Patria Delenda Est (IC | TWI ONLY | CLOSED)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]


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Founded: Dec 11, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Sat Feb 09, 2019 4:34 pm

West Barnsley Industrial Estate, Nolon City, Noronica

Joshua could not remove the image of this morning out of his mind. Overnight, the entire city had entered into mass hysteria, with much of the population packing their bags to escape to the country, while many remained to protest or riot around the city. Joshua had been awoken to screaming and a bottle being thrown towards his bedroom window. When he drew the curtains back, he was faced with his greatest fear, a protest on his very doorstep.

The lack of order terrified him. He despised the primal desire to rebel and to propagate one's own ideas, the desire that made countries fall into decadence. He had sought to fight this urge, to unite all Noronnicans under his wing to lead them. He had not seen how blind they were, how utterly without vision they were. The raw fear held by many of his colleagues in the Federal Assembly had pressured him into a military blunder, and now his enemy was free to move against the capital. Joshua clenched his fists. Now they came to his doorstep to blame him for his failures? He had done no wrong, it was them. Those that chose to hide when their country called, and and then would crawl out of the woodwork when their country lay dying.

Resting his head against his car door, he stared out into the distance. He recalled a time when politics had been so much easier when people were inclined to actually fear his presence. His time in the Bureau of Internal Security had earned him respect. He knew people then, he knew he could call on them for favours, and they knew to fear him. Now as Prime Minister, he found that the old ways no longer worked, and yet he stubbornly held on to them. He would return politics to the old ways when this was over, he vowed, clenching his fists tighter.

He wrestled his thoughts away from revenge and instead began to wonder on the meeting he was having today. The Prince had sounded rather urgent in his call, he was vague but Joshua surmised that the boy was getting too deep into this mess and would need to be given a firmer guiding hand. Joshua had to admit that Prince Trystan was extremely important for his own legitimacy as Prime Minister, as if he had a legitimate Overlord in his pocket, the country would be stable again. Joshua despised the necessity for a trump card this valuable, yet no conflict was ever entirely clean for either side. Both had their weaknesses.

Joshua began focussing outside, a frown slowly appearing on his features. This was not the palace. He had expected a detour out of the city certainly, yet this was in the suburbs of Nolon. "Where are we going, Gordon?" He asked, his voice inquisitive yet cautious.

Gordon looked at the rearview mirror to address the Prime Minister, "The Prince instructed us to take you to a more private spot, so as to ensure the protesters don't disturb the two of you."

Joshua rolled his eyes, the boy's fetish for detective novels was ridiculous. Smirking, Joshua spoke with a mocking tone, "Come now, surely we can re-arrange for a closer place to home? I do not have much time to spare for this meeti-"

Gordon interrupted, his voice oddly curt, "He insists."

That threw Joshua, as he did not know his drivers to ever speak back to him in such a manner. He suppressed his intuition and shrugged. This situation was not entirely average, and Gordon was most likely concerned about his own life in the city rather than for Joshua’s meeting. Joshua allowed the car to lull into silence, opting to see exactly where he was being led.

"We're here sir." Gordon said shortly afterwards, rolling the car to a halt beside a large warehouse. Before Joshua could reply, he cut in once more, "The Prince is waiting in the central building."

Getting out of the car slowly, Joshua eyed the warehouse and felt a sense of dread creeping up his spine. A thought occurred to him, usually his drivers were instructed about only the location, due to their lack of clearance. They were certainly not given specific details on the meeting. His eyes widened, "Hang on. Gordon, since when were you in contact with the Prince?"

Gordon spoke in a monotone, his eyes staring into Joshua's, "The Prince insists you join him immediately."

Joshua was truly becoming concerned, yet he had the creeping suspicion that Gordon would not follow his orders now that they were here. It seemed that this meeting would be certainly very important. Swallowing his gut feeling to run, Joshua nodded and turned to walk towards the warehouse doors. Before he entered, he frowned slightly. He remembered this warehouse, but he could not place why.

Pushing the doors open with a little exertion, he revealed a dimly-lit warehouse. At the centre, were two metal chairs placed with careful precision. Walking swiftly towards them, he decided that he would need to have a discussion with the Prince on his abhorrent behaviour.

Sitting in his chosen chair, he pulled out his phone from his jacket pocket and swore, "No bloody signal, of course."

Fortunately for Joshua, he did not have to wait long, as he soon heard the clicking sound of shoes coming behind him. "Your Highness," he said as he turned around, "I believe that you have some explaining to do." His speech came to a sudden halt as his eyes came into contact with the end of a silencer.

The voice of Prince Trystan came from in front of him, "I believe so as well, in fact, I believe this discussion should be rather enlightening."

"What the hell is going on?!" Joshua spat, his eyes smouldering with anger. He tried to see where the Prince was, yet the shadows encompassed much of the room. "Where are you!" He shouted, his panicking eyes darting around.

The figure of Prince Trystan walked forward, emerging from the shadow. "Here." He whispered.

"Were we not about to discuss our mutual agreement? I fail to see why a silenced pistol is involved!" Joshua said quickly, his fists clenching as if ready to tear Trystan apart.

The Prince had the audacity to smirk, his eyes flashing with mirth, "That was simply to draw you here. I am afraid that our mutual agreement is now at an end, and so, forthwith, we shall dispense with all falsehoods. Firstly, that of my support. I am afraid that the situation in the country demanded strong leadership, and you failed to meet the expectations that your supporters held."

The realisation hit Joshua, he recognised those words. "McTavert," he whispered. "McTavert, you chose him and his cronies?! You know full well that the man will send this country into disarray, he is a moronic fool!"

"He is rather arrogant, isn't he?" Trystan chuckled, "Well if it is any consolation, he is not to be the one to lead the country in your stead. Here is the man that was chosen in your place. I believe you know him." Trystan beckoned the figure of another lurking beside Joshua.

"McIntosh." Said the man said coldly, "How nice it is to see you again."

