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The Wanderer's Guide to Somewhere (CLOSED)

A battle ground for the sportsmen and women of nations worldwide. [In character]

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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Posts: 7437
Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Wed Sep 09, 2020 7:37 pm

Auld Lang Syne

PART 7B-2 (24-2) - Season Finale - SECTION 2

PART 3/8 - Everything I Wanted


'Well, sorry about that.' Theo Pinson hiccuped, his speech slightly loose from all the alcohol him and Ian Lautner had drunk earlier. Both Theo and Ian were coming from the other side of the country, former Chicoutimi and latter California City, and the ride to the airport was certainly hectic to say the least. Having only arrived at the funeral home about an hour ago, they decided to get drunk early and it showed with the way they started slurring and saying uncontrollable words. 'I don't know about him, but we shouldn't have behaved like that when the Sangju himself is silent.'

‘It’s fine, Theo.’ said Asher as he slowly poured the 30’c Makgeolli, from the halfway-full pot to a Notgeureut. ‘It must not have been easy making the trip so late in advance. Not easy to do that even when your mum’s been such a close friend of late Mrs. Turner. Same goes for Ian as well.’

‘Certainly. What a way to start the March break. Not in the warm, backyard beaches, but in Kingston.’ Ian nodded, as he gulped down another load of Makgeolri. ‘But we’re all here for Myeong-Shin. He must be really hurting now, but that’s expected of anybody who lost his mum.’

‘Yeah. And he’s a senior too,’ nodded Samuel Carlini-Mwambutsya, who remains amazed at this. ‘Thank god he came back just in time for her last words….we were all worried about the whole match, against Westlake of all schools too.’

‘Yeah, the QBC guys were talking about it on broadcast,’ Theo nodded, as he looked at Ian. ‘I’m sure nobody thought this year would go anything like what we expected from 2038, you know? Myeong-Shin and I were supposed to play for Queen’s together, win a few and then be rivals once in pros. Instead, he bolted to Saguenay while I’m still heading to Cornwall.’ Theo lifted his head up and pensively into the ceiling. Theo and Ian, while still young, looked a lot more aged than what their written age suggested once in this room.

Of course, there’s a bit of a complicated reason behind why things were slightly complicated, and we all knew that was because Myeong-Shin, for whatever the reason only few (including themselves) knew, decided to break upon a promise of them all ending up in Cornwall. Being an Erskinian whose parents both went like the Lautners did (but not the Pinsons - Theo’s father Nathan was a community college grad back in the Pinsons’ hometown of Beolgyo, Ontario), it had previously made sense for him to go to Queen's College. That's what everybody thought. 99% of the crystal balls said so too!

But that didn't happen and now everything's changed. That may have been why the college junior was hesitant on making a college commitment at this point in time. Everybody knew Ian Lautner had reduced the list to three: Queen’s College, Saguenay and Southern Manitoba (most commonly referred to as USM). St. Croix was out early, so was Farrer and a bunch of major ones. UPRI made a valiant pitch, but they did not promise him that the Thunderbirds were not going to recruit a quarterback for the very next class after. Queen’s was where his parents, a history student and an art history student, met; USM was his hometown school where at least four football players from Pater Dei went every year; and of course, Saguenay. They became a huge riser after Myeong-Shin, the sangju himself whom he spent many cottage summers, committed to Saguenay.

‘And that’s why you never go back on your own words.’ said Ian, as he tried to find the right ways to describe it. ‘The old man, of course, never held back on his words nor did he stop loving her. Something my papa never came to understand, but it’s at least a good love story that ties all of us here.’

Of course, the final sentence was playing somewhat of a heightened tension in the room. Sure, it’s partly to do with Myeong-Shin’s commitment, but more it’s over the divide between the two. As described earlier, people on both sides of the polemics still argued whether it was the gorgeous redhead in Maureen Turner that seduced him the first time and then played a cruel game until it was too much, or that Heo Dong-Soo himself played a long game of life and death that he seemingly bet on for too long.

‘If such happened, then love must be a powerful creature,’ said Bradley Coughlan-Chen, trying not to say too much.

‘It certainly is, because nobody believed them when it was late Mme. Turner who was the one that saved him when he had to retire.’ responded Theo. ‘One of the greatest mysteries in this universe.’

‘Maybe miracles do happen out there.’ said Asher, just adding a minor thought to the discussion that was getting too blamatory towards this Dr. Heo and that Mme. Turner. Frankly, Asher didn’t care too much about it. Sure he was very much concerned with the deceased, being Myeong-Shin’s friend and long familiar to the family, but he had little concerns with whatever Ian and Theo were talking about. If anything, he was rather wondering who had the audacity to send a text message exactly five minutes ago. A text message so urgent that it got sent through and made emergency notification even though he had his phone turned off.

Now the conversation went onto something else about memories of Mme. Turner whenever the crew reached over the cottage summers or all star games, Asher found this a right time to move away. He turned on his phone, waited ten seconds and swiped right to unlock the phone.

‘Who is it...who is it...who is it…’ Asher repeated as he pressed the text button, trying to see if he could find out. It was an unfamiliar, out of town phone number for one. But for another it must have been a non-Montreal or Quebec City phone number, since it didn’t start with 0. Those two cities were the only ones that had their phone numbers start with 0 or 1. ‘Oh no….’ he dropped the phone, having seen the text and realised what had happened.

Hey Ash, this is Eileen. Is everything okay back there? I received your mail and tried to call you few nights back but you weren’t responding.





IS THIS EILEEN? IS THIS REALLY EILEEN?
SHOULD BE. WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE? YOU DON’T HAVE A COUSIN NAMED EILEEN.
...THAT I KNOW OF.
NOT THE POINT. STOP BEING SILLY RIGHT THERE.
IS THIS REALLY REALLY EILEEN THE GIRL WHO CAUGHT ME SKYDIVING INSIDE MY HEART?
YES, WHO ELSE DO YOU HAVE AS EILEEN AROUND YOUR LIFE SILLY? JUST GET BACK TO IT. STOP BEING SO HESITANT.
ALRIGHT ALRIGHT. LET’S GET BACK TO IT. GO TEXT HER.
WHAT?????
JUST DO IT. GODDAMNIT.
ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT.




He looked down to his cellphone, looked at the message again and typed a message. Phew. That was the only word that seeped into his mind, as he decided to browse an article or two to read while the boys were talking about something. Unfortunately, he got his response right away….

Image


Eek, he thought to himself as he wondered what to do next. For one this was a good sign- maybe she wasn’t going to just ghost him. If anything, this was the very opposite situation. Still, Asher wasn’t sure on how to answer the situation that he’s currently in right now and barring some miracle, he would not be able to see her unless he ask his mum and dad to just go to a rural town in Southwestern Acadie…..which, while sounding like a solid idea, he wasn’t sure on how sellable it may be.

Anyhow, Asher decided to wait a day or two before even deciding on what to do with this number. Having turned off his phone, Asher went back to the conversation table, only to hear Theo talking about something. ‘Honestly though, Dr. Heo was a scary man. Never seen anybody who can get so furious for breaking the rules or streaking or shit. Don’t you think?’ Asher was listening to this, but could still care less about the situation. Now they were talking about something that he knew, but not in the right timing nor context.

‘No denial on that. It’s not so common to see a professor that is renowned and beloved by the Royal court, to send a letter of condemnation so that he could deny a certain professor, a vegan, from tenure at a major school!’ Ian added, smirking at how everybody seemed to underestimate the old man.

‘Is the one you talking about….THAT VEGAN PROF whom your brother Connor mentioned a while back on twitter, Ian?’ Theo asked, kind of getting the gist of what his West Coast friend was talking about.

‘Who else would it be?’ Ian shot back with no surprise. ‘You know Dr. Heo, like a good Que-be-cois, views veganism with disdain.’ The old man Heo may not use his legs effectively enough, especially after the car crash that ended his budding fencing career but also brought Maureen back to him, but everybody knew that did not deter him from words of fire and fury when asked. ‘Of course, the only sin committed by that very prof of concern was kicking Dr. Heo off the graduate journal board for ripping onto half the submissions for how they were juvenile and fucking unacceptable. They were Masters’ students back then, but who would have thought that’d lead into a condemnation letter using the Royal Society of Quebec seal…’

Asher was watching the very cynicism and the fire that coexisted in Ian Lautner, as he kept his mind occupied. He had known about this part for a while because Myeong-Yoon once jokingly mentioned this when they were chatting on a lunch table as freshmen, but since it came off so...casually from Myeong-Yoon, he kinda shrugged it off. To those outside of the circles, that’s one of the scariest things about the Quebecois- they never forget when they get insulted for no proper reason- but Asher simply gave no fucks about this.

Anyhow, Asher went back to drinking. All the six on the table (himself included) were now well drunk, and their mouths were quenched from the everlasting thirst. The grief was at least going to be temporary, but the memories derived from it were at least going to be permanent. That’s what they were looking for.

‘What a cruel man, who knew whom to love and hate...the strongest feelings he held…’ said Sarah Saint-Amant, her nose now as red as a Rudolph. ‘What did Mme. Turner do to deserve unconditional love from him…’

‘And he never regretted it all this time.’ Asher said, feeling like saying his final words into the topic. ‘Said he’d do this over and over again. To give everything up only to be with someone who left him hanging the first time. Only except that it worked the second time.’ He hoped this, now that he’s well drunk and distracted, would be enough for him to exit the conversation. He really did not want to keep falling into the loop no more- whether Dr. Heo, the loving father of two and faithful husband of Mme. Turner was cruel or fiery or whatever mattered little to him now. He just wished he would be in that country town outside the Saint John-Habpo Twin Cities right now.




PART 4/8 - Love In The Ice


What a shitshow of hundreds it was.

Asher Lundrigan isn't really a man of funerals. He’s never been, never intends to, nor hopes to become one in future. His life, since returning to the Quebecois soil, certainly gave him the comfortable cushion but also the lack of such experiences. Aside from not always seeing his father due to Mr. Lundrigan’s duties as a MP for six years, he had a fairly standard childhood growing up before going to Erskine. Given how some of his teammates and friends, especially those who were scouted way back in grade eight, did not necessarily have the common lifestyle or cultural code within their experience, he knew he was very lucky not to go through particular traumas.

Well, at least it’s over now.

At the funeral, it went as expected. There was a sea of people who wished to pay last respects to the deceased as the coffin was being placed underground. If anything, everybody was paying some kind of tribute forth to that summer of 2013 when, out of unexpectedness, it was Maureen Turner who, upon hearing the news, came to him as he was recovering. The story, long famous in both the husband and the wife’s circles but not so much to the public, was a classic Quebecois love story. It was the one that was seemingly going to end in tragedy but did not. Since then, they had spent the next quarter-century together, from Kingston to Quebec City and then back to where they had first met in Cornwall, before ending up in Kingston. Like that, the trail brought people and they were there, all solemn and mourning.

Now, Asher Lundrigan stared at the tombstone that marked Mme. Turner’s name, her favourite quote and how she was parent of two and wife of one. He was feeling particularly solemn and quiet throughout the funeral, but his feet weren’t so fast in telling him to leave just yet. If anything, he was amazed with how massive the funeral crowd was for the interring of the late choreographer. Family friends, extended family members, fellow professors and dancers, fencing national team members. The list itself was quite endless and that’s something he partly longed for. He longed for the days when he, like with the Heo family’s case, would write enough of his own stories, of his life that’d be more than whatever the fuck that was right now. He dreamed of eventually getting out of here, moving to somewhere bigger, and maybe hope for the best.

‘Well at least we’re through.’ As the low, deep voice brought him out of the daze, Asher turned around only to see Myeong-Shin, the other half of the Battery of Love, standing before him. ‘Though it’s not over yet.’

‘Myeong-Shin, my apologies once again.’ said Asher, trying to remind himself of his part in the situation. It may have been unnecessary but he at least wanted to be clear on it. ‘Should’ve known my place better and told you.

‘Asher, I’m not concerned one bit about it. If anything, I have a matter that concerns you, not me, as of right now.’ Myeong-Shin said, with a particular eloquence of his father, the professor. The comment caught Asher right on the spot. Even though they had been playing together for long enough, they rarely pushed one another into a decision that likely involves personal sentiments. Sure, Myeong-Shin did give Asher tips on picking up girls from time to time, but he trusted Asher enough to not really create artificial situations out of blue, while Asher was never concerned with how ‘stable’ and ‘perfect’ Myeong Shin-Naomi relationship was. Still, their door to intervene and help was always open and this just had to happen now.

‘Alright, le capitaine,’ Asher nodded, seeing the level of trust between the two. ‘So...what is it?’

‘I know you wanted to send her your love, memories remain.’ Myeong-Shin said, trying to stay somewhat oblivious. ‘And I know you wanted to send it to her, but didn’t get to do so.’

But...the letter was still in my bag in the morning. He questioned on the inside, as he felt both scared and exhilarated at the same time. Does this mean that he had known all along?

‘Yes….but why this now? This is not the right time for this.’ Asher questioned, still bewildered at what’s going on.

‘Because I have a present for you,’ Myeong-Shin smiled, as he brought out a small card which Asher assumed had something to do with Quebecois National Railways given their respective shape. ‘QNR year pass, effective today.’ Myeong-Shin handed Asher the rail pass, which he reluctantly opened. ‘You have to go now. I have let your parents know that you have an important...mission to attend at Saint-John-Upon-Battersea.’

He then continued with simple instructions that would be best described as the proper application of the imperative case, though not in his ideal language of choice. Since the English imperatives, for one, lacked such distinctions and pronunciations for that, he instructed Asher in Korean. ‘Make sure to catch the 6pm MACH at Songjeong station, not Union. Then, once you get off, you’ll probably have about an hour between Windsor and King’s Cross. Make sure to catch the right train that should wake you up for 5am arrival, or else you’ll be arriving at Saint John Central around 1am.’ He commented.

‘But why...why are you doing this for me?’ Asher asked, as he still found himself in bewilderment over all this. There were many questions that emerged as he unsuccessfully tried to organise the latest bits of information. Was he the one who sent a copy of it, and somehow found where Eileen was staying? Heck, who is Eileen even? Why is she…why is he... ‘Just why? The mail...’ he blurted out.

Myeong-Shin briefly sighed, before giving him a particular look on the eye that suggested this was a serious business. ‘Yes. It took me several phone calls and dozens of texts in the middle of the night, but eventually I did find the right address to send the mail. Myeong-Yoon being her fan clearly….helped. So to speak.’

‘That explains everything.’ Asher replied, having realised everything. ‘So you think that I need to take the plunge, and risk it all.’

‘Yes, because this is your turn, and I owe you enough already,’ he said. ‘Father always told me how mother, with her smile, the cheeriness and ability to understand his tongue, was the true life-changer for him. Everything made sense when he was with her and when they took late strolls over snowy Cornwall streets after Dr. Schvabrin’s class. There is a reason why Dr. Schvabrin still remembers me fondly.’

‘So you think that I need to take the plunge, and risk it all.’

‘Of course, always, toujours, eonjena.’ said Myeong-Shin with the finest of his certainties. ‘I know it could take a ton away from you. It took him two near-deaths, an ended career and friends who remain confused to this day, but never did he regret once.’

‘So you think I have a chance to be with her?’

‘Yes, but it’s going to be up to you,’ He continued, trying to get the right essence out of the situation that the man who he looked very much alike once committed. ‘If you love her and see any hopes, now is going to be the time. Happy March break.’
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Fri Sep 25, 2020 1:10 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
Negotiator
 
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Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Sun Sep 13, 2020 3:06 pm

Auld Lang Syne

PART 8 (24-3) - Season Finale - SECTION 3

PART 5/8 - Absolute


Travelling on the Nightstar, on my own for the first time.

As he looked out the window of a 1978 Laganiere sleeping car nearing its retirement in five years’ time, he was feeling something anew. He had spent many trips out of town, abroad and even a stint beyond the Multiversal realms. Of course those were usually accompanied- sometimes he went with dozens of teammates who he had carved something wonderful with, occasionally he went with his family for fun, and of course the crew would make occasional trips up the Muskoka, Kawarthas or even the Manitoulins, where Bradley Coughlan-Chen’s maternal family still lived.

Of course, those hours were usually spent on team buses, with the exception of national tourneys. Alone on the train, however...

47 trips. It’s his first unaccompanied train trip after 47 occasions where he was accompanied, usually with his mother, the Vdaran princess herself, and his brother Frank, and Asher was finding himself still relatively nervous to the whole solo travel. Sure, he was having a little trouble paying extra to travel on a solo B-Class compartment, and the additional comfort it brought, but the comfort wasn’t bringing his heart comfort either. Right now, all he could remember was the very rainy afternoon when he met Eileen; he intended to find a stray waiter, and her waiting for her hometown friend.

‘I don’t know….I remember looking back at the pier when I was little. The waters were all cold and nice, and sometimes you could swim in it and see the occasional ducks and loons walking past...I remember my red scarf flying away, like that film I watched in Endborough one time..’ He was recalling what Eileen said, a seemingly minor detail that proved to be a lot bigger than intended. He was holding a handkerchief as he recalled the details, one of the few things he carried with him that was still on his property after all these years. He never quite understood how the blue handkerchief, woven by an auntie who had married a Korean craftsman in Perce, Gaspesie province, had managed to come back to him after all this time. It seemed quite accidental but also fateful enough….perhaps he was getting the gist after all this time that there’s something with past and present meeting up again.




