Global Security (IC, Ajax only)

[Arthurista]

Global Security Conference – reception for attendees and press,
Henrician Palace,
Bayside,
Loweport
17 July 2017

It seemed to Prince Michael that he had never worked so hard in his life. The year before, he’d thought that his final year exam as an International Relations student in University College Loweport was hard work. Having discovered a talent for the field, he’d decided to work for the subsequent two years as an unpaid part-time intern in the Foreign Office, while studying for a Masters degree. By and large, he’d worked to a relatively leisurely schedule – a couple of hours a week at the university attending lectures and seminars, a few days at the office, then it’s student parties at the weekends.

With the impending Global Security Conference drawing ever nearer, however, it was all hands on deck at the Foreign Office. Michael spent the first weeks of his summer holiday running errands, drawing up spreadsheets, proof-reading menus and otherwise working on a thousand different varieties of mind-numbing petty administrata which the higher-ups in the ministry saw fit to foist upon the lowly interns, even those who were supposedly part of the Analysis Team and thus normally above photocopying. He knew that he could have gotten out of it by the judicious employment of a quiet word with certain individuals. However, he also knew that this sort of thing isn’t looked upon very kindly, not least by his father. Reigning, he always said, is the family trade, and in the ultimate analysis it is essentially a very elaborate form of PR. Having reigned for nearly a thousand years, the House of Arthurius knew their trade by heart, and a core part of that is to never give the impression that one is shirking from one’s duty.

Still, there are other ways he could put his lofty station to good use. After all the hard work he had put in, he was determined to enjoy the fruits of his labour. And so, he had himself invited to the formal reception held at the great hall of the Henrician Palace for all the attendees to the conference. Built in the 16th century, partly destroyed by incendiary bombs during the Great Fascist War, then painstakingly restored to its full historic glory in the 60’s, the Palace is mainly a museum and tourist destination these days, when it is not used for occasions of state.

Michael took a Martini from one of the wandering footmen and relaxed into a corner. His father would giving a speech later, which he’d helped to write. He would also try to talk to some of the other delegates later who, hopefully somewhat disarmed after a few drinks, would be more willing to divulge some critical information. For now, he was content to keep a low profile, observe, and wait. Until, that is, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t Mikey, all grown up in a slim cut jacket and a … skinny tie. Not sure about that.” His sister, Elbareth Arthurius, Princess of the Shield, was elegantly attired in her blue grey Commonwealth Air Force Mess Dress, though she went slightly off-book by wearing trousers rather than the strictly regulatory skirt, as if to make a statement. It also features brand new shoulder tabs, featuring two bars, signifying her recent promotion to the rank of Flight Lieutenant. “Up to no good as usual, I bet? Scoping out the more eligible ladies in the Vannoisian team? You people in the Foreign Office have heard of the term ‘honey pot’, right?”

“It’s ‘know thy enemy’, isn’t it, my oh-so-martial sister? Don’t they teach you that at that planes school place our loyal taxpayers paid for?” Michael replied with typical nonchalance. “The more I time I have to observe my counterparts in the other delegations, the easier it’d be for me to obtain valuable intel when I go talk to them later.”

“Valuable intel? You mean her e-mail address? Or hotel room number?” Michael gave her a princely but discreet middle finger before deigning to respond. “Or what they think about the missiles-reduction proposal, or the wording of the non-aggression resolution. Things like that. Hopefully, they’re serving enough Martinis tonight that I can isolate and chat up one of the Liothidia or Merovinia team members.”

“Liothidia drives a hard bargain, but I think they’re fundamentally rational people. At least, I get what they’re thinking,” said Elbareth pensively as she sipped her own drink. “The Merovinians, though…they’re…”

“A difficult lot,” said Michael diplomatically.

“More like they scare the shit out of me,” Elbareth said with an ironic chuckle. “Do you think anything will come of this prodigious expenditure of taxpayer money?”

“It’s always worth trying to reduce tension. But prohibiting the deployment of surface to surface missiles between 300-6,000km range on the Balisarian continent? That will never happen unless both Merovinia and Liothidia to go along with it, and neither will take their hand off the trigger first. Still, it’s worth a try. Unlike an ICBM, due to their short flight time and flat trajectory, medium range or intermediate range missile gives you nearly no warning before the warheads land. Being able to blow away your opposition at the drop of a hat makes a first strike an all-too-tempting prospect.”

“Without the medium-range missiles ban, the non-aggression stuff is just so much rhetoric, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but at the end of the day, that’s what politics is all about, isn’t it? Power is the foundation, but perception is the superstructure. Never underestimate the moral highgounrd.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, we better go meet and greet. Duties of the host and all.”

[Leasath]

Global Security Conference – reception for attendees and press, Henrician Palace, Bayside, Loweport
17 July 2017

The Prime Minister and his entourage arrived roughly on time, avoiding any snafu and offense that might be taken at a 'fashionably late' entrance from the elected leader of the Vannoisian government, and doing as was required of their group for this latest meeting in Arthurista. Not that they were all especially interested, to be fair; the Prime Minister himself, who went mostly by his title as Duke of Périnesse-Toucourt, was not expecting any special successes at this particular conference. In fact, he was quite sure that the entire ordeal was aimed less at political detente and more at the opportunity for world leaders to be photographed rubbing shoulders and looking as if they were discussing the fate of the world at large. If, in fact, any such discussions took place, then regardless of outcome the conference would be a marginal success in his eyes.

Then again, he had come here himself rather than send a representative of the government. Though the Foreign Secretary and his friend Jean-Yves had been more than ready to take this particular flight to Arthurista, the idea was in the Hôtel Avoinet that there should be a more concrete presence at such a large and supposedly momentous meeting of foreign leadership. The Duke would have argued that sending the Deputy Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary would, in face, constitute a concrete presence but alas; once the Imperial Palace had caught wind of the arguments taking place at the seat of elected government, the Emperor had decided for them all.

"Alright there, cousin?" The Duke was shaken from his thoughts, and looked around himself. He was seated in one of the cars sent by the Vannoisian embassy to retrieve their party, along with his most important companions and colleagues. Looking out the front windshield he could see, past the small Vannoisian flags flapping on either front corner of the hood, a nearing palace. He blinked, and looked to the speaker.

"Quite alright, Prince," he murmured, allowing a small smile. "I am thankful that His Majesty decided to send you, you know; I hope you will make sure to let him know that."

"Oh, yes, yes, though you ought to tell him yourself," the Prince replied. Jean-Marc, who was the Duke Soilogne-Vitroluçon and uncle to the reigning Emperor Louis XIX, waved a hand as if to brush away the Prime Minister's words. "I am just here for window-dressing, my friend. Keep an eye on the politicians, as it were." His words provoked a small giggle from the star-struck woman to his left, who he turned to with a trademark grin that was almost identical across each of his brothers and even his late father; the younger generation of Niort-Parthenays was prone to terming it a side-effect of their genetics, but each man was ever adamant that it was a long-practiced look. Its usefulness was, as one might expect, boosted exponentially simply by the fact that the men were Princes, rather than especially dashing.

"Prime Minister, Prince, we have arrived," a deeper voice sounded from the front seats of the vehicle, one of the Imperial guardsmen that being a Prince of the Blood rated.

"Very well, then," the Duke said, and stepped out as soon as his door opened. He held out a hand to assist the woman that had been sitting next to him -- a deputy of the Foreign Secretary, until recently some backbencher who the Prime Minister was sure he knew the name of -- before turning to the high doors of the palace before him. Noticing that their contingent was not alone, he made sure that the Vannoisians gathered on him and led the group inside. All in all, it consisted of the Prime Minister himself; the Prince Jean-Marc, who was maintaining a far more serious countenance now that they were out of the relatively private confines of the car; that deputy, whom he now recalled was named Nadine; as well as the Minister's own daughter, Marie-Céline, who had agreed to travel with her father out-of-country at her mother's request. The quartet was also attended by a few aides and other administrative types, who were doing their best to act the consummate professional and spoke only when spoken to by a superior.

As they made to enter the palace that would be hosting them, they did not deign to notice the cars that had brought them depart; they would, ostensibly, be heading to the embassy, where a number of rooms had been made up or surrendered to the visiting host for the length of the security conference. The group simply continued on, and was quick to meet their hosts inside.

[Ghant]

“The Beast of Bayside”
Global Security Conference
Henrician Palace
Bayside, Loweport, Arthurista
17 July 2017

It seemed to Princess Jane that she had never worked less in all her life. The hardest thing I’ll have to do today is get this fucking corset on properly. Fortunately for her, she had help…in the form of her dutiful niece, Seraphina. The girl was the daughter of Jane’s late older brother Robert, and had the misfortune of being born after his death. Alas, she found familial comforts in the form of older kin, such as Jane.