Joshua's eyes were wide with shock and betrayal, his voice dripping with searing rage, "Montague. You lying, two-faced bastard. I knew you had ambitions, you practically wore them on your fucking sleave, but to see this level of betrayal..." He stood suddenly, ignoring the sound of the gunman behind him tense, "I fucking made you Montague. I. Made. You. It was under my recommendation that Arván was to be under your control. I give you the frontier territory and you choose to plot against me? Whoring yourself out for power?"

Trystan interrupted, "Now now Mr. McIntosh, that is no way to address the interim Prime Minister." Seeing that Joshua was about to respond, Trystan held up his hand to speak, "No more. This needs to be done quickly. Joshua McIntosh, through the power vested under my authority as Mayor of the City of Nolon, you are under arrest on the suspicion of high treason. You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do or say during this arrest may be given in evidence."

For the briefest moment, it appeared that Joshua was about to launch himself at Trystan. Trystan tensed, he had thought the gunman would have been enough. There was a second of tension as the room braced for a fight, yet with a sudden jolt, the doors were thrown open, and all the attention in the room turned to the flashing blue lights and armed policemen entering the warehouse. It was Montague who addressed them, checking a message on his phone, "Riverside Police Station, Founder's Park. A cell has been prepared for him there."

"And thus it ends." Joshua whispered to himself.
Last edited by Noronica on Sat Feb 09, 2019 5:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Dormill and Stiura » Sat Feb 09, 2019 5:23 pm

The look of complete despair on McIntosh's face when the doors were thrown open would have been a perfect opportunity to snap a picture, if it wasn't for the implications it had on either Montague or the unexpected guest in Prince Trystan, or the fact that neither of the agents there had access to their phones at that particular moment. But right there, as Nolon Police were slapping the cuffs on the now disgraced former Prime Minister, the men saw the fruits of Dormill and Stiura's labors. Nobody entered this expecting things to go this way, but this would only be the beginning of what was to come.

"Team 1, Target 1 secured.", the lead agent said into a radio, "Ready for instructions."

"Team 1," a second voice began, "Execute him discreetly, you're too close to go loud."

"Copy, Team 1 out."

The passenger of the truck disembarked as Trystan read the rights, opening the doors of the truck as McIntosh was loaded and then jumped in after him. The muted sounds of sirens wailed in the back end of the truck as they pulled away. The agent looked coldly at McIntosh, the shame on his face being washed in tears.

"So this is the fabled Prime Minister of Noronica.", he began in a thick Avillonese accent, stirring attention from McIntosh, "Barely served a year before you thought to seek even more power. Pathetic."

The men kept their gazes on each other as the truck continued on its way at the center of a vast convoy that cut through the crowds in Nolon City. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?", the agent eventually goaded, "Or are you finally showing your true colours to me?"

After more time of no response from Joshua, the agent stood up and, after some effort, managed to walk up to the disgraced man before him, recovering a syringe with a clear liquid filling it to the brim, "If you're praying to God right now ..." he said as he pierced McIntosh's skin, "... you might as well pray to save me a space in Hell right beside you.", injecting him with the contents and leaving him to wallow in whatever misery will follow over the next few hours.

By the time they got to the station a few moments later, news crews had surrounded the truck with everybody clamoring to take pictures or videos of the former Prime Minister at his lowest state as he was dragged inside. After dealing with their cargo, yet another undercover car came by to the station, its occupants beckoning the two agents in. They silently got in, and left the station, nobody decided to speak a word the entire drive through Nolon towards the Bureau safehouse, where Team 1 would remain until the time came to Exfil. All that was left at this point was for Team 2 to finish its mission, and truly bring an end to the madness that was the Winter of Discontent.
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Founded: Dec 11, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Mon Feb 11, 2019 2:53 pm

Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

In other nations, revolutions were glorious events, with tales of their heroes' deeds putting even the greatest of historical epics to shame. Throughout human history, rebels were treated with great admiration, due to their seemingly endless supply of humanity and a desire for individuality. In Noronica, however, there were no heroes, and victory was certainly far from anyone's minds. Noronica's new leaders were not the men and women written in grand texts with the names scripted in gold, instead, they were at war with one another. Every room of the Overlord's Palace became a battlefield, as officials scrambled to carve a name for themselves in history. Each wanted to be the one that brought an end to the war, they all had such pretty ideas of peace or a new patriotic surge of government forces.

The new Prime Minister, Lord Bartholomew Montague, watched as his time in office collapsed around him. His greatest desire had been to be handed sole power over Noronica, yet it came at a price. Total chaos. The protests in Nolon had all ceased, instead replaced by riots and looting. Those that chose not to remain and partake in the anarchy chose to leave the city, finding refuge with their families in the countryside. All Montague could do was hold his head in his hands and try to wish it all away.

What angered him greatly, was the fact that the enemy had entrenched themselves outside of the city. They had not moved, instead choosing to remain silent and uncommunicative. The irony was that the soldiers forced to sleep in fortified camps were likely more comfortable than he, as Montague would never have thought that the Overlord's Palace would feel so oppressive. Ever wall had ears, and even his bed chambers would allow him to hear the screaming between generals and politicians.

Prince Trystan was, yet again, playing host as what was effectively his palace became the central Government offices. This meant that the grand dining hall became something of a fast food restaurant as the kitchens pushed out unimaginable amounts of food for all the various officials that had taken refuge within the palace walls.

It seemed that during this crisis, every aspect of the state chose to come out of the woodworks and ask for more resources, a privilege that Montague did not have. The police and Bureau of Internal Security were being pushed to their limits attempting to restore order to the capital, yet according to the Department for Healthcare, Education, Culture and God knows what else, their needs were vastly more important than the law-enforcers. The political infighting was not the worst aspect, but the private sector, as Montague was faced with the threat of companies moving their headquarters to Lovsk. He knew that in some cases that was a bit of an empty threat as Lovsk was generally unstable, but for the larger companies such as Athara Magarati companies with stupid amounts of money, their threats were serious.

