The Olive Branch [The Charter Only]

[Asgareth]

The world had grown weary. It had been through so much over the past few decades; its people had suffered so greatly, with little respite. Perhaps, then, it had almost come as a relief as the end days came to pass. Yet life, as always, found a way. The incineration of Rusina¹ proved not to be the downfall of man that had once been feared. Neither had the assimilation of the Roman state² or the destruction of Harren³, seen the end of the great continent of Archon. The fall of so many empires had caused a displacement crisis, the like of which had never been seen before. This in turn led to disease, famine and even more inexplicable violence. Yet life still sustained.

The Asgarthians had been forced west; fleeing from the radiation stricken midlands and out of the ruins of Asgar. They’d settled on the west coast of Rusina, where slowly, but surely they began to build once more. An empire no more, the diminished state toiled in hard labour, with the sweat and blood of its people serving as the glue to keep it together.

Contact had long since been lost with many other nations. The Natufians; that most remote of tribes, had once more disappeared. Slavacians and Skjoldurians had long since retreated to their natural states. Even the goblins had seemingly returned underground; if and when to be seen again, known only to them. Even Rusina had its share of unnerving silence. The Drekhii, Valarisk and Iryllians, three great nations, had barely uttered a whisper since those dreadful days. Murmurs from the Myraxians and Chargrenites had done little to assuage the fear within Asgareth; that they were all alone.

It came almost as a relief then, to the Asgarthian government, when contact was re-established with the Nocts; their most natural of enemies. Despite their differences, it would be essential for both sides to forget their grievances, and work together to rebuild the once great continent. More hope came thereafter, with the resurgence of the Covenetian, of Epilo, followed swiftly by contact with the Heartfilians. Then, came a flood of hope; Cestea, Thycinia, Karodova and the Meridian Republic all emerged; some having hidden for centuries from the outside world.

But contact would never be enough. Words could only carry the world so far; it was the actions of the peoples that would come to define this new age.

---

President Denzyl Pera had been musing it for days⁴. He was all too aware of the internal struggles facing Asgareth; his presidency, though won by a landslide, was already being questioned by many of his political rivals. Then, there were the riots across many of the main cities; Acitio, New Zaralencia and Galania had all attracted trouble from all corners of society. The dispossessed, the angry and the fearful had seemingly united and caused terror across Asgareth for weeks, before finally the defence forces had managed to step in and quench their qualms. Corruption in the football league had only poured more fire onto the already burning pyre; talk that New Zaralencia City had been cooking the books, combined with frustration at the league’s ineffectiveness, had seen yet even more riots across the capital.

Yet it was his job, as President, to oversee foreign affairs; and in that department, he had failed considerably of late. That was why he had summoned his advisors at such late notice, and it was why his Vice President was becoming increasingly concerned.

“Mr President, are you certain this is the course you wish to go down?” Eva Todor asked. “There’s no going back. Failure would result in the end of your presidency, and it’s only just begun!” He exclaimed.

Denzyl chuckled. “Failure? My dear Eva, failure is not an option. We need this to happen, and so it must.”

“Sir, I’m just concerned how others will react. You were there, weren’t you? During those ill-fated Union of Rusina⁵ talks. Don’t you recall the scorn and derision Daniel Ross faced afterwards?”

Denzyl nodded. “The Union of Rusina was doomed to failure from the start. Perhaps, in my misplaced optimism, I thought we could find mutual ground. But Rusina has always been inhospitable to hope.”

“Then why go through it all again, sir?” Eva asked.

“Had the Union succeeded, then the world would never have been plunged into such darkness. Two decades of war have wearied us all; I must believe that there is a different path we can take.” The President replied, before he rose. He walked over to a decanter, and slowly poured himself a glass of port. “Anyone for some pork? Port! Port! Sorry” He offered, to receive only negative responses. “Oh well, more for me then.” He beamed, before continuing. “Eva, you were only a student when the second Rusinan war began. Your experience of it was vastly different to mine.”

“You can say that again.” The younger woman smirked. “I was at the University of Olwar. I used to go on the anti-war marches. At least, until the Black Guard turned up.”

Denzyl nodded. “Those dark days are behind us now, my dear. But even my experience of war is limited, unlike some in this room.” With that, he turned his attention to a uniformed man in the room, who up until that very moment had remained silent. “Yip.” He spoke softly, “what do you think?”

Brigadier Mandrei “Yip” Andronan⁶ studied the President for a moment. “Sir, it isn’t my place. I’m not a politican.”

“True, but you’re the only one here who saw the horrors of war. You were in the 3rd, weren’t you? The nuking of the desert? Taygetus Heights?”

“I missed them both sir. I was on holiday for one, in the medbay for the other.”

“But you were certainly there to rescue me from those Spirallians⁷, weren’t you?” Denzyl spoke knowingly.

“True sir, but the work was mostly done.”

"And didn't you once almost go into space⁸?" The President pressed.

"Almost, being the key word." Yip quipped.

“There was nothing almost about your bravery during the civil war. What was it? Four gallantry medals? Highest in the entire army, I do recall?”

Yip merely smiled. “Well, sir… all I can say, as a veteran of four conflicts, is that I am tired of war. If these meetings could… in some way, help us to save some Asgarthian lives… well, I’m all for it.”

Denzyl clapped appreciatively. “Exactly! You heard the Brigadier, Eva. Saving Asgarthian lives. Making friends across the barricades. Maybe even a few new trade agreements. The people will love it!”

Eva chuckled. “That’s all well and good, sir. But what happens if nobody turns up?”

“Well, we’ll go on much as we always have. Asgareth will still be here. Besides, I suspect many more are simply waiting for others to make the first move. I hope so, at least.

