Global Security (IC, Ajax only)
Posted:
Mon Jul 17, 2017 1:37 pm
by Arthurista
Global Security Conference – reception for attendees and press,
Henrician Palace,
Bayside,
Loweport
17 July 2017It 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.”
Posted:
Tue Aug 01, 2017 1:18 pm
by 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.
Posted:
Wed Aug 02, 2017 12:17 pm
by 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.”
Posted:
Thu Aug 03, 2017 7:40 am
by 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.
Posted:
Wed Aug 09, 2017 2:03 pm
by 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.
Posted:
Sun Aug 13, 2017 12:08 am
by Sante Reze
Rezese Embassy
Duxe Illeana Giarelli, Duxe Armand Cazini, Veiconte Gemma de Rossi
17 July 2017The 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, LoweportThe 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.