Sitting in bed, his covers around him, Montague let out a tremendous sigh. The palace was relatively silent, and he could afford to look around him and appreciate the majesty of it. It truly was a stunning sight to behold. He suspected that the Prince had given him one of the many guest rooms, yet even they held a beauty to them. Grand tapestries adorned the walls, and a large colonial map of Myagdi Island was proudly fixed behind his bed.

He was slowly lulling into sleep when a sharp screeching ringtone permeated the air around him. "Fuck!" He blared, waking his children who were sleeping in beds close to his. Ignoring their questions, he snatched his phone from his bedside table and angrily pressed it to his ear, "What?" He snapped.

The voice that responded was his personal secretary, who had been shipped over to the mainland yesterday, "Sir, you have been requested by your colleagues to join them in the Federal Assembly. My apologies, but I was not given very much information. A driver is awaiting you."

Montague mumbled a short agreement and put the phone down. With a sudden burst of energy, Montague rushed to the shower.

Federal Assembly, Nolon City, Noronica

The Federal Assembly chambers were in utter pandemonium. Alisdair Flanders had been one of the first to arrive, reserving his seat in the Federal Council chamber before his colleagues and members of the Prefectorial Council rushed to enter the room and find a seat. Despite this thinking, Alisdair was soon assailed by many of his colleagues who wanted to reserve a front seat to the event. He fought them away, yet he understood their eagerness. This was their first assembly in weeks, and no one had been informed of what was going on, other than a select few assemblymen.

They had been invited to join for another gathering for vague reasons, yet what was interesting to many that said reasons included a possible parlay with the rebel forces. The prospect of meeting with the other side and putting the whole conflict to rest was certainly a seductive idea for many assemblymen, especially if their name was stamped on the agreement.

"Are you ready to treat with tyrants?" Came a voice from behind Alisdair. Turning his head, he saw Jonathan Montague sitting behind him. The son of the new Prime Minister wore a fatigued expression. Alisdair could say that he certainly felt the same, as the two wanted nothing more than to return Noronica to its original, stable state.

Alisdair hummed in agreement, "It seems that needs must. It seems we are the mere playthings of greater men than ourselves."

Jonathan grabbed Alisdair by the shoulder and fixed him with an intense glare, "We must not succumb to this madness. The future of our country rests in the hands of its people, and power must be afforded to them."

"Jonathan, the very nature of modern Noronnican politics of a whole slew of people vying for absolute power. I used to have a resolve but it seems to have wained away from watching this mess." Alisdair said with a demeaning tone. Despite his confidence, Jonathan's attitude was worrying him. The young man had a crazed look in his eyes.

"We must not suffer tyrants." Came the whispered reply as the chamber quietened with a new entrance. Alisdair could see that the nation's interim Prime Minister had arrived. Lord Bartholomew Montague was a disappointing man. He was easily read and kept his cards on the table for all to see, all the while polluting the air with his arrogant gait. However, Alisdair could now see the haunted look in Montague as he near stumbled towards the central dais.

The Speaker, seeing that all had taken their place, stood to make his address, "The nation has seen a division that it had not seen for decades. We all here today, wish to find some resolution to put the matter to rest and finally return the nation to normality. You were gathered here today through the wishes of some of your number, to treat with the rebel forces. In this spirit, I wish to invite," he paused, his voice faltering, "Tytus Alexander."

The doors were thrown open by Federal Assembly guards, allowing the man in question to repeat the action that historians would argue was the defining point of this conflict. The room seemed drawn to the man, as every pair of eyes turned to stare at him, at his audacity to march through the chamber towards the dais, as he did all those months ago.

While Lord Montague had grown weary, it seemed that Tytus was full of vim and vigour, as his entire being seemed to radiate with energy. He was dressed in full military regalia, fitted crisply to his frame. Perhaps it was the work of a perfectionist aide, yet Tytus appeared resplendent before the assembly. He fixed them all with his gaze, his eyes landing on several significant figures.

He took his time, allowing the audience to naturally draw themselves in, awaiting his speech. When he finally spoke, it was with a solemn, powerful tone, "Honourable ladies and gentlemen, Federal Assemblymen, I appear before you today to bring an end to this most terrible conflict that has driven our great nation apart. It is through the blood and tears of people greater than us that we have suffered this long. I call now for peace and prosperity, to prevent our nation from destroying itself further." He paused, watching as many assemblymen nodded to this reluctantly, "I see that many of you are inclined to agree. It gladdens me to see such a desire for peace among my compatriots. Despite our differences, we must unite to resolve this conflict, and it is my wish that we may all reconcile. Therefore, I call for an end to this conflict forthwith and amnesty to be made between our two sides."

Many assemblymen joined together in applause, taking this as a laying down of arms. The conflict would end and they would all return to peace, as Tytus recognised his wrongs. Standing abruptly, Lord Montague quietened the applause and addressed Tytus, "I take it then, that you shall lay down your arms and submit yourself for arrest?"

"Ah," Tytus exclaimed, "it seems you misunderstood." He turned to address the chamber once more, "To resolve this conflict, the country must be brought to peace under competent and legitimate leadership. It would also be prudent to undergo all measures necessary to restore order to the streets of our cities and return our industry to its fullest capabilities." With a dangerous glint in his eye, Tytus extended his hand towards the doors and gestured.

With speed, a small unit of troops thundered into the chamber, marching towards Tytus. Several assemblymen began to panic, with some attempting to leave the room. This was met with soldiers levelling their rifles with said attempted escapees. Tytus continued to speak above the panic, "Under my authority as Overlord of Noronica, due to my position never being lawfully taken from me, I am declaring a State of Emergency according to the Special Provisions granted to me through Article 104 of the Constitution. Martial law shall thus be enacted throughout all prefectorial states to return them to order."