PART 6/8 - The Reason


Stranger in a strange land that he used to call home...heading back to a strange land where someone so familiar yet unfamiliar is waiting...

The train ride back to Montreal or Quebec City usually excites people, whether it be provincials going to the big city for something big and promising they see with the lights and the theatre, or just the Montrealais or Capitoliens travelling back home after a business trip. At times you'd see dozens of college students coming home from their classes in Cornwall, Ottawa and of course Kingston area schools, and they'd make their own noises as well. But for today, the mid-May train was quiet enough for Asher to really think back.

Sure, he's long used to those rides, having undergone many of those especially for the first two years of undergrad, but not a ton of those for personal purposes since his parents had moved back to Quebec City. While he prided himself in spending a decade growing up in prosperous Midtown Kingston, Asher wasn't entirely a Kingstonian in heart- spending many years beyond the interrealm portal before had long established that anyway- and he somewhat found ease at the nation's capital, which made sense since he rarely spent more than three weeks every year, in his grandfather's Bron-Yr-Aur estate.

Of course, this still didn't mean that he was entirely at ease in Quebec City either, and perhaps there's no surprise that Asher didn't really want to stay in Quebec beyond the four years of Universite St-Croix. Being a well-known grandson of a baron, whose family has carved a particular name in the Royal Quebecois Navy, had meant that everybody would kinda know he was. Sure, he was long familiar with the homely, interlinked atmosphere of Quebec City and its scholar domains, but having everything material and eros that you desired did not mean that you had anything or anybody you could want as well.

But can I?

That's the only question he held inside his head, as he checked his phone and texted her once again. He knew she was still in the city, and decided that he would have to make a tough decision.

Those tasks, which he had known very well as a history student at St. Croix, would require spiritual maturity or at least proper desire that goes beyond the animalistic calling for belonging. They would require something greater, and those weren't going to come unless he had really sought them out. Asher has never been the one to change himself out for the sake of other people. If he were a lower-class kid trying to break into somewhere higher like a social snake climbing up the ladders, sure. But he had name, pride and money, and so such would not be a case at all.

Of course, that may have been why he was even more stunned when it was Eileen who brought him that feeling back again, five years after his mistake. He, of course, knew very well that the divine being, high above, did not always bring the best ideas to his subjects, and felt like he shouldn't be the one going through this. The way they had just behaved, whether it be him irresistibly kissing her or her asking him to stay overnight, left him somewhat stunned. Was it right, for a man so broken and undeserving, to claim the woman who is deservingly not his? Maybe that's why he felt that all the guilt that transpired from this wasn't enough to forgive the man from his sins, and he knew that as well.

Perhaps he had understood the possibility of redemption, and he had secretly hoped for it. There would be no looking back no more. He had to make the decision, and it was going to happen before the VELO train arrived at Montreal Windsor station in time for early dinner hours.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Sun Sep 13, 2020 3:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Sun Sep 13, 2020 5:42 pm

OOC : Now we're through with series numero 2, as the stars once again aligned for Asher and Eileen. I would like to thank Banija, Commonwealth of Baker Park, Delaclava, Drawkland, Graintfjall, Krytenia, Liventia, Newmanistan, Siovanija and Teusland, Tikariot and Zeta Reka and Hugeltaldom, as well as everybody else out there for reading it over at various points this series, as well as other supporters of the series.

Auld Lang Syne

PART 9 (24-4) - Season Finale - SECTION 4

PART 7/8 - This Town


Now, Asher was back here again. In front of her flat, shall we say.

Oh well…Things can always turn out the worst way possible.

His mind was still unclear. No matter how much confidence and faith he had in himself through going through it, this problem wasn’t going to change. Anyhow, he knew he wanted to see her the very next moment possible, and this had to happen now, no matter how unprepared he was going to be. Four days may have passed and his emotions were still unclear, but the inevitable still had to happen at some point and he knew it.

Asher still remembered how he, when sixteen and all alone on the way to Saint-John-Upon-Battersea, was foolish enough to forget about all the important nits-and-bits about preparation. That, of course, had led into a bit of questions to be answered when they had met again at the train station, which was resolved with an easy realisation by Mssr. De Ramaut who had noticed his blue handkerchief placed right beside her red scarf for whatever the reason.

Lucky bastard, over and over again. Asher chuckled as he turned around to look at the darkening hues of the Maytime sky. The air of the island, which gave the breath of life to millions of lives over the past six centuries, was cool and clear. This has been the case for nine decades since the factories had moved to the outskirts of the cities as a response to Urban Pollution Act of 1955, and the city hasn’t really looked back since then. The environmental projects, inspired by precedences coming from other international metropolises, were underway for a couple of decades and now the people were reaping the benefits off of it, including it himself.

At least the sky’s bright enough, to tell me that it’s the time.

Turning his head back to the very door of her place, Asher rang the bell twice, hoping that Eileen was still at her flat as promised. Having looked at the sky once, all seemed clear enough. His face was now all red and heavy from the thoughts he had, and the possible embarrassments he had contemplated long before. Still he smiled, feeling slightly nervous but finally at peace with the fact that he’s capable of starting everything again. He had always stayed devout to his faith, but still he wasn't sure on how to explain the supernatural, the unfairness, and all the mysteries of the life that he did not know how to answer. Now he did, and it gave him the peace.

A minute later, the door opened, and it was Eileen standing in front of him. That moment, all Asher had inside his mind were the roses and the robins, coming at him like the golden ray of Zeus, and filling him up with certainty to commit to mistakes. He was ready now. With the particular eagerness in his heart, Asher just let it all go, as he threw his arms up to slightly overwhelmed Eileen.

‘I love you, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do.’ He said, as he looked into her eyes. 'Now, tomorrow, next week, forever. 'Tis I promise you, and forever, 'til I die.'




PART 8/8 - Open Your Heart


The commuter train came out of the long course of zig zags and curves into the Maytime forests. The earth lay fresh and vibing under the sweet smell of the winter. The train stopped at the small town station. Asher, who was watching the view from the narrow train doors on the one end of Car Two, opened the door and walked past the station’s only platform. The maytime mist poured in, covering his glasses with the remarkable coverage it held. Walking further and into the waiting hall of the old, brick station building, Asher felt no less stranger than how he was back in his familial seat of Bron-Yr-Aur.

Asher, in general, was fine with the idea of waiting at rural stations. They were usually not so packed, and had decent wifi for you to browse through wiki pages or watch live streams. Of course, that wasn't the problem this time. He, having forgotten to listen to Myeong-Shin's advice, accidentally arrived in Habpo Station too early and decided to take the first train, which was at 5:00 a.m., to Saint-John-Upon-Battersea. And while that had made his journey a lot easier, especially with the low number of hours of sleep he had all the way from Montreal to here, he had eventually realised that this was a terrible mistake. Not only did Asher forget to tell the exact hour of his arrival to Eileen, but he also had forgotten to come up with a valid explanation. Sure, he had texted her when the train had departed and there was a clear sense of confidence he held, likely from whatever the divine presence possible, that she had read the text.

Feelings hanging by that livewire, but with some folklore...

But still, Asher had not exactly figured out on how to explain the whole 'stranger from the southwest, however noble he may be, with no connection to the southwestern Acadie, visiting Coxwell Park'. However financially challenged or talked about the Lauzon house may have been, and how his parents looked down upon hers many moons ago, they were still one of the most historic baronies in Quebec. There would have to be a lot of explanation done.

Should’ve thought better, but hey, at least I managed to make this work. Yay, said Asher to himself, as he yawned twice.

It was then that he had finally noticed the calling. Just he had yawned the second time, something was tingling his ears. Then, as he raised his head around, he happened to see a girl with a mysterious piano, whose tunes greeted him from the other end of the waiting lounge with an inexplicable sense of warmth and movement to his bones. Asher rubbed his eyes a couple of times before walking towards the piano once again. The piano, which was as old as the time immemorial seemed to suggest, was meticulously aged and graced with folkloric blessings from all those who had voyaged past this city, and those who had lived here for three centuries. At the very front of it, sat Eileen. Her hair long and slightly disheveled, likely from little sleep or staying up all night, she kept her face moving frontwards and backwards and wore her red scarf over the light Afghan coat.

Ah…..was all he said, as he walked forward and sat next to her. Now he understood what the past had meant, and how the present promised at him.

Then they started playing for hours and hours....and that's how their story really took off.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Sun Sep 13, 2020 5:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Sep 15, 2020 5:23 pm

OOC : Just in case you wonder, yes, this song does use the famous song, 'The Pretty Girl Milking Her Cow', as the base.

Running Up That Hill

PART 0 (28) - Prologue - 思ひで


The twin cities of Saint John-Habpo lie proudly on the southwestern end of Acadie province, which holds four coves, two ports and a comfortable 58km distance from Quebecois-Semar borders. 'Tis the city that's traditionally known for its maritime heritage, draped by all the factories that lie in both cities, and also being working class in origin. This city's where the immigrants from Sealtainn Eireann who, in the post-conquest eras of 1700s, had immigrated to live alongside the indigenous peoples and the Anglophone-Quebecois whose portal closure had left them with little choice but to be ruled as His Majesty's subjects.

Such continued over the course of time, as the Quebecois Commonwealth expanded and Quebec City welcomed immigrants coming from them and few others- this had usually meant Schottians in this region- to add further intrigue into the industrialised cities. This was where the earliest movements of Quebecois labour activism and Marxism reigned and eventually moved westwards to Quebec City and Montreal. Nowadays, much of what existed of their labour class heritage and traditions continued into its sports teams, such as the legendary Saint John Steelers of QFL and tragic, tragic Saint John Green Sox of QBO, and the city kept going.

On the western, Habpo half of the twin cities, the Quincentennial Tower situates in the very edge of the Southwark Pier, as it delivers cinematographic views of the Muhak Bay and dozens of ferries that connects the city of 1.35 million to various towns on the other side of the Fundy, few Semar cities further south and southeast, and of course Halifax. The twin cities have many modern buildings, especially those around the Southwark Pier that were redeveloped back in 2010s and 2020s, and this was the most stunning one among them. 68 stories and 246m tall, the Quincentennial Tower held many companies' head offices on the first forty-four floors and a residence hotel right above that.

And that's where we head once again. Asher and Myeong-Shin were now well-aged, long over the growing pains and initial hurdles that their twenties had posed, and now all seemed fairly straightforward as they just broke their forties. Here, in Myeong-Shin's residence apartment at the sixty-third floor, all looked much more settled. It was there where the Hall of Famer, first year post-retirement, stayed while working as a hitting coach for the Imperial League dweller Saint John Green Sox. Given that his wife Naomi and their three children were still living back in Kingston, there weren't a lot of furniture in his suite. Guests were few and far between, as he preferred to meet fellow members of the coaching staff and the players outside, and he of course stayed faithful to his wife of fifteen years. Still, there were just enough amenities and furnitures for a guest, whether a friend or a high school/collegiate prospect staying over. They were usually housed in the guest room, where enough teas existed and wifi was decent enough for office work if needed.

Sitting on their foldable chairs, Heo Myeong-Shin and Asher Lundrigan sat in the living room to watch the midday view of the Fundy, and reflected back. The fact that they both lived in the southwestern Acadie had made their lives a lot easier to coordinate, and the fact that the Heo children were slightly older than the Lundrigan pair also helped it as well.

‘The life isn’t bad for you nowadays, my friend,’ said Asher, who was now quite aged at 40. The duties of being a parent to three sports-playing children, on top of having a professional career that still required travelling every once in a while, has taken quite a bit of age out of him. ‘After the past few years of gauging when’s the right time to just let it go, now you’re free and all that.’

‘The career isn’t over yet, as you have found out way before,’ Myeong-Shin chuckled, slightly feeling older after hearing that remark. Always being that son of late Maureen Turner and Heo Dong-Soo, he lived like a gregarious man he could have been. Of course, he stayed faithful to Naomi Goldbloom, his high school sweetheart, the previous twenty-five years, but their relationship was built on societal expectations and both sides of course easily accepted such. ‘Everybody has careers these days, as they had been doing so all twenty-first century long. You just don’t bank it all, resolutely retire in the countryside and not be seen much outside the region for decades.’

‘Certainly.’ Asher nodded, sipping a cup of coffee while looking at the view. Who would have thought he, a man of many sails and flights, would end up living in Saint-John-Upon-Battersea like his father-in-law did? He certainly wouldn’t have believed it- that’s not something that the sixteen year old himself had in mine, nor a twenty-three year old himself. But then, sometimes life would give you lemons and you have to work around it. That’s the difference between the two- it something Myeong-Shin didn’t have to do so much, but Asher had to do. Regardless, both sides were happy about how things went, and that’s what mattered the most.

‘Anyway, how’s the television series going?’ asked Myeong-Shin, giving his friend a wink over something that was likely discussed a while back. ‘The one on Archduke Franz and Archduchess Larissa? The one the Canon Studios expect to screen it?’

‘Oh, the Agrippa’s Sapphire?’ Asher responded, thinking back to the latest project he undertook. The life in the countryside had come with their downsides in that there would be less work he could undertake in his own right. ‘It’s going alright...I do not know how happy the Unified Republics’ Government are going to feel about it, nor the restorationists themselves. They may feel happy this is a historical epic, but enough political dynamites exist no matter where.’

‘Always,’ nodded Myeong-Shin. Being a history professor’s son, and a comparative literature student at Universite du Saguenay, had meant that he was especially aware of political landmines. His father, a longtime Court Historian who spent his last two decades working on the Anthologies of the Queen Christine II, reminded him that all too dearly. ‘But everything’s a risk. You’re of course familiar with the whole problem of how and whose take to talk about a historical event so grand and important to people’s lives to this point on. It’s not going to change. At least the Siovanijans and Teus are fine about it. We all know their own success stories. Southern Rushmori War will always be a bit more complicated alley to talk about.’
‘Amen to that,’ Asher stepped in, thinking of a better way to explain his situation. ‘Speaking of those, this reminds me of that time when Eileen and I travelled on the 100th Anniversary Train that time-’

Of course, before they were to turn any further, Asher’s golden handheld clock chimed, let out a rang and reminded the two to go to the lobby. Apparently there was an important parcel to handle, and it required all four hands to move upstairs. Anyhow, this is where we are going to return to the present-time, of May 2045...
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:39 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 1 (29) - Light Me Up


I'm finding my heart
Using my hands
You're my feet on the ground
My footprints

From where I began
I still carry your love
I feel your love


This is fucking awesome.

That Macklemore and Ryan Lewis quote is probably the best way to describe Asher Lundrigan and Eileen De Ramaut (whose name is way more known by those active music listeners as Plongeon) right now, dear reader.

Since the very night in her Montreal apartment about a year ago, their lives had seemingly returned to normalcy, as they found peace in their own lives again. This kind of a feeling, where you, after years of not looking at the pieces in your attic, find your way to piece the puzzle pieces together, is special. It’s something that a historian of the Quebecois fin-de-siecle, whether from top-bottom or bottom-up approach, would love to travel on a time machine to achieve, and it’s also something that a religious reader of the text, who may feel inspired by but misinterpreting of this, and quote from Job 8:7 (King James Bible): ‘Though thy beginning was small, yet thy latter end should greatly increase’.

This would continue, but more on an implicit capacity, though soon the tides would change, as we get transported to that of their first trip together abroad. Here, like a flock of beautiful birds, Asher and Eileen walked over the urban, stone-floored streets of Downtown Brattleboro on an early May 2045 evening.

All the travels, from museums to parks and even a small palace that His Royal Highness The Prince Caspian, Duke of Halifax, would sometimes visit to look over his past duchy that he governed before the marriage to Christine II of Quebec, were had with ease. Without a snapshot, without a worry, nor any sight of discernment, they just let the first stretch of their travels go by with ease. Now, having gone through quiet, reserved two days of travels and observations, they were finally starving as they headed to the local night markets for their final dinner here, before they were heading out east.

‘Are you still thinking about the script?’ Eileen smiled, lower half of her vocal register seemingly suggesting that she may have had a yawn earlier, as they walked along the streets of Downtown Brattleboro. While on their flight from Montreal to Brattleboro, she had heard about the script of a movie that he wanted to work on. It was going to be one of those historical romances, where the lives would revolve around the chromatic sentiments and scenes of dawn and dusk, instead of the losses and tragedies. She liked the idea, though unsure on what extent.

‘No, but I am the luckiest no matter what,’ Asher chuckled, raising his hands twice as he walked sideways and then swirled into a couple of personal circles, while he watched her laugh. Asher had now been accustomed to letting go, but still understanding the importance of self-control.

While he was somewhat of a rebel when younger, she wasn’t, and he had remembered this all along. Things had to be done. Adjustments, of course, weren’t the easiest- personal contacts had to be cleared, few dozen phone numbers deleted, and enough people ghosted. But for Eileen, that Plongeon that the hipster girls (mind you, high school Asher’s social life was a lot less comprehensive in terms of friends those days) had listened to as early as year 9? His ex who also happened to be someone he had remembered many first moments? It was worth it.

