a very busy man as of late. As Reich foreign minister he was responsible for a plethora of duties related to foreign policy and international affairs involving the Fourth Reich, he regularly spent his day reading documents and letters sent to his office from foreign dignitaries across the region and outside of it. Recently he had been handling new foreign policy that had been dictated from the Party Office of Foreign Affairs which had passed new policies that the Fourth Reich would undertake as of now which included the alignment of the Ordenite Nation with the Estlandic Realm. It was in the aftermath of the recent wars in Kashubia and Holy Panooly that the Estlandic Realm began opening communications with the Reich, it looked to align its self with it as it was a nation of shared similar values. Voelker had regularly engaged in personal letters with the now Ambassador and Representative of the Estlandic Empress in which a interest in the establishing of a strong bond between the two countries was desired to be formed. Of course this was not solely Voelker's decision to make as these details were shared later on with the Party Office of Foreign Affairs and the Party Office of Racial Affairs which then would eventually find its way to the Reichsfuhrer. Of course the Reich was in need of allies especially with how the most recent conflicts turned out and with it's falling out with the Golden Throne and the dismemberment of the National Socialist State.

Not even the Kashubian Republic called the Reich their allies anymore as towards the end of the war, communications and therefore relations between the Republic and the Reich were cut. South Panooly was no more as with the capitulation of the Free Republic of South Panooly after the unconditional surrender to the Golden Throne and allies. Despite all of this, some good was still present with cordial relations with the Alemannic State in the west which were proving to become promising in the future. Now of course came the Estlandic Realm which were also informed of what was going on with the Kingdom of Geara, another potential ally that now was looking to be divvied up between a outside power and other opportunistic nations. The Fourth Reich was already planning to intervene in defense of the Gearan Nation soon enough and assistance from a like minded ally to achieve the same goal was welcomed by many in the Reich Party and the National government. Finally, Voelker would be able to officially respond to the request sent to his Office by the ambassador, accepting the plan of combining both of their nation's efforts to achieve a better Geara.

Die Amt für Auswärtige Angelegenheiten von Vereinigte Weltordnung

To: Rt. Hon. Pjetur Kristijansson
Subject: RE: Discussion for a Personal Meeting.

To the esteemed Ambassador and Representative Kristijansson,

I hope this reply finds you and your family well as I write this letter on behalf of the Reichsfuhrer, the Party, and the Ordenite State and Nation. Your request for a meeting on the matter of the Kingdom of Geara and the current events occurring is wholeheartedly accepted and I along with a representative from the Reich Office of the Affairs of the Party, State and Armed Forces will be more than happy to meet with you, Herr Kristijansson. You're welcome to this meeting being held in my office within the Reichskanzeli, transportation for you will be arranged along with any other needs you require.

Sincerely signed,
Valentin Voelker, Reich Minister of Foreign Affairs.

by **Finium** » Mon Apr 10, 2017 5:14 pm

The Grand Orchard

The rubble of polite society lay in undisturbed melancholy before Albert. Napkins and crumbs discreetly left under chairs were laid bare along with crumpled up papers and forgotten personal effects. As he surveyed the scene, wondering why such high-ranking members of the government could not be trusted to seek out a waste bin, the hairs at the back of his neck grew stiff, as though irritated by a draft. Instead of the innocent machinations of heat and cold, however, Albert felt the looming observance of Minister Alby. His less human instincts screamed for him to turn and face the predator sneaking up behind him, but his more stalwart pride stilled the ache of fight and flight simultaneously.

“I was surprised to see you bidding, Vladislav” she said, suddenly very close, but at such an angle that she remained invisible to Albert’s periphery. “It is uncommon to see these affairs attended by sovereigns, or even dukes.”

“Well, it’s more of an investment in the derivatives, Minister” Albert said, turning to face her, no longer able to bear the ferocious feeling of being stalked. “While I may have; no interest in reigning over a mill town in Geara, I do appreciate the value of distant territories to third parties.”

“It’s none of my business what you do with…” she stalled, as though searching a databank. “Ten comital regions of Aurum, one the auction is over.”