“Hope? You’re basing all this on hope, sir?” Eva exclaimed. “That’s hardly a way to run a government.”

Denzyl chuckled. “Well, the Chargrenites have always seemed pretty hopeful. And they seemed to always come out on top!”

“The Chargrenites? Perhaps, once upon a time. But who has heard from them since the burning of Rusina? They’ve isolated themselves from this wretched rock, and who can blame them? Rusina is cursed!”

Denzyl shook his head. “Just because the Chargrenites have cut themselves off from the world does not mean that we should. No, it is time that we forged a new path. Asgareth reborn. Asgareth reawakened. The Asgarthian griffin must roar once again!” Denzyl paused for a brief moment. He stroked his mustache tenderly, before continuing. “But this time, it must roar not for the rich and the evil. It must roar for all Asgarthians. But more than that, it must roar for the peoples of this world; for the weak and the defenceless. This world has been sick for far too long. There is too much animosity, and too little time left to relish in it. This olive branch, we extend to the nations of the world, may well be the final hope of the peoples in it, but it is still a hope. A glimmer of light, so to speak.”

"What if everyone turns up at once?" Piped up a young voice in the corner. "I mean... I don't think we can have the Iryllians and Myraxians in the same room, even after everything."

The President turned his attention to his assistant, Emma Sartori. "That, my dear, is called scheduling. I'll leave it to you to deal with that front. Oh, and Emma. I think I'll have a slice of cake before bed!"

Denzyl downed his port, and then reached for another as the conversation began to die down. Unbeknownst to the vice president, the President’s invitations were already in the post.

To the respective dignitary,

You are cordially invited to the Palace de Esgar, in New Zaralencia, for diplomatic meetings with His Excellency, President Denzyl Pera. It is the hope of the Asgarthian government, that we can establish official, diplomatic ties, and utilise this meeting as a first step towards normalizing relations between our two countries.

Yours sincerely,

Emma Sartori
Executive Asssistant to the President of Asgareth

---

Rules:

• This is a The Charter only roleplay. You must be a member of The Charter to join. If you’re not already a member, why not check us out.
• Please, no one-liners. Whilst there are no minimum word counts, the Sovereign Charter always prided itself on quality over quantity, and we ought to aim for the same here. With that said, please no 6000 word posts. This isn’t Red Rain or Troubled Birth.
• There are no expectations on post frequency. Quite frankly, if we achieve a post between us all once every three months, I’d consider it a win.
• If you have any questions or queries, feel free to reach out to me, Asgareth via the RMB or via telegrams.

---

Footnotes:
¹ See Red Rain. Also relevant for the nuking of the Asgarthian desert.
² See Notes and Speculation on Events Occuring in the 4th & 5th Charters
³ See Troubled Birth. Also relevant for the disaster at Taygetus Heights
⁴ See President Denzyl Pera Address #001
⁵ See The Union of Rusina
⁶ Mandrei “Yip” Andronan was one of the first characters I introduced into the Sovereign Charter universe, way back in 2016’s Yabricht Inn Mk.IV. He reappeared throughout my time in the SC, including in Meddling in Meridia, Winter’s Aria, and Yarbricht Inn Mk. V. As a member of the 3rd Ground Force, he was rather fortunate in that he missed the disaster of Taygetus Heights in Troubled Birth owing to avian flu. I had planned for him to reappear in ACW as a Major in the newly reformed 3rd G.F. He also made an appearance in 2023's Choose Your Poison Vol. 3
⁷ See Diplomacy in the Dark
⁸ See Winter’s Aria

[Iryllia]

The Rose is dead.

Burnt to cinders in the fire that devoured the old world. Looking up at the lights of New Zaralencia Charlotte Lovern could almost smell the ash on the air, and stamped on the roots beneath her feet. Home, the many miles away that it was, felt far enough to feel like a different world. To see a light in near every window, for the buildings to carry every corner with seeming pride. It sat uneasy at her core. Charlotte's home was a ruin, the ruin of old Forqona still dominated the skyline like the desiccated ribs of a fallen god and while the years of running street battles between the tribes of lower city dwellers who survived the fires and the vestiges of the old order who crawled out of their bunkers to spread the poison that had sparked those fires in the first place were long gone the ruin remained. An enduring reminder of what was lost, the cost of what loosing looked like.

She straightened her tunic, stepping out of the car that had carried her to the palace complex, after two days of travel to the nearest intact international rail link and a further day on top of that. It gave her time to prepare, to read and reread her brief. To not be caught out. Impossible really, as was much of a diplomats work she thought. How different could it be really to the schmoozing and boozing that the old families conducted while calling politics?

Forwards, not a march for that was far too imperial. Not a saunter cause she was an official, trained and expected of an officer of her station. She was a captain, and only twenty five. She stamped on the roots that sought to choke her and continued forwards. Looking up from the ground she caught the reflection of the lantern light in the lazy arcs of water from the fountain ahead of her, stars above through the gaps in the cloud cover and the moon inching above the roof of the grand, and whole, building in front of her.

The sight almost made her miss the two who came to greet her.

Steps stuttering to a halt as she failed to conceal how she'd been caught off guard she saluted, cursing herself at the foolishness of being distracted. She wished for a moment that she hadn't been sent ahead of the rest of the diplomatic mission, to not be left here alone in open water to drown. She stamped on the roots and announced herself instead.

"Captain Charlotte Lovern, representing the Reunified Territories diplomatic mission..." Trailing off, the specter of just how unprepared she was looming large behind her in the moonlight of the palace grounds.

[North Covenant]

Kowtame loved rugby, from the first time he had picked up the ball, to getting his scholarship to Gumeti University it had made sense to him.