As it were, the now sixty year old Jane still possessed the radiant smile of her younger years, the same laughing blue eyes and luxuriant blonde hair, though her figure was now that of a woman her age, though still lean. After all, she had to look the part, for she was no mere Princess of Ghant…but the Lady Protector of Arthurista, compliments of her husband, the Sovereign Lord Protector.

“My, dear niece, you are nimble with the silk laces,” Jane complimented Seraphina while she worked at the back of her corset. “Wherever did you learn such mastery of that refined art?” While Jane preferred something more traditional, like her blue dress with elaborate silk lace corset, Seraphina dressed in something more common for her won generation of highborn ladies. A golden gown that she could put on herself, no attendants required. Though, it’s not a proper dress if it doesn’t require assistance…

Seraphina was in many ways a younger vision of her aunt, fair and pretty with light brown hair that could seem blonde in the light, and quaint blue eyes. That was where the similarities ended, as the twenty year old girl was rather reserved and timid by nature, as opposed to the often outspoken and flamboyant Jane of old. The girl was far more intelligent as well, known to be booksmart and a quick study.

The younger woman seemed to look deep in thought, as Jane studied her in the mirror in front of them. The two were alone in Jane’s dressing room, which was a comfortable, not too large room full of an assortment of cozy furniture, dressers and tables for makeup and the like. There was even a wine cabinet, already having been plundered by Jane in her desperate attempt to get some Gaemarlen red in her system before the events of the day. So it was that while her niece laced the back of her corset, a tall glass of wine was in Jane’s hand, all the while sitting upon a cushioned stool.

“…Ghish Ladies School,” Seraphina answered her aunt’s inquiry. “Also service to my grandmother, Lady Alyssa Almana, Empress Sophia, before and after her coronation, and the Princesses Cassandra and Arietta, respectively.”

Jane laughed and tilted her glass of wine back, tasting the fine vintage. “Silly girl, it was a rhetorical question. Of course I know who you’ve waited on, as they are my own kin and peers, though I daresay that your grandmother is a woman that stands a cut above the rest. Her refinement is only matched by her ambition.”

“And is it not said that intelligence without ambition is like a bird without wings?” the younger asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Jane shook her head. “I’ve never claimed to be intelligent. Only refined. My father was an Emperor of Ghant, and as such I’ve merely lived my life according to what is expected of a woman of my birth and station.” That was partially a lie, as Jane frequently skirted any semblance of royal protocol in her youth, but naturally she wasn’t going to say such things to her naïve niece.

Seraphina focused on the laces for a time, before responding, “Arthurista is a strange beast, I’ve found. Here, it is expected of your family to work, and you the same, is that not so?”

Work. The word bounced around in Jane’s head like a stray bullet, ricocheting off of her nerves. “Gentries don’t work, Seraphina,” Jane snapped back, but not too assertively. “We have duties, chores even, but not work.”

“And cousins Elbareth and Michael then?” Seraphina continued to probe. “What do you call what they do then?”

Feigning humility. “Elbareth follows her passions, as you know. She likes planes, so be it. She’s a grown woman and I cannot tell her what to do. As for Michael, well, at least he does something that is less likely to get him killed, but even so, he buries his head in books like my father. A Masters degree, what use is that? A regular degree would have sufficed…and two years of unpaid internship in the Foreign Office, what for? Seems like a waste of time to me. Both of them could have been attending parties and balls throughout the world, mingling with their peers and evaluating potential suitors. Instead, this is how they wish to spend their time,” she laughed sardonically before gulping some more wine.

“Well, at least they’re not degenerates,” Seraphina allowed herself a subtle smile, which Jane noticed in the mirror. “Unlike some in the family, yes?”

Jane knew who her niece was referring to without having to ask for clarification. “Speaking of degenerates, who’s all coming from Ghant, or elsewhere in the family?”

Seraphina was in the know, apparently, and didn’t take long to respond. “The Prime Minister of Ghant is making an appearance, along with Minister Leonor Bozagua. I also know that the Prime Minister of Vannois and his daughter shall be in attendance, along with cousin Jean-Marc.”

“…So let me get this straight,” Jane frowned with a pensive look. “The only delegates coming from Ghant are that bumbling fool Nymun, Leonor Bozagua and most likely a cadre of diplomats? Where the hell is Nathan, or Cassandra, or my brothers for that matter? And Vannois…where’s Aunt Teresa? All we get is cousin Jean-Marc? God, had I known that would be our company, I would have started drinking earlier,” bemoaned the Lady Protector.

“Aunt Teresa is on the Vannoisian coast, hunting geoducks. She told me that, apparently, you’re not supposed to hunt them with shotguns and water spaniels, but only realized that after she tried in vain and realized that geoducks are not a type of duck, in spite of the name,” Seraphina explained as she finished tying her aunt’s laces. “And as for Ghant, well you know there’s a perception that the royals run the show, and that…rubs certain governments the wrong way. Especially the republics and the Liothidians.”

Seraphina gave the ends of the laces one last pull, and set them in place to complete the act. “There you go, Aunt Jane, all ready.”

“Too soon,” the Lady Protector lamented with a sigh as she drained the rest of her glass of wine down her gullet before rising from her stool. She put down her glass and finished getting her dress ready as she observed herself in the mirror. “Global Security Conference…hell, you could get every head of state in the same room together, and reach some sort of verbal agreement, and then it would all turn back to shit the following day. That’s how these things work,” she shook her head before turning around to face her niece. “Look at Liothidia…the Hechenreyts hate our family and act against us out of spite. Nothing that can be said here can change that, rest assured, dear.”

“...We should go,” the younger princess said with a glance towards the door. “You’re supposed to help serve as hostess, and no doubt Nymun and Leonor are wondering where you are. I suspect Uncle Gareth and your children are waiting as well.”

“Of course,” Jane nodded as she finished touching herself up. “Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” Having said that, she offered her niece her arm to serve as escort, to which Seraphina accepted. She led her aunt out of the room and into the hall, where the Lady Protector’s hem dragged against the floor behind her, obscuring her shoes. Together they walked towards the reception hall, where the action was set to begin.

Indeed, the Prime Minister of Ghant and his Minister of Foreign Affairs had arrived generally on time. The Prime Minister appeared as his usual self, with his grey hair long and wavy falling down past his neck and dangling just above his shoulders, his big brown eyes hovering above his wide, flat nose. He was dressed in a gaudy black and grey argyle suit with a checkered tie. Leonor was more regularly attired, in a burgundy business dress with her dark brown hair pinned back. Diplomatic aides swarmed around them like flies.

Sure enough, the Prime Minister of Vannois was lurking about with his daughter undoubtedly somewhere nearby. Jane did not care for the man’s politics, herself a far more liberal and progressive creature than either he or the young Emperor of Vannois. Things must be getting bad in Vannois if Teresa would go geoduck hunting on the
coast, Jane thought as she observed the man from afar.

Elsewhere in the large room were Jane’s two children, Elbareth and Michael, chatting amongst themselves no doubt about something vapid. She was tempted to approach them, but she hesitated. I need to focus on being a hostess, not a scrutinizing mother. Indeed, Jane found it ironic that she never realized what her own mother went through, until Jane herself reached a more…ripe age, as it were.

“Let’s go talk to Nymun, shall we?” Jane suggested firmly to her niece, who nodded her silent agreement, and together the two went to talk to the Prime Minister of Ghant. Nymun was as aloof as always, waddling around aimlessly as was his way in unusual settings. The man was no ordinary politician, to say the least, and his ascension to the highest position in government said something about the Ghantish people.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Jane said with a curtsey upon approaching the Ghantish delegation. “Mrs. Bozagua. Such a pleasure,” she told them with a forced smile. “So glad you could attend.”

The Prime Minister bowed, while Leonor inclined her head. “Indeed it is,” Nymun replied with his signature wide, toothless grin. “A see you have Princess Seraphina with you this day.”

Seraphina curtsied, while Jane nodded once. “Indeed, it is true. She’s here to visit, and naturally I couldn’t let my late brother’s child languish in the bowels of the palace while such an event as this was going on so close.”

“Yes of course.” A hearty chuckle, and then Nymun added that “your great-nephew the Emperor sends his regards and his well wishes. He seemed rather convinced that this is the sort of occasion best left to politicians and capable statesmen, though I suppose that doesn’t explain why I’m here,” he laughed again, “other than perhaps to reassure my foreign counterparts that I exist, and that I have a function.”

