Western Reaches (Attn GD, Semi-Open)

[Morrdh]

Dunrath Airfield
Dunrath
Rathlin Islands
Western GD

There was a screeching of brakes as the passenger plane came to a halt and let it's engines wind down, ground crew wheeled out a boarding ramp as a squad of Royal Morridane Marines formed two rows two meters apart facing one another and shoulder their rifles. By the terminal building, a group of local delegates and one or two journalists waited as the passengers began to disembark whilst ground crew set about unloading the aircraft and servicing it. The first to disembark was a man called Aeary Byrne, the new Lord Steward of the islands and the person that everyone at the airport has gathered to see. Byrne was a man in his late twenties, being of a slightly slim build with jet black hair. He descended down the steps of the boarding ramp, then walked towards the gathered group as the marines stood to attention and snapped of a salute.

"Yer Lordship?" Asked a man from the group as he step forward, an important local official going by the gold chain he wore. "Cormack Fionnghall, Taoiseach of the Rathlin Islands with members of the Tionól Ráthlin and Commandant Doyle of the Muirshaighdiúirí Ríoga."

"Beannachtaí!." Byrne nodded, recognising the Mordentish words for 'Assembly' and 'Royal Marines'. "I thank ye fer welcoming me here, I look forward ta a productive working relationship."

"Yer welcome milord, this way if ye please." Fionnghall said, gesturing towards a motorcade of waiting Land Rovers. "Tis a short ride ta the town and then ta yer residence at Commonwealth House."

"I see." Said Byrne. "I presume that is where the official meet and greet will be taking place?"

"Correct, mostly officials from the islands along with delegates from foreign interests." Answered Fionnghall. "Shouldn't last more than couple o' hours tops."

"I'll hold ya ta that." Byrne, sitting back to watch the rugged landscape of the islands pass by the window. Until a few months ago he'd barely been aware that the islands existed, much less the fact that they were named after the defunct Clan Rathlin. The last of the Rathlin line had died out some eighty years later and the position of Lord Steward had passed from family to family until it was gained by Byrne's great uncle, then to Aeary Byrne himself. He was to be the Commonwealth's governor of these remote remote islands in the vast ocean of western Greater Dienstad, islands that processed little in the way of mineral wealth and was heavily reliant on fishing, sheep farming and tourism for it's economy. It boosted a population of just over 3,000 souls, smaller than many towns back in Morrdh, and lacked any extensive infrastructure. The islands were little more than a colonial outpost, one that barely registered to anyone in the outside world other than the upkeep of the platoon of Royal Morridane Marines that defended this remote land over which the Emerald Saltire flag of the Commonwealth flew.

Though Byrne was curious whom the 'foreign interests' that Fionnghall mentioned actually were, he was aware that there was speculation of a vast and untapped undersea oilfield somewhere close to the islands. There hadn't been much luck, but it was hopeful that the oilfield would be found within the year and promised to vastly boost the islands' economy. Admittedly Byrne was more curious about whether him taking up the position of Lord Steward would draw people's attention or slip by unnoticed, though he'd been told that the news would be circulated to various regional news outlets.

It could potentially be an interesting future.

[Eitoan]

Dunrath, Rathlin Islands

It wasn’t Lad’s first trip to the south. Far from it. But he never had much taste for those visits. Most turned out to be dry holes, and these islands certainly were bleak. Not that it had anything to do with opportunities. Nevertheless, it was part of his job. A success in the oil and gas business, Ladislav Svatava, aged 54, was a substantial man. And he looked the part. Heavyset, yet fit looking, he commanded attention both inside the company and with oilmen wherever he went. Square of jaw with close cropped salt and pepper hair, and a beard that stubbornly regenerated daily after shaving, he looked the part of his job. Executive Vice President for New Business Development at Regional Growth and Development Companies, Eitoan’s 3rd largest energy concern was on the job, taking the lead in prospecting likely offshore oil field development in this remote region personally. He had spent his whole civilian career with Regional, since completing his mandatory army service and going on a lieutenant’s commission many years ago. His test scores won him a scholarship to the Eitoan Maritime Institute, where he graduated with his degree in Naval Architecture. Recruited fresh out of college by Regional, he dutifully put in his years in Port Development and Operation before matriculating into the company’s Mid-Service Management Program, then returning to increasing responsibilities back at Port Development and Operations, then Contracts and Corporate Finance before working his way up the ladder at New Business Development.