Walking through the Diplomatic Hall had always made him miss the game. Trading the grass pitch for the hard stone floors of power. His rugby days were behind him but they had left him with a powerful frame, a few concussions, and a frequent desire to return to the game.

Kowtame wore the usual mixture of formal wear. His Dashiki was a beautiful black silk accented with gold. It was well tailored and form fitting as was the current style. His sash proudly displayed his affiliation with Enbule featuring glittering nacre and netting motifs harkoning back to the city state’s heritage as a fishing village.

The goal, the team, the opponent; rugby was quite simple at its heart.

Kowtame spotted a familiar face in Faniry wearing a Rivotran lamba. The cerulean color of the fabric complementing her red bracelets and earrings. She waved him over to her spot outside the closed conference room.

But by far his favorite aspect of rugby was the scrum.

“Ah Kowtame, why am I not surprised to see you here?”

“Faniry it’s nice to see you as well how is the wife?”

“She is well! She just got back from a trip home. I’ll invite you over. She brought back some proper fish.”

“I will accept as always, but I am surprised to see you here. I did not expect Rivotra to be in the bidding this time after your new port project.”

First came the crouch/ The forming of the pack. The linking of arms. The tightening of team mates into a wall.

“True true” she nodded sagely, letting him await for the inevitable “but… no one would be so improper as to represent the Covenant without some token of representation from the other cities.”

Kowtame raised his eyebrow “I see.” letting out a playful scoff. “That is true. But the winner would have to be of a different league and form to even consider your princedom.”

Faniry played along, taking up a pose of false contemplation. “My dear friend I hadn’t even begun to think of such things. How wise you are my friend!
And here I was simply planning on showing up in a bright dress to draw attention to myself...
I know! perhaps I should look out for a Republican from the Samban League.”

“Why Faniry I am a representative of a Republic in the Samban League!”

“You don’t say Kowtame. It must be fate.”

“But one snag that would require me to be the representative for this diplomatic mission.”

“Well if you win we can discuss the matter further over dinner.” Faniry said with a satisfied smile. Before turning towards the gathering crowd.

Next the bind, two opposing walls merging into one. The enemy set before you.

“Mpala and Gama have been itching to lead a delegation for a while. I don’t see Kuende so Kuseti isn’t bothering this time.“ Faniry offered

“Tsepo isn’t here but Ramatla is, so the city of Oyubuye not Kiira is representing the Kingdom.”

The tension hanging in the air in the moments leading up to the ball being fed into play. Stuck on the brink of movement.

“Watch out for Ramatla, Embete has been throwing around a lot more money recently the fact that Tsepo isn’t here seems to suggest the Kingdom is pooling resources between its cities this time. Not exactly the easiest negotiation, hopefully Enbule has given you a few carrots... and sticks"

“More or less. A few known factors and a few surprises.” Kowtame revealed as the conference room doors opened and diplomats started to shuffle in.

“Good luck my friend.” She said as she patted him on the shoulder.

Kowtame turned and headed into the conference room.

and then the set occurs. A coordinated, chaotic dance. A flurry of movement. Each side attempting to take the ball. Wrestling for control. Trying to gain that extra momentum. That final push.

And then it’s over.

Victory and defeat are short lived in the scrum as one must turn their attention immediately to the rest of the play.


Several hours passed before Kowtame made his way down to his private car. His driver offering shelter from the afternoon rain that frequently interrupted the city’s business days.

He settled into his seat, his suitcase heavy with documents for his ride home. He picked up his phone and texted.

[What kind of fish are we having?]

[Myraxia]

"Tell me, Tesali. Did you ever visit Asgareth?"

That was how it had begun. Even now, decades after the Battle of Rygan - especially now, after years of the Union scrabbling beneath the earth for survival, years of brutal infighting for what resources remained - the level of reverence that those who still marched to the colours of the Myraxian Combined Forces held for The Marshal - and there was only the one, now - approached something closer to religious fervor than military discipline.

There had never been any question after that conversation that Tesali Akryn - Colonel, once, of the 12th Entepri Grenadiers - would go to New Zaralencia. ¹

--

The journey had been difficult. The Rusinan interior being what it was, he'd opted for the sea route: a coast-hugging leg down to Chargren on a small coastal defence vessel; part of a small squadron kept intact, against all odds, by one of the very few Naval officers who'd aligned with The Marshal during the years of survival. From there, passage on a neutral tramp; a long route to Nouvel Acadie via North Covenant, skirting well clear of the southern coast of what was once Iryllia's Casella Province, before finally a third ship north across the Rusinan Ocean to Asgareth.
It was hardly what would have been expected of a diplomatic mission during the Union's height, travelling from vessel to vessel like a vagrant. But then, he reflected privately, the Union was almost unrecognisably far from what it had been. The Union That Was would have demanded much, and expected more. Now, though, the Union simply survived.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection, in the mirror of his rented cabin as he prepared to disembark. Loose, greying but recognisably black hair, framed a pair of dull green eyes set exhaustedly deep into his face - a very Myraxian face, his mother had told him oh-so-long ago. His uniform - not a dress uniform, not as The Union That Was would have mandated, but still smart, and pressed - sat slightly loose on his frame, which he noticed with a frown. He'd managed to buy a tailored civilian suit in Acadie - but the officer in him insisted he wear the uniform, at least to arrive, even if it had been originally issued for a man twenty years younger. Nothing to be done.