"Shall anyone stand against this?" He asked, to which the chamber was silent.
Last edited by Noronica on Tue Feb 12, 2019 4:43 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Dormill and Stiura
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Dormill and Stiura » Mon Feb 11, 2019 6:45 pm

Later that evening
Bureau Safehouse, Nolon City

The safehouse in the quiet part of Nolon's downtown was a surprisingly well kept facility compared to most Bureau safehouses outside of Dormill and Stiura, with many amenities that allowed its inhabitants to relax. Unfortunately, relaxing was not on the schedule in the past few days as the recent team sent for Operation Kottos had just arrived from their mission and were about to depart if it wasn't for the declaration made by the Overlord.

Travelling outside of the city was virtually impossible in an incognito manner, which resulted in the Head Agent of Nolon City, Jarvis Foster, getting an earful from Director Lovel on the matter before he came up with the idea of sending each agent involved in the operation back to Dormill and Stiura in piecemeal, and to different destinations to keep the BIS off their backs. It was a relatively expensive endeavor, but the Bureau had the budget and the National Congress didn't care much for the details of whatever they did most of the time, this might be an exception given what they are about to do, but it will be handled she always says.

Regardless, things had been complicated for the Nolon Safehouse in the past few weeks. Up until Kottos, the agents there had been gathering intel and sending it back to Chery, keeping an eye on the situation but not interfering. When news of Kottos and the team that had been sent came through, everybody knew that things were truly serious. It was not an easy task pulling the strings in Nolon City Police to requisition undercover vehicles or to create covers for each of the agents there, and especially convincing a few officers at particular stations to recognize the agents in their cover. It was fortunate that the operation had gone as well as it did but they were overstaying and their cover could be blown at any moment. It was a few moments before the Overlord aired his speech live that somebody new walked in. He was of average build, wore a three-piece suit with a glaring blue tie, walked with an all too obvious gunslinger gait, which was more than enough evidence Foster needed to ascertain his role in the Bureau.

"What do you need sir?", Foster asked, further gleaming that the man didn't carry anything else with him at that moment.

"I need a '95.", he responded coldly in a distinctly flat accent.

"Right away sir.", Foster responded, heading in the back towards the weapon rack. '95 ... What does he need a sniper for? he thought as he grabbed the wood and iron Night-Miyongma from its rack and gathered its ammo. "One '95, two clips of thirty odd forty ammo, ten rounds total; and sights. Good luck sir.", Foster concluded, putting the components in a custom suitcase and handing it over to the new agent who promptly walked out with it in hand, his gait still beyond obvious.
"Look, you are making a mistake by staying sir. You are going to be compromised and we can't do anything for you if you get caught ... I know what the situation demands you to do sir but ... so be it, good luck my lord.", the leader of Kottos yelled out into his phone, putting it down beside him as he sat on the couch in the safehouse. That damned fool is going to get himself killed. he thought to himself, producing a cigarette and lighting it.

"So he's staying?", another remaining agent asked.

"Yep. He's being an idiot about it and it's going to end with him dead. But there's nothing more we can do without compromising ourselves."

"At least he won't have time to squeal."

A puff of smoke left the leader's mouth, "There's that. But we also lose our in with whoever takes control now, that'll take a while to recover. Maybe we don't need an in when we're done though, who knows?"
The blue-tied man continued on his trek through Nolon City, narrowly avoiding the patrolling military that dominated the city. He proceeded on his path until finding a particular skyscraper.

Preparing for this, the agent produced a security card second before the desk guard managed to get a peep out, confirming his alias and letting him into the building. He went from the desk straight to the elevator, heading up several floors until he reached the necessary location, an office space for lease at just the right height for him to get an angle on the Overlord's Palace, particularly the southern principal entrance and the palace square where the Overlord made his most recent speech and where he held most public events, it would be the perfect place to assassinate him. After getting his sights right and setting up his rifle, all he had to do from then was wait for just the right moment. He did not know exactly how long it would take, but he knew how this office space was being handled, nobody would be coming in for several days at best, more than enough time to wait for whatever the Overlord did next.
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Postby Wellsia » Tue Feb 12, 2019 12:06 am

Yehi-melk sat in his office, he hadn't moved a single muscle in over a hour, the light's motion sensor could no longer detect his presence and had turned the lights off. The only light in the room came through the large plate glass window at Yehi-melk's back. He stared at the two games of strategy and chance that sat on the table against the far wall. Yehi-melk wasn't a passionate man, his only passion was playing the game, and neither Draughts or Twenty-squares was what he was thinking of. Nearly everyone knew he was the Chancellor of State and in charge of foreign affairs for the Empire, but what few knew was part of his duties included being the Head of the Office of Ungentlemanly Affairs (OUA), the Empires spy network. Throughout the Isles hidden agents known as Ravens kept him informed, but in Noronica, they had failed him. The whole Norronican Crisis, he felt that he had been playing second fiddle to the United Republic's Bureau. Had Wellsia made any moves that hadn't been manipulated, even the sanctions and the withdrawal from Arvan had turned out to be a coupe for the UR.
The only good thing about all of this was that publicly WEllsia had supported the Overlord, and while he had made plans for a McIntosh victory, McIntosh had turned into a paper tiger. Latest rumors were that McIntosh was dead and the Overlord and his followers were in control of Nolan City.
Yehi-melk leaned forward, the movement caught by the motion sensor caused the overhead light to come on. Yehi-melk smiled, he wondered what those without were thinking. Picking up the dossier, he looked at the number in Montague's group and wondered why the Republic had sent so many agents as bodyguards, they had to members of Joker's Wild.

Nolan City
Yazkur-el, was one of Wellsia's best agents, for two years, most people had known him as Ulric Thysman, a pawn shop owner in Nolan City. His small home in downtown Nolan City was much more then it seemed and his 'little brother', Karl (Carthalo) and his 'wife' Stacy (Stateira) lived with him. THe truth of the matter was the house had a clear view of Dormill-Stirua's main safe house in Nolan City, and he had been keeping it under watch for over a year, when it was discovered. There was a lot of movement, to and from the house over the last couple of days.
"Yaz", called Carthalo, "come look at this guy."
The three Ravens watched as a stranger wearing a three piece suit entered the house, they then watched as he left the house, this time carrying a suit case. No one picked up a suit case, unless it had something in it. Stateria looked at the two men, "Assassin."
Yazkur-el walked to the cupboard and removed the back panel, picking up the secured phone he made a call.