He had briefly reviewed known information about the viability of oil production on the shelf near the Rathlin Islands, pretty sparse material. Few companies had bothered to take even preliminary surveys, given their remote location and turbulent surrounding seas. Given that sparse information, he expected the Morridane government to present more convincing evidence to the companies and concerns coming to Dunrath. Those facts would speak for themselves, and he would pass them on to Regional’s engineers and geologists. A big item of interest to Lad was the possibility of construction and operation of terminal and port facilities. Everything to produce oil would have to be assembled and transported to the Rathlin. This source of income looked like a good opportunity to him. A steady income stream, regardless of who drilled. Regional was in good shape to put together those kinds of deals, provided there wasn’t too much red tape. In the back of his mind was the cost structure to bring such a remote project online, difficult to evaluate at this time. While Regional was in a good shape with available cash, he always dreaded going to the notoriously risk shy Kelso bankers. Oil and gas were one industry they just didn’t understand. Any large scale project would probably require a visit to Fedala money men, and a dog and pony show to the anything goes financiers in Yohannes. But, in the end, all he could do is feed the figures to the number crunchers. He’d learned not to worry too much about funding in New Business Development. Finally, he needed to see who the other players are. How much government? How much private? Did he know them? He was familiar with most of the major domos in the Greater Dienstad oil business and wanted to work with people he knew, ones that he could trust. Wanted to avoid young bucks, out to make their bones. Too much shit to wade through with them.

But what did he know about the Rathlin Islands? Not much beyond what the Department of Foreign Affairs could tell him. What did anybody know? Of course, he’d been given a brief biography of Aeary Byrne, the young Lord Steward of The Rathlin Islands. Young Byrne had never set foot there before his accession. In fact, this was his opening act, apparently. Who did he know? What did he know? He was, apparently, a man of mystery. That was unsettling. And then there was the whole issue of the overthrow of Lothwyn Cathmore, fading from memory but still the de facto Queen of Morrdh, according to Foreign Affairs. Did that even matter at this point? He was here on the oil business, not the royal business. Cormack Fionnghall, Taoiseach of the Rathlin Islands was more of a known quantity. A sturdy yeoman of the islands’ scant population, Lad expected him to have the best read on the local economy, and how business had to operate. Was the Rathlin strictly under Morridane business law, or was there some local code one had to understand? This could be work for Legal. The Eitoan Embassy in Morddun was able to at least provide a decent dossier on Cormack, as opposed to Aeary. But his understanding was that Aeary was the go to guy.

Travel to the remote Rathlin Islands was unusually easy. Travel was always easy on the corporate jet. None of the commercial carrier delay and hassle. Takeoff and landing at Kelso’s Prutinsky Air Park was always a pleasure: good coffee in the morning, the perfect martini in the afternoon. The flight to Dunrath was smooth. His host, Mr. Billings, a grocer was a jovial man, and the evening discussion was quite entertaining. Billings was no stranger to the infrequent foreign traveler, although the Rathlin accent was sometimes hard to understand, so different it was from standard Morridane. That morning he enjoyed a sausage and toast breakfast with the gracious Billings family, not too different from the standard Eitoan repast. And coffee. Lots of coffee. The Eitoan adult diet required lots of coffee. Svatava was pleasantly surprised. After getting directions to Commonwealth House, Mr. Billings bade Svatava goodbye and good luck, and he was on his way. It was a short, pleasant stroll. The village wasn’t large. At the entrance, he was stopped by a Royal Morridane Marine, who requested his papers. He presented his passport and visa, and the sentry waved him through perfunctorily. After getting directions to the conference center, he spotted the men’s room off to the right. Feeling the need for bladder relief, he entered, walked up to the nearest urinal, and hauled it out. A few minutes later, pressure relieved, refreshed, he walked over to the sink and started scrubbing his hands. He heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Good. He hated being the first to a meeting.

[Castille de Italia]

Dunrath, Rathlin Islands

The Deputy Trade Representative for Petroleum, a relatively senior post within the Federation Trade Office, was an incredibly average man. He wore browline glasses that were reminiscent of the fashion of eighty years prior, and he had sported a crew cut. He was neither the snappiest dresser, simply wearing an average outfit of a short sleeve button up shirt, a black tie, and black trousers most days, and a sportcoat if it was cold out. He was neither popular or unpopular within the Federation Trade Office, but most acknowledged that he was elevated to his post because of his extensive engineering background and knowledge of petroleum markets. The Trade Representative for Petroleum, a rather haughty and at times uncaring man, was perhaps the only man who did not care for Bill Foster, and that would likely be the reason why Mr. Foster was booked a voyage aboard a CasGlobal oil tanker to the far west, docking in Eitoan before taking a small room aboard a steamer bound to the Rathlin Islands, to find his accommodations to be a straw bed in the hay loft of a nearby sheep farm close to the Commonwealth House.