How thoughtful. “That’s reassuring. Let me guess…you want to spearhead the anti-WMD campaign, and you all believe that others will be more inclined to listen to you about that than the Emperor,” the Lady Protector postulated.

“…Something like that. Think about it like this.” Always one for animated speech, the Prime Minister made gestures with his hands in his attempt to illustrate his point. “We’ve never had WMDS, be they nuclear, biological or chemical in nature. Naturally as a result, we don’t believe such weapons have a place in our world of today or the future of tomorrow. Alas, other nations have them. Stockpiles of them, labs where they research and develop more of them. My goal is to convince other leaders to stop doing that, and at least agree on principle about a uniform policy.”

Good luck with that, Jane grimaced. You’d have better luck convincing wolves to swear themselves off of sheep. “I can’t image that will be easy,” she replied soberly. “Though I certainly applaud your effort.”

“The most difficult thing, I believe,” Leonor interjected thoughtfully,” will be convincing a nation that is already armed to disarm before someone else does. That’s part of the problem…governments might agree to give up their WMDs, but nobody wants to do it first, lest they put themselves at a disadvantage militarily.”

“Aye, isn’t that the truth?” The Lady Protector laughed, and stated,” it’s the river cliff dilemma. All the children want to jump in, but one want to be the first one to do it. Unfortunately, unlike children there’s no one that can come up from behind and just start tossing them in one at a time.”

Nymun’s expression darkened slightly, and he looked at Jane with a more pointed gaze. “I understand that Arthurista still has an arsenal, of sorts. I take it you’ve communicated your displeasure with this state of affairs with pertinent parties?”

Of course he was going to ask about that. “Now, Mr. Prime Minister, you know me all to well to know that I’ve been advocating disarmament for the past thirty years,” she replied, almost sharply at that. “You know how strong the military-industrial complex is in Arthurista. They’ve always chafed at me as well, given my politics. So yes, I’ve expressed my views, but that only goes so far. Besides, maybe once Rietumimark is properly dealt with…”

The Prime Minister wiggled his lips and furrowed his brow. “Yes, Rietumimark is the excuse that usually gets used, or Liothidia or some other such ill-gotten regime. They won’t disarm, so neither shall their opponents, and thus the vicious cycle continues until it ends, one way or the other. Hopefully not in bloodshed, but if human nature is any indication…”

“Then we should start drinking now,” Jane laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come, let me show you where the drinks are. Such an occasion as this calls for it, I believe. Enough of this heavy talk…where’s the Nymun we all know and love? I think he’ll come out with a few glasses of line.” Though, to be fair, a man that was seventy-two years old was likely to start getting grumpy eventually…

[Lacus Magni]

Pompilius
Henrician Palace
Bayside, Loweport

The Consul’s plane landed a short time ago, and now the Latin delegation to the Global Security Conference had been shown to their respective SUVs and were nearing the Henrician Palace. In the first SUV was Consul Alexander Pompilius and his wife Sophia, the latter also currently serving on the Cabinet as Chairperson of United Latium – the Senate’s ruling majority. While the Consul planned to be a key part of the Conference, his wife was simply along for the trip and would likely stay away from the negotiations of the conference unless otherwise asked to assist her husband. At least that was the Consul’s intention.

In the second SUV was Foreign Minister Jordan Pollius and Senatorial Private Secretary to the Consul John Daedalus. Pollius was a career politician, much like Pompilius. The man was in his mid-sixties and could hardly walk up a flight of stairs without his body threatening to keel over. In fact, Pompilius thought Pollius was going to have a heart attack walking down the plane stairs when they landed. Everything about him was unappealing to the Consul, but it was undeniable that Pollius knew how to survive, having served in the cabinets of three different Consuls since the mid-1990s.

Daedalus was a new face, not only as someone in a key position close the leadership, but also because he held the distinction of being the the youngest individual in the Senate at twenty-six years old. Pompilius’s first introduction to Daedalus was about a week after the official swearing in of the 40th Senate, when the freshman senator wiggled his way into a meeting with the Consul. Since then, Pompilius had challenged the young man, who quickly proved to be very resourceful, reliable and most of all loyal.

Daedalus often presented himself to appear shy and softspoken. But in truth, the Consul saw some of himself in Daedalus – a fact that made him all the more aware of the boy’s potential to cause trouble at some point down the line. It may have even been cause for concern with the Consul, allowing such a person so close to the inner circle so soon. But Pompilius was convinced that Daedalus’s time in the Senate would be short lived and would likely lose his seat in 2022, making this investment by the Consul a cheap and safe bet.

Then there was the Imperial representative sent by the Emperor, Prince Theodosius, Duke of Beroea. The Prince was Emperor Constantine’s uncle, and the younger brother of the late Jason VI Augustus. He was a stern and plain man, and certainly not fond of the Consul or politicians in general for that matter. The Prince had served as Lord High Admiral since 2007, and had been very well connected with high ranking members of the Latin military – something that proved useful for Constantine during Michael’s coup last December. Though thankfully, the Prince had arranged his own transportation and for all the Consul knew was likely at the Palace already waiting for the other Latins.

“I’m not sure why you brought that boy Senator...Daedalaeus? Was that his name?” the Consul’s wife Sophia mentioned to Alexander as their SUV neared on the Palace.

“Daedalus,” the Consul replied after his wife’s intentional error in the young Senator’s name. “He’s proved himself very useful to me so far. Much more than Pollius or Sulpicia who can’t even settle on the gendarmerie legislation or budget proposals.

“I don’t trust him, Alexander. And bringing him here is giving him too much too soon.”

“He’ll sink or he’ll swim,” Pompilius ignored his wife’s warnings.

“And if he sinks?” she looked over her shoulder at the other SUV traveling behind them.

“It’ll be better for him to do so here…a place where nothing but a few handshakes with the Liothidians or Merovinians will happen than someplace where anything productive will actually occur.”

“You think it’s pointless? Us and everyone else coming here.” Sophia said softly.

“I expect as much to get done here as much as I expect the boy emperor to stop rejecting my legislative agenda, but I’ve been surprised before. We’ve been surprised before,” including very recently, the Pompilius said as he thought back to the Emperor’s reneging on the his promise to marry Pompilius’s daughter only a few months ago.

The SUV carrying the Pompilii came to a stop outside of the Palace, with the second SUV carrying Daedalus and the Foreign Minister. Each allowed their occupants to step out and gather what they needed to bring with them for the opening moments of Conference. Meanwhile the minor diplomats and whatever security or aids the Consul had brought along as companions would see to the rest of what all they had brought with them to Arthurista.

The Consul was the first to exit his SUV. Already waiting outside of that SUV was Pollius and the young Daedalus. “Consul,” each of the men said out of respect for Pompilius. Pompilius adjusted his dark, navy blue suit jacket after stepping out. He was only fifty-eight years old, but appeared considerably older than he had only a year before. His hair was graying, with almost none of it’s youthful color remaining, and even a more stern looking face according to wife and daughter.

Pompilius nodded to each of them, “Gentlemen,” and extended his arm to help his wife out of the vehicle. He walked hand-in-hand with his wife for a time, but before entering the Palace, Sophia let go of her husband and took a drop back. “John, with me,” the Consul ordered the young Daedalus, who flashed a bashful look to both Pollius and Mrs. Pompilia while he passed by them. As Daedalus reached the Consul, the two men entered the Palace, followed by Sophia Pompilia and Foreign Minister Jordan Pollius.

---

The Commissioner
Henrician Palace
Bayside, Loweport

Florentine Verruscosi had once held an important role in Latium. First as the son of prolific Consul Felix Verruscosi, then as a Senator himself, later Lord–Lieutenant and even as Lord President of the Council and Lord High Chancellor for the short time when his younger sister Zoe was Empress-consort to the Emperor Jason. Not to mention Florentine’s status as a member of one of the wealthiest families in Latium. His time in the Senate provided him with greater connections and opportunities than most, including his entry to the world of Belisarian politics with his nomination to the Belisarian Council by then Latin Consul The Countess Rutupiae in 2014. Now his role extended to Belisaria.

Verruscosi wasn’t the first choice of Consul Rutupiae, nor was he the second choice, but all of his connections and the back room dealings of his close associates in the Senate and the former Conservative Party managed to get his name brought before the Belisarian Council during the 2014 High Commissioner appointment talks. And at the end of it all, Florentine was nominated as High Commissioner by the Council and soon after approved by the Belisarian Parliament.