Hadast City
Yehi-melk, for the first time in days smiled, as he hung up the phone. His Ravens in Nolan City, had come through,the UR was going to kill someone important, the only one left was Tytus. Tytus had now won two Civil Wars and would be more arrogant then ever, he needed to be replaced by Trystan, He leaned back as he thought about his instructions, let the Joker commit his act, just make sure there was a record of it. For the first time Yehi-melk felt in control.
Last edited by Wellsia on Tue Feb 12, 2019 12:07 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Tue Feb 12, 2019 6:55 am

Residential Wing, Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

The atmosphere in the Overlord's Palace had changed. Gone were the panicked goings-on of madmen, now the palace staff were allowed to resume their work. While this temporary peace seemed effective, it came at the price of suppression, as the many leading politicians and general staff of the armed forces were under intensive armed guard throughout the day. They all felt the increasingly oppressive nature of the Overlord's peace, as his reach extended both in their public and private lives.

This temporary peace did, however, come with the benefit of having time to relax. It was in one such small moment of serenity, that both the Overlord and his son, Trystan, were found in the drawing room, where they sat by the fire. Trystan appeared to be on edge, continuously checking his phone and writing emails on his laptop. The Overlord, by contrast, was calmly perched on his armchair, his legs crossed over one another, allowing him to balance a newspaper on his knees.

Trystan flexed his index finger and his thumb and rubbed his eyes, attempting to get rid of any residual rheum. Sighing, he gazed up at his father and scowled slightly, "How can you be so calm? I seem to remember that there is a country outside that requires administering."

Tytus did not move his eyes from his newspaper, yet his voice still carried quite easily, "There is. You forget that I have done this before. One must have a chance to rests one's weary bones so as to be effectual for the day after."

"I forget the age difference. Forgive me, I have been restless these past few weeks and the idea of calm is foreign to me." Trystan said, setting down his laptop and allowing himself to slump in his chair.

Tytus smirked, "Your little cyberwar. I do not recall seeing the effects of said conflict, I was busy on the field."

"Do not demean it. You lack an understanding of modern methods of political persuasion, military might cannot hide from social media, and if one is able to use the population's fears on the internet to propagate an idea, they are all the wealthier." Trystan leaned forward, "On this topic of a lack of understanding father, I am worried. Very worried about your moves so far."

"Enlighten me." Tytus said.

Trystan gritted his teeth, "Father, you are moving too fast and in an overt manner. You have mobilised the military to keep the peace in the nation, turning the country into a military junta. You have angered your allies and have put your bureaucrats under intense observation."

Tytus had the audacity to audibly express his annoyance, causing Trystan to angrily retort, "You are breeding resentment father! The people clutch onto some memory of a grand war hero, but that will soon wain when they realise their great leader is becoming tyrannical!"

It was Tytus' turn to stand abruptly, glaring at Trystan, "Careful. You are teetering on the edge of dissidence." He said, pointing an accusatory finger at Trystan.

"Dissidence?" Trystan asked, "Dissidence?! How the hell can you accuse your own son of dissidence when he has fought for your rise to power from the first day?" As Tytus looked to want to respond, Trystan interrupted him, "I'll take my leave, but remember that should you continue to exert your power on a weakened system, it will fight back."

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Tue Feb 12, 2019 8:33 am

Embankment, Nolon City, Noronica

"Thank you for letting us in your apartment Howard." Lord Montague said, his voice utterly dejected as he greeted the man. Just overnight, he had gone from being Prime Minister and sole arbiter of the country to absolutely no one. It was the greatest irony, having joined politics at a young age to further his career and influence, only to have his power stripped from him immediately as soon as he reached a level of significance.

Howard McTavert gave Montague a sympathetic look, "Come and dry off, Bart." Seeing the figure standing behind Montague, he smiled, "Welcome Jonathan, I am glad to see you here as well. Make sure your father gets some dinner in him, he looks awfully thin these days." The young man in question smiled slightly and nodded, ushering his father through the door and into the dining room.

Others were crowded around the table, many of them were assemblymen. As Montague and Johnathan entered the room, resounding applause exploded from the table. The two men were treated as heroes, with many congratulating Montague and calling his 'usurper' all the names under the sun.

Perhaps it was his residual narcissistic vanity, or perhaps it was a genuine human need for support, but Montague seemed to immediately brighten, a small smile returning to his features. He knew he was amongst friends here. One of the more jingoistic of the group made her case immediately, "Bart, you have been wronged. Wronged greatly. It seems that madness has overtaken our colleagues in the Assembly, as you have had no time to show your true brilliance in the political sphere whereas that bloody tyrant sits proudly in his throne!"

Others supported the assemblywoman, but Montague sighed, "While I appreciate this Linda, that same tyrant is set to dominate the country. How can us advocates of a true democratic process make our voices heard in a country now void of any other voices than one man?"

It was the voice of the unexpected that responded, "Desperate times call for desperate measures, why can we not just be rid of him?" It was Jonathan Montague, the youngest of the group.

Linda scoffed, "How? As your father has said, Tytus is soon to become a literal 'overlord' by its English definition."

Bartholomew Montague slammed the table with his palm, "He is a bastard who is set to ruin our country! Why must we suffer tyrants when other countries around the Isles are flourishing. The destructive power of a war between two men vying for power has shown to be disgustingly vast. My son is right," others around the table watched with wide eyes as the man fumed, "will no one rid me of this tyrant?!"

There was a loud knock on the apartment door and a strong voice from behind it, "Is everything alright in there?" Many in the room paled, but it seemed that after seconds of silence, the troops patrolling outside moved on. There was a resounding sigh around the table, yet one of their number seemed to have a different look about him.