Foster had risen early to take time to read some of his novel he had brought with him. He had finished dressing and opened up his briefcase and put in the empty brown leather case a pimento cheese sandwich in a plastic bag. Other than that, the briefcase was near useles, as Foster had brought no papers, no market research, no talking points with him.

He climbed down from the hay loft and stepped outside the barn to find his host had likely risen earlier than him, who was shearing sheep as the tide crashed upon the bluffs a short distance away from the farm.

"Excuse me sir, what would be the quickest way to Commonwealth House?" Foster asked the sheep farmer.

"It would be down 'at way down Cobble lane 'en to yer left," the farmer replied, not stopping from his diligent work of shearing sheep.

Foster made his way down Cobble lane, and after ten minutes or so he had made his way into the small hamlet that was deemed the capital of the Rathlin Islands. A small square in which the center had a flagpole that flew the Morridane flag, and the Commonwealth House was perhaps the jewel of the Rathlin Islands, while in no way comparable to the Mountbatten Manor in Castillia or the gilded halls of the Palace of the Golden Throne, the Commonwealth House was far and above the rest of the structures in the village. Other than the Commonwealth House the only obvious buildings was that of a general store of sorts, and one of a local pub, which was likely the only source of entertainment on the islands. Compared to the rest of the world, the Rathlin Islands were incredibly unremarkable, even more so than the sand-blasted warzones of Potthan the Potthanese referred to as cities. But to an incredibly unremarkable man like Foster, it was a fresh breath of air, to be in a place so underwhelming unlike the ever busy and ever growing metropolitan capital of the Castillian Federation, Preslaff.

Foster strolled to Commonwealth House, where a Royal Morridane Marine asked him to state his business. "I'm the Deputy Trade Representative for Petroleum of the Federation Trade Office for the Castillian Federation," Foster told the young Marine on post. Obliging him, and possibly taking pity on someone so boring looking, the Marine instructed Foster to check in with the front secretary, who ushered Foster into a conference room which had likely not been updated since the 1940s. The room was empty, and Foster was not surprised that he was first to arrive, he always preferred to be early.

[Morrdh]

The road between the airport and the town was thankfully paved, though it amounted to little more than a thin line of tarmac that cut across the bleak and rugged landscape of the island. The few tress that could be seen were nestled in the town itself where they could get some respite from the sometimes gale force winds that could blow through. But for miles around it was nothing but rugged moorland, boggy peat-beds and rocky hills that dominated the horizon in almost every direction.

As they neared the town, Byrne spied what looked like a castle on the headland of the bay, standing sentinel over the town and the seaward approaches. From a distance, though seemingly a stout structure, it appeared rundown and neglected with half-collapsed walls and towers. Leaning over, Byrne asked. "Wot's that over there?"

"Tis t'Castle." Answered Fionnghall. "Built ta protect the town in the early days, effectively been abandoned fer best part o' couple of centuries since they built the barracks."

"So it's in ruins?"

"Aye, that it be...tourists like ta go pokin' 'round it." Fionnghall explained. "Have not been much call fer something ta be done with it."

"I see." Muttered Byrne, ideas forming in his head. "We'll talk later, but I'm curious as to when the last surveys were carried out."

"I shall endeavour ta find out yer Lordship." Replied Fionnghall. "Though we appear ta be arriving at our destination."

Sure enough, the small motorcade pulled into a small walled estate and halted outside the entrance of a large two story building. Like much of the other structures on the island, the building was a mix brick and wood structure with red tiled roofs and snow white walls. Already it seemed that other dignitaries had arrived along with what Byrne had guessed to be a reporter from the island's newspaper and some foreign delegates. Byrne's door was opened and he climbed out of the Land Rover, then took a moment to glance at what was to be his official residence.

"Presenting His Lordship Aeary Byrne, Lord Steward and Protector of these isles." A voice announced somewhere, prompting a round of applause from the crowd and couple of photos from the reporter. All eyes appeared to be on him and Byrne felt some of the glances were akin to a wolf sizing up it's prey. Nevertheless, he smiled and shook a few hands before preceding inside for the swearing in ceremony and the rest of the meet and greet.