And then, like how we expected it, it worked brilliantly, and with their anniversary coming up in three weeks, life was as lovely as it could get. Now they were doing best to keep themselves together, as they walked over the well-maintained pavements of Brattleboro with ease. It was clearly her choice- it was feeling slightly warm outdoors, and with both Asher and Eileen not having received any calls from Concord Heights Times or her manager, Janet Mullen-Baker, it seemed like the night was theirs to keep. Being aware of possible attention they may receive from a random Quebecois living there as a professional, Asher wasn’t really a fan of the idea of walking, but he still gave into her suggestion and they just walked their way to the markets.

Sooner than later, they arrived at a small outdoor restaurant, where the local grocer would come up with a new menu every week. Feeling perhaps too comfortable, they went through great trouble picking the right sort, before eventually deciding upon a couple of Dagan comfort food dishes. With the waiter picking up the menu and the alcohol slowly poured, they just looked at each other.

Oh shite, Asher thought to himself once again as he struggled to control himself. Her eyes, normally blue in the daylight, were changing again; with hues of green they first turned, which then changed to purple and black, before returning to blue. Her mouth, and how she smiled as they looked, reminded him enough of what he still lacked in terms of restraints. Anyhow, the conversation had to start at some point and it was his turn this time.

'Our last night here,' Asher smiled, trying his best not to feel so shaken about the changing eye colours. Given his state of mind, he probably was insane enough. But at least he wasn't faking it like how he used to. 'In the unexpected city of love!'

'Come on, you really feel that?' Eileen laughed, somewhat feeling his bluff over the fluff he had to give over their first three days there. 'Still, I'm glad we're going this time. You know, I remember how my great-granny used to mention about the soldiers and how they came from the war..such a shame she's not able to go back in last decades, but at least we're doing her a favour.'

'She said she fought in the war....and made it right?' Asher asked, feeling tingled every time this part is being asked. Probably because he wasn't sure how his late great-grandfather, who had fought in the war under Royal Quebecois Navy, would react to Asher dating a communist's descendant. 'The Zasoustian resistance in those southern bois....'

'Yeah. Met great-grandpa there, and they moved to la ville, where they lived alongside the emigres.' At least this was no secret, just one of many things that complicated the stories for many Quebecois noble houses. Sometimes the elites' marriages into foreign families, product of many Quebecois elites (usually not the eldest child of the family) going away and abroad for extended periods of time, had come with those baggages, and the Lauzons and the Lundrigans had no exception with it. 'And 95 years later, we're going back to the fields, where the poppies grow and the reeds blow along the wind...'

'Like anywhere with you.' said he, as Asher tried to calm his breath down before resuming the talk. 'I didn't expect to travel to the warfields and recount the tales of War and Peace...the love and the loss...but it's beautiful, like you. Totally unexpected but ultimately ends with the right amount of sweetness. Like the era we live under and her namesake- actually their namesake. Christine and Caspian....but in our own way.'
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Fri Sep 18, 2020 5:48 pm

OOC : Thanks to both Cassadaigua and Tioguldós for lending me both the city of Battleboro and the excerpts of Mo pesoldriplués fam Aldofe Tiog.

Running Up That Hill

PART 2 (30) - Ungodly Hour


‘The consequences of the revolution were devastating for some areas of the country. In the north, some cities like Barkenuse, Narláfal, Megekh, and Ragemilués, had to be practically rebuilt. The Orkasdusian Armed Forces were ready to destroy with artillery the very cities they wanted to take back. And despite the chaos and destruction, they failed to drive out the glorious Tiog urban guerrillas. The effort made and the lives given by our martyrs were not in vain. Thanks to them and so many other comrades who are still with us, today our country advances without respite in the construction of a more just world. The bravery of the Tiog revolutionaries is now being rewarded with a just, democratic, and socialist nation.’

'Page 14, Mo pesoldriplués fam Aldofe Tiog (The construction of the Tiog State)' -


It was at the very end of Page 14 where we caught Asher in the middle of their hotel suite in Downtown Brattleboro. He, mid-reading, had barely a distance between his bare eyes and the book, with his glasses in the middle of a coffee table, as he found himself in the comforts of a large, leather sofa.

Bringing this book by the Tiog Premier, the previous year’s hot international release, had taken a lot of thoughts and contemplations. Given the situations out there in Southern AO, as well as its opening up to the international stage, it was certainly an interesting book of They had talked here and there on what would be allowed entry into Sicoutimont and Valladares (more former than latter, of course), and the formality of the nature bugged both. It was only after they had agreed to let him take that book, and her taking her favourite guitar, Meredith’s Pine, the day before that a solution was met.

It’s a fascinating piece, though I may not necessarily agree with the perspective. But was this worth the trouble? A loose thread of his consciousness flew into the air, as he continued to read about the details of the victorious resistance. Especially late in night, it was right for him to feel slightly insecure at times, as he conceded to himself on how there seemed to be no peacetime or middle ground for anything that was going around.

Perhaps that's why Asher was uncertain about them, especially himself, going on this trip. If anything, if he had to pay for his own ticket to become part of the war memorial train, he would have rather just taken the extra week to stay in Concord Heights or just flown back to Quebec City at the earliest possible time. But then, the expectations of being a Lundrigan had already placed enough expectations, and since he had to slowly go back on being a decent human being and an adult, there was no way he could really escape from it.

The family of naval officers, commanders and victors.

Asher gathered his thoughts once again, as he thought of how disappointed his late grandfather would have been at his eight grandchildren. Asher knew that all eight were still fine chaps- all had completed a college degree, started to break into something they had all wanted to do, and seemed to be happy about it- and have the right to be proud of everything.

Of course, none of them ended up in the Royal Quebecois Navy, but enough flag-waving and representing the Quebecois Tricolour Taegeuk have been done anyway. His brother Frank, now a starting winger with Teus side TSV Marzig, had already made a name for himself with 3 appearances for the Grim Reapers, who had just finished the first half of the 2046 World Cup 86 Qualifying Campaign with a solid 6-1-2 record. His three Kenna-Lundrigan cousins were on the athletics national team, with 30-year-old Alexis coming close in the women’s 10000m the previous year’s Summer Olympics, and others also had their names known. All in all, the Lundrigans seemed to have made their names known quite well in the athletics scene and spread hope to many young children out there. It was something to be proud about.

I’ve hidden under the glories of my cousins, but sooner than later I have to join them….

Of course Asher had none of those trots and boots anymore. Since his return to Quebec City as the Special Issues Writer for Landslide Quebec and The Taegukgi, while upholding his commitment to Concord Heights Times, his travels became a lot more straightforward. Instead of writing articles about the direct access to the Porto Nowi ultras or the mysterious underbelly of Cleopatrana football fans, he was spending slightly more time on domestic operations no less familiar to him, whether it be covering high school baseball, college football or CSKA Quebec. Instead of thinking about whose beds and whose apartments he’d be sleeping with, he’s now thinking about when to return home or whether he’ll meet her in Montreal or not. Instead of writing down what excuse he could have to skip an organised reunion, Asher’s now taking domestic flights for the sheer joy of seeing his homies.

But then, nothing was certain about how the relationship would continue if this weren’t going to be met with external challenges, where you may have to face prospective scrutinies. Rumours may surface and the question marks become assumptions, which he had acknowledged from his years of watching his colleagues at Erskine and St-Croix. Maybe that’s why he was keen to come to Southern Rushmore this time around. While the readers of the series could just see how much he has improved from then to now, simply by comparing his college-day behaviour to now, it is never easy to really feel comfortable with their confidence when it comes to his personal responsibility. Still, he had learned from an early age to take into account duties that he had, and with the new age asking for greater accountability, there weren’t a lot of options. That’s something that maybe kept both of them grounded, even with different motivations.

I am lucky, but can I protect her from the shards if they come out firing?

That sense of duty, for most part, was why Asher, having a perfectly, decided to join Eileen and take part in the Commemoration of the 100th Anniversary of the Southern Rushmori War Victory, which official celebrations would be taken in part with three Victory Train rides on Sicoutian, Westlands and the Commonwealth fronts. ‘Only 57 civilians from Quebec invited to Sicoutimont, 341 to Westlands celebrations. Not bad for someone who should have overdosed to death while an undergraduate.’ He said it, with no more than a slight murmur in tension. ‘Unlike those Bortstal offenders who only sniff at the broadcasters’ daughters way too young for their own age, fucking up isn’t going to be an issue. I cannot make that an issue.’

The unusual luck of being able to travel to Sicoutimont, to find traces of the friendly nation that no longer exists, and to find a new nation that looked as depressing as 1970s Novopetrograd. Shouldn’t be too bad…..




The very next morning, their final journey had begun, as the hundreds of passengers, of various statuses, nationalities connections to the war, had boarded the Sicoutian War Commemoration Train that was going to run cross-country routes between Brattleboro and Hamilton, Valladares, with most stops to be taken in Sicoutimont.

Here we go. To the fields.That’s all Asher had in mind, as him and Eileen watched from their compartment. They could hear the fanfare, smell the gunpowder and see all the smiling faces over the window, as they wondered how the celebration of a war that’s been finished for a century, and only have four surviving veterans left, still held strong emotions for many. Of course, that’s been asked many times as the train slowly exited the Brattleboro terminal, and headed east to the Dagan-Sicoutian border.




’Us Tiogs have written our history based on struggle and sacrifice. The Battle of Barkenuse on September 20, 7AR, left more than five hundred casualties for the People's Liberation Army. However, from there we managed to take control of the northern area and block the delivery of supplies by land to Giasekh Ourakh. This point was the culmination of our battle to facilitate the revolutionary task of our comrades in Bonbokh u Piche. From then on, fighting from both fronts, we managed to contain the hostilities of the Orkasduso Republic until its ceasefire.’

'Page 128, Mo pesoldriplués fam Aldofe Tiog (The construction of the Tiog State)' -


About an hour later, they were somewhere. It struck eleven, and the train’s in full speed just half an hour outside of Brattleboro. It seemed that nothing was happening but the train still moved and told them where to go, while the fate’s paintbrush were guiding them beyond their own control.

She was asleep, and he was reading. While reading the book, Asher wondered about the artificiality and the rawness of a narrative, and whether one can coexist or not. While he had always believed in fate, he was unsure if that would be the best way to describe history. Of course that’s not what he hoped to find an answer this time, but the personalised elements attached to them would affect their judgement (it’d be worded as theirs not his, due to both Eileen and Asher having familial connections in different fronts of the War).

Perhaps that’s why the train’s ungodly hours are the most beautiful ones...how it gives us the narrative comfort when reading, as continuing motion… wrote he, at very specific page of the book.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Fri Sep 18, 2020 6:04 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Sep 22, 2020 9:43 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 3 (31) - Quand Je Partirai


‘So….you’re a journalist.’ A suit-wearing gentleman, whose name plate Asher couldn’t read, asked in Lac-Drouin dialect of Sicoutian (OOC: Quebecois French). They were currently situated in middle of a dark, dark interrogation chamber in the Sicoutian side of the Dagan-Sicoutian Border, where few Quebecois, Dagans and other nationals of various origins were getting questioned over their specific travel purpose. While a mandatory process to make sure all's well, this was something that neither the interrogators nor the interrogated wanted to be a part of- with a half-burnt cigarette and loose joints on his fingers, it was clear to everyone that neither of them wanted to be there. ‘What kind?’

‘Sports and music, mostly.’ Asher responded, trying not to get too much into his otherworldly adventures and antics. ‘I mostly cover baseball and football games these days, though.’

He nodded, pushing his lips forward as if he was being amused. In reality, the reverse would have been a case, given the preexisting intelligence file available on him through both his visa applications and other methods. ‘Thought so. Explains your entourage….and passports.’ The interrogator responded. It seemed that most of the hurdles were now over and through. ‘Is this your first time in Sicoutimont?’

‘Yes, though I’ve read up enough on the country of past and present.’

‘Oh, good.’ said the interrogator, as he raised his eyebrows. ‘Just making sure that you aren’t one of those idiots whom would just come to this country for the sake of joys and laughs, and of course, with specific purposes of disrespecting the country’s proud resistance heritage. It’s something that we, though tainted with past adventures that strayed the wrong way for all, have stayed proud dating back to the war era. Tell me about what you know of the Southern Rushmori War.’

‘Well, Southern Rushmori War was the major international conflict that occurred between 1939 and 1945 when the Vauganian Republic, led by the Nazi government at the time, merged with most of Norskie Zasousti and some factions of Norrish Kingdom, and decided to activate their immoral, expansionist agenda to invade the remainder of Norrehavn up north, Novopetrogradian Soviet Union on East, and Sicoutimont and Valladar Westlands up West, which we all know what happened by the end-’

‘Enough, Enough! Ca suffit.’ He stopped with a stern tone on his voice. ‘Sorry about that. You certainly know your history. You see...please understand that I’m not trying to antagonise you or questioning your capabilities. That’s not what I had in mind at all.’

‘Naw, it’s fine man.’ Asher responded, trying to give off a bit more cool into his language. ‘I know you’re trying to do your job, officer, and you should be given credits for it- if anything. I’m glad you reminded me to read a bit more history books- kinda forgot to do that the past few months. Work, you see...’

‘Yeah, I get that.’ responded the interrogator, understanding the feeling of not being able to read as much due to his work schedule. He looked a bit older now, around his mid-40s. ‘I studied history too, back in Lac-Drouin. Twenty years ago.’

By now, the cigarette stump was almost at the very end of its lifespan, so the interrogator, probably in the mood to grab another, crushed it at the cigarette barrel. ‘Do you smoke?’ He asked Asher on what was more of a rhetorical question.

‘Sometimes.’ Asher shrugged, trying not to give off too many vibes. Given his status here, he knew that detail’s recorded somewhere, but didn’t want to give too much off of it.

I’ve been trying, but it’s not as easy as you’d think… He thought to himself, as he cleared his throat. It’s true that he’s been trying to quit smoking. This was partly because of enough clients, mostly those abroad than back in Quebec, complaining about the habit; and the other half was of course, someone he had loved. Eileen, though coming from ’the industry’ where every other person smoked as expected, was very much opposed to his newfound habit. Frankly, he was fine giving up with it as well- that was one thing he had accumulated over his time as an undergraduate at St-Croix, and that showed.

Given the stakes, everybody knew that, and it really showed in how many times he’s tried to do so over the past couple of years. Still, the whole process of quitting smoking was nowhere near facile, and by now it was becoming a pet peeve of his. ‘I don’t try to make too much out of smoking these days. The bitter taste, the feeling of the stump gradually burning...and the loose sound produced with how they go out like a fuse...it reminds me of my past life when I wasn’t as lucky.’

‘You really love that term, don’t you?’ The interrogator just laughed. ‘It’s a good thing though.’

‘As in?’

‘You see. I’ve interrogated thousands of those entering, in case they may be bringing wrong ideas of how this country runs or something like that. Sometimes people use the flattering words in their attempts to satisfy me and get around the questions directly being asked, though they aren’t really the hard ones since those on this side of the borders already know who you are. But then, you don’t have that.’

‘I am just lucky,’ shrugged Asher, trying not to give too much from his words and gestures. ‘I am happy to be here, though my family doesn’t really hold so much heritage on the Sicoutian Front of the war. I’m happy.

‘Don’t we all?’ Then they both chuckled for a solid minute, before the interrogator smiled once more. Time to get out. ‘You’re good to go. Don’t look for your cigarettes though. I spared whatever the book you were holding - that matters less to us.’




Eventually Asher was let go, though it did take more time than he had expected. The whole procedure, which had taken approximately two hours, was stressful enough. While long familiar with travelling into troubled spots, having long been a frequenter of those, he still found it strange enough to go through all the weird but comforting talk he just had with the interrogator on the other side of the dark room.

Asher could remember being captured once as a 17-year old, managing to find himself in middle of a highly dangerous situation while on a trip to Nuevo Caracas the Spring of 2039. Back then, Asher had finished his classes a semester earlier than usual (though still enrolled), and was just ready to spend his final six months having fun and preparing for his next chapter at St-Croix. It all seemed as if it was going to be all fine and dandles and doodles.

Of course, that's not what happened and lives had been changed by what happened back then. Since coming back, alive and well, Asher had kept himself out of mentioning anything about the situation- everybody knew that was a tabooed topic for a reason, and no invitation to a public event was sent upon the request. But sometimes, when he would look back upon the memories of that time, the dark jail, the thoughts of family back home, the howls, all the weeks spent underground. The time had passed oddly there, and maybe that’s what was making him feel slightly uncomfortable all this time.

I need a glass of whiskey after this… was what’s on his mind. At least there were some positive elements to be written about here, though for how long he was unsure. Since then, he had found himself that nothing was sure, and that perhaps the risk laid in everything beautiful or worthy. Then, and still now, he had no idea how to find himself on the right path, and that’s how five years were mostly wasted along with his pro chances (though more willingness, if you ask him on it).