His position as High Commissioner allowed Verruscosi to attend many high profile events, such as this impending Global Security Conference, as the High Commissioner was one of the chief representatives of the Community abroad. And for that role, it was expected that Florentine represent the broader interests of all Belisarian citizens, and not advocate for Latium individually. This same responsibility was expected of all members of the Commission.

The private plane Florentine had been travelling on landed recently, now placing him on the road to Henrician Palace. Accompanying Florentine from the airport was Prince Theodosius, Duke of Beroea. The two men hadn’t flown together, but landed at near similar times and decided to travel together to the Palace. Though Florentine suspected it was only so Theodosius didn’t have to suffer through traveling with the Senators. Not that Florentine believed the Prince cared much for the Verruscosi family, but they were familiar enough and that was likely all Theodosius cared about.

The two men spoke sparingly over the course of the short car ride to the Palace, most often about their mutual nephew, Emperor Constantine XX of Latium. While Florentine’s sister, Zoe, was Constantine’s mother, Theodosius's brother, Jason, was Constantine’s father. And since the divorce of Constantine’s parents, there had been little if any interaction between the Claudii and Verruscosi, barring for when Zoe’s children attended certain Verruscosi family functions.

However, Florentine respected Prince Theodosius for his actions and support of their mutual nephew Constantine in the succession crisis and coup. If it weren’t for the quick actions of the Latin military and even the Belisarian Community, the coup of Michael may have become an even larger black eye on Latium that it already appeared.

What struck Florentine as most surprising was a simple question from the Prince. “How’s your sister been?” Theodosius asked the High Commissioner just after the SUVs driver notified the men they would be arriving in a matter of minutes. Florentine couldn’t ever recall a time when Theodosius ever asked or spoke about Zoe, but here it was.

“She’s well,” Florentine smiled to Theodosius, but in truth, Zoe hadn’t spoke to Florentine or even their eldest full brother John since before March. “Busy in Castellum it seems, I’m surprised you haven’t run into her more.”

“I saw her about a week ago. She told me to stay away from her, because she didn’t need false friends any longer. I'm not sure where she got the impression we were friends,” Theodosius said with a plain face as he glanced out the SUV window. “She seems a bit more on edge than I recall. And it’s been months since her boy died, you’d think she’d be over it by now.”

“That boy was your nephew too, as I recall,” Florentine remained Theodosius, though the Prince only smirked.

“He was a fool. The boy’d still be alive if he’d only listened to me and accepted the pardon. I know she’s taking it hard, but…”

“...Zoe will be fine. I have no concerns that my sister is any different than she’s ever been. The woman loves her children almost more than any person I’ve ever met, so of course she’ll struggle when losing a child…no matter how foolish or mad they had become,” Florentine continued before trying to steer away from the topic. “What does concern me is this conference. It will be difficult for everyone to come together and do what is best for all the people. All of the people.”

“And you know what is best for the people?” the Prince asked bluntly.

“All I know is that I am here for Belisaria, and her people. What is in our best interest is peace, but I will not advocate for neutering the capabilities of our member states. Safety of the Belisarian people is paramount in these talks.”

“I suppose it would be difficult for your family to keep earning record profits from the smoldering ashes of Belisaria should things go awry,” the Prince stated almost mockingly, causing only a smirk from Florentine as the two men remained silent for the remainder of the drive.

At that, the SUV came to a stop while the Prince took a deep breath. “Are you ready, old boy?” Florentine flashed a smile to Theodosius.

“Aye, let’s get this over with,” the Prince stated after stepping out of the car and walking far ahead of Florentine into the Palace.

Florentine took a moment to gather a small bag he had brought with in and closed his eyes momentarily. The Belisarian High Commissioner looked to his jacket’s lapel and made sure his Belisarian Commission pin was properly affixed and then proceeded into the Palace.

[Liothidia]

Viktoria Von Carstein
Henrician Palace
Bayside, Loweport

Viktoria Von Carstein was a woman and politician worthy of her surname, she was the Erster Kaisier’s right hand, his sword and his shield; she also happened to be the most popular Chief Minister in decades and one blessed with a weak opposition that floundered in all attempts at counter-attacking against her and the National People’s Party government. In truth she couldn’t help it, she had Von Carstein blood running through her veins, and that blood was adored by the Hechenreyt dynasty.

While her brother sat as the Duke of Wittenland and as the Erster Kaiser’s Political Secretary, she sat as his Prime Minister. Previously many believed Viktoria to be too fragile for politics, losing her husband in a car crash during the 1990s, but she demolished that misconception such as she demolished her political opponents. After all, the loss of her husband left her with love for just “her children, her faith and the fatherland.” She was the Iron Lady, the Iron Chancellor and the Iron Mother.

In the SUVs she was joined by Deputy Foreign Minister Tadeusz Komorowski, Duke of Ciociszwa, one of her closest and wealthiest allies in the blood pit of Liothidian politics. The position of her, him, the Erster Kaiser and the entire Liothidian establishment was clear – not one missile, not one step, not one tank. Though, signing a declaration would suffice, at least for the PR.

What they really wanted, what the entire Liothidian system wanted was the dismemberment and utter crippling of Rietumark. After all, there could only be one power in the north. And with the crisis of Deweden fast escalating, she would be clear that either the “Coalition” accept Liothidian demands, or they would use the chaos to secure it regardless.

“You have his notes?” Von Carstein asked Komorowski as they passed through Loweport, the Anglo capital. The island nation that for generations represented the secondary, shadowy foe of the Liothidian realm. Arthurista and its navy, Arthurista and its petty obsession with the balance of power. A nation of shopkeepers, keeping the so-called peace of Belisaria. As nauseous as the Gentry.

“Yes, the Erster Kaiser is most clear” the Koscian replied, flipping through folders.

“Good, we need to speak his mind and represent his will to these people… I never like these events” she waved her hand, spitting almost at the car window.
“But they’re good for domestic audiences” Tadeusz replied, surprised.

“So is attending a pig market in rural Hosenfeld, and I much prefer them. Better company” she shot back.

“The Claudii dog and his pet wife are attending, so is some creature from Ghant” Tadeusz gave way to better judgment.
Rolling her eyes Von Carstein tutted.

“How tedious, why must we badgering on about peace and security, surely they know only Liothidia can provide such things, after all, we’re the bulwark against leftist radicalism, while these people scurry around playing games with populist parties, fringe groups, inequality and gay rights. So tiresome, I don’t know why I agreed to attend, you could easily succeed without me” she spat again.

“His imperial majesty asked. And who are we to even question?” Tadeusz lamented.

“Fair in truth. Is it true the Pope forgot to send someone?” she asked with a slight laugh.

“My Candreva friend told me that his Holiness did not want to insult the Ecclesiastical State’s representative by consorting with the godless and sinful” Tadeusz replied seriously. Von Carstein’s smile dropped, she prayed that did not include her.

“A wise man” she turned to the window, perplexed.

“We’re here madam” the driver spoke up.

“Thank you” she said swiftly.

“Shall we begin our torment Taduesz?” Viktoria offered a wry smile to Tadeusz who nodded emotionlessly, as ever the Koscian way. As the car rolled to a stop, she immediately climbed out, straightening her jacket, Viktoria took a deep breath, inhaling the Anglo air.

“For the Kaiser and Fatherland” she muttered, eyebrows raised as she and the Liothidian entourage headed inside.

[Lihnidos]

Global Security Conference
Henrician Palace
Bayside, Loweport, Arthurista

“Prime Minister?...Prime Minister?...Fotis!”

Fotis Raptis snapped out of the trace-like state he had been in since leaving the airport. Turning his attention away from the window and the streets passing by outside, his gaze drifted over the leather interior of the SUV the embassy had provided him before settling on the face of his colleague. “Yes?”

“Did you hear what the driver said?” the woman asked. A slight look of concern showed on her face before being replaced by a neutral expression.

“What? No, I didn’t,” he responded. He looked toward the front of the SUV, ready for the driver to repeat what he has said.

The driver never got to repeat himself. The woman beside Fotis did it for him. “He said we would be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh, good. Good…” the Prime Minster replied, turning his attention once again back to the window.

Silence descended upon the SUV again for a short time, only to be broken by the woman once more. “Are you feeling OK?”

He chuckled to himself. “I’m doing just fine, Agathe. Just fine.”

Agathe Pachis was the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs of Lihnidos. Appointed in 2014, Agathe had quickly jumped into the thick of it. She had taken control of the foreign ministry much unlike her predecessors, clearing out a number of holdovers from previous administrations, particularly those of Democratic Coalition governments. She had filled those positions with fierce party loyalists, most of which were qualified for the positions they were taking. There had been some backlash in the beginning, but none of it affected her. She continued the way she thought best.