--

The last time Tesali had seen a building such as Palace de Esgar, it had been a retired Iryllian general's manse, and his Grenadiers had collapsed the portico and one of the wings in the taking of it. He shook off the memory. The gardens were not the Izoeburg Public Botanicals, nor was the gravelled path Alcrutr's Victory Highway. He was not here at the head of a strike party, not leading a regimental assault. He was here as a diplomat - far from home, and alone.

"Colonel Tesali Akryn," he identified himself to the waiting Asgarthi, handing his identification papers over for their inspection. "On behalf of the Provisional Government of the Myraxian Union." His voice held level - years of command experience burying the uncertainty.

---

¹ Colonel Akryn first appeared in Red Rain, along with his regiment, during the fighting around the Terrenrose River against Iryllia.

[Nocturnalis]

The rain had come to Neustri well before the dawn.

Sweeping in from the eternal wrath of the Rusinian powers after unceasing war, it had turned the continent into irradiated ash. Once great empires reduced to nothing but stragglers eking out the barest forms of survival. As uninvolved in the Wars as the Noctish Empire was, it was not spared the destruction that followed. Much like their perennial Asgarethi adversaries, what remained of the Nocts had also been forced westwards to greener lands. Perhaps, some optimists would think, a source of common ground from which to start something new.

An Empire no more, but now little more than the scions of fighters and survivors, now under the thumb of a barely functional government. The new land they had found turned out to be far colder and wetter than the lands they once knew as home, but no less forgiving. It had taken many years to reestablish a shadow of the old structures that had once existed. Cities were refounded bearing old names, but the order of old would stay in the past. For as much as they could not agree on much, the new Nocts could all agree that a return to the past was nowhere near desirable.

---

An emergency session of the Confederal Council had been called once the Asgarethi communique had reached its halls. After lengthy debate between the newer members of the Council - who largely believed in the earnestness of the Asgarethi desire for a new beginning - and the older members that still held their old enemies in distrust, it was ultimately decided to send an emissary. Only one man was deemed experienced enough in dealing with the Asgarethi to be selected for the task. A pennance, perhaps, for one who had been so callously wrong the last time he was in Asgareth.

---

That is how Vessarion found himself, for the second time in about as many decades, at the doors of an Asgarethi palace. His suit felt as tight as a vise. The last time he'd been in an Asgarethi palace had been an unmitigated diplomatic disaster. The Union of Rusina, doomed to fail as it was from the start, need not have devolved into the shouting matches that it did. Circumstances had changed, however, and even the old man could recognize that. New Zaralancia was no Asgar City, after all; its lights were far more welcoming.

"Andrus Vessarion, here to represent the Provisional Government of the Noctish Confederation." he said tactly to the Asgarethi guards posted at the doors, proffering his identity papers for approval. A nation that spent so much on war and conflict would, at last, allow time for diplomacy.

[Meridian Republic]

Two men dressed down to their undershirts are crowded over the sink of the tiny bathroom adjoining their hotel room, quickly brushing their teeth.

“You reckon they’ll have those little rum-flavored sponge cakes they had at that one Asgarthi place back on Via Olmos?” asked the man on the left, glancing over to his counterpart and spitting a fat glob of toothpaste into the sink. He fit the physical stereotypes of a Cervidian male so closely it seemed almost uncanny: Thick, straight strands of short copper hair sticking every which way, still damp from the shower and not yet styled, deep-set amber eyes peering out under thick brows, a square jaw and a small concave-bridged nose that looked delicate compared to the rest of his broad face, and beneath it all, a neck thicker than a diplomat’s neck had any right to be and a body to match.

“I don’t know, man. Honestly, after seeing the state of this place, I’d be happy just to get some ground pork and boiled potatoes from these poor bastards.” The man on the right is undoubtedly Shurayu, and no less stereotypical in his appearance than the man to his left: Short, straight hair, dark and unstyled, though slightly less damp given he’d been the one to shower first given he had less to clean, being practically half the size of the great big lunk next to him. His brows were straight, his brown eyes hooded and squinty, his nose short and aquiline. His cheekbones sat prominently on his red, oval-shaped face, and his ears stuck out like little pink radar dishes. The ginger couldn’t help but agree. They were sent up to Asgareth not just to establish diplomatic relations with the Asgarthi, but to observe what had become of the great Rusinan empires after the nuclear war which ravaged that continent and deliver their first-hand accounts directly to the Foreign Ministry upon their return to the republic. They didn’t expect Rusina to be a rose garden, especially what with the hobbling of Iryllia, but nothing could’ve prepared them for the devastation they witnessed travelling on small, chartered ships which straddled the western coast of Rusina on their way to New Zaralencia, stopping off at derelict ports to unload passengers and cargo, allowing the two men to walk the streets and see with their own eyes the fate of the northern giants.

All Meridians are taught in school and by state media that their nation is young and underdeveloped, that they’ve inherited a land ravaged by decades of instability and war and bear a solemn responsibility to work hard and help fix all that which was destroyed and develop the republic into a strong and prosperous nation, one which can stand on equal footing with the greatest nations in the world. It’s not exactly an inapt message, much of Meridia is still wrecked: fallow fields, rotting towns, roads that resemble the surface of the moon, families living in abject poverty within tattered apartment blocks; but this message doesn’t just inspire the masses of workers under the Meridian Development Society to mobilize in the tens of thousands and rebuild and build anew in mass public works projects beneath colorful banners bearing slogans fresh from the Party’s propaganda office, it also engenders in those who hear it a sense of inferiority, that the republic is poor, vulnerable, and broken, and that the outside world must in comparison be rich and powerful and glorious. Well the Rusinans they saw on the way here weren’t rich, they weren’t powerful, and they certainly weren’t glorious either. No, it appears the Rusinans, at least, apart from the Chargrenites who in their wisdom managed to avoid the horror which befell their neighbors, are in the same boat as the republic. It’s a realization both disappointing and darkly comforting. Along the devastated coast of Rusina they saw much that reminded them of home, burnt-out apartment blocks, cratered streets, walls pockmarked by bullets and tagged by soldiers’ graffiti, and among it all, people eeking out the best lives they could amongst the ruins, many doing everything in their means to rebuild. Much of the destruction they witnessed was even worse than back home. Fair enough, nobody ever nuked Meridia, the closest thing to that was when that nuclear power plant melted down or something over in New Nordgard, and that felt like it happened a thousand centuries ago now.