At least he was still aware of it. Not easy after all those years of redefining borders and whatnot...
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Sep 22, 2020 9:44 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 4 (32) - Crier Tout Bas


‘You know, the beauty of a commemoration train ride, however discomforting it can get, is the ability to interact and celebrate any coming occasion, and mourn together the collective less.’ said Asher, as him and another chap were engaging on a conversation about how excited they were to take part in the cross-country train ride. Whether him and his fellow guests, all coming of relatively homogenous socioeconomic origins, were really excited….that’s another story. ‘Of course, the pre-established context would be the fanfares received upon departing good ole Cassadaigua, and the ten hour train ride that remind dear passengers of-’

‘Certainly. I’m sure you’re clearly aware about the pretexts here.’ Replied Jean-Francois Lapilote, a high-ranked Sicoutian Communist Party official coming from Beaudette. Among the two of them, he likely held more seriousness in the tones of speech. Wearing a suit with various medals nicely placed along his left breast, it was clear to everyone that the man at least held some social status. ‘Everybody knows, or at least hopefully does know now, that we celebrate those as the victory of our communist resistance, with aid from our allies in Quebec and the Commonwealth.’

‘My, my, slightest acknowledgement would be enough in this case.’ Asher responded, still holding a glass of cherry wine with a smile. Only wearing a turquoise sweater and jeans, Asher was rather finding all this too comforting for his likes. ‘The Royal Quebecois Navy had responded when the ancien regime asked, and we cooperted. It’s something that my late ancestor proudly fought for, and that I’m proud of.’

‘My comrade, the affiliation seldom runs when the world has asked for all those concerned to beat the Nazis!’ responded Jean-Francois, grinning along the lines. ‘Obviously we aren’t anywhere near the battlefields, but that clear sense...will be better pronounced when we arrive in Saint-Simeon tomorrow. I’m sure you already know of the Resistance headquarters established there?’

‘Certainly, given that this was where the Second Fleet of the Royal Quebecois Navy had landed with 100000 soldiers.’ Asher nodded, emphasising the ‘landed’ part. By now he was getting annoyed at how the chap he’s talking to seemed to underestimate him on historical knowledge. ‘Of course, that’s where the story to take back Sicoutimont had started, especially after the Sicoutians themselves had broken off three months of assault on the city itself.’

‘Indeed.’ Jean-Francois nodded along, feeling as if he had checked a couple of boxes off his list. That seemed to have brought along a great sense of satisfaction on the guy who was already happy to have taken some time off usual party duties back home. ‘The level of resilience from our ancestors of old....it is hard to say we could replicate it. Instead what we can do instead is to work out internal problems and improve the countries we live in, like the good ole Seonmins we could be.’

‘Seonmin- that’s a valid point.’ Asher laughed, as they continued along with the conversation along the lines of communist revolutions and reconquistas. It didn’t turn out to be such a boring, predictable conversation as Asher had originally hoped. Instead, the debate ended up being questioned around the competing viability of Tiog and Sicoutian Revolutions (declared simultaneously as ‘to be determined’), and ended with a couple more rounds of wine.

‘Anyways, just be careful with a couple of things when you get to the borders.’ said Jean-Francois, as he did his best to remind every guest he talked to. ‘I know you, my friend, aren’t going to be a huge fan of this, but expect some key displays of what people here call as...our Great Leader Alphonse Pomeroy when travelling. You won’t find it so much in the first two cities of your trip, Beaudette and Edmundston, because they are still of fairly close distance from Cassadaigua and we don’t want to alienate our neighbour there. Still, once you get to all those battlefields...it’ll become more pronounced. You’ll be able to notice those right away.’

‘So you want me to be careful.’

‘Ohl...ways….yehs.’ he responded with particular pronunciation to his English. ‘It’s...not ideal, I know, but at least knowing about it helps. Many, including I assume your partenaire, Mille. De Ramaut, probably remembers hearing about old Sicoutimont when things were still quite prosperous and peaceful. Don’t expect that. You are a journalist so I don’t think that’s an issue anyway...but the things are just different now. Remember that.’





The train had arrived at five p.m. in the evening, as the train made an overnight stop there. Soon the passengers hopped off and walked five minutes, before they checked themselves into Hotel Central d'Edmundston, their designated hotel for the night.

Fortunately all had gone well since. The celebratory dinner at the Hotel Central d'Edmundston had taken many hours, as the function seemed to go on and on. Usually, the crowd that would frequent the hotel would be the members of the Party elite and their children, as well as occasional college students whose status gave them a semi-free pass into functions. The Sicoutians- fairly cautious of the foreigners but gladly willing to talk to one another about their country and the revolution- stayed courteous for most part.

Of course, the reminder about this generation of Sicoutians being different from the veterans’ descendants, members of the diaspora or many sports fans of old rang dearly to many, but the normalness of the lives there at least brought the sense of comfort and rationalisation to many. Perhaps that’s why, by the end of the end of the night, most had just sought out simple pleasures of drinking vin, sing the folk songs in Sicoutian French off old words they had heard being spoken in their houses, and find themselves updating their wiki entries of homeland culture.

At least there’s no overstaying the welcome. He nodded, as he exited the elevator at 12th floor, having drunk enough alcohol for the day. But then that’s not what they’re really looking for. Especially if the country wants to open itself up, in case their economic declines again...this has happened before and could happen anytime...

That’s the thought he carried with himself, as he saw a couple of college students of both delegations cheerfully laughed before chasing each other into one of the rooms. Silly children, he smiled on the inside as he went into his room.

As previously asked, Eileen and Asher were assigned neighbouring hotel rooms, with them sharing the washroom. With her being busy on her own, talking to local musicians one moment and penning her words down the next, Asher was going to be the one heading to bed early for once. He was now feeling tired, and the views of the Edmundston Harbour and the Terramindean Sea had him feel as if he were on yet another vacation out east coast. The sweat-glistened layers of his formalwear lightly tugged towards his body, he felt like he could have a quiet night, a spakoynaya noch.

But then, it doesn’t always work like that. As he turned around to flatten his bed, he found a book with a leather cover, and read its title. Simple and complex, it seemed to have brought him something that he had hoped would not, but was going to anyway.

‘On the Idea of National Durability’

Fuck me…..

That’s all he said.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Wed Sep 23, 2020 9:36 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 5 (33) - Transatlanticism


‘Well, they certainly spent a great deal of time welcoming us,’ Eileen told Asher, after the military parade was finally finished. With a few hundred-thousand people having gathered for the occasion, they were really feeling squished and felt that this was a right time to get out and maybe chat for a bit more.

‘It’s flashy, with lots of soldats, tanks and fanfares.’ Asher chuckled, trying not to make too much of the comment. ‘At least we could clearly see those lines along the municipal squares.’ In all honesty, neither of them really paid much attention. Distracted and tired, they were just ready to visit the National Museum of the Sicoutian Resistance before heading back to the hotel for the night.

Neither Asher nor Eileen were the fans of so-called military marches. Sure, they had both went to the Royal Wedding Parade between Christine II and HRH Caspian, the Duke of Halifax, but those parades, of anything royal besides the funerals (and even they would often be accompanied with the galas and balls, as the late monarch and his late father had both desired), were jubilatory. Instead, whatever they had to go through for a couple of hours, with various Sicoutian chants narrating the greatness of the Sicoutian nation...it was far from what they had really desired.

‘So….apparently they asked me to be a ceremonial pitcher for tomorrow’s game.’ Eileen said, trying not to make too much out of it. ‘What does Mr. Catcher think of his beautiful, talented girlfriend pitching in Val-Maurice tomorrow?’

She knew Asher wasn’t going to be so comfortable with bringing sports when in unfamiliar situations, so it was all too clear to both of them that Eileen did this to catch his attention. For a guy who loved all forms of sports, and wrote about them to make half his living, Asher was particularly careful not to say too much about it. It was one of the things that he had long conditioned himself the first time they had dated, and accidentally kept around with him since then.

‘Oh, I have three words, Eileen.’ Asher gestured a pause. He was relieved at least- it’s not like the higher-ups had only expected her presence and not his, but then that’s just his selfish self speaking mostly. ‘You, Go, Girl!’ He smiled and gave her a loose hug, before quickly letting it go in the middle of the street. ‘That’s a fucking dope news...and they said tomorrow as well, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Eileen smiled graciously, her hair slowly strumming as if they were the piano keys made of ancient Ivory pieces. ‘Honestly, it’s an unexpected but genuine gesture that they asked over breakfast earlier today. Not usual we see a minister coming all the way to Edmundston, they said, so I just decided to...agree with it.’

‘That’s great….I’m glad nothing went badly with it.’ Asher took a breath in relief, after realising that nothing was lost when he failed to appear in time for breakfast. ‘Do you need any catcher, my dear Plongeon?’

‘Stop being silly, Ash,’ Eileen stopped midway, raising both her hands before moving them to her shoulder. ‘We’ll have time after dinner. Let’s just go on walks, while it’s still cool outside...as grandmaman used to say, Sicoutian summers are gonna start soon and those, you see, will be hot and blasting barnacles.’

Right….Asher recalled as he slowly gathered his thoughts. He still remembered how this new, Portnoian Sicoutimont, even with his preexisting knowledge and previous degree in history, was still a country he wasn’t so familiar with. It’s different than how it was for Eileen, who was familiar with its folklore and how some of the antique objects still remained in the De Ramaut Place, situated in the Highmore District of Montreal. He remembered how the place, though dusty and filled with enough relics from comedy of errors (only two of the eight rooms there were occupied when he last visited there with her last October), held that allure. Something timeless, foreign, yet long dusted, perhaps dating back to the last hurrahs of the Quebecois Commonwealth and many old regimes, before they were to face the test of time.

Probably because we can’t get it back, he thought to himself, as they started walking again to their hotel, to pick some stuff up before they were to head to a museum. While he was sure Eileen knew of the changes that had occurred over her life, with Sicoutimont being a victim of unexpected climate changes, a revolution and transformation into an authoritarian state, he wasn’t sure if those allures were still going to greet them, as they eventually head north to Val-Maurice and Lac-Drouin and the battlefields in coming days. Heck, even the climate may not even be the same...

...Perhaps what’s there at that dusty house may be the most of what her and I still grasp from old Sicoutimont….I don’t know.




Later that night...

‘Well, the day in St-Simeon’s quite something, no matter how you’d wanna put forth the propaganda side of things.’ Asher Lundrigan was resting in his hotel bath, after a long day in St-Simeon, on the Eastern coast of Sicoutimont. ‘Their insistence, for one, is something to say.’

He was having hard time trying to explain how the day went, from the Sicoutian military parades held in the middle of St-Simeon’s downtown or the afternoon tour of the Palisades, the famed iron castle built by the ancien regime in the 1800s. The confusion, of course, was partly over whether the locals seemed to have a particularly unilateral way of understanding their history, or whether the Quebecois guests were in disgust over how their ancestors’ service was left viewed on the sidelines.

Now, having decided to go back to his room earlier than intended, Asher was on phone with his college friend Charles, who’s been working on the House of Commons under the conservative (author’s note: this means Centrist in Contemporary political scale) Parti Quebecois. ‘Their understanding of history, factionialist at its very heart, is something that some may sympathise in, but it is not something that can be endorsed, I’m afraid.’

His friend wasn’t surprised. ‘Perfectly understandable. Their nation runs under a slightly different governmental model to start with, and we know this means that certain loopholes and telephone courts could exist.’ Charles, long familiar with the rhetoric and the public awareness of it, was in his parliamentary office with a glass of gin, trying not to speak too out of fashion. Having a long day at his office, he just decided to spend his overnight hours gaming and handling some documents for leisure. ‘You know, those are usually the most fun ones to talk to.’ Charles responded, aware that this talk was being recorded. ‘It’s like having a cookie filled with…..’

‘Marmalades?’ Asher asked.

‘Similar, though I do not have the right term for you.’ responded Charles, trying not to spill his glass into the folder placed right above his table. ‘Explosives’, they were written. ‘You see, Sicoutian French is neither of our strong suit.’

‘Certainly not, because the vocabulaire there is entirely different from what Academie Quebecoise stated.’ Asher wondered how many days Charles spent in his apartments as of late. He remembered how Charles, during their entire undergraduate days, used to commute from a decent, 4-room apartment on the South Shore, which he and his brother inherited from their parents at the penultimate year of Lycee-de-Levis. He wondered if the apartment, which was as untidy as a large flat of two sociable undergraduates could be, was still under the same shape. ‘It’s almost as if the language there...had remained fossilised on its own. Which is quite fascinating, to say the least, if you are a linguist.’

‘I could imagine so.’ Charles responded as he turned his chair around, before starting to drink from his bottle of Gin again. ‘Anyhow, it must be fun getting to travel, and see how the time froze.’

‘I guess that may not be a bad way to describe,’ Asher responded. ‘The blocks of old apartments was one thing on the outskirts at least. Architectural marvels, those blocks- quite reminiscent of Prof. Salmond’s ‘Early Origins of Apartments and Urbanism’ course. You’ve taken it before right?’

‘Wish I did.’ Charles started drinking again. It was a quiet, perfect May night in Quebec City, and he knew this was the right time to do so. ‘Must have been that semester when I was too busy not to stare into suits and skirts-’

‘Oh you.’ He chuckled. ‘You need to stop drinking too much while gaming about at times. It’s never good for you, especially when you chat on message boards, be on phone and roleplay. Have you never learned from what happened last Halloween?’

‘Oh right- that time when I shared to a bunch of online strangers a picture of me in work uniform with few MPs? Yeah, that’s fine. Doxing’s not really my concern, you know. Parliament could care less if I game there, granted I polish the speeches and bills as asked.’ The security risk when travelling to Sicoutimont had been no secret to most high-profiled Quebecois visitors, who were always given specific governmental instructions and pamphlets to avoid certain outlets and websites when in the country. Both Asher and Eileen, due to different reasons (former being a journalist and latter actually being a high-profiled individual), were informed of this way in advance and did their best to stay out of line. So far, it’s been working. Of course, this did not prevent either from being not as careful with their phone calls. ‘People have tried to accuse me of shit over some past life grudges in those forums too. The classic St-Croix problem, where everybody knows each other, or everybody envies each other. So petty and silly- I get tired of them because it’s the same ole ‘no you can’t because year 2035’ bullshit- but that’s where I reserve my pity for.’

‘Easy. But then, pity is easy to buy these days…..I’d rather if you tackle them for chuckles, as if it’s a rugby scrimmage,’ Asher chuckled, seeing that his friend’s back to his usual self. Now it’s going to be somewhat fun to talk to, that’s what he thought. ‘And just bite until every bit of the flesh comes out and you could see their bones. They may scream but you won’t be hearing them scream. You can’t hear people scream online to start with, unless you stream shit.’

‘No, no, I’m not doing that.’ Charles shrugged, his body slowly moving around. ‘I mean, you could already see me where I work- Parliament has their own channel for that, and it’s not like I’m far from it either. Now tell me, how does their parliament work?’

‘I haven’t been there yet.’ Asher found this as the right timing to head. ‘That’ll happen in Lac-Drouin, though I don’t know if there’s much entertainment to be found in the congress where the Sicoutian Patriotic Workers' Front dominates in all fronts…’

‘Still, it should be interesting enough to see how that goes.’ Charles said, also feeling like he’s ready to drink once again. ‘Call me back when you’re there, eh? Or just wait until Valladares if you want to. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Sounds good.’ Then they hang up the phone. Asher stared into the sight just outside of him. He was still having some trouble adjusting to the new environment, but at least there was a possible element to take away. They had made it through two days of fanfares, fireworks and casual conversations with little trouble. Now, with the minimum expectation being set, the rest of the journey was going to be easier. Most importantly, they only had to spend three more days there.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Wed Sep 23, 2020 9:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Thu Sep 24, 2020 11:13 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 6 (34) - Just A Game


‘On January 21, 1942, members of the Eighth Quebecois Army, and the second and third armies of the Sicoutian Resistance Front, stood at the very final line of resistance against the joint Fifth Norrish-Vauganian Army, where they fought for six straight weeks of endless artillery fire, over the trenches here….’ the tour guide said, as the visitors entered the narrow trenches of the battlefield, located just ten kilometres north of Downtown Val-Maurice.

With the day mostly consisting of visiting the trenches, the delegations had dressed slightly more comfortably for the duration of the travel, as they had gone from one block after another of fortifications. One step after another, they were able to take a look at how the bullets pierced through the wooden and metal piles, and then flicked right into the human skin. Every bullet hole they had touched, they were able to feel the sense of hollowness the war had brought upon their ancestors, all for the sake of freedom. With trees surrounding them, placed shortly after the end of the War exactly one-hundred years ago, it was quite a sight to observe.

Asher and Eileen carefully walked on boots, trying not to make mistakes and stepping into a deep hole unexpectedly developed since then, as they slowly got to understand damages the war had left on the landscape. Asher was transfixed by the sight, being amazed at how the remains of the day, whether it be in the battlefields or the old buildings, could remain after all this time.

Like what I was told of earlier. Asher thought of his old tutor; and stood amazed at how the tales were brought to life, right there as they watched.