Jonathan stood from his seat, "Sorry, I need to go back. I am feeling unwell."

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Tue Feb 12, 2019 2:59 pm


Southern Gates, Overlord's Palace, Nolon City


The sunset cast its resplendent light on the square, shining the southern face of the palace, giving it an unearthly glow. Its windows shone brightly, and the gates outside sparkled from drops of residual rain from hours before. Trees swayed gently in the wind, and birds sparsely populated their branches, cawing to each other sporadically. It was the perfect day for a speech, as almost every good omen in the textbook had shown itself. Such an auspicious evening marked the future of the nation and as a black Quentin V5 drew up to the grand golden gates, the people gathered outside could feel a certain positivity within their hearts and minds. Their war hero, despite a tumultuous take-over, could potentially provide the leadership they needed to bring about strength and stability once more.

Inside the car, Tytus sat calmly, his notes by his side. The drive was short to the gates which afforded him time to think, not to rehearse. He found himself thrumming his fingers against his window again, watching as his warm knuckles created condensation on the cold window. He began to see his reflection in the window, moving his fingers away to study it. He frowned slightly, as the reflection was off slightly.

He saw a younger version of himself reflected back at him, conveying a casual smirk which oozed the confidence of a war hero. He had been seen as spontaneous, active and beloved after the 90s, and he felt those same feelings within himself. To put it simply, he had been happy then. After decades of political service to the state, he had become bitter. Perhaps it was age, or perhaps it was watching obscene amounts of ministerial hopefuls flaunt themselves before the political arena, comparing themselves to the second coming of Christ. Either way, the man he could make out before him had left the vicinity of his mind long ago, leaving instead a cynical man.

Deep within his heart, he knew he wanted to make up for the argument he had with his son, but his initial reaction had been to caution him for inciting dissidence. The two had a dysfunctional relationship, although that could be said for both his children, as he had started to treat them as political weapons throughout his later career as monarch. Both had presented excellent media opportunities, yet this mindset drove him further apart from his two children. Remona despised him for this attitude, but she had accepted a long time ago that the old Tytus had gone.

Despite his son's warnings, Tytus knew that his supporters were many. He agreed that his ascension to power had not been exactly how he would have planned, yet everything was being smoothed out evenly. The people would come to understand his rule, they may not love it, but when the nation began to prosper, they would understand. He would lead with a firm hand, as his policy of stepping back had failed with the rise of one Joshua McIntosh. The man would forever be remembered as Tytus' greatest failure.

As the car finally came to a halt, Tytus was glad to be rid of his reflection. He refused to believe it was guilt, yet a small part of him was saddened that events had not come to favour him. Ignoring this desire to reminisce further, Tytus allowed his driver to open the door and stepped out. Straightening his outfit, he made his way towards the podium where a sea of faces waited with bated breath to see the man that would lead them into the future.

Walking with a powerful gait, he made his way with intent and confidence, putting on a display for those anxiously waiting. They needed to see confidence and clarity, as uncertainty had rocked their lives for long enough. When he reached his podium, he set his notes down and took time to observe the crowd, allowing both him and them a moment to prepare.

"Fellow Noronnicans..."


What Tytus had not observed, however, was that there was a man making his way towards the back of the crowd, a look of tearful determination on his face. He wore old clothes, a faded hoodie bearing an old university emblem, and ripped jeans. He had prepared for this moment, but his face was a wreck, seeing as he had felt so tremendously overwhelmed by what he had set out to do. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips quivered with the worry he felt. He was not man right for this, but it seed that desperation would drive any man to the limit.

The man was Jonathan Montague. He was a new face in politics, having joined to carve a name for himself in history. As time went on, he found that he was submerged, drowning in corruption and medieval politics, where the sword really was mightier than the pen. The civil unrest caused by the aspirations of two men had sickened him, as he saw the once powerful nation that he was proud to serve, be once again dragged through the mud.

Now that the former Prime Minister was behind bars, he directed his anger towards the man who had, overnight, converted Noronica into a military dictatorship. It was a vile way of maintaining control, as the populace were starved of freedom by the might of the military's brutal regime of curfews and control.

He knew what he had to do then. His friend, Alisdair Flanders had been saying from the very beginning, "We are the last bastion of democracy. If all else fails, we must do our duty to the constitution and not a personality." It was the greatest truth, and that was what drove him to stand behind the crowd, his eyes streaming with tears as the weight of the duty of Noronica's dignity was put on his shoulders.

He let his fingers reach the cool, reassuring handle of his pistol. He would do what must be done.
Last edited by Noronica on Tue Feb 12, 2019 3:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Sep 19, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Dormill and Stiura » Tue Feb 12, 2019 3:02 pm

"Breathe in, now out.", the instructor said, "Again. In, and out."

I complied with the instructions each time, deep breath through the nose, and out from my mouth. In and out. In and out.

"In, out, fire."

The Five-Seven in my hand jerked back, a flash from the barrel, a crack in the air as the bullet flew through the air at twice the speed of sound.

"Good shot son. You might have a place with us yet.", the instructor said, the first compliment I've received in my life up to that point, "Again.", he demanded; again I complied, eventually emptying the magazine into the target. He said it was one of the tightest spreads he's ever seen out of all of his students. I'm none to sure on that statement but I like to think that was true, it kept me motivated through all of it. Not only the shooting, but the torture, the survival, the worst anybody could throw at me.

I was on the streets for years after my druggie father abandoned me not long after I was born, and after my mom was killed in the alleys of Helle, her pants had been cut off with that knife so said the police. I was only 9 when that happened, I lived off the kindness of strangers for a few years until I found my father in South Kapolder alongside the gang he ran with. I was stupid to run back into his arms, but what son wouldn't have after not seeing him for all of your life. I spent plenty of the following years with them until my father was shot and killed by South Kapolder Police, leaving me alone with a bad crowd. Then back in, what was it, 2014 or so, I found myself in the backseat of a squad car after sticking up a fucking crepe stand.