The men finish brushing their teeth, the Cervidian grabbing a comb and some gel to attend his hair, the Shurayu ducking into the bedroom to grab a cotton thread from his briefcase and painstakingly threading just enough of the wild hairs at the edges of his brows to look well-kempt, careful not to veer into doll-like territory while his upper body hovers over the sink counter and stares into his reflection in the mirror with the sort of intensity one would expect from a jeweler installing gemstones between filigree for a Heartfilian dowager willing to spend the GDP of a small country for a charming seasonal trinket. As they complete their respective tasks, they switch places, the Cervidian shaving, making sure not one solitary follicle exists on his face or neck apart from the mustache obligatory for all Party Men which he carefully straightens up, while the Shurayu styles his own hair, the two bantering all the while. They end with the Cervidian sat on the toilet lid while the Shurayu ruthlessly threads his his thick brows, the Shurayu mocking him without reservation with every indication of discomfort and chastising his partner for allowing his eyebrows to even reach such a state in the first place, before finally turning to his own facial hair once the Cervidian’s brows are suitably tamed, the Shurayu shaping his designer stubble with perfect precision and trimming his own slightly slimmer mustache. With their grooming complete, the two men stand together before the mirror, holding a variety of poses, first serious, then ridiculous, then serious again. The Shurayu sighs, “Ancestors’ tears, we look hideous under these florescents.” “Absolutely disgusting, but so does everyone under florescents,” the Cervidian murmurs noncommittedly, admiring the bump of his bicep in the reflection. The Shurayu rolls his eyes at the display, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll look nice and pretty for everybody with some sunlight on us.”

The whole Foreign Ministry was abuzz with gossip and excitement when word spread of the Asgarthi letter, everybody, from the groundskeepers up to the senior diplomats at work and in groupchats spent every free moment they had speculating as to who would be chosen to head to New Zaralencia to represent the republic, each speculation more fantastical than the last. The answer came three days later, when two mid-level diplomats, one Shurayu, the other Cervidian, both in their late 20s, found in their respective workspaces a coat rack from which hung within the plastic confines of a vacuum-sealed bag a suit tailored according to their specific dimensions, a piece of information found in the file of every Party member. The Shurayu’s suit was double-breasted, made of wool dyed a deep shade of maroon, with broad notch lapels and bone-colored buttons, six on the torso and three along each sleeve, paired with a white dress shirt and a black chiffon tie, as well as a matching pair of pants and a pair of black dress shoes. The Cervidian’s was a more conventional choice for a Meridian: a single-breasted suit with black buttons, made of silver matte satin with a slub texture and peak lapels, accompanied by a matching vest over a white dress shirt and a navy blue tie of silk brocade, printed with an intricate pattern of various flowers in an even darker shade of blue, accompanied by matching silver pants and black dress shoes. The suits were far nicer than anything one would find in the wardrobes of diplomats of their rank, doubtlessly costing thousands of Ruons. Beside each suit sat a packet marked by the sigil of the Foreign Ministry, and beneath it, the ostentatious signature of the Foreign Minister, Anton de la Hoz, written in silver marker.

Word spread like wildfire throughout the diplomatic corps about the selection, there were a few who opposed it, some on grounds of the two men’s youth and inexperience, others out of jealousy, though most who knew of them considered their selection a good choice, both men had shown themselves to be intelligent, capable, and politically reliable members of the Foreign Ministry, and sending them as partners appeared an obvious choice due to the strong friendship they had going back even before their entry into the diplomatic corps. They first met while attending the Ibranum Cadre School in eastern Cervus-Dei-Lignam with fellow members of the Meridianist Student League, both men majoring in international relations and becoming fast friends, earning the Star of the Republic that marks the completion of a cadre’s political training and entry into the Meridianist Party in the same ceremony. From there, they were quickly accepted into the Foreign Ministry and rose the ranks of the diplomatic corps together, cultivating similar reputations as precocious young diplomats who always sought to tackle new and daunting challenges. Well, this assignment was definitely a new and daunting challenge, and their colleagues showed them the utmost support in the days leading to their departure, throwing them a going-away party the afternoon before they left, with Counselor Desirée Sainte-Taranis, an early advocate of the two friends within the Ministry’s halls, bringing a large ice cream cake shaped like a cartoon whale which they all enjoyed, the two men eating their fill with obsessive caution, for they’d been successfully peer-pressured into wearing the suits they’d been given during the party under all manner of threats and promises, their colleagues fawning over their new attire, some even claiming the Foreign Minister himself designed the suits.