It was a particularly memorable first week back in classes when Asher had just come back to Quebec City, after a semester away on exchange. That week he, choosing to stay away from everyone else aside from his professors, tutors and few friends of his, preferring to observe campus in middle of winter. He remembered how happy he was, as he wore a beret and a trenchcoat, while sitting in the bench just outside of St. Alban’s College, his residential college. Men and women were walking about, their coats barely moving but hair and moustaches being covered with flurries of snow, their laughter and chuckles lifting the air, as if it’s warm in the winter.

At the same time, the trees were waving their limbs at the people, the winter berries hiding from the cautious human eyes, and the underground creatures having their own hibernation season. The campus buildings, proximate but not really on colliding course, had found themselves paying yet another observance. Sitting next to him was an old tutor of his, a scholar of late Modern Quebecois historiography named Jacqueline Beckett with dark complexion, circular glasses and a habit of wearing gloves whenever outside (even during summers!). While watching people together, they naturally discussed the memories and recalled them.

‘You see, Asher. What would you do if you had seen the trenches, and discovered the skulls. What would you say to them?’ asked Dr. Beckett. It was clear from the onset that her voice enquired certain specifics, and drawing analogies was just one of the methods she had chosen from it.

‘What do you mean, Dr. Beckett?’ Asher asked, feeling slightly confused.

‘The trenches, that’s where you have to make all those choices. Little margin for error, though sometimes you can get lucky with it. Of course, if we are to cite most common examples the Felixian Sixth Army or the Free Republican First Army had made their errors on being overconfident and under-aware. But there are plenty of other examples out there too.’

‘Of course, but we have various examples of that for sure. Some would cite the Nazis’ eastward ventures to Novopetrogradian Soviet Union in middle of winter, 1943, while others would use something even earlier, to the days of active piracy in the Atlantian Oceanian shores. Military history's no one's private domain for sure.’

‘Yes, but you’ll find this to be even more of a case in Southern Sicoutimont. I’m sure you, Asher, are long familiar about the Battle of Val-Maurice, as there is.’ said Dr. Beckett, finally explaining the point she was making.

‘The battle where the 4,000 Sicoutians and 12,800 Quebecois, of the Eighth Army, had managed to surrender the 89,000 invaders on an U-formation?’

‘Yes, precisely that,’ she lifted an eyebrow. ‘There the Southern Front had managed to turn around, after brilliant planning by Jerome Lessard and Alexander Goh-Peers. Of course, the sacrifices made there by both the resistance and the Quebecois were massive- almost ninety-percent became part of the casualties by the end, but they did win the battle and allow for the greater turn of the war.’

‘Seems like an important war site to visit at some point.’ Asher nodded along, hoping not to get too into military history. This wasn’t his strong suit at all. ‘I wonder if much research has been done on it.’

‘Sadly not,’ Dr. Beckett sighed. ‘It has been done for a while, especially to study comparative sides of the warfronts back in the Southern Rushmori War and the interwar period, but not much progress has been made on the Southern Front. Of course, Sicoutimont was mostly closed for the past twenty years, especially after their internal turmoils, and it looks like the country will stay that way.’

‘Tragic indeed. What will the descendants look back and say-’

‘But then maybe someday, Asher, children of now might be lucky enough to visit there if the country opens up. Who knows when, but I remain hopeful. I expect the same from those intending to continue paving history as well.’




Mmmmmm......Asher gave a quiet buzz through his mouth.

There was something with Val-Maurice that dearly comforted him. Perhaps that’s why the Parc des Martyrs gave him a slight throwback when Asher entered the Press Box. Having been built in 1924 and routinely renovated, though not in the past twenty years, the stadium still holds up like an old relic from the town’s heydays as a mining town. The arena’s tall, green stands on the outfield, for one, always drew many eyes at how difficult and pitcher-friendly it was, and with the raucous cheer of the GVRT fans at home, you couldn’t help but to wonder how it would have been like on a different, less stressful era for everybody.

The former Sicoutian broadcasters, Fidel and Jacques, who were there with Asher and few others today, told him that Val-Maurice was the heart of Sicoutian resistance for that reason- the pride, the tenacity, and the urgency- and Asher couldn’t help but to agree to the matter. Perhaps that’s why the stadium still retained that pre-regime atmosphere, though it’s likelier they just didn’t give enough darn, Asher thought as he grabbed a glass of beer. The war and peace that coexisted in the city certainly had him think a bit to answer, and he was taking more time to appreciate the legacies and whatnot. The city, in some ways, was being more true to the past than any of the previous ones had been, and remained so, in the ways that classics students would talk about (when not drunk) in their classics field courses.

‘How are you finding your time in jolly, good Val-Maurice? Party officials have told me you’re the only Quebecois journalist allowed entry on the Cross-country train this year.’ The old, grey-haired Jacques asked in a mellowed, baritone voice of a 74-year old man. His voice, after all the years he had spent first on his podcast with longtime friend Fidel, still retained bits of the fame from the days of old. ‘I hope you’ll get to enjoy the match today- not often can etrangers say they had watched the match between le Metropolitain and good ole GVRT, the greatest baseball team in Sicoutian history.’

‘It’s indeed my honour to be here, thank you for inviting me today.’ Asher nodded, while watching a children’s choir sing the Quebecois, Cassadaiguan, Valladar and Sicoutian national anthems. Of course, the decision to snub the old anthems of the Novopetrogradian Soviet Union was noticeable, but what else were there to say about it? It was evident from the old times that the NSSR and all forms of Sicoutian ancien regime didn’t get along, and it wasn’t like that much had changed between the two when the Second Sicoutian Revolution happened when Asher was a toddler. While the culture of old may only remain in the pictures and archives, the systems that held the old world together continued to serve the new one.

Knowing that this was a formal occasion, with various dignitaries and sportsmen present, Asher stuck with a solid, pale suit with red and black tie, that’s topped with a 100th Commemoration Tour badge that he had received at the very first day of his travels on customs. On most occasions he’d have donned something simpler, whether it be a Kingston Tigers, Raptors or Quebecois national team jersey on summers, or a simple cardigan with sports jacket added on top, but that, of course, was on the Sicoutian Embassy’s List of What You Shouldn’t Bring.

‘How did you, and other Sicoutians, find all those years of isolation from the international sporting scene?’ Asher asked, as they watched the anthems end and Eileen slowly step onto the diamond for the ceremonial pitch. Unlike Asher, Eileen was gifted with the gold-and-black jersey of the GVRT Val-Maurice, the team of the Sicoutian Army reserves based on the metropolitan regions. ‘I remember reading when I was little, about the Sicoutimont of old, and how its sporting legacies used to be something to admire. A world cup qualification, finishing second in World Baseball Classic, et cetera-’

‘Hmmmm, it’s a tough one to answer, young man.’ Jacques responded, the long buzz seemed to suggest that it was a difficult question to frame around. ‘You see, what you tell me of the glorious days of Sicoutian sports….those were indeed the glory days.’ He responded, trying to find the right thread of thought, in order not to get himself in any more trouble with the authorities. Of course late Fidel, his good friend and the eternal broadcasting partner, would have given Asher a better answer but he had already passed away a year ago from stomach cancer.

‘Sometimes, you wish that those days would remain forever, but it’s not as easy as you’d think. All good things come and go, like how the elderly used to say when Fidel and I were younger.’ That was a good enough detour, Asher nodded, as he listened to the retiree speak. ‘It’s a good thing you asked, because Quebec was absent in international football for some time? Wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, though we did come back about three years ago.’ Asher nodded, trying to remind Jacques that the Grim Reapers, after many turns and whirlwinds around from a domestic scandal that led into the dismissal of the now-disgraced Prime Minister by late Jaccques IX. ‘It did take much effort, but at some point, the Grim Reapers had to come back, I guess.’

‘Good.’ Jacques nodded in satisfaction. ‘That’s sometimes how life works. Everything comes and goes, but when things do matter, and only if they really do matter, the people will want them to return. Sooner the later, the national teams will come back playing and the past unifies with the present. That’s the way to go.’

‘I’m delighted to hear.’ Asher understood where the old man was going with it, as they continued to watch the crowd cheer at Eileen, the visitor throwing the ceremonial pitch of the day. The return of Sicoutimont to international baseball, that’s been on everybody’s mind at the Concord Heights head office, when he had visited Concord Heights on a work trip a month ago. While there were no words on when or where the announcement was going to be made, or if it’s going to be made at all, the prospect of their neighbour and a past ally had gotten everybody to take a particular notice at any possible news coming from the other side of the border. Now Asher was understanding it, on the internal motive of why she was throwing a ceremonial pitch in middle of a city that particularly struggled, but still held the crown of Sicoutian baseball. It may be a struggling mining town, especially in the era of eco-communist society run by Alphonse Portnoy, but there were still enough in the city, whether in its battlefields or the diamonds, to be carried and continued from.

Of course, that wasn’t on the old Jacques’ mind, as he held a mild cup of Americano with him. ‘Anyhow, I am delighted she throws a mean curveball.’ Jacques said, giving a loose wink at Asher. ‘She really knows how to pitch! Not fast, but it's bloody filthy.’

'She does.' He smiled, remembering that it happened to be his girlfriend who threw the ceremonial pitch. No matter how he would have described it, he would have said the same as well.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Fri Sep 25, 2020 11:57 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Thu Nov 05, 2020 4:25 am

Running Up That Hill

PART 7 (35) - Al Otro Lado Del Río


They should’ve planned this better, Eileen de Ramaut thought, as she watched the train pass by the rugged views of the paysage just outside of Val-Maurice, and towards its destination in Lac-Drouin. Their train carriage was filled with new linens and new amenities, but the air-conditioner was somehow semi-functional, and only hot air blew when she opened the window. The train was already delayed by an hour and half, and now they were expected to arrive in Lac-Drouin around nine-thirty in the night. Great.

Of course, nobody expected these minor inconveniences. Oopsie daisies, they happen. Shit happens.

They had only spent a week in Sicoutimont, but the week there so far seemed to have been a month or even a year long instead. The list of engagements, visits, the meets-and-greets, the expectations there were minimum but you were expected to meet them. That was something that her, and the Quebecois delegation, were informed at various points of the trip, and there was not much she could do here.

Listening to an old 70s folk tune on her earphones, with her left hand by the window, Eileen looked out into the window. Along the railway line, the trees and shrubs were starting to form around the tracks and you could loosely hear the robbins bobbin’.

Then, like that, her ears were tingling. The tingle, so small yet reverberating, was getting to her once again on the train. She knew that perhaps the waves, by virtue of miracles, were going to serve on the verge of inspiration, but knew that it wasn’t there yet. These spells of inspiration, wherever and whenever, were like the waves of the breaking waters of her hometown- hard to predict when they were going to come, uncertain on whether they were going to materialise into anything fruitful.

Fortunately, getting to meet others in the similar shoes as her in Sicoutimont was still a huge plus, and assurances of anonymity had added to the comforts. Of course, the homeland of her paternal ancestors was no longer the same, and only the vaguest of traces had continued to run. Still, there were enough matches between the past and present for her to notice along and note as the travels continued, and the sounds in her mind whispered the words and the notes at their liberties.

‘The lone candle, they light up the room…’ she slowly whispered a line, with her eyes half-closed, as she determined herself not to make too much out of the day. ‘And someday, the willows will breezes and windmills will turn…’

And the music went on.




‘You’re sure about this? The decision to go to the hundredth commemoration?’ Her manager, Janet Mullen-Baker, asked her as they quietly sat down and talked business. At the very opposite, sat Eileen, a longtime friend of hers nowadays, as their coffee slowly cooled in a quiet cafe situated on Saint-John-Upon-Battersea’s quantry downtown. The longtime veteran in the business, the fifty-one year old woman had enough things to say for today, after a month of rest from what was a successful Multiverse tour, and was unsure about it all.

Home is home, but is she a De Ramaut or a Lauzon…being a Lauzon would help, I’m afraid, Janet thought to herself, as she struggled to figure out Eileen’s particular insistence. Sure, visiting the war sites, to witness the allied victories, was an honour of its own.

The part she was uncertain over, however, was on whether the trip to Southern Rushmore, in the middle of highly politically charged events and journeys, was going to help her favourite and most cherished client. She didn’t feel it that way. This wasn’t in any way a departure from her practice at all. If anything, Janet felt that was something she had to do, a matter of promises she had made with the Lauzon-de Ramaut family of old when Eileen was half her current age. Unlike those she had worked with before, Janet saw in Eileen an entirely different person than those she's used to manage all this time, and realised that her pitches had to be reworked to make sure none of issues that her other clients had were going to affect Eileen, a Lauzon on her maternal side, in any mental or physical capacity. They didn't want that, she didn't want that, and Janet had no problem with that.

Of course, no pain, no gain. It took many months of persuasion, after her victory at a televised program most of us seldom remembered nowadays, but it worked. Since then, many things had changed in the past twelve years she served as Eileen’s manager, as they had gone through the trenches of the industry and the related growing pains altogether. Needless to say many things had worked out well on both sides- four highly successful albums, the same number of tours, forty-thousand press reviews and over four million fans out there in the Multiverse.

Still, they, being on the opposite ends of business, did not always get along. Janet, coming from an illustrious Baker family of Attawapiskat and Montreal, had seen everything possible since she jumped into the industry while a college freshman at Farrer, her alma mater. ‘When you’ve been living under the pit for too long, any form of sunlight is precious,’ she often said to the exclusive list of artists she managed, and the words themselves reflected well with Janet’s behaviours when it comes to possible sources of danger. Maybe she did succeed in that, and usually Eileen did not go beyond the lines, but Janet wasn’t sure if she’s able to persuade Eileen this time….for once.

Facing little options available, Janet decided to take a detour out of the situation. ‘Alright, so how long do you expect to be absent?’ She asked, hoping not to make too much of the situation. Daughter of Hannah Mullen, a legendary 90s rocker whose sophomore album Solitude in remained a radio station favourite, she was drinking a glass of gin this early in the morning, but wasn’t sure even with the glass. Janet knew she wasn’t losing her touch, and if anything, the times seemed to have suggested her otherwise. Perhaps it was the April that was giving her all sorts of problems. Or a possibility of having to deal with many possible dynamites, something that the Baker half of the family had to deal with twenty years ago when a notorious EDM-disco album, Solitude in Femboyville, got released.

‘Oh, I am.’ Eileen responded assuringly, her eyes shining. ‘Not a lot of eyes will be there, and if anything, there won’t be as many eyes glaring even.’ She was dressed in a red, flowery blouse, which contrasted with a blue coat and loose pair of sunglasses Janet was wearing.

Between them, the age difference stood particularly so, and that’s something that Janet, as she grew older, couldn’t help but to notice. Someday, she’ll be my age and Eileen of the future will outgrace me, Janet thought to herself, before feeling satisfied at how well she’s done her job. As long as Lundrigan doesn’t cause too many problems down the road.

‘Asher’s still going as entourage right? Heard that he’s on the list...’ Janet dropped the note, having felt the need to say an important mark. After about half an hour, the bottle of gin was about halfway empty, and both sides were amazed at how that was even possible. The beauty of Quebecois alcoholism, or so to put. ‘Of course, as a distinguished guest, being the whole family background in navy and whatnot.’

‘Yeah, he’s coming on his own accord. No more, no less, though it’s quite, ironic, isn’t it,’ Eileen lightly smiled, trying not to make too much of the part. Of course, she wasn’t worried so much about the accompaniment. Unlike five years ago, they were now entering the mid-20s and the clouds that used to represent their uncertainties were more or less now. ‘But you know, it’s not really something he talks about...nor I, to him.’

‘Good. Let’s keep things that way, then or now,’ Janet nodded along, trying not to make too much of her or Eileen’s words on the matter. Feeling her stomach moving up and down to a clumsily-executed bass tune at record studios she’s grown familiar with (usually around five a.m.), she knew the best option right after finishing this drink, would be to go to a beach and sit on a chair for a bit. That, and possibly throwing up a bit more. She fixed her glasses a couple of times and said. 'As long as he doesn't cause himself trouble like how he did until last year...all should be good. You're aware of the risks that come with him, I guess, and that's what we have to remember.'

'I think you know I chose to try restarting things in spite of all the words...that flew while we broke up.' Eileen refuted. 'Maybe we are all looking to start again, and I think it will all be alright. He's well known in foreign press and if anything, that shouldn't cause too much controversy as long as all will be in check.'

True, Janet quietly agreed, giving into the fact that Asher Lundrigan, for however awful of a human being he may have been in past, did somewhat improve. ‘In any case, don’t worry too much about the trip. It’s never easy going to Sicoutimont these days...and I just hope they’ll treat you correctly once there. You never know with those unusual scoundrels.’

‘Aw, don’t worry about me,’ Eileen responded, trying to cheer up her manager in an act of reassurance. Now, her cup was almost all done, and with the way she’s moving, it was all too clear that Janet wanted to drink outside, on the quiet beaches of Saint-John-Upon-Battersea (different place than Saint John, about half an hour northeast of here, in the Twin Cities area), instead of furthering herself here. Coming from even a few lines exchanged, she felt a lot more assurance. Visiting Sicoutimont, for the first time in her own life, was a minor sort of feel-good-factor in her life as of late, and she didn’t want to give up the opportunity that rarely came, and even rarer as a distinguished guest. However deserted and depressing things may have gone there, homeland and finding the traces of ancestry were still something worth being excited over.