“Out of curiosity, Minister, I don’t suppose you know who the emperor has in mind for the Gearan monarchy?”

“I don’t suppose I would, nor do I believe you have no ideas yourself.”

“I think the emperor wants a Raval in Geara.”

“Very good, Albert” she said with tone of a schoolmarm, and pressed on “and why would that be?”

“The Gearans are a passive people, they don’t need Tor gauntlets to beat them into submission, and the Ravals need some sort of appeasement after the affair with their Queen and the righties in Burjistad.”

“Is that all? I know you play the idiot, Albert, but there is something else, isn’t there?”

“Ravals make good taxpayers.”

Alby’s impassive face betrayed no amusement at the recitation of old sayings. Even though Albert was baring some of the fundamental truths of rule in Finium, he had the feeling he was giving a student’s answer to a doctoral hypothesis. He stayed silent, waiting for the answer to come spilling out of Alby, which it inevitably did.

“It’s because he doesn’t trust you, Albert” she said, with what he thought may have been a hint of exasperation. “Herron was made Marquis of Atlantica because he was a Geraki and the last major title went to a Seraph. Grant was Aquenti. Lark, Seraph. Renner, Geraki. Long, Aquenti.”

Alby recited the names of the colonial lords along with their subimperial patrimony. Her dark brown eyes locked with Albert’s watery blue ones as the cards stacked against him, one after another.

“It’s your turn, Albert. Your nephew Marshal should be made Prince of Geara, but instead a Raval—probably picked at random—will be reigning instead. Your petty feuding with the emperor is going to cost your nation, your family, and your dynasty” having sufficiently chastised him, Alby melted into the corridors of the palace.

She was right of course; Albert’s longstanding dislike of the emperor had substantially weakened his entire family’s standing within the imperial hierarchy. The Uvarovs, however, did not need the imperial hierarchy to validate them. They were from long before the Torpor’s started their petty wars and would last long after it. These were steadfast, absolute truths in Albert’s mind, especially after he and his long line of patrimony had been denied the throne. He smiled at this, feeling the familiar tug of desire, a kind of lust for the giant slab of marble in the throne room. It was that tug that had led him to his current scheme. Selling off his titles in Aurum to Ordenites so they could rush in and seize the capital would destabilize the simplistic plans of the Ministry.

Albert started to whistle the imperial anthem as he kicked an abandoned soda can, sending it spinning across the room in a tinny giggle of excitement. This had been a good day.

Koln Ministry Building
Hallsind, Finium

As soon as the proceedings of the auction were complete, Aaron Hebron was speeding back towards the capital with a finalized budget for the occupation. The total cost was relatively low for this type of operation. While nearly a trillion dollars in various contracts, bids, and cost deferrals had been raised, the War Department’s cost estimates were sixty billion at most. The rest would be absorbed into the imperial purse, with a small amount also going to the Finian Teacher’s Association. At the Koln Building, Hebron was joined by a short, balding man with a sickly yellow complexion in a bright white uniform.

“Lieutenant General Barr, sir, 3rd Legion.”

“Barr… Barr…” Hebron said, running through the roster of the board of generals. “Yes, Minister Alby recommended you for this mission, have you been briefed?

“No, sir. I was ordered to appear at the Department of War just a few hours ago” he said, looking slightly peeved. “I had to catch a last-minute flight from Saturne.”

“I am sure you have not been too inconvenienced—if you will follow me, I will give you an overview before you meet the commander of the operation.”

At this, Barr’s eyes glinted malevolently. Commoners like him were often subjugated to inept, highborn commanders. The convoluted hierarchy of the commissioned officers always allowed for nobles to usurp the military achievements of their common peers. Barr had seen several acts of tactical genius attributed to his “superiors” in the high command, so it was a familiar slight to his pride.

“Who will be in command?” Barr asked stiffly.

“In practical terms, you will be, but you will report to Legionnaire General Ramith Kapoor.”

If Barr had been stiff before, he was now completely petrified. He stopped midway through the marble foyer and, prying his pale lips apart, managed to squeak out a question.