“You seem unfocused,” she pressed. Despite what her opponents called a rough start, Agathe had excelled in her position. Having been the deputy to the previous secretary, she had seen firsthand how the ministry should and should not be run. She held no animosity towards her previous boss, but she had disagreed with several of his decisions while in office. She made it known that she disagreed and made several recommendations, but they almost always went unheeded. Being in his position now, she was able to push through her internal ministry policies and implement her ideas that had been useless prior to her ascension.

“I am fully focused on the task at hand, Agathe. I may not seem like it, but believe me, I am.” The Prime Minister was still getting over the fact that he had been permitted to attend the conference. While he was officially the head of the government, the reality was much different. Like all Prime Ministers before him, he was a glorified advisor. The Imperatrix was heavily involved in the workings of the government. She was the head of state, but she may as well have been the head of government as well. It was no secret that the National Assembly was held in disregard by the nobility, only being given a fraction of the power they deserved. As he had heard it described before, the National Assembly was, “merely a tool to measure the temperature of the populace so the monarchy can adjust their policies to avoid a rebellion.” The semblance of democracy was no more than a way for the nobility to better solidify their hold on power.

He had hoped things would have been different when he took office. He had high aspirations. He had made it one of his early goals to get on the good side of the Imperatrix. He wanted to show her his potential. He wanted to take a bigger role than his predecessors with less oversight and more decision-making power. He quickly found out she cared little for his hopes and aspirations. In hindsight, he saw how foolish he was being. Thinking that he would come in, on his first term no less, and immediately be able to change how things had been done for decades. She had treated him, he assumed, like she had treated all other Prime Ministers. She did not try to hide her blatant disregard for his position, nor did she play into the façade that was so often put up in public. She saw him as an advisor, someone who she could replace at a moment’s notice. She didn’t even give him a chance. At least, that’s how he felt.

When he had been informed that she had decided to allow him to attend this security conference he had been slightly shocked. He had fully expected her to go herself, or at the very least send one of her close confidants, and leave him behind. What caused her to decide against going was a mystery to him, but he assumed it had something to do with the fact that almost none of the other Belisarian monarchs would be in attendance.

Upon receiving the news, he had compiled a list of his most capable and trusted diplomatic staff, or, rather, had Agathe do it for him. He had gone to a multitude of briefings prior to departing Lihnidos, all of which dealt with the expected topics of the conference and the stances Lihnidos would take on them. Unsurprisingly, the Imperial Offices had sent over policy positions written up by the Imperatrix. The courier who delivered the papers, a woman who Fotis had never seen before, made evident in no uncertain terms that the policy positions the Imperatrix had provided were to be followed by the letter. No deviance would be tolerated. Not that he expected anything less.

“That’s good to hear. I wouldn’t want you to seem unprepared, especially when attending a conference like this one. Especially when we know that every move we make will be relayed to the Imperatrix.” Agathe, like all other government representatives attending the conference, knew just how careful they all had to be. Her concern was less for Fotis and more for herself. She, much like him, also had high aspirations. The last thing she needed was for Fotis to bumble around making a fool of himself while she was beside him.

“Quite right,” he sighed. He ran his fingers through his short blonde hair before leaning to his right so he could get a better look out the SUV’s windshield. “Those two up there are going to be watching us like hawks. There’s no room for mistakes.” Nodding to the SUV that was in front of theirs, Fotis referenced the representatives that the Imperatrix had really sent in her place. While Fotis, Agathe, and the rest of the diplomatic staff that he had brought were representing the elected government of Lihnidos, the Imperatrix had sent her own representatives. Two people who answered only to her.

The two felt their bodies pull forward slightly as the SUV slowed to a stop. Outside the windows stood the walls of Henrician Palace and its surrounding grounds. Fotis and Agathe exchanged a quick glace before each exited out their respective sides of the vehicle only to regroup on Agathe’s side. They watched as ahead of them two members of the Imperial Guard opened the doors of the SUV that they had been following. On the right, an elderly woman with light gray hair and a timeworn face slid out, rejecting the offered hand from an Imperial Guardsman looking to assist her. On the left, a thin young man with chiseled features and medium length dark brown hair slipped out, quickly coming around to meet the woman.

Fotis and Agathe watched the pair as they conversed just out of earshot. The elderly woman was Matriarch Fotini Stavros. While she didn’t look like much, she wielded significant influence among the Lihnidosi nobility. She was the head of the Matriarch Council, the body of noblewoman who advised the Imperatrix among a handful of other duties. She had been the head of the Stavros family for over thirty years now and head of the Matriarch Council for almost fifteen. She ruled the council with an iron fist and commanded respect and attention almost as well as the Imperatrix herself. Not only was she the oldest woman on the council, but she was also the one the Imperatrix trusted the most. It came as no surprise when it was announced that she would be attending in the Imperatrix’s place as the head representative of the nobility.

The young man who was with her was Spyridion Vasiliou, firstborn child and only son of the Imperatrix. Both Fotis and Agathe were baffled by his presence. At only nineteen years old, he was likely to be the youngest representative from any nation at the conference. Despite being the firstborn child of the Imperatrix, the matriarchal ways of the nobility meant he would inherit nothing unless his three sisters passed before their mother. Even then, it would be likely that the Matriarch Council would opt to reject him as heir if his mother didn’t have an opportunity to do it before them. While the council was a body of advisors, they also were the body that finalized who the heir to the Imperium would be. While the Imperatrix could name whoever she pleased as heir, if the council did not agree, they would not be the next monarch. The lack of titles and prospect of inheriting anything of note made him a curious member of the nobility to send.

As the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary approached, the two quieted their conversation. “Prime Minister, Secretary,” Matriarch Stavris welcomed. She, much like the Imperatrix, was not fond of the National Assembly and who led it, but she recognized it as a necessity. Keeping that in mind, she had no personal vendetta against the Prime Minister or his colleagues. They were serving the nation in the best way they knew how and she respected that.

“Matriarch Stavros, Your Highness,” Fotis greeted, bowing as he acknowledged them. Agathe followed his lead, greeting the two and paying respect with her own curt bow. “Shall we?” Fotis suggested, waving his arm out towards the entrance to the palace they stood mere feet from. “The sooner we make an appearance the better.”

[Rietumimark]

Henrician Palace, Bayside, Loweport, Arthurista

Small streams of light slowly filtered through the dirty, grubby, dust ridden blinds, gradually illuminating the grand master suite. Describing the bedroom itself to be simply large was an understatement, affront in the fullest sense of the word. The sheer vastness of the room, which was triple the size of what would normally pass for a master bedroom in a slightly larger suburb household in some richer foreign country, was dumbfounding. Similarly, the bed followed this pattern and was a specially made king triple-sized bed fit for the Emperor of Ghant or the Erster Kaiser of Liothidia. Magnificent paintings designed by some of the finest and famous historical artists in all of Rietumimark decorated the gaudy golden walls, whilst elaborate marble flooring reflected the sun’s rays; seamlessly, bouncing them in every which direction.

The resplendent crumbled silk sheets on the excessively grandiose bedding shifted into different positions as the owner of the bed unconscious body tossed and turned back and forth, seeking that ever elusive perfect position of comfort. The room was dead silent, which was to be expected of a place of this affluence, with the exception of the loud, short, unhealthy struggles of a breath from one of the two occupants sleeping atop of the mattress. With a sharp and heavy tug of the shimmering white sheet, it was pulled almost completely to one side of the bed, unveiling a slender naked feminine figure beside a much corpulent, older man many years her senior; that man being one of the most powerful, and yet completely incompetent, world leaders - Janis Ozoliņš.

Three well timed and simultaneous knocks at the vulgar door echoed through his bedroom, causing him to stir a bit - although he was way too hungover to move from his bed. So instead, he opted to let out a grating groan for however was knocking to go away. Thud, thud, thud, “Your benevolence, it is time to get up, it’s getting very late. Do you remember that you have a meeting with the Global Security Conference today?” Janis heard a soft voice, muffled by talking through the thick, wooden door, call out to him in a slightly anxious tone. The Paramount Leader’s response was to simply throw his pillow over his and pretend it wasn’t happening. I’m the Paramount Leader, not some child!