Walking out of the Foreign Ministry headquarters, the two men spied the orange glow of a cigarette on the other side of one of the pillars lining the grand building’s facade, only to be stunned still when the Foreign Minister himself stepped in front of them. Foreign Minister De La Hoz was one of the most powerful men in the Party and one of the first Cervidians to join it, quickly becoming an invaluable assent to the President and one of the Party’s most eloquent rhetoricians. In true Meridianist fashion, De La Hoz ran the Foreign Ministry as if he were its family patriarch and had the respect and admiration of the whole ministry for his wisdom and kind, fatherly treatment of his subordinates. In this moment, however, the kind father of the diplomatic corps was silent and inscrutable as he sized up the two men before him with precise, calculating eyes. The Foreign Minister circled them, slowly, the steps of his fine leather shoes like bell tolls to the men’s ears. Returning to his original position in front of them, the Foreign Minister took a drag from his cigarette, staring into their eyes for a beat, his inscrutable countenance cracking for a moment, offering them a split second of sympathy to assuage their poorly-hidden fear. “Those suits were very expensive.” His voice bore that iconic paternal tone to it, as if he were talking to his sons rather than his subordinates. “You know what that means. You weren’t chosen by mistake.” De La Hoz flicked his dying cigarette to the side without so much as a glance and patted each man on the cheek, “You boys will be alright.” He sauntered back into his building without another word, the two men remaining in place until his footsteps could no longer be heard. That was all the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Meridian Republic said to the two men charged to undertake this important mission in all the days which led up to it. Fair enough, the men thought, they knew what they needed to do, and by the Shurayu’s ancestors and the Cervidian’s holy stars, they would do the republic right.

The journey to New Zaralencia took 18 days. It began auspiciously, an early morning flight from CDL International up to Santo Domenico sitting in the lap of luxury up in the first class section of one of the newer airliners of the Concordia-based Star Airlines, the Star of the Republic lapel pins on their suits all Party members were obliged to wear attracting many curious eyes. Both men luxuriated in the amenities of the first class seats the Foreign Ministry almost certainly muscled the airline into providing for free, scarfing down large, meat-heavy Cervidian breakfasts and glass after glass of Ceralean apricot juice mixed with sparkling water, their seats reclined and legs kicked up, a neck pillow behind each man’s head. They were a distinct sight in Santo Domenico, it was Frizch land, the capital of their New Nordgard Viceroyalty, far more developed than just about anywhere in the Meridian Republic. Meridians were a common enough sight in New Nordgard, many moving there to work for Frizch wages and send remittances back to their families, or flying over to try and make deals with various Frizch companies in an effort to bring their businesses to the republic. Two Party Men though, the gold trim of their star pins gleaming under skylights, looking as distinct from eachother and respectively stereotypical as a Shurayu and Cervidian possibly could, drew many curious eyes and a number of questions, which the two men, being trained diplomats, answered with the politeness expected from ones of their position. The next flight was from Santo Domenico to the Chargrenite quadrant in the southeast of that great jungle island hanging beneath Rusina, this time in economy. It appears that when the Foreign Ministry can’t simply make an airline seat its diplomats in first class for free, they end up sitting near the back of the plane. The Cervidian figured most of the Ministry’s budget for this venture must’ve gone to their suits. There was something strangely liminal about the Chargrenite airport, it was a perfectly normal facility: modern, clean, orderly, but it was impossible for one to ignore the feeling that they’re standing on the end of the world in a sense, that across the mist-veiled jungle lied the shattered remnants of Iryllia, and beyond, whatever remained of the other great Rusinan empires, deathly silent since the end of the war. The only Rusinan locations on the departures screens were located in mainland Chargren and the TVs in the lounge showed coverage of an ongoing refugee crisis unfolding in the Chargrenite section of the island, a seemingly never-ending stream of desperate refugees trying to cross the border. The two men decided to quickly move on to the next leg of their trip.

The rest of the journey was made at sea. Planes flown over Rusina had a nasty habit of falling out of the sky as of late, and the two men wouldn’t be able to discern the state of the Rusinans with much clarity from the sky. They chartered a boat from a small Drekhian man with a bushy brown beard and a windworn face; he made it clear to all his passengers that travelling north by boat was only somewhat safer than by air or land, warning them that the seas surrounding Rusina had become infested with pirates since the end of the war. The captain gave particular attention to the two men, quietly telling them in private to hide their star pins. Being a Party Man was all well and good down south, but many of the mercenary houses that fought against the Meridianists and refused to surrender or defect ended up in Rusina, working for whatever warlords or self-proclaimed successor states made them the right offer, with some mercenary houses just turning to piracy outright. If such pirates were to apprehend a boat and find it contained pin-carrying members of the Party which drove them from Meridia and worse, well, that wouldn’t be good for anyone. That was how every subsequent boat ride went along the coast of western Rusina: the two men arriving at a port or dock and exploring the surroundings for a time, before chartering a new vessel with another cagey, rough-skinned captain warning their passengers of the dangers which await them.

Having finished washing up and doing their hair, the two men worry their outfits with lint rollers for the third time that morning with ritualistic intensity on the off-chance a particularly eagle-eyed Asgarthi or foreign dignitary notices an errant bacterium on their otherwise spotless suits, long since cleansed of any lint or dust that may have existed on them to begin with with the same obsessiveness shown now. It's in moments like this the Shurayu influence over the Party is most apparent; only they would be this obsessive, and quite frankly insane, over ensuring every last detail of their appearance, no matter how minor, no matter if the details they’re compulsively worrying over are even perceptible with the human eye. It's a habit all Party Members share, drilled into them in the cadre schools with militaristic intensity. The Cervidian wonders if similar institutions in other countries have any similar training; he knows for sure no other political organization in the world is this obsessed with physical presentation, but even he was surprised with how much of the school’s curriculum was focused on aesthetics, with ideological studies broken up by classes on color theory, lectures on the metaphysics of fashion, and practical instruction on how to dry suits, how to clean shoes, how to stand, how to walk, how to idle. The Shurayu students took to it like ducks to water, after all, this curriculum is essentially the Shurayu Cult of Form, which dictates the outer appearance is simply the physical reflection of a person’s inner self, repackaged in a contemporary, culturally neutral form so as not to make the non-Shurayu within the Party feel like they’re being culturally conquered, which in this particular case, they are. The obsession with physical perfection the school instilled in him was annoying, no doubt, but what’s more obnoxious is the strict BMI requirements for all Party members, with members of the Foreign Ministry saddled with an additional set of physique-related regulations, Stars forbid you embarrass the Party by looking like you just got done eating half of Valtameri, or on the flip side, like you just endured a famine.