“I am to serve under a Raval… sir?”

“I believe they prefer to be called Carynthians. Lg. Gen. Kapoor is cousin to Jagir Imaran of Ganj, hence his lofty appointment. Is that a problem?”

“No, sir” Barr said, obviously deeply troubled. “It is my privilege to serve.”

“Not only is it your privilege to serve, but the Emperor plans on retiring you after this operation. He’s laid out an estate in the mountains for you.”

This lessened the blow of serving one of the hated Ravals, and put Barr’s slouching frame back into motion. They rose through the floors swiftly and remained silent until Hebron ushered Barr into a conference room with maps already laid out on a long table and several ministerial aids scratching notes on legal pads. The pens slowed and stopped as the two men entered and the underlings collectively mumbled the titles of their superiors.

“Your assignment is to take control of the capital of Geara, locally known as Germium, but to be renamed Imarabad once the assimilation process is complete. You are being assigned the 3rd Army of Geara, part of the Imperial Marque Company, currently commanded by Brigadier General Glaive.”

A map of Germium was rolled out by two aides, already resplendent with red lines and black marks.

“Two brigades of Finian regulars are stationed at Bridgefort, here” Hebron tapped a point opposite the capital. “The rest of the contingent, including the IV Airborne Corps are stationed in Germia, close to the capital at Fort Sideralus.”

“We anticipate that some of the mercenaries will remain loyal to Geara, as many as fifty percent could defect. To prevent the deterioration of the command structure, we have already reassigned likely defectors to Bridgefort. However, my analysis has a low margin of assurance, I encourage you to communicate with Brig. Gen. Glaive to confirm assignment immediately.”

The details came quickly then. In a furious succession of aides, the strengths and weakness of the capital were reported in succinct bullet points. The path of least resistance to Fort Sideralus was laid out for every weather condition and in the event of several very unlikely circumstances such as earthquakes and public insurrection. He was also handed binders of various density until he wished he had brought his own staff to haul the details away with him, but was assured that another group of general staff had been briefed and would report to him directly after the briefing was complete. Once the major points had been flushed out, the aides vanished and the two men were left alone together.

A knock, the quiet announcement of General Kapoor, and another moment of silence before Kapoor was ushered in. He was tall, dark man with a bristling mustache. He wore the old uniform of the Carynthian Campaigns, all crimsons and gold brocade, which had been out of style for the odd century or two. Old fashioned though it may have been, Kapoor still cut an imperious figure with large brown eyes and hard, serious lines across his face.

“Gentlemen” he said plainly nodding to each.

His voice, like his uniform, was tinged with an older version of the empire. He spoken with a Saturnean accent; a fabricated dialect of the common Seraphic taught to the aristocracy during the mid-twentieth century. It twanged like an out of tune guitar to the more modern Hebron and Barr, but they politely returned the nod. With a jangle of medals, almost invisible in the mass of embroidery, he crossed the room to look down at the maps spread out on the table.

“General, uh… Bahr? Your report” he said, putting undue emphasis on Barr’s vowels.

Barr, having just learned the plans himself, immediately set out on repeating them to his superior. He smoothed down the complexities and instead gave generalities and found himself saying “most likely,” much more than the analysis team. With glazed eyes, Kapoor stared down blankly at the maps, nodding periodically.

“In conclusion, sir, we expect a two to three-week timeline for seizing the seat of the indigenous government and a three to six-month period of occupation before the DAF takes over formally” Barr said, after at least an hour of explaining the strategy.”

“Very good” Kapoor said, before vanishing.

Barr had expected this; it was commonplace for commanders like Kapoor to be completely absent for operations of any scale. Tactics were better left to graduates of the military academies like Barr and, in a begrudging way, Barr was proud of the faith his slothful superiors placed in him. Kapoor would be present to claim the glory though, which already nagged at Barr. There was, however, little time to contemplate the great inequalities of life. Barr was already needed at Untar where a small naval convoy was waiting to transport reinforcements Geara.

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