Tchou tchou

Eileen lay down in her bed, watching the train cross yet another bridge in the middle of northern Sicoutimont, as she slowly watched the afternoon glow with sunlight. As the train continued to trot along the countryside, she found herself glued to the rolling hills and the puffy clouds outside the window. as they buzzled to the repetitive tchou’s of the half-day journey. With her hair draping the bed, and her mind somewhere in the aforementioned clouds, Eileen felt very much in her comfort zone, where a sense of time seldom existed and the muse called in soliloquies, as time passed by.

Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou

As they paddled in the middle of the lake, Asher and Eileen couldn’t help but to notice how isolated they were. Spending yet another day in the tranquile nearby woods and lakes near SJUB, the couple were feeling dizzy as in how they had managed to disorient themselves so well, especially given their relative lack of such issues in big cities. Since moving back home after the unlikeliest of the unlikely happened, Eileen was slowly blending back into the old way of life again.

Let it loose, and perhaps life will settle on own. That’s the thought that predominantly occupied her mind, as Eileen looked into the sky once more, and did her best to ignore the subsequent tour schedules and public engagements that people were going to expect from her later in the year. Asher, understanding but not really at particular ease with being lost, chose only to look at her and stroke her face.

Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou

One good thing about not really knowing the people, and Asher being too busy socialising outside, was that it gave Eileen an opportunity to think on her own. When you were just one of the many dignitaries and they were more interested in hearing of your purpose, there’s no doubt you’d feel lot more comfortable in visiting Sicoutimont.

During her time in Sicoutimont, she was witnessing that the barriers between the past, as told through family photographs and stories, and the present, traced through current geography, were breaking down. Every once in a while, the barriers would come back up in the off-limit signs on the countryside, the bullet holes on the wall, and the mihaengs mid-walks, but enough times the past and the present would merge for her to see through them. It was quite a sight, she admitted, and she was curious to see what had changed so much.
Who knows what lies ahead, she murmured, as she somehow recalled a story told by her father when she was still in high school. One day, she was introduced to this professor, whose daughter happened to be a fan of hers, and the talk quickly transformed into one about the ‘old professor’ of both ‘the professor’ and her father, who had once written a song about his loss, in the middle of the 1988-yeokbyeong (plague of 1988).

She remembered how the professor, junior of two that were mentioned right above (brief reminder, dear reader, that Mssr. de Ramuat isn’t one) said that it was a tragedy of its own, but also a lesson on timing and fate that their said undergraduate professor had beaten the horse to its death over. Eileen did not understand what he had meant as in the lesson aspect of it all. When she had first heard of it, she only felt sad for the ‘old professor’, whose happiness was taken away due to his own convictions, but now things started to make more sense.

Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou

‘I promise, now and forever, that I won’t hurt you.’ Asher quietly said that to her, as they looked into each other’s eyes while lying in the middle of a grassy grove.

Of course, Eileen knew better than to fall into it. She knew that the words were easier said than engrained, and that the promises were easier made than kept. He hadn’t really discussed what happened during those five years since, partly because he was scared of having to explain about some of the horrible things he had seen and done- both in the capitol and abroad- and also because he was worried that she would walk away from him.

Eileen knew that, having heard all the rumours from friends and family, and frankly she just chose to not care too much into it yet. At least while those words were left undiscussed, she would be left alone in peace without so much of questions about tales of debaucheries. That way she didn’t have to fall into the spiral of affairs that trailed back and forth when they drifted away from each other as eighteen year olds.

As pilgrims, we all live in this winter that never thaws. Nothing seems to grow here anymore, and we shiver as they walk along the shore, guided by the island lights. She quietly recited to herself the famous lines of Barnabas Maeng-Woong A. Connell, the early-20th century Quebecois poet whose poems were routinely read in high school textbooks. They were holding each other’s hands with strong grip, which was perhaps too tight in tension, and now she was unsure on how to let go of the hand, or to respond to the quote.

‘I hope so. Don’t leave me, now and forever.’ she said.

Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou

Since they had gotten back together, Eileen had tried her best to write a song fitting their situation, but was unable to find the right story to add to it. She knew the availability of options weren’t the issues - there were plenty about episodes of love or daily occurrences of life, that could be discussed and come out fine to start with. But none of them seemed to really draw her as ‘that song’, beyond a couple of lines that were good for a stanza, but then who reads poetry in Quebec these days?

Perhaps that’s why the story of the 88-yeokbyeong came back to Eileen’s head, when she remembered the story while on a chat with Asher, Jacques of ‘Fidel and Jacques’, and few Sicoutian sportspersons yesterday in Saint-Simeon. The story of loss, fate and how a man's excessive conviction over his own chances, had altogether cost him decades....perhaps that's what was missing. She was just unsure on how to put it together and now that's something she had to figure out, before the window closed again.

Tchou tchou
Tchou tchou
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Thu Nov 12, 2020 2:57 am

Running Up That Hill

PART 8 (36) - Graveyard


When the sun fell below the horizon, and the daily schedule finished earlier than expected, the small number of delegates went to the underground cafe in Isle-Perrot, the gentile, riverside neighbourhood of Downtown Lac-Drouin. Eileen gently carried herself with a light summer jacket, and felt slight shiver running down her body. Asher walked right next to him, his warm hand holding hers, as they slowly descended the staircase into the basement club.

The music club, dim with lights and spotty with what people were able to see, was a roomy space of its own in the night’s gloomy solitude; the placement of twenty-five tables seemed to suggest that it offered decent service and patronage. Of course, those familiar with the nature of politicking and the additional services that came with them knew that the club has been used by the elite for some time.

Electric candles were placed on top of the wooden tables, while two menus were placed before each and every table. The pair found themselves a seat at the front row to the left. The locals chatted along like they had not really recognised the exact name of their guests, and then just let them be, after taking a couple of glances at colourfully-dressed foreigners in them and others. There were a couple of Dagans, Valladars, Vauganians, and even a Banijan man present there.

Asher and Eileen, having noticed the setting, sat and just quietly listened to the musicians came out of the backstage, performed a triplet of songs, and went back after receiving a few positive receptions. Soon, the middle-aged owner (who also doubled as a waiter) with, a hat, a badge, and a pen, with the ratio of gold, red and blue seemingly suggest that he had served in one of Sicoutian armies when younger, came out asking for their pick of the menu.

Fortunately, their minds were far too tired from visiting the Parlement earlier, and the drawl it delivered, that they had only ordered minor desserts for the time being. As soon as the waiter nodded and left with satisfaction, they began talking again. The conversation, for those who had caught the previous chapter, was on the very story of 1988.

‘Tell me about the story, love,’ said Asher, in dire need of hearing about the 1988 tale. ‘You know, the story of the Plague of 1988.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you again, Ash?’ answered Eileen, who found the opportunity to tease the younger of the two. ‘You’ve read the trilogy before- am I a parrot to you?’

‘Well, your animagus would be, at least.’ chuckled Asher. ‘But someday, you may as well bring sing in the equinox for half-day and by the end, all the wildbirds and the yardbirds too would come along to hold and lift you.’

‘Awww,’ smiled Eileen. ‘But promise not to kid so much about it. You know the details, but let’s not talk too much about the deceased.’

Asher, knowing what she had meant, agreed; they were at the very end of the Sicoutian stretch of the Commemoration Trail, and having done enough for the day, he was feeling a particular mood for hearing stories from the past. 'I promise,' he responded.

‘So, it’s crazy when the thing you love the most, can be the detriment,’ Eileen said. ‘You know...the thing about dad and whatnot.’

Asher felt a slight shiver down his back, as he merely nodded. He knew that any stories involving older days of Mssr. de Ramaut, especially those that involved his college days or just the tumultuous twenties he had suffered, held particular weight to her family, who was re-formed through the marriage to Eileen’s mum.

‘Yeah,’ was all he said.

Eileen formed a small, self-satisfied smile, when she found that Asher wasn’t going to fool around with the usual stories like how he would. The songstress twice blinked her eyes in full circles, and calmed her thoughts, as if she were trying to collect the energy.

The location brought in them a particular emotional energy, and perhaps the best occasion to harness and deliver the story regarding the late ‘Professor’ and the Plague of 1988. In their attempt to travel back into the time, she looked at him and just asked, ‘Would you wait for me, if the lord asks that we be apart for a while?'




Quebec City, 2023

‘It was a quiet Monday mid-term evening at Hebdomadaire Gashouse, but the pub was extremely packed with mourners. Dr. Heo, with his longcoat wet and cold, was doing his best not to fall into a particular state of grief mid-conversation with Gavin de Ramaut, an older student of his supervisor living out on a rural Acadiee state. Unlike the young assistant professor who returned to his alma mater three years ago on a tenure-track offer, Mr. de Ramaut was dressed quite simply so with lose jacket and old, crumpled dressed shirt, and his distressed demeanour had only suggested that his quiet, routine-filled mode of life, was thoroughly disturbed by the news that came from Quebec City three days ago.

'Well, good to see you, Monsieur.' said Dr. Heo, as he quietly gathered his thoughts, trying his best to ignore the temptation of alcohol that was flowing like usual. ‘Your latest book...I admit, was a good reflection of your time, when you were unsure about everything...madly in love, yet was unsure on how and what-’

'Thanks, the same goes to you, boy.' said Gavin de Ramaut, his body still slumbering from the weight that dropped on his shoulders as the casket went down earlier. 'Poor old doc. He always told us to live like a maverick, and so he went, down and away, like one.' Gavin de Ramaut, just one of many ecrivains who had gone past Dr. Kim Sang-Doh's modules at St. Croix over the past two decades, was present at the front row of the ceremony and had barely any emotional energy out of him. Dr. Heo remembered reading about how the young man, who lost his wife and mother of two ten years ago, has since married and have had two young children at Coxwell Park.

Good ole Lauzons, the clan of many but not the plenty, Dr. Heo still remembered how Dr. Kim once commented about his friend and Gavin's father-in-law, Douglas-Gabriel Lauzon, the 12th Baron Lauzon, on a casual conversation over coffee. There is a common saying that the Quebecois nobility, whether old or new, all knew each other to some degree, and he knew that. The Heos, the Ahns and the Lauzons were three of the most historic houses in the Western half of Acadie, and at various points they came opposed to one another in the House of Lords. So perhaps there was no surprise that Dong-Soo knew whom to contact when it was time for him to decide on where to do his doctorate, and life has taken a long circle since then.

'Yes, sir. If anything, he did enjoy his cigarettes and the Bleu et Blanc sports, like every true adopted Capitolien would have. He was a provincial who truly loved Quebec City.' He nodded, his left hand slowly shaking on its own. As far as he's concerned, he was finding this conversation dreary, though the trip down the memory lane was nonetheless fun. He added, ‘Still, we all mourn for his untimely death and how the man who knew what it meant to be a true Capitolien with his promethean had passed into the earth.’

‘Well, you are absolutely right, but everything comes at a cost.’ Gavin de Ramaut responded, feeling misty on his eyes and chilly on his forehead. ‘Like you know, the Acadianan in him had meant that there was an eternal pit of fire in his soul and the edges that couldn’t be straightened….

‘Don’t get me wrong, Dong-Soo. Sometimes he could control the flames, and that’s usually the better version of him. When you had him as your supervisor, you had a much calmer, more lucid version of the man. That’s when he’s at the most ideal state, so I’d put forth. But the younger self of his, that’s another thing! You’ve been there before, if anything!’

‘Now, that’s why we need to travel to the times when he wasn’t, and was very much that creature of habit as I told you earlier. I guess this must have been the Year 1987, because Dr. Kim himself was still a Masters student. He was the usual self at Mount Ester, but only for lord knows how short the time flew on the first year there. There was another Acadianan whom he had eyed dearly, dating back to the times when academic exchanges weren’t so readily available, and she did have him realise the best and the worst, so to call.’

‘Sounds like the usual love story,’ said Dr. Heo, trying not to make much out of it. He knew the other Acadianan was a certain Prof. Pineau, his second wife. From what he had remembered, she was somewhere in the pub, but was hard to find - the lady, in her 50s, was probably too busy talking to other mourners, most likely the youths of the 80s.

‘But then thing with Dr. Kim was that he always needs...someone to calm his fuses down. Else he ends up burning down the whole house or just vow to destroy every person he opposes. So that Agnes-Leanne happened to be one, and if she only chatted at him, he used to weave stories of fire to those around him. I remember a young Magnus Challice-Yeo mentioning that, and couldn’t help but to wonder as well.

‘But she of course was taken, to the man back home, and she flew often, back and forth between Bathurst and her home. Often Dr. Kim had asked her to bring back gifts, and so did she. But he was a calculating man, and promised himself one day that if the luck binds, he’s going to find a way for divine miracle to work out. And then, one day, when he was entering the line for his professor and her mentor’s office hour (was it Dr. Belsen, I don’t remember) one January….he found her crying. She broke up with her ex-boyfriend because of distance over christmas, and needless to say that he was down over it as well.’

When he slowly slurred down, Dr. Heo added a line to lift up the mood. ‘But it, too, was an opportunity for him. I know that feeling, if anything- while injuries forced my retirement from fencing, it brought me Maureen out of blue.’ He felt slight sadness to that final remark, as he was reminded of how a minor tragedy, the second near-death brought by Maureen, had to happen in order for the conversion to occur. Perhaps that's why it was even more of a miracle for everything to come together, he thought to himself.

‘Certainly, boy. But that’s not how it exactly worked. Dr. Kim, perhaps the most demonstrative of positivist thinkers that half this nation’s historians are subscribed to the list, also believed that he had time until they reached Concord Heights. Him coming from Nyhavn, her Yzerberg. The intimate moment in middle of a Dagan capital, and all that...he thought it out thoroughly.

‘But the thought of a rendez-vous, so promising yet so deceiving, can be dangerous if you only think of the plans. As the term passed, he began looking more dead than alive like a bewitched huntsman, and his skin started to become as dry as a chip of wood. And then that’s when the worst struck, as he did not think of the otherwise.’

‘And what would that be? Are we going into the that be the famous Arnold-Jeong Rule that he used to mention on sidenote?’ Dr. Heo asked, feeling melancholy over the mention of a casual rule, where you always assume someone of romantic interest’s taken unless proven otherwise, that Dr. Kim was created when he was a teenager. That rule, which he used to use fairly often on the dining hall conversations with undergraduate students he monitored at Agrippa-le-Grand College and also home, was a famous term for those who read history or Russian at St. Croix.

‘Right there! You got it. We are indeed talking about The Plague.'
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Sun Jan 03, 2021 12:16 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Sat Nov 14, 2020 6:49 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 9 (37) - Island Lights


'Mon dieu. Not the plague.' Asher said in response. lifted his eyeballs, as he slowly sipped a glass of gin, trying not to think too much about how he foresaw the fate's threads moving back and forth. 'The tragedy, and the lives lost.'

Here he was, slowly unnerving himself about the stories that weren't even related one bit to the authoritarian regime. Asher quickly turned around to make sure that nobody else was hearing their conversation - the Sicoutian state guards or intelligence agents whom would normally be with them, weren't around in an establishment set up by a former veteran of the Revolution, thankfully - in middle of this underground club. All he could hear were murmurs, hidden through the echoes that blew away all those others were talking about,, and Asher looked back at his angel again.

'I know right? It's quite tragic.' Eileen de Ramaut nodded as she looked at him, not trying to give off particularly secretive vibes to the situation. Of course there were enough for strangers to suggest that they weren't locals, especially with how the chromatic colours did not really match the 1920s ambience the rest of the club gave. 'And that's how he went away. Since he wasn't allowed to go home, while she did go back to Acadiane, they couldn't see each other for some time.' She responded, her voice trying its best to hold on.

'So they were on the opposing sides of Atlantian Oceania, and he did not get to see her for long time, is what you're saying.' Asher continued, feeling frustrated at how the tradition of romantic indecisiveness in Quebecois people seemed to transmit well above and beyond. Of course, that's not what anyone had imagined in terms of doses of imperialism, however guilty we should feel. He blurted out a thought to his mental archives. 'So what happened to them?'

'Well, he prepared and prepared and prepared for the moment, when all the Plague was going to be over,' Eileen noted, before slowly sipping a bottle of beer as a matter of guilty pleasure. 'But then he soon found out that she's of course, back with her beau and bae in Acadiana, all because of the opportunity that the Plague itself had brought upon the poor postgraduate children of February 1988. She accidentally went back while he, the prepared one, was still here, and you could guess the rest.'

'That's horrible!' he shouted, his mouth narrowly open to create a channel of its own.

‘I know right?’ she remarked, trying to keep her emotions in check. ‘And he eventually found out, on a November night, and that was even worse of a sight.’