Dread struck down his body as he discerned the hinges of the door swing open and the footsteps of women’s shoes reverberate off the marble flooring and high ceilings. Between his weighty eyes and an alcoholically induced haze, he watched as a woman, as far as he could tell, strike across the room, in the direction of the curtains. No, not the curtains, please...please don’t open them. He slipped deeper down his bed sheets, bracing his eyes for a sudden increase of sunlight. As if on cue, he heard the woman open the long, dusty curtains. Rays of daylight poured through unabated, causing Janis to squint under his sheets as his eyes adjusted to the light. Beside him, the naked woman stirred, incoherently mumbling something angrily in a foreign tongue, more than likely lambasting Janis for opening the curtains.

“It is time for both of you to getting fucking up, right now.” the unknown woman snapped at the two figures still sleeping in the bed. Her tone, by now, was far from soft and kind, but deeply exasperated at the duo’s willful decision to ignore her. “Are any of you aware of the time right now, it’s nearly ten past six. You should have been up hours ago!” Janis listened as those dreaded footsteps draw closer towards his bed - petrified with fear. Frighten by the possibility of having to face the consequences of his abdication of his duties as Paramount Leader, his compulsive philandering, alcohol abuse, and ‘need’ to take drugs just to get through the day. All he wanted most was to stay in bed all day and party all night, leaving his loved ones to clean up the mess he left in his wake.

With a single, firm pull from a third party, Janis’ sheets came uncontrollably slipping off, into the floor; revealing he too, like his female companion, was in his birthday suit. “What the hell,” he grumbled as he struggled to sit up with what stomach muscles remained had yet turned to pure lard. The initial incredulous, impertinent look on his face soon into a smile as recognised the woman; his mother Belinda Ozoliņš. “Why did you have to come in so soon? I was out partying until, um...like three morning. A man of my structure needs his sleep. I am right, eh?”

Belinda wasn’t amused by her son, and in fact, she felt queasy having to witness his naked body. No longer was he the muscular soldier, the famous sportsman and triathlon racer of his past. But rather, he was a man who’d come to spoil as he grew older in life. Janis was morbidly obese, though he continuingly denied it, at 6’6 and nearly 190 kilos. His lifestyle of heavy partying, excessive eating and a decades-long pattern of substance abuse had taken its toll on his body. He had enlarged breasts and waistline, stretch marks covering almost every part of his frame. His skin was an unhealthy jaundice as his kidneys and liver slowly began to fail; further worsen by a fairly recent major drug overdose a year ago, which had left him with severe nerve damage in his left arm; leaving him unable to use several of his fingers. Nevertheless, he continued, like most addicts, his destructive lifestyle at an ever-growing cost to his health, the most recent victim being his man parts, which to work, required a significant dose of erectile dysfunction pills.

“Of course, but you have things to do today, son,” Belinda remarked curtly to Janis’ statements, neither looking him in the eye nor wanting to get involved a childish debate with her son. “Your whore needs to go as well,” Belinda said sharply at the nude woman, who was attempting to protect her modesty as she climbed into last night’s clothes, which had been thrown lazily across the room during last night’s fun. “I have shit to do and I don’t fancy spending all my time watching someone like you get dress.”

The woman, probably a prostitute or member of the ‘pleasure squad’, nodded apologetically and deferentially at Belinda as she rushed to get dress. She was about twenty and was of foreign origin going by her dark hair and eyes and darker hued skin. Within a few minutes, barely dressed, the woman spirited out of the room, no doubt to be escorted to whatever shithole Janis had scooped her up from. “Now get dressed now or we both will be late,” Belinda said in an authoritative tone.

Not dissimilar to a small child being shepherded by an annoyed parent to school, Janis begrudging conceded to his mother’s demands, clambering off his bed and stumbling over towards his on-suite bathroom. Snapping his hands against his face, he turned in the direction of the sink and took a deep breath. The whole idea of having to get ready nagged at him, why should he, when he could get up at the behest of other people. What was even the point of him attending the Global Security Conference to discuss ICBMs and WMD; whatever those things are? So he could just sit there bored, replaying pornos he’d recently watched in his mind why his mother and her friends did all the work. Who the fuck cares if the nukes? What’s the worst that could happen could some be fired, a slightly colder winter?

In a melancholic and leisurely manner, he had a showered, shaved, fought his way into his spanks, and climbed into crass 5,000 USD purple suit - coupled with an ostentatious watch, bracket, and pinkie ring. Ready, he nonchalantly sauntered back into his bedroom, carefully climbing over the dozens of bottles of alcohol, grotty used clothing, and other miscellaneous things which befouled his room. Not to worry, my servants will ameliorate my dirty room when I come back, whenever that will be.

The rotund figure of the Paramount Leader lumbered through his baroque palace built specify for a man of his station - taking his personal elevator down to the ground level; finding walking from the fourth floor to the eating hall to be far too much physical exertion. Waiting for him at the edge of the elevator, was the property’s napery, a mute - the result Ivan having her tongue cut out for ‘talking out of line’ - named Victoria; an older, kind looking lady who had known Janis since he was a small child. She beckoned him with her hand to follow her, which he did, to the breakfast table, where stacks of waffle with chocolate flavoured junkets and huge glasses of soda had been prepared for him in advance. Still buzzing from the end of a powdered line of cocaine, he nibbled at the food and barely made a dent into his soda.

“Ready to go now?” Belinda asked her son, emerging from a different part of the palace. Janis turned to look at her and noticed how tired she looked, deep and long bags around eyes and a general sense that she was far from being her normal 100%. Part of Janis felt some concern about her decline in cognitive and physical health he been watching over the past couple months; exacerbated by his own behaviour. But in typical Janis fashion, he did nothing about it and selfishly continued his destructive path. He nodded, rising to his feet, with the help of Victoria, he was escorted out to the palace’s driveway; where a Hongqi CA770 Limousine was waiting for him.

By abysmal standards of the Rietumish regime, the city of Ozoliņšigrad was a fairly modern and pleasant city place to live. Indeed, it was designed that way for the vainest of reasons - the political family name for which the city was named after. It had long been a bastion of support for the Rietumish Unity Party and thus, the RUP was quick to award this support by building up the once impoverished, large town into the wealthiest and economically prosperous cities within all of Rietumimark; a city whose living standards could rival than of New Laconia or Villeneuve. In fact, it was the only major city within all of Rietumimark that actually struggled with all the problems associated with traffic congestion; a major accomplishment when considering the country’s extremely loss rates of car ownership. The limousine past luxurious apartment complexes, built up shopping districts, and numerous restaurants on its way to the Central Planning Committee’s second home, the Ivan Ozoliņš Assembly Hall in the centre of the city. The weather here, unlike the capital, had been rather to the agreeable CPC, who much preferred warmer weather and subsequent opted to move the decision to discuss and approve the Five-Year Plan to Ozoliņšigrad from Slapjšzemesgrad.

The limousine rounded a curved corner and came to a gradual halt at the entrance of a large building. The structure designed with clear Southern Belisaria inspired influences and was built sometime during the reign of the Caesars. Or was it the Tsars, I always get ancient empires mixed up? Since its construction, the building - at the time a palace - had served as the administrative hub for the city and the surrounding area, not only for decades but centuries and present day Ozoliņšigrad was no different. A small honour was assembled for the Paramount Leader’s arrival, just large enough to satisfy Janis enlarged ego but small enough that it was a hassle to organise. They performed a salute as the Paramount Leader's car, much to the gratification of Janis, stopped and two men approached the vehicle; entering the limousine without saying a word.

The car came back to life and the duo began to talk to each other quietly; no doubt blabbering on about boring work stuff, Janis thought to himself with a yawn. Bored, Janis manoeuvred his body so no one could see clearly and ‘secretly’ slipped himself motley collection several pills which may or may not have included oxycodone and sleeping drugs to the best of his knowledge. Not look afterwards, he felt his eyes become heavier and heavier, before finally passing out in a drug induced haze.

“This conference is pointless and about as useful as that fucktard Michael of Latium,” spat the 24 year-old Kristaps Jr Ozoliņš, combing his dirty blond hair with his right hand as he spoke with his grandmother Belinda, who was positioned directly in front of him. He was clad in his blue and red Revolutionary Guard dress uniform, proud brandishing his Salvation of the Revolution medal which he’d was awarded for his actions during the Third Rietumish War. Kristaps was one of several younger members of the Ozoliņš political dynasty vying to succeed Janis - who was increasingly looking like he might die long before his own children would be old enough to succeed him - and prove their worth in the eyes of the Central Planning Committee members; even if that meant being stuck with babysitting Janis during the submit. “Like those fascist, zealots in Liothidia will ever give up the weapons that we’ll use against us and the free workers of Ajax.”