The two men arrive at the steps of the Palace de Esgar half an hour later. Their suits are immaculate, their freshly-polished star pins gleam on their lapels, their shoes shine; the Shurayu wears a gold watch which compliments the maroon of his suit, the Cerividian silver. Their journey to Asgareth was long and increasingly perilous, and many times, especially near the end, it seemed they might just end up being yet more people who foolishly wandered into the shattered north, never to be seen again, but the stars guided their path and their ancestors bolstered their resolve, and now here they stand, upright and proud. The men walk in perfect sync, exactly a foot of space between them, their faces carefully blank, without any hint of haughtiness or displeasure, exactly as they were trained. They stop in unison before the pair of guards at the entrance of the palace and the Cervidian steps forward first, handing his identification papers over with a deferential nod to the guard who takes it, “Álvaro Arrambide, representative of the Meridian Republic.” The Shurayu then steps forward to the second guard and presents the papers and himself in an identical manner, “Bélbáni Náḫaṣu, representative of the Meridian Republic.”

[The Natufian Nation]

Ex-ambassador Hamsa Kirysi¹ clipped the overgrown stem of another strand of ivy growing on the fencing of her home garden in front of her estate outside Jeddah City. A woman of well over 80 years, she looked up into the clear sky to feel the summer sun scorching her brow under the garden visor she was wearing. It was hot. Hot and humid. But it was welcome warmth after years of cooler summers caused by the nuclear ash from the Rusinan apocalypse. Fortunately, being in the southern hemisphere and mid-continent, her area was only mildly affected. She was mostly inconvenienced by stunted carnations in her garden. She savored the warmth on her skin, taking a deep breath of the garden-scented air. Her aching body and constant shortness of breath ceaselessly reminded her there would not be many more summers afforded for her to enjoy.

After a couple more clips of her shears, she lowered her arms to the sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive to the front of her home. A dark SUV pulled up slowly and came to a stop. The driver, a youngish man in his late 20s, she surmised, got out, took a look around through his dark sunglasses, and opened the rear door for a woman Hamsa placed in her mid-30s. Hamsa immediately assessed the female visitor she was expecting. Mocha brown Natufian skin not quite complimented by the blue pinstriped pant suit that was the fashion in government circles these days. Her suit jacket was adorned with a lightly weaved yellow-squash colored sash pinned with a brooch bearing the Natufian Aurochs. Her tribal affiliation was placed just below the national animal, a diagonal line with two horizontal cross-hatches, topped with a circle. The Eynan. Good people, Hamsa thought to herself, approvingly. The visitor wore tan pumps and her light brown hair was enhanced with blonde streaks that was striking, but not flashy.

The pair approached Hamsa where she stood and the younger woman removed her sunglasses to reveal bright hazel eyes and a toothy smile. Her face showed nothing but adoration.
“Ambassador Kirysi?” she greeted, “I’m Kira Taqnari…we spoke on the phone. Thanks so much for agreeing to see me. Oh….this is my assistant, Javid Mahboul. Javid, you can wait by the car, please.”

Hamsa returned a slow, sage smile and replied, “You can call me Hamsa and drop the ambassador. I’ve been retired for over 20 years! Come into the patio. I have some refreshments waiting.”

Kira followed the older lady, who moved rather slowly, along a garden path to an outdoor covered patio connecting to the main house. On a wrought iron table was laid out a pitcher of minted lemonade and a plate of chekba, a sweet Natufian confection of cinnamon, nutmeg and other spices blended into a buttery bolus and baked into a flaky dough.

“Have a seat, dear,” Hamsa invited the younger woman as she slowly lowered her ample weight into a chair, rubbing at the arthritis in her knees. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Kira responded unabashed, “No, the honor is mine! You’re a bit of a legend around the Council of State. Well, as I mentioned on the phone, I was just appointed as the new ambassador to Asgareth. I haven’t even reported to the post when we received the summons, well, technically the invitation, from Denzyl Pera. I was hoping you could give me some advice or pointers. I believe you knew him from your days of service?”

Hamsa listened quietly, pouring lemonade for the two of them in the shaded patio and picking up a piece of chekba for herself, offering one to Kira who politely waved it off while speaking.
“Yes, I knew Denzyl, though not well. We were both on our respective diplomatic missions to…..Lost Spiral.”

Kira’s face blushed and her eyes widen as her mouth made on O. “Oh, I am sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean…”

Hamsa raised an arm and smiled half-heartedly. “It’s ok, dear. That was a long time ago.”

Kira looked down at the table, not willing to meet the older stateswoman’s eyes. “I just heard, that, well…”

“That my grandson is still missing and I believe a Spiralian cult exists somewhere that has him? Yes, call me a conspiracy theorist, but…it’s the only hope I have for him. The only thing that makes sense.”² She paused for a moment then continued with a forced cheer in her voice, “But…that is not the matter at hand at the moment. This is about YOU, and the future of our nation’s relationship with Asgareth.”

Kira awkwardly pivoted into the out, “Yes, what can you tell me about President Pera? I mean, I have read the dossier from Intelligence, of course. But, I need a women’s intuition from someone that knew him, what did he feel like, as a person?”