'What could it have been?' Asher was feeling bewildered, having realised that this was going to the realm of fantasies. Of course, the nation was slowly filling up with the positive news, that of a possible return to international sporting stage, but most were staying quiet until Chairman Alphonse Pomeroy, their 'eternal leader' (eternal leader my ass, Asher thought to himself upon that quotation mark) would make a statemet on it. But that possibility of old sporting magic returning had meant little like a chance of purple and blue sprinkling again in the dreary streets of Lac-Drouin, and Asher couldn't help but to sigh before asking again. 'There's no way that he would have been able to bring anything like a de-'

‘-...and apparently that’s what happened on that May evening! It is said that Professor Woland, Koroviev, Behemoth, Azaello and Hella, went out into the city and brought themselves a feast, a magic show, and many flickering of lights during their week on the campus and le Quartier Calanien.

‘Nobody could figure out what it was, but it wasn’t normal. The late professor, still a student then, of course knew why he did it though. And it was to burn the city down.’

Asher looked at her, whose eyes were now filling up with fire, and then back at the waiter to suggest drinks with the special Audioslavian art of the ancient semaphore of eyebrow-waggling and head-nodding, and went back.

‘But did it do it? Quebec brûle-t-il?’

‘Non. Gavin de Ramaut chuckled, raising both his hands to suggest that there was never a doubt on his mind about it. It was clear to him that people still held restraints in this era of excessive confidence and degeneracy, and that the Quebecois people always valued sacrifice above most virtues in life. 'Of course the city did not burn! Like manuscripts, you cannot burn a city built out of them!'

Of course, that's partly how they won so many wars, including the two in the past decade. But then, sacrifice had also meant knowing when to let go, like when to cut ties with its territories when asked to, and that's where the Quebecois, while not excellent, stood well above other former Empires of the early/late Modern period. 'While he always had that that temper of a fire, he knew to how to control it. He had to swallow the pains and the flames, make another bargain with the devil...and call it the night.’

'So what happened then? As you know, I come from Lecavalier generation, having born three years after the Plague.' Dr. Heo asked, trying not to emphasise his youth as an element of surprise. One of the things that he had learned fairly quickly when living abroad and also travelling beyond the Interrealm portal to the so-called RLverse was that the generation-by-generation differentiations and tensions were more than memes. Sure, they had existed back home, but it was mostly for the comedic sakes and minor uses in literature or musical theatre, where you'd use that to separate and distinguish those who had grown up in 1980s, 1990s or lord knows however they separated the eras in the new century. Or if you want a simpler term...millennials.

'He had a duel with the devil, where he turned himself into a living fire and face the ghouls of the night,' the jolly voice of Gavin de Ramaut rang with slight tremor, as he wiggled his left shoulder. Most in the pub didn't notice the twitch to see that it was abnormal; the noise had distracted everybody else to the topic discussed on their immediate vicinity. 'And so he did, swore off the devil, and then struck a peace deal set to last for ninety-nine years.'

'Well that's good...albeit with a trade-off.' Dr. Heo said, trying to remain calm but beyond bewilderment. He quietly looked around the setting again, and wondered for a brief second on where the late Dr. Pineau, as well as her three children were. 'I wonder if the young Arsene is here.' Arsene-Pierre Kim, their third (and only biological child between the two) son, happened to be an up-and-coming politician while a Masters student at Univ. de Montreal.

He’s a rascal, cigarette-smoking Leon (ooc: imagine a Quebecois equivalent of ‘chad’ combined with ‘karen’), whose infamy has slayed all those in his way as if the Dragon in St. George’s way. From a conference, he once remembered hearing from a colleague about the youngster, then at University of Kingston where they did not cross paths but happened to know a bunch of mutuals through Trinity College. I do not know how a creature like him roams so freely, coming from admirable parents like Agnes-Leanne and Sang-Doh...

Ignoring the assuming thread around his head, they looked at each other with complacent air, and then smiled once more. The story of the bargain with the devil, and the city’s deuxieme-fin-de-siecle lumination thoroughly erected himself up with excitement, and both Dong-Soo and Gavin couldn’t help but to feel the tingling upon their spines as they talked about the deceased.

The story of the dead clearly filled up the house now, and each of them had something to say about Dr. Kim. One student, an earlier undergraduate two years above Gavin, recalled seeing the explosions in the sky as the children waltzed in the mini-squares (do they call them parkettes?). Another, a peer of his all the way back to Kim Sang-Doh’s schoolboy days at Ginnidera Grammar, talked about how the smurfs frolicked above the deck of a cruise ship, committing acts of debauchery in the presence of the wild animals who too caught themselves engaging on it. This was followed by a mere postgraduate whose supervision was affected due to his passing, who talked of how the office was unsurprisingly filled with bright lights and felt more like a The 1975 concert at The O2 than a St. Croix office.

Like that, Gavin gave Myeong-Shin a tap on shoulder. 'Of course, he's here. We do not know whether he's here to embrace the night, or to enjoy the devil's sight, however. Anyway. Of course, the memoriam does not cover much about the stories because it's not there for that. The university senate doesn't want them to do so, and perhaps for best reasons said. And of course, it's the best way to remember him like that...’

In Memoriam

Kim Sang-Doh
Professor of History and Modern Languages
Distinguished Fellow, St. Alban's College


When Kim Sang-Doh died of cancer at the age of 57, the St. Croix faculties of History and Modern Languages and Literatures lost its highly-celebrated teacher, a strong ally to its causes, and the distinguished fellow of St. Alban’s College.

Prof. Kim was born on February 11, 1965, in Northcote, Acadiana, as a son of Quebecois parents in a middle-class family, and grew up in Ginnidera, where he attended public school before a scholarship into Ginnidera Grammar. In 1984, he entered Farrer University like many Commonwealth graduates - then or now- did. In the middle of a country that had hit its economic low just two years earlier, but was seeing rapid economic recovery, he had originally intended to study economics. Of course that’s not how fate had intended things to turn out, as change of course sections had led him to eventually end up majoring in History and Political Sciences. It was around his time that he started showing his gift for languages, with his study of French, Russian and Czech in rigorous study that often involved being at various social circles abundant in the Metropolis.

After his graduation in 1987, Kim continued his postgraduate studies at Mount Ester University, where he began focusing his education as a historian at more serious level, and served as an independent researcher at St. Alban’s College, Universite St. Croix. His coursework and researcher position interrupted midway due to the Plague of 1988 that had ultimately spurred greater political and social change, he placed much of his time isolated in Quebec City, where he wrote his first novel, The Agrippa’s Table (released in 1991 as Lee Arbor, re-released in 1996 as Kim Sang-Doh). The uncertainties over his future and the isolation from his loved ones, far and abundant, enabled him to write faithful dialogues with his internal thoughts. It was then that Dr. Kim, as he later recalled, had really found his voice as a writer of ‘solitude souls’, both vendable and sellable but whose wills cannot be bent.

Following the end of the Plague, and his graduation in 1988, Dr. Kim unexpectedly went abroad and pursued his postgraduate degree at Stelburg University, Siovanija and Teusland, where he worked on the concept of comparative fin-de-siecle and the nostalgic peoples. While not much had been said or written by him about his time in the Southern Atlantian Oceania, needless to say that he cherished his time there, and viewed his time away from home as necessary to gather his personal self after the turbulent period both in Bathurst and Quebec City. It was within those five years that he had further established himself with his literary edge, and kept with it to his last day.

During this time, Sang-Doh finished his dissertation, completed his Viva in 1992, and soon accepted a tenure-track appointment at Grande Mountain University after a postdoctoral fellowship in Attawapiskat, at Northwestern University. Sang-Doh kept himself reserved and arduous in his duties and assignments, pioneering a lecture course on ‘Themes of War and Historical Narrative in Comparative Literature’ and seminar courses on the Southern Rushmori Realms of the Commonwealth and its relation with the Multiverse. The greater liberties provided by the job, of course, had meant that he was going to take literary ventures further with it.

Having already made his name known (though not to public knowledge) as the writer of Agrippa’s Table, Sang-Doh spent his term leave in 1996 as an opportunity to work on his novels. It was his first official leave as professor, and he made most of it, completing his second novel, Agape, Salome and Rodon on a hut in West Aotearoa, on the region of Tyran. While he kept himself mostly confined to the hut, his curiosities had meant that he had also chosen the opportunity to travel widely and visit many countries, Schottia being his favourite among them, before his return to Grande Mountain.

Back in Grande Mountain, Sang-Doh finished the manuscript of A,S&R into a novel, as well as his doctoral dissertation into the renowned book on Novopetrogradian Empire’s cultural interactions with Teus Empire. It was as if the term leave had helped adding the sparkles to the work. With both works receiving commercial and critical success, he was quickly put into Quebecois public in the middle of ‘The Third Wave Age’ under Marian Lecavalier government, and quietly accepted a tenured professorship at the Universite St. Croix in 1998.

While he was first unsure on returning to what he had felt as ‘true homeland’, after a decade of self-questioning and self-imposed exile, Dr. Kim concluded that the choice ultimately worked out for the best, with the faculty now featuring significant number of those who had grown up in the 80s. Sang-Doh and his mentor, now-emeritus Pierre Gonneau, worked together a legendary junior seminar on Intellectual History of the 19th-century Commonwealth, and the Comparative Fin-de-Siecle (in which literature term was taken up by him, and history term Pierre). Sang-Doh was also able to bring back his connections with old Quebecois, eventually marrying (he already had one child, a daughter, from an engagement that later was broken off) Leanne Pineau in 2000.

The arrival of his third child, Arsene, at the millennium had coincided with his continued interests in urbanism. His years in Stelburg, Attawapiskat and Grande Mountain had influenced him to the great exposure of how the intellectuals of the late-1800s Commonwealth and its peripheries on the other quadrants of the Multiverse were tied. In 2008, Sang-Doh went on a sabbatical as a research fellow to Nyhavn University under Quebec Foundation, to work on the proposed book about Comparative Urbanisms and the Commonwealth Canon of History. Unfortunately and fortunately him and his wife had spent much of the time interacting with local intellectuals, and had spent the time analysing the memory of the War and the postwar recovery of the Southern Norrehavn and Norrskie Zasousti that had changed the directions. While Agnes-Leanne was able to complete her monograph on the postwar recovery and preservation of the memory in 2011, Sang-Doh's manuscripts were delayed until 2021, when it was published as Iron Jubilee: History and Historical novels in the fin-de-siecle Nyhavn
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Sun Jan 03, 2021 12:36 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Sun Jan 03, 2021 12:13 am

Running Up That Hill

PART 10 (39) - Just Like A River Does


Now we’re back to the present time, as Asher Lundrigan found himself in an interesting place. He was somewhat stung and stupefied over what he had just heard from Eileen, and that had made him think a bit more about how the past and present met with one another, especially in the middle of an underground venue in Lac-Drouin.

Now, not only was he looking for a possible answer to the question, but possibly a better set of mental excuses to invest himself into the remainder of the Sicoutian leg of the schedule. In that, there had been no other way Asher could have described in wanting to get out- especially given his particular hesitation to be forward to be forward to Eileen about certain things- and staying more than necessary for a number of days or even hours in Sicoutimont was going to affect him either way.

Blimey, blimey, blimey, blimey, blimey, calisse…That’s what Asher thought to himself, as he slowly washed his hands on the counter of a washroom. Having excused himself in middle of a 10-minute interlude, Asher decided to take advantage of the much-needed break. He straightened his side hair twice, blinked thrice and then rubbed his hand with soap four times.

Now, looking at his face once more, he was slowly, pensievly staring at his own face on the mirror, and right next to him stood an older, bearded man in a black, well-smoothened suit. Another etranger, probably of different reasons he came, thought Asher. His compatriot turned his head at him once, and then returned his gaze to the mirror while washing his hands. The turquoise Neon lights of the washroom barely functioned, dimming the older man’s face like a New Romantic’s Poker hands, a grease-less face with grey, fading eyes. On his collars a yellow Orchid badge is placed, indicating his membership in the far-left Parti Justice du Quebec (PJQ).

‘Sad to see how the stories can sometimes end, isn’t it?’ said Arsene, ‘But then miracles do exist when you least look for it, after years of just waiting around and planning things like a diligent man would.’

‘Always.’ Asher raised his eyebrows, as the comment had the younger man realise the acquaintance’s identity. Being part of the Bron-Yr-Aur Barony, a fairly well-known name in its own right, and also coming from the PJQ ranks, he somewhat remembered the politician, who was just breaking into federal politics as a 26-year old postgraduate from St. Croix. But his father, for most part, kept his political life out of his personal chapters. Even during campaign seasons, he had rarely met politicians who, given his background in the Foreign Affairs ministry, called Lundrigan Sr an amicable nickname ‘Monsieur le Cosmopolitain’. And when he grew older, naturally he stayed out of political life, preferring to spend time wandering around on collegial grounds of St. Alban’s College, St. Croix. He knew that at some point, he would have to meet politicians. But to meet the young, charismatic leader of 82-seat PJQ in a washroom, of an illegally-operated live venue, that’s still a pretty rare occurrence if anything. ‘And I know I’ve always been lucky. Like a golden leprechaun of the enemy school, if you know what I’m talking about.’

‘Of course I do,’ remarked Arsene-Pierre Kim. ‘Every Quebecois child is taught to be grateful, but always to be prepared for the best in the worst. I think that many years later, and also from you two, that it indeed makes sense.’

Did he really overhear that conversation? If so, there’s a serious problem with watching my tongue, because those people want my head, not hers…. Asher turned his head around, giving him a particularly odd look. ‘I am delighted that I was able to catch your attention, however critical she or I may have been over gossip. If anything, that’s what the journalists and the musicians are best at…’

‘Oh really?’ said Arsene-Pierre, not really amused by the response he got from a prospective recruit. ‘Well, it depends on who you ask, but I don’t think you are really one at heart. You know, the so-called journalists would sell their souls at a cheaper rate, and call frivolous words of social justice without understanding the world, and then promptly find themselves embarrassed when their lack of depth is exposed...’’

Of course he’d say that. Asher knew well of the party leader’s hostility towards Quebecois and foreign journalists who, believe it or not, had a tendency to misquote his metaphoric quotes and strand-filled references.

Trying to deflect the subject, Asher took out his handkerchief and slowly doused water over it. ‘Aren’t you tired, especially with the possibility of a snap election?’ asked Asher, casually bringing up the topic of the Federal election.

‘Not a bit.’ Arsene-Pierre shrugged, firstly without an emotion, and then secondly with some certainty. ‘My late father, lord bless his soul, once told me that he was always scared of losing those he loved. But he knew the best not to be over the top about it, preferring to save the city by making the gamble and fighting the duel that many, in the postwar age, had refused to do so. He chose to be the cool guy, so you could say, without really being forward.

‘Of course, he knew everything had its trade-offs, but he had well understood the cost and lived with it. Of course, that’s what maybe enabled us to change the world, for the better and the worse. You know what happened with the rest right?’

‘A good point,’ sighed Asher, nodding along because of how much sin he has gathered from smoking without her presence, but with her awareness. ‘One does think more about losing someone dear than a political change, especially when one behaves ala. Chamberlain-’
‘Right there. Even right now you are exactly falling into that habit. Love is good to the degree that you keep yourself sane, but beyond that, you need something else to further propel yourself into. That’s where you need to find what’s ideal for you. Tell me, have you thought of following your father’s path?’

‘Frankly, I did think about it,’ Asher responded, as he thought out the next sentence in mind. He knew what he was going to say the very next moment would be very important, and that there’s no other way to describe it under the dim lights. Should I chase for something bigger...or be content with what I have and who I love?Asher thought as he slowly rolled his left shoulder. It was such a simple one, one that most of us would answer with a flat yes or no, but Asher knew he needed few more seconds than whatever he was given.

Maybe I am feeling the same way my father did back then, Asher thought as he quietly picked up the towel on the rack and washed his hand. Gosh, Eileen must be waiting for me. By now, he was able to hear the sound of a ska band, one of maybe four or five in all of Sicoutimont, playing, and she must be waiting for him. Now, his few seconds were expiring far too quickly, and he could feel the sense of urgency as he looked over to Arsene Kim, who’s slowly combing his hair.

‘But right now may not be the time,’ replied Asher, deciding to pull the trigger of his internal glock that was checking the clock of decisions inside his head. ‘I did think about it, and yes, you’re right that I am not a journalist by trade. I always knew I wasn’t and will never really be one, especially after all the rumours that were frankly as close to truth as it can get- but I believe that I’m better off on the background for now.’

‘Good, because I didn’t expect you to say yes either,’ chuckled Arsene with a peculiar smile. ‘It’s true. Politics, without Etudes on the Etudes Politiques, or without Hak on the Jeongchihak, isn’t for everybody. We all know that. But that’s not naturally predetermined, by the set of luck and fortune, and has never worked like that. We all make decisions and stick by it. That’s why at some point, you have to decide your turf and run the long course with it.’
‘Yes. And what would that be, in your unrelated views per se?’

‘Straightforward, ecrivain. You’ve always been more of a writer than an academic, an orator than a politician. Everybody on the circuit knows that because of your father’s presence with the Opposition caucus. It’s like the style may be excellent and professional in every bit, but not in the manners desired by the clerks. I think you know that better yourself.’

Asher nodded, as the old man continued. ‘Please do not worry, however, as I think you’ll do well. But at some point you do need to shift towards somewhere bigger, greater and farther...as they often said to public knowledge, Coxwell Park is beautiful around June. Is that true?’
‘Always.’ Asher smiled, trying to hide his nerves.