Janis stared at his nephew with bleary eyes, taking heavy blinks as he surveyed his surroundings. There seemed to be something different about the vehicle he was in, the slightest of details were off, the seats far more comfortable than he was used to...the windows tinted. He struggled to lift his enormous blunk up straight and gazed out the window. What the hell, we aren’t in Ozoliņšigrad?! he mumbled to himself incredulously.

“This conference provides us with an excellent Public Relations opportunity,” Minister of Foreign Solberg said, rubbing his four-day old beard on his unshaven face. He was one of the four delegates Rietumimark was sending, who included the Paramount Leader, himself, Belinda Ozoliņš, and her latest grandchild she’d decided to take under her wing: Kristaps. “Going to events like these allows us to blame the Axis of Imperialism for refusing to climb off their high horse and engage the free workers’ of Ajax in peaceful and cooperative relations-”

“What event...where the hell are we?” Janis shouted over Solberg, finally coming to wherewithal. He removed his gaze from the window and shot franatic, mistrustful looks at the vehicle’s occupants. “I am the Paramount Leader, I demand to know!” he yelled like a spoiled child.

Belinda, his mother, rolled her eyes. “Did you really forget that we’re attending some pathetic Global Security Conference in Arthurista?” she asked her son, her tone littered with saracism. Kristaps grimaced in embarrassment, while Solberg opened up a vanilla folder and pretended to be completely engrossed by it. “Remember, the thing I got you up early for? That I have been preparing you for the past two months. It is a forum in which the Axis hopes to steal the weapons of the people's’ revolution and bring about our destruction.”

Janis looked at her blankly. “Oh, I recall now.” Janis lied obviously to everyone inside the car except himself. He shoved one of his portly hands into his coat pocket and retrieved a small glass bottle with a white substance inside of it. He eagerly popped open the lid and poured a small amount upon the top of his hand which was balled up into a fist, pressed one of his fat fingers against one of his nostrils and snorted it. “Who's actually attending this..conference thingy?”

“To the best of my knowledge, your benevolence: the BC states of Latium, Vannois, Arthurista and the likes, Ghant and its Gentry hordes, our comrades Estoni and Merovinia and the imperialistic, fascists of Liothidia among many others.” Foreign Minister Solberg said to Janis, wincing in discomfort at seeing Janis shoot up a narcotic illegal in Arthurista. “You would like a far more complete list, I can pass you the CSS intelligence report on the event and its attendees?”

Read an intelligence report, that seems to be way too much work! “No, I’m fine.” Janis snapped at him, lining himself up another line of the white powder. “I wonder what hot royal baes will be in attendance.” he thought aloud to the car’s occupants. “Those Royals always seem to bring the odd, bod prince and/or princess to every international conference or event like this.”

“They do it to show off the goods to potential suitors of equal or greater station,” Kristaps said sighing like a parent might after answering their child’s same question for a fourth or fifth time. “It is fucking exploitation, the fucking barbarians, whoring their own flesh and blood out to advance their imperialistic wet dream of an Ajax unified under Gentry rule.” Kristaps shook his head forcibly several times to emphasise his disgust. “The sooner the red flag flies over ahead cities like Ghish and Saint-Nazaire the best.”

At that moment, the car they were in came to halt in front of the palace for which the conference was being hosted. Janis wiped his nose with the palm of his and tried to get out of the car; requiring the assistance of Solberg and Kristaps to clamber out of the vehicle; taking to a cane to help him walk on his own. He was promptly joined by Belinda and an army of aides and support staff - who followed him inside the palace.

[Estoni]

A Slave has but one Master; yet ambitious folk have as many masters as there are people who may be useful in bettering their position, true in some ways he thought as he recalled the quotation from one of the numerous "localisation" classes he had been forced to take before ostensibly taking a position in the Foreign Service of the Party. But also very false when one considered that the Party was both Master to all the people of the People's Republic and in the same breath Slave to the will of the people, an analysis he thought to himself to be patently false when one considered the corruption which plagued every echelon of the Party he had been raised to love and worship.

Again he wondered why these profound thoughts kept stirring within his head, then admonishing himself for believing his thoughts to be so important, he continued to wonder why. If he was not putting his mind to some fiendish problem, ranging from creating a legend for the latest illegal his comrades in the MDB had sent to Arthurista to simply seating all esteemed members of the Party visiting the consulate in such a manner they had equal access to the food and wine but were not forced to sit alongside hated colleagues and the inevitable arguments which would follow, he found himself locked in internal debate as to the best course for the future or the answers to the great philosophical questions. And with the typical brutality of his generation found himself finding a bullet to the neck often the best solution to these hypotheticals.

Focusing his mind he dragged his eyes back to the slim volume in his hand, the latest example of degenerate literature his office had received a Rezese knicker moistener of some delectable smut. La Rouge Femme de Porte Vito, an unimaginative name for a rather credible foray into the soft core pornographic novel arena. Hearing a soft knock at his door, he took care to close the book without breaking the spine or creasing the pages as he returned it to his bookshelf and buzzed the timid enquirer in.

"The chief has called for you again Comrade Rat" his assistant informed him for the third time in the hour.

"Fine Comrade Rakovic, I shall go but only if you let me take you for dinner one of these days" Rat joked to the burly and bearded brute of a receptionist he had. Rakovic made a little moue with his mouth then winked to the younger man who shot a thin tongue around his thin lips.

"Go get 'em Reptile"

Reptile thought Rat as he strolled casually down the corridor, taking care to greet everyone he met and and exchange greetings with anyone with an open door. Such wit it must have taken his fellow students to come up with that one when they learned his surname meant rodent in a foreign tongue, it did at least prove that men never grew up for it was not a childhood nickname but one bestowed upon him in the Air Force academy at the age of twenty one. It had then gone on to become his code name after his secondment to the MDB, on the logic that no one would use a common nickname as a code name.

And it was that secondment, common for Air Force cadets, that had lead him here to the consulate in Arthurista as Cultural Attache, but actually as head of the entire intelligence community in the country and thus was by far the most important man in the Consulate. That was why he had kept the Head of the Consular Staff waiting for so long, to show he was the master and not the slave whatever their respective positions said. Or so he told himself trying to pretend he had some deep convictions or purpose when really he was simply bored and did not wish to go on the errand the chief was surely going to send him on.

Ignoring the frantic secretaries pleas to sit and wait for the chief to be ready he strode into the mans office without deigning to knock. The chief always reminded him of his biological father, you could see the loose skin around his neck where he had once been fat but had since slimmed. Perhaps he thought a touch self-centredly that was why he deliberately avoided the chief to keep that memory deep down, after all even for the most committed member of the party denouncing your own father was likely to leave a mental scar. But Lucien Rat had been a revisionist, he had maintained his Catholic faith, he had refused to accept the party line. He had been old and still held to the ideals which had caused him to defect, ideals declared false by the party. He could not accept that yesterday had been a lie and only today was the truth, he had missed the very meaning of socialism and the constant need to advance.

"... listening to me?" Rat snapped instantly out of his thoughts and shook his head.

"Sorry chief my mind was on more important matters."

"More important than the future of nuclear weapons in Belisaria?"

"Perhaps not more important than that, but this conference is only about intermediate missiles and other petty matters. There is little to be gained by us having any presence there surely?"

"You're an intelligence officer for crying out loud, mixing with the bigwigs from around the region will clearly be of some use as will our being at this meeting. To even be invited demonstrates our importance..."

"Then why are you not attending and sending a mere attache in your place" cut in Rat cruelly. He knew full well the order had come from high above the chief and the man was just trying to do his job the best he could. The chief sighed.

"Leonid, you know that better than I do. You know far more than I do, you know full well I am just a face and you run this place. Can we stop playing games?" Leonid nodded. "So you're going to this damn meeting, you will mingle, represent your state and generally do what you are supposed to do. Now take my car and driver and do whatever the MDB has told you to do." And as the intelligence man left the office the diplomat called out "Try not to indulge too much in your little peccadillo if you could."

Leonid smiled and bowed his head to the chief as a small show of contrition for his rudeness, then strode out to the internal courtyard of the consulate building. He nodded to the uniformed man smoking a roll up and leaning on a smartish limousine. Well big car to be more precise, for the People's Republic budget did not quite stretch to true decadence. Well at least at these lower levels. As he climbed into the back he wished he had his Air Force uniform to wear, but here he was not supposed to be a military man at all so made do with a slightly shabby suit cut from the rough cloth his homeland was famous for. Well at least it gave the impression of humble solidarity with the proletariat.