I was still in the interrogation room when he walked in, three-piece suit, gaudy blue tie. He carried nothing in his hands that would indicate he as my lawyer, then he told me the situation.

"I'll make this simple. You have a choice to make. You come with me and I'll commute your sentence so long as you work with me. Or, you serve out your sentence and stay in this pit of yours. What will it be?", his accent was flat, no inflections in either direction, I couldn't tell why until I learned it myself later.

I had no clue what he was saying, never spoke English before. However, I nodded and hoped he would keep me out of prison. Good news, yeah he kept me out of prison; bad news, for a lot of the time since I probably would've preferred prison.

For the longest time since that fateful moment I had no real idea what I got myself into. It was only after the training wrapped up that I truly learned what I became. She walked up and rendered me a salute, which I returned quickly. She then told me what I was.

"Welcome to the Deck, Joker 4."

The Joker's Deck, the best of the best of the Bureau. We were handpicked by other members for this service, I guess whoever picked me saw the same thing my range instructor saw. I was trained to be a sniper given how well I performed, I was also trained in basically everything in production from Eagle, from their pistols up to the big toys. I personally preferred the Night-Miyongma, honestly the only good thing the Magarati gave to the Isles. It was well built, and I liked the aesthetic of wood and iron. It might not have had the range of the more modern rifles, but I sort of liked the intimacy the Night-Miyongma provided, which leads me to right now.
My range was set just above the podium that was being placed in front of the principal entrance of the Overlord's palace, as close to his heart as I can make it with only memories of the times he was there. The forecasts called for slightly faster than normal winds so I had to account for that even being just under 300 meters away.

The crowd that wound up turning out for the Overlord would be large enough that I could quickly slip away after I took the shot, hopefully I'd only need one bullet for this. Funny thing about all this is that even after being a Joker for as long as I have, this was my first assassination. It felt a bit weird to be sitting here with a gun pointed to kill a national leader, but I suspect that the fact I haven't chickened out was a part of the training, to remove my morality from the equation. I am reminded of a dream I had a few weeks ago as the Overlord took to his podium, I was still myself but it was as if I lived in a different world. I didn't remember much of it except for the last few moments.

I had this important looking man, I think a naval officer, in a headlock, pistol at his head. I think I was staring down the face of a child, but she felt, demonic, is that the best word for it? Anyways, as she walked up to me and spoke and I tensed up more and more until I looked down to my free hand to a tablet. I guess what they say about being unable to read anything in a dream was true because I don't remember what was so important about what I saw. Whatever it was though, it was important that I released the officer from his headlock just so I could throw the tablet down, probably smashed it I don't remember, and then I killed him. In front of a little demon girl and an entire squad of heavily armed soldiers. Then I threw myself overboard, I woke up just as I started to fall down.

Calm down ... I said to myself, staring down the scope of the '95, the Overlord's heart just in the right place.

In ..., he was talking, flashing his hands around, Out ..., my finger tightened around the trigger, I never managed to notice the man shoving his way past the crowd, I was too focused to care even if I did at that moment.

Fire, and my finger complied, flexing into the trigger. It was followed by the recoil, the flash, and the air snapping around me. Three seconds later, two holes had opened in the Overlord, one near where I aimed and the other on his forehead, that's when I finally noticed the other man in the hoodie with his gun still up in the air.
Last edited by Dormill and Stiura on Tue Feb 12, 2019 3:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Founded: Dec 11, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Tue Feb 12, 2019 4:02 pm

Jonathan was still holding his pistol in the air. He breathed heavily and loudly, his demeanour crumbling as he shivered violently. He could not tear away his eyes from the body of the man that had been held on a pedestal for so long. The man Noronnicans saw as the father of their modernity, now lying dead on the ground, blood seeping from his wounds. The man was so far away, yet Jonathan could see Tytus' face clearly, and his expression would haunt him forever. There was no great look of pain or anguish, but an emotionless sag, as if the very soul had been lifted from the man's body.

Jonathan could still hear the ringing in his ears. He could see that the crowd had dispersed, screaming as they ran, but all he could hear was the sound of screeching, the sound of death. He tried to will his body to move, to run away, but all he could do was stand stock still, allowing the scream of guilt become louder and louder and louder. He whispered, "Stop."

He seemed to be tormented by the image of Tytus in his mind, the screeching growing louder, "Stop. Stop stop stop stop..." he wished, he prayed, he begged. With one final chocking cry he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Stop!"

Jonathan saw several officers in front of him, their weapons drawn, but all he could do was match their stance, desperately trying to scare them away by his erratic aim. As they advanced, Jonathan continued to threaten them, but he soon lost his resolve as the group drew closer and closer. He let loose several shots, wildly attempting to stop them.

He felt the sudden ripping pain of a bullet slamming into his body. He crumpled to the ground, his life seeping away from him. He gazed up at the sky and wept, "He is dead."

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Founded: Dec 11, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Noronica » Fri Feb 15, 2019 8:58 am

Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica


"Sir, please wake up."


Lord Montague spluttered and coughed, swatting away the person beside him. Yawning widely and rubbing his eyes, he glared at the figure of his personal aide standing beside his chair, "What is it, Vivienne?" He asked, his voice expressing his less-than-pleased attitude to being woken up from his afternoon nap. Expecting something petty, he was taken aback when he noticed his aide's face was conveying worry.

Vivienne responded with a panicked tone, "You asked for me to maintain an eye on the prince sir, especially after your... well your-"

"My son shot the Overlord." Montague sighed. He had attempted to distance himself from his son's grievous crimes so that there would be no sign of collaboration, yet despite this cold approach, he could not escape the guilt of his son's death. He had taken to sleeping in the day in the afternoons, as at night it seemed his personal demons came to haunt his memory and dreams. It would always be a spliced older memory of Jonathan as a toddler or teenager intertwined with his haunted adult self killing Tytus. Sometimes Lord Montague would stand behind his son, whispering the same words in his ear, will no one rid me of this tyrant?