Hamsa smiled wryly at the astuteness of the question. Yes, this young up and comer might just have what it takes to make it big. “In Lost Spiral, the diplomatic corps of the various nations stuck close together. The Spiralians gave us all the creeps. Well, not so much the goblins… Anyway, Denzyl back then was a typical Asgarethian. Conceited, callous, drank way too much at inappropriate times. And, oh, if he offers you any of his ‘special’ porkcake, you must politely refuse unless you fancy a week in the toilet. But, I could also tell he was a bit of a dreamer, even then. Not ambitious, per se, just….he had a way of looking at things to see possibilities others couldn’t. I think you can use that. He wants to be heard and taken seriously.”

Kira nodded as she took in the wisdom being received. She ventured a question, “Were you with him during….you know?”

“The night of terror?” Hamsa finished, eyebrow arching. “No, he was taken to the bunker to experience whatever horrors were unleashed there with the others. I had stayed with my people and faced other horrors trying to get them to safety.”

“And you got them out!” Kira praised

“Most of them….only most of them.” Hamsa replied sullenly. She took a labored gulp of her lemonade and popped the chekba into her mouth, which seemed to instantly change her tone again. “Anyway, I met Denzyl a couple more times after that, before I retired and he was promoted to more senior roles and quit field work. He was a changed man. Ebullient, careful, dare I say, caring. He spoke of changes he was working on in Asgareth to open it up more. Nothing came of it at the time, of course. One evening, at a reception for the Acadien princess’s wedding, he took me aside and asked if I was having nightmares from what happened in Lost Spiral. I confessed to some lingering restless nights and he told me about a medication that had helped him. It wasn’t idle chat. He was sincerely concerned. When I returned to my office a few days later, he had a package of the drug delivered to me.”

“Wow,” Kira replied, taking a drink from her own glass. “So, he’s the real deal?”

Hamsa leaned forward, as much as her abundant waistline would allow, and looked the young ambassador in the eyes. “Here’s the bottom line. What you really need to keep in mind when you go to New Zaralencia. Yes, I believe Denzyl is sincere, you have a great opportunity to forge stronger bonds between our nations. But be careful. He may tend to overpromise or make it seem he can accomplish more than he can. There are still a lot of hardliners in Asgareth. People who resent what has happened and want things to go back to the way they were. Oh, they are not in the open about it. But I still have ears to the ground with some Intelligence friends. It may not be in your official reports, but there is a real concern these hardliners are waiting in the shadows, with hands in important areas like banking and technology. Maybe they are just a lost breed dying off, maybe my information is bad, but you need to consider what adverse elements might still be around. If these hardliners exist and if they ever gained influence with the military….”

Kira nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I see what you mean. I’ll keep an eye out for sure.”

“Kira…”, the older woman began, “you should also remember something else. This is a unique moment in time for the Natufian Nation. We are no longer in the shadow of Rome. I know there is a lot of insecurity about that but we are ready to stand on our own two feet. Honestly, contrary to my late husband’s belief³, we’ve been ready for a while. The Rusinian nations have been through a catastrophe of unimaginable scale. We are in the strongest position we have ever been in, but you need to walk that line to make sure there is mutual respect and benefit. Don’t push too hard. You don’t want to look like you’re taking advantage.”

Kira smiled, she had this covered. “Understood and we are already off to a good start with the new Asgarethian government. I am sure you know about the major investment into Krisik Enterprises already. I’ve also worked with our trade delegation on a landmark deal to present to Asgareth. Rome helped us build a lot of industrial foundries, but we lost access to their ore deposits when they collapsed. Meanwhile, Asgareth lost a lot of their heavy industry capacity but still maintains active mining operations. We want to import Asgarethian ores, smelt them in our foundries, and provide the steel and other heavy metals they need to keep rebuilding.”

Hamsa nodded, impressed at the plan. “That would be excellent and just what I am talking about. I think you are going to do great on this assignment.”

Kira smiled in appreciation and checked her watch. “Ma’am, I can’t thank you enough for your time meeting with me. I’ll leave you to your gardening in peace now.”

Hamsa smiled warmly as the two got up and walked back through the garden. “Of course. And I told you to call me Hamsa. If you need anything, just call. So, you are flying straight to New Zaralencia, then?”

“No, I’ll make a stop in Cenatrailis first. That was my previous assignment. The guy I handed the post over to wants to confer with me on a file I left for him. He says it should be in person as there is some material evidence he wants me to look at. I can’t say much about it, obviously, but ambassador to ambassador, it seems the Cenatrailisians may have lost a rather important scientist.⁴ My replacement thinks he may have a lead on his whereabouts and says I should be informed.”

“Mysteries upon mysteries.” Hamsa replied offhandedly, “The nature of our work!”

As they arrived at the vehicle, Javid holding the door open for the new ambassador to Asgareth, the two women shared a silent moment, the old generation of Natufian diplomacy seeing off the new, full of promise and adventure. Next stop in the adventure….Asgareth.

---

1 – Hamsa Kirysi was a principal character in Diplomacy in the Dark.
2 – In the DiD epilogue, Hamsa’s grandson was being seduced by a girl he met online. He was leaving to meet her in Cambria and, at her beckoning, got a tattoo of the emblem of Lost Spiral.
3 – Also in fhe DiD epilogue, Hamsa’s unnamed husband was a professor of Roman Studies at the University of Jeddah and staunchly pro-Roman, even having a statue of Caesar Augustus placed in the family shrine.
4 – Refers to a mysterious character of Cenatrailis that appeared in Choose Your Poison vol 3.

[Gorasnia]

(Marking my interest, will replace with post later)