As he was led into the palace he realised the deliberate snub his government had issued by sending him was magnificently rude in it's own way. He appeared to be the only delegate as the sole representative of his country, and by far the lowest ranked in the palace. Well he thought here goes nothing.

[Belfras]

Nicholaus Dimitrios
Henrician Palace,

Crowds stood at the street barriers, either to cheer or sneer at arriving world leaders at the summit, one which was likewise praised and panned by critics globally. Belfras' own national news service, the BNN, praised it as the first step toward global cooperation for peace. The fact that the news services across the world were split on their opinions showed everybody just how fragile these talks were going to be. The Belfrasian president, Nicholaus Dimitrios, pondered on that inside the palace as he stared at a portrait of a long-dead nobleman of Arthurista.

While the palace was indeed nothing more than an antiquated museum, it still served its purpose. Nicholaus smiled at the memories of being in his late teens going through these same hallways with his parents. A bench of sorts that stood rather oddly in one of the main foyers near the entrance was almost exactly where it was when he came through all those years ago now. He wondered how many young people these days would see that same bench later in life and think the same thoughts, which in turn made him wonder how many of the politicians or aides here today were doing likewise. The light tap-tap-tap of a pen brought his attention back to the present where one of his own aides, Captain Nora Ralias of the Air Force, was writing in a attendance ledger near to where he was standing.

"Captain Ralias." Nicholaus coughed for a moment, his throat dryer than he realised. "Marking yourself down into the history books, I see?" His humor found home in a small chortle from the short woman, who nodded a few times whilst finishing her signature. She barely met Air Force regulations at a fraction over five foot one, was denied entry to the pilots school twice and the BSA once for reasons that, when the bullshitting was done, was to do with her height. The gold wings on her service jacket serves as the finishing full-stop on that story, as did her own presence at the summit today. In the brief he got when selecting his aides today, he read that Nora had trained on the Continentals before swapping to the missile fields in Pelopanasia, finally commanding one of the fields personally. If the road she had taken over the last fifteen years hadn't earned her the right to stand as the Strategic liaison today, nothing did.

"With respect, sir, my signature is two slots below yours." Nora remarked. Nicholaus just snorted, "Touche, captain." he relented. Nicholaus' attention was drawn to the entrance as more politicians entered through it. He was tempted to ask the captain if she felt nervous being around so many world leaders, the only thing potentially worse than the nuclear warheads she's spent her career around. But the truth was that even he had some nerves bouncing around his innards. A wrong move could be fatal to the fragile relations the Republic has with the more extremist entities in Belisaria, and likewise a right move could open doorways once closed. His wife often preached to him the importance of choosing your battles, but she never mentioned what to do if the battle chooses you.

"This is your first time at something like this, correct?" he queried the captain, who had the composure to fold her hands behind her back and give a short "It is, sir." Nicholaus tightened his lips and nodded in understanding.

"And how does it compare to the missile drills you used to run? From what I recall of all the lessons I've been taught, you're only told after either firing the missiles or getting to your safety point that you're told it was a drill." Nicholaus furrowed his brows momentarily. He wanted it to be a light topic, but as he talked he realised it was going the other way.

Nora, too, frowned with Nicholaus for that moment. "It's true that we were only told after the drill that it was fake, which at first was nothing short of terrifying. In the fields we wouldn't have felt a launch if it was real and everything we were looking at was as it should've been. Aboard the Continentals the only thing that could've told us it wasn't real was the lack of splash alarms." she paused as Nicholaus frowned at her in question. "If an enemy warhead is about to splash - detonate, sorry - we get a warning to lower our blind visors to protect ourselves against the flash. The plane's hardened against the EMP with some protection against the radiation, so the flash is the main enemy for the pilot if we're out of blast range."

"And in comparison?" Nicholaus gently reminded her of the question. Nora blinked before realising she had gotten off track.

"Just as terrifying as the first time, sir." she admitted with a laugh. "These are people and not warheads, true, but a nuke is pretty simple. It does a job, and it does it in a set range of sequences. These are all national leaders, with some having access to warheads as well. One of them goes crazy and those drills I attended won't be drills." Nora locked eyes with Jakob Taylor, the President's chief of staff, and took the look on his face as a signal to make herself scarce. She gave a polite "Excuse me, sir." and made her way off toward the toilets.

"Descriptive, isn't she?" Jakob asked as the captain made her escape. The dry manner of the question made Nicholaus chuckle and nod.

"She is." Nicholaus agreed, "Perhaps it is a good thing. She knows her stuff and her history in the Air Force makes her a respected individual in that community. She's on the short list for the top-boss job for the squadron out here, so make the most of her."

The silence between them that fell shortly afterward was comfortable, or at least as comfortable as it gets when you're being slowly surrounded by world leaders. Nicholaus spotted a few individuals he had met before but largely was only seeing new faces.

"This is apparently some kind of meet-and-greet before we sit down and start cutting the meat." Nicholaus grumbled to Jakob. "Let's go find ourselves someone to meet."

[Sante Reze]

Rezese Embassy
Duxe Illeana Giarelli, Duxe Armand Cazini, Veiconte Gemma de Rossi
17 July 2017

The architecture in Loweport was never something that visiting Rezese could properly appreciate. Something about it bothered Illeana, and she couldn’t really put a finger on what it was. It was her first time in the country, so there hadn’t been any time for her to get used to any of it.

“Too bricky?” she wondered aloud.

Her companions, the Rezese ambassador - a veiconte of honorary title due to her position - and Duxe Cazini, the second youngest duke in Sante Reze aside from herself, both chuckled. The veiconte smiled and said, “The architecture? Yes, every Rezese seems to think so. Just remember, a lot of it is hundreds of years old, so there’s something to respect there.”

It was true. Rezese continually destroyed and rebuilt every few decades and had very little old architecture left over from even one hundred years ago, much less several. San Gianpiero was one of the few exceptions - its old town - but she had never actually been there, not since she was thirteen anyway.

Duxe Cazini scoffed, “Moldy framing and crumbling bricks getting replaced constantly in the name of tradition and damn any safety regulations isn’t what I would call respectable, Gemma.”

Of course he wouldn’t, Illeana thought. Armand was from a family obsessed with modernization, born of their media empire that insisted on always being cutting edge. They owned half the networking infrastructure in northern Sante Reze and didn’t like running it into old buildings. Naturally, they had a dozen construction and contracting subsidiaries somewhere in their deep web of a megacorporate hierarchy.

Gemma smiled politely but otherwise ignored the comment, preferring instead to usher them toward the door with a diplomatic, “We’re going to be more than fashionably late if we don’t get going.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a back door we can use to avoid everyone looking for heads of state?” Illeana asked, leading the way through the door with the help of the veiconte’s hand softly brushing her forearm. She smoothed the sides of her dress and crossed her arms, adding, “And maybe we can get a coat or two? It’s always freezing in these things.”

Henrician Palace, Bayside, Loweport

The crowd was unavoidable, but at least they were looking for more obviously important people. The Belfrasian president, the Lihnidosi prime minister, a Ghantish princess… And thank God for that, Illeana thought, because internationally she was still “that girl whose family was massacred” and that was the only reason she had any power.

Then there was the whole “possibly murdered her husband” story that the tabloids loved to bring up any time she did anything to make the news. God forbid anyone let her get through being a widow and come back the other side of it and move on. Some even criticized her mourning clothes - violet rather than black, but of course the cultural importance of the violet didn’t matter up until, of course, she stopped wearing that and started wearing a variety including black. Then somehow they learned, and now black was ridiculous to them.

Unfortunate as that was, she had opted for black for the conference. It was formal, and it went with everything, even an arrogant media mogul wearing a blue suit with so many layers that he would have suffered heat stroke within minutes back home. The veiconte was dressed more like him than her - she had a suit, though with fewer layers, something more suited to Sante Reze than here with a bit more skin visible both around and through a sheer shirt.

While being the odd one out in her trio, she probably also blended in the most, which was just how she liked it with paparazzi about. Getting past them, and they were home free to deal with heads of state and government, attaches, and other diplomatic notables, which she felt much better about, especially as the veiconte was the primary representative despite her far lower title.

“Well, the Belfrasians did come,” Gemma whispered to them in Rezese as she accepted a few hands in passing and tilted her chin in acknowledgement of someone she must have known but apparently did not want to physically greet. “They have a large stake in nukes here, but they probably won’t be any more hostile to our position than anyone else. That is, of course, just to say that everyone else will be just as hostile.”

It was true: no one liked to discuss disarmament. That way, madness lay, and yet the Consiglie and the ducal conference had decided to motivate two duxes to do so anyway. The youngest, of course.