Lord Montague had been shocked when he had been told that Prince Trystan had granted him the usage of the palace guest rooms after Tytus' death. He had not approached the boy, seeing as he had been locked away in his chambers and guests were invite-only, as the head of household staff Harold had made explicitly clear. Deciding not to push his luck, Lord Montague had accepted this role and had begun reconnecting with allies. It paid to be prepared. Sadly it seemed that it was not profitable to be associated with him, so many had rejected friendship.

"Sir!" Vivienne urged, "He has been speaking to lawyers today. I think I heard them discuss the Overlord's Will."

Alarm bells rang in Montague's mind, and he pushed past Vivienne to race through the door and the corridors. It was a short walk to the Prince's residential area of the palace, made swifter by his running.

Montague slammed the doors of the Prince's chambers open, his heart hammering as he revealed a view of multiple people surrounding the prince. His gaze moved to a corkboard that had been haphazardly placed next to the wall. It by itself covered most of the wall space, but its contents were what interested Montague the most. It was akin to a detective television series, as papers and print-outs covered the board with various notes dotted around each document.

A woman intercepted Montague, standing in front of him with her arm barring his body. She looked entirely out of place, with highlighted hair and piercings adorning her face. Her voice was suspicious, "Excuse me, sir, the Prince expressly told the palace that entry was invite-only. I do not believe he mentioned allowing fathers of deranged murderers inside." She smiled slightly, seemingly entertained by Montague recoiling from her remark.

"Hannah, leave him. I believe I have been remiss in inviting my guest over." Came the voice of Trystan behind them, who had stopped speaking to the various people around him.

Lord Montague could see that Trystan looked utterly awful. His eyes were red, and his face displayed just how fatigued and emotionally-drained the prince was. He had some sympathy for the prince, but he knew that he could not afford to drop his guard, what with the possibility of being outmanoeuvred being such a high risk. "My Prince, might I ask what is going on?"

Trystan smiled, dismissing some of the people in the room before speaking, "My family's lawyers arrived today to discuss the contents of my father's last will and testament. Naturally, my father's assets are being split between my sister and I, but due to royal laws on the nature of succession, I am being granted most of my father's assets granted to him by the state. If this were a stable succession and the Federal Assembly was voting on such matters, it would be a rather inflexible process, but as fortune would have it, this country is currently without any tangible form of executive leadership nor legislature as such. Thus, my inheritance shall be a lot more flexible."

Lord Montague frowned. This was close to being very dangerous. "My Prince, this is a rather delicate matter, and as I was Prime Minister before this sordid affair, I would like to know what plans you have for your inheritance."

Trystan grinned, "Liquidation."

"What?" Lord Montague asked, shocked.

Trystan pointed to a section of the corkboard, "The country is in a need for repair, and a great lot of money shall be needed to recompense this situation. Therefore, I have had all properties held under the Crown valued including their contents. Under a comprehensive plan, I am going to be selling many of my palaces and homes through various means. All artefacts held within these properties shall either be returned here or leased to several museums across the nation and some to countries that have requested artefacts acquired through colonialism be returned. Some items such as kitchen utensils and furniture shall be given to charities to provide for refugees or those made homeless by our conflict. This palace we stand in shall be the only property owned by the Crown Estate. With the money earned from such endeavours, much will go into public relief efforts, infrastructure and new projects. Some of the money shall be going into the public's pockets as well."

Lord Montague fell back, "This will be seen as a direct challenge to... oh God." He looked at other papers on the board, there were architect's designs for new buildings, plans for a new parliamentary system, map designs, names for political positions, and most importantly a plan to design an entirely new executive. At the centre of it all was a flag.

Trystan spoke calmly, "An entirely new system, with revitalised policies and a true vision for the future. Hannah, like me, studied Nyssic in university. She coined a phrase which struck a chord within me, Adh Dutchaichn Realas." He pressed his palm on the new flag, "A Nation Reborn."

"You see," he continued, "God bless his soul, but my father designed a very shoddy system in the 90s. It was not assertive, and it harkened back to the past. Our nation went through an identity crisis, struggling to find itself. Now, however, I provide an answer to this concern, an answer that has been permeating my mind from the outset. A nation that is dynamic, outward-looking, and planned. My father chose to step back to allow the petty infighting of political aspirations to choke Noronica, allowing corruption to fester. I shall not make the same mistake."

Montague's eyes flashed with anger, "You are just like him! Another tyrant who shall set himself up on a pedestal."

Trystan's features soured, "No. I am to be a first among many. I am not an overlord. Call it what you want, but our vision of democracy shall truly serve the people. Noronica shall be a proud Republic." He smiled, "Everyone loves an elected position, so much so that they will be willing to perhaps overlook some of the necessary powers involved to guide our nation to greatness."

"With a Government so youthful, it shall present relatability and a new breed of politics. Something that will excite the populace. Hannah made me aware of something that I had not considered. Due to the fact that the last Civil War killed many of the working populace, our population has a unique advantage compared to many nations in the Isles, its young. This months-long conflict displayed clearly that our nation was being led by those who were too old to understand what Noronica truly needs. It's time we revolutionised Noronica under the ideals of Noronnican Futurism." Trystan said, his passion clear.

Montague shuddered, the boy looked crazed in his beliefs. "What is to be done with me?"

"Unfortunately, there are those that were involved in my father's death that I cannot avoid." Trystan said, his voice spiteful, "Tonight, officers of the Bureau of Internal Security shall, under my orders, arrest those that are suspected of treason against my father. Names such as Howard McTavert, Alisdair Flanders and Linda Hargraft are on the list." He was cold, "I shall not let my father's murderers escape justice. Those that are found guilty of treason shall have their assets seized by the state to fund its redesigning." He looked directly at Montague, "As the father of the suspect, you shall attend the BIS Headquarters for questioning. I shall not say what would happen should these orders be ignored."

Lord Montague's eyes widened in horror. The nation's golden boy is now a monster.



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