‘There you go. I think that's your answer then.’ Arsene responded, before giving Asher a nice pat. Unlike just a moment ago, however, he was smiling this time. 'Good luck.' That’s all he said, before the party leader left the washroom and into the crowds. Asher winked himself twice with a smile, adjusting his glasses once, before walking away once more.




Located just outside of the St. Croix’s campus of green and gloom, the Lebel-Acosta hotel was more or less complete with the campus. The mourners had now dispersed to the rest of the campus and the city, taking with them the loss and the remnants of whatever the emotions they had held from the legendary Slavist, a pillar of the history faculty, up in the cool Maytime air of Quebec City once again.

'Any favourite memories of our dear professor?' Dr. Heo's voice asked serenely, as they sat on a park bench. Heo Dong-Soo always liked dealing with crowds and how manipulable they could be at times, but today he had agreed with himself to stay quiet with himself, as he continued to talk to Gavin de Ramaut. He just happened to be staying at the same hotel and with the itinerary meaning that he didn’t have to go back to Cornwall until tomorrow night, he had decided to stay up until late. He just hoped the metro was not going to be out of service by the time he's done chatting.

'Not really the ones worth telling that's not been told back at the bar, I'm afraid,' Gavin de Ramaut said. Frankly, the elder man didn't want to think so much about what has long gone and past, for his undergraduate memories, tainted with many illnesses and unfortunate incidences, weren't so much the ones he wanted to talk about. 'I wasn't the finest student of his, I admit. He had his own core of favourites, though he did favour me, in some ways.'

'I see, sir.' Dr. Heo smiled. 'And he was still a fine orator, who knew how to conjure up moments of brilliance out of blue. This makes me wonder, do you still write lines of song you used to keep on your journals? I believe it was a distant cousin of yours, the late 11th Baron Wahngahm, who told me how you used to write songs.'

'Yes, but those were when I was younger.' Gavin said quickly, trying not to make too much out of his first marriage that ended tragically (though not really of his fault). 'I've stopped writing them more often than not since remarriage though, and sometimes the spurts once every three years or so. Funnily enough, there's a recent song lyrics I wrote that may be of your interest.'

'That's interesting.' Dr. Heo said. 'How does it go along?'

'Well it goes like this...'




There once was a poet in the Fire Hills,
He's named the Swann van Horne
He's been here since the run of many (sun-)set devils
Great God, like I for one


Such was the end of the night's setlist at the venue, where Asher was paying little attention to an once-in-the-opportunity opportunity of hearing her sing in this unexpected place. Under the dim lights, he was having slow recollections about the film footages he's been able to recollect about those minor moments, but really he couldn't help but to feel as if he was tangled on his own. Of course, part of the challenge was the trivial aspects of the trip, where being exposed to excessive Pomeroian propaganda has left his stomach as unstable as a tectonic plate, or the loss of sense of time he may have had due to how everything in Sicoutimont had gone by either quickly or eternally. Hard to say either way, with the way people were humming to the melody or moving their feet. He was only feeling distracted right now.

He came from somewhere far
His mother was a charterer
His esprit remains a wanderer
Down in the Quarter


But then, it may not be the trip's schedule or his disgust with the eternal leader of the Sicoutian state that's the problem here. It may be because of the state of mind and how Asher, even after a year of them dating once again, felt so inadequate.

As Eileen sang, he couldn't help but to feel but to feel troubled. The song is like that of mine, though the difference may be that the Pineau-Kims were both Acadianans and us not. No way to escape by going abroad. He was feeling troubled by how his way of life, for years, had to be changed, and how much atonement it would require for him to at least settle down with someone he loved. When they had gotten together for the second time last year, he was still a man-child, whose abilities were used for all the purposes wrong and immoral, sinful and tragic. Even with recognition and recovering prestige back home, Asher was still feeling inadequate compared to his partner and there was no way to escape the disturbance that the trip has brought it back to the surface.

Now the only one he needed at all
Is the dove and the sparrow
And the only time he's taken off the hypnos
Is after she becomes a widow


And when the crowd's turn came to sing the chorus, Asher swayed back and forth with both his hands tightly clenched against his forehead. he couldn't help but to think on own that if the divine being had to come to his presence, he should really come right now so his sorry questions can be answered. It may be the price he had to pay for being on the loop of uncertainties on their lives and loves, the pittance of being an undeserved lover.

There once was a poet in the Fire Hills,
He's named the Swann van Horne
He's been here since the run of many (sun-)set devils
Great God, like I for one


After the last note came Eileen's piano solo, in which the band casually jammed along to see what kind of a landscape, however flat and neverending of the Argyistani steppes or the Ituyan mountains. The details, quietly written down by the journalists, would then be distributed into various forms of samizdat and tamizdat that while shutting down the pub in due time, would prove to become valuable sources for our dear readers in few decades' time, off the fonds of the Bibliotheque Nationale where the photocopying was directed while Dr. Heo, whose doctoral dissertation and first monograph, In Search of Petrogradian Emigration in Lac-Drouin: A Cultural History' was still the Royal Archivist. Then the drum solo, abruptly entered to give Eileen's hands some rest, saw Asher quietly weeping on the inside, with the feeling that's comparable to the dying orchid at the edge of the cliff on a dark, lonely evening over the Salamantic Sea.

'To face the devil, and to resist the offer...' That's all Asher murmured.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Sun Jan 03, 2021 12:23 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Thu Jan 14, 2021 3:28 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 11 (40) - Dreams


It was late in the morning when Asher Lundrigan and Eileen de Ramaut were walking along the Platform 1 of the Lac-Drouin's Gare Centrale. It was a loud sight, as the crowds waved Sicoutian flags at the guests and some party elites heading north to Valladares, but for the most part the crowds were well-controlled enough to not harass them. It was a Monday morning, meaning that the Sicoutian folk were going back to another week of work and school, so the crowd had looked even more impressive with this in mind.

This is it, Eileen thought to herself, as she looked at the people of her homeland with hope, but also worries. As if herself is a child she waved, as if a tired voyager she walked. One more week and we're flying back home.

God I’m tired of everything, but for now we head to Valladares. self-reminded Asher, trying not to think too much, as they looked once more into the crowd, waved twice at them, and then hopped into their train carriage.

Then, like that, the travelling delegation left Lac-Drouin. From this point on they were heading north to complete the remaining half of the first of three trains marking the 100th anniversary of the Allied forces' victory in the Southern Rushmori War. The passage of the Sicoutian countryside was much smoother this time, as the high cargo volumes between Valladares and Sicoutimont had meant that the railroads between the two countries were well secured. This, combined with the status of train travel among the Sicoutian folk, had meant that the travels would be fairly straightforward as they headed north for next eight hours, all the way to Edmonton, Westlands, Valladares.

Asher and Eileen boarded to their assigned carriage, and quietly went back to their normal habits, knowing that the daytime journey would mean viewing the paysage of the Northwestern Sicoutimont, as well as the change of the landscape in the shades of green, from the darker Sicoutian vert to lighter Valladar vert. Of course, they knew even further not to say much, as they were more than aware that the Sicoutian military presence were heavier on some sections of the car until they reached Orleans and the Border once again, and that they did not want to risk such troubles. She had already come close once, and he twice, so better safe than sorry I guess.

Along the way, Asher and Eileen stopped for fresh air outside their carriages, as the train made a couple of stops in a couple of provincial towns. The rugged nature of northwestern Sicoutimont, as well as the peculiar nature of crossing the borders, had meant that the train would travel on a slower speed until they crossed the border. In the faces of the locals who greeted the few hundred guests from home and abroad, they were able to witness the glimpse of local Sicoutian way of life. Some children came to them in their baseball or hockey jerseys (and of course brought their local factory-made helmets, bats or hockey sticks) and the factory-workers chatted with dignitaries, while the elderly sold fresh produces and handmade food.

Oh, thunder, only happens when it's raining, Eileen thought as she bought a lunchbox from an elderly woman outside the station, before heading back to her carriage. The times spent in Sicoutimont, however challenging they were to them, were wisely spent. Of course the narratives back in Montreal, by the de Ramaut cousins and grandparents, would be different, but she decided that everybody had their ways of viewing things and not to make further out of it for the time being.

Jumping back into the train, Asher went back to reading 'Mo pesoldriplués fam Aldofe Tiog' (The construction of the Tiog State) from where he had left off earlier.




“Well, Asher, so you just came back from dreary drabs of Sicoutimont and look as if you had survived decades there! I can tell that it must have been something, to come out of there alive, with that m****** of the opposition leader and a bunch of bureaucrats the whole way! Alas, welcome back as we had long expected from you.”

Three days have passed since then, and the distinguished guest for unmarried men in Edmonton was legendary Viscount McGovern. Emile Hoyresving-McGovern, the second grandson of Queen Gemma of Frusennia and late Alexandre, Prince Consort and the first Duke of Kawartha. Happy to see a longtime colleague of his, Viscount McGovern greeted Asher, who made sure to set a separate block of time off just to see his old Ridler Club mate in Valladar Westlands of all places.

Emile had a particularly hard time traveling all the way to Edmonton, first on an 8-hour long flight to Metropolis, and then a domestic flight that seemed even longer to Edmonton. It is said that very Viscount McGovern, even after the boyhood years of travelling back and forth between Elvabyen, Frusennia; and Quebec City, still struggled with motion sickness- this was no secret that Emile had particular trouble with his service in the Royal Quebecois Navy earlier in the 2040s.

Still, he couldn’t help but to find the occasion pleasurable on his own accord. Having served as the president of the Ridler Club when Asher was a freshman, and being married to Maria Rosario de la Vera Cruz, Countess of Puracé, he was obliged to visit the country regularly. The news of a military parade, that marked the hundredth anniversary of the Allied forces victory in the Southern Rushmori War, happened to be a bonus, to quote his lines from the phone call:

“Heard that some of our fellow boys, including you, will be back for the celebrations. So if the prospects charm you after a long trip, then such prospects may be charming for you to drop by the Iron Swan club to watch the parade.”

“It did have me think a lot for sure,” replied Asher, gently nodding to Emile in Korean. “A lot of it comes out of pageantry and the rest on how the time floated in the air over there.” He had entered the terrace later than expected, wearing his court uniform but not one of the badges symbolising his family. He spoke in the standardised Korean that he had learned to fix from the provincial Kingstonian accent of his teenage years, and only the breathiness of his voice affected that. He listened, approached and quickly shook Emile’s hand, and looked around the boulevard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Eileen, on another building with her manager, Janet Mullen-Baker, and a couple of local colleagues.

“But more importantly, tell me how are things for you, yourself, my friend dear lord,” said he, smiling a couple of times to indicate the boyish excitement Emile carried with himself.

“Being well is one thing, but having to fly anywhere is a torture. Why can’t we just transport ourselves into a door-like portal, and just save every bit of inconvenience?” said Emile. “But the parade is good and so far the band is playing the old marching tunes well. How long are you staying in the Westlands?”

“The train leaves the day after tomorrow, and we will be taking the next anniversary train all the way to Nyhavn, with a couple of stops before flying back home.” responded Asher, highlighting the back home part. “I am afraid going all the way to Petrograd or Metropolis, at this point in time, isn’t feasible anymore.”

“And the Ball at the Metropolis court? You know the royal ball is in June, like every year. I am expected to be there, if anything,” said the Viscount. “I have even heard that Marco Hertel is trying his best to enter as an escort there.”

“And the son of a Dallas is even going to be let in? He’s our friend and lives there now, but there is no way either of your Majesties would allow him to enter the court! That would be absolute travesty!”

“Probably, but let him try it I guess. If he does make it work, then Queen Dazzarina would be brought back as a zombie, so to put forth,” said Emile who did not have the best way of describing situations he was too excited to participate in. “Anyhow, the weight of history appears to be upon us, in the air, so to speak.”

“Don’t tease! You know I am expected to write about the trip later in the month, and the readers will be reading it on The Taegukgi.” Asher shot back, before noticing that a couple of colourfully-dressed protestors jumped into the rows with a bunch of placards and weapons. “Besides, what’s with the fuss over there?”

“Those must be coming from those not happy with our way of life, our way of doing things, and of course believing in unicorns, so to speak.” Viscount chuckled as the protestors were beaten up and taken away, with no regard for other members of the club who looked at him for a second, before going back at them. “Those are the very people who believes that the blood-brothers of Quebec and Valladares (my apologies to grandma, Her Majesty), ‘desperately needs a socialist reconstruction and vocational education training centres to deradicalise supremacists and integrate them in a positive way into social production in multinational internationalist countries’.”

"Idiots. There is certainly time and space for everything and doing so right now is unacceptable," was all the Commoner said. Unlike Asher, who still came from commoner origins, Viscount McGovern was clearly aware of his background and spoke like a man of pomp and circumstance. Asher, on the contrary, had known well to control his power with the words. To be a journalist, with a partner much more known in public than him, came with implied meanings, and sometimes Asher became too timid in presence of old colleagues whom he had enjoyed free-flowing conversations just two or three years prior. The grey in his eyes quietly reflected the row of Naval ships that cris-crossed the axis of history between 1941 and 2045, as he tried his best not to show his approval.

"And they go, and go." responded Asher a minute later. "Like the leaves they blew with some wind, but swept away like the Nazis hundred year ago. Of course the Commonwealth stayed alive, and we are forever grateful for our victories."

"After many millions of lives lost, perhaps that's the best way to put forth what we must remember and we must blow aside as mere occasions."

“This reminds me about what I also felt about my time in Sicoutimont.” smiled Asher as he watched life going back to normal and the people clap at the soldiers marching over the streets. “If there’s anything specific I have to say, to be clear, is that perhaps the times spent with those we love, doing what we love, is the most important things we can carry with our lives. And the sense of duty that too comes with it.”

“Certainly, and you may be the luckiest one in coming off the luckiest, from the worst possible situation.“ he winked, his behaviour back to being bearable again. “Will you and your wife be watching the fireworks at the Pier tonight? Heard that they will be playing the Victory Overture, to mark the presence of both the Valladar Prime Minister and Our Majesty.”

“Right at the front row. It was her idea to do so anyway and we all gotta play give and take at some point,” he smiled once more, “It won’t be long though, and there will be a couple of balls the gentlemen could attend with individual pleasure. Are you coming to see the Naval base tomorrow then?”

“Probably, we’re all expected to be there right?”

“Certainly.”
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Thu Jan 14, 2021 3:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Sat Jan 23, 2021 5:49 pm

Running Up That Hill

PART 12 (41) - Evermore


The very next meeting was about an hour later. Her Majesty Christine II, with the sudden vacancy on her schedule (her husband, Prince Consort HRH Caspian, was assessing Valladar military training exercises offshore), had decided at the last-minute to schedule their meeting. Sure, the better timing could have been found but under the Quebecois soil. So it was her call to see a friend abroad for once, before they would head to their respective agendas- Her Majesty continuing onto the Eastern leg of the Celebrations from Vaugania to Valladares via Norrskie Zasousti, Norrehavn and Novopetrograd, while Asher would join his love on a last-minute detour to San Ortelio.

It took about ten to fifteen minutes for Asher to arrive at a parlour in Downtown Edmonton. Finding her, naturally, wasn't hard- the number of security personnels present would indicate such anyway- and sooner than later he had arrived.

'Unexpected, spontaneous and yet delightful!' responded the writer, not in the slightest surprised to see his friend. Unlike with Eileen, whom he mostly spoke in English, Asher made sure to speak in a refined, Capitolien Korean in which the nation's intellectuals and their officials spoke as expected in the manner of court and old world society. He went up to Christine, kissed her hand, presented his hurried self and then were seated on a coffee table right in front of him.

'Your Highness, my friend, Christine, you never cease to surprise me with the unexpected engagements!' said Asher, pushing forward with the usually unstoppable tone in his voice, separate from the normally formal tone that Her Majesty's individuals would speak to her.

'Hey you. Am I correct in saying that you're still nervous and rush as usual?' asked Christine, with a clear sense of irony attached to her voice. 'I have heard of your articles that told those back home of your adventures. Quite delightful, if anything, that you did not become insane over there.'

'Why would I? It was more introspective than expected, for it was the tale of war, both internal and external, for me,' said Asher, being much more forward with his words. 'Our ancestors, regardless of their ranks and class, had fought for the right cause on the other side of the Ocean, and we ought to remain proud of them.'

'Always. And always.' She dragged her voice, with the intonations enough to suggest the solemn and the silent in her. 'How is she doing?'

'She? She's always delighted, though more concerned about the tour than the pomp and circumstance for sure,' said Asher who, as a matter of fact, was expected to be alone for three months as a first leg of her Multiverse tour was lurking in about a month's time. 'Enjoying the matters of the normal woman with cyclical schedules.'

'And what does that differ from yours?' asked Christine in a mockery of Asher's unnecessary sharpness.

'None. We all live cyclical lives and so do you,' replied Asher in declaration of what was a clear matter of fact to them all. Alas, that was expected. 'And that's what we live for. Unfortunately, my sorry self is the one least proficient at it. I remember a line of song from her album, that went along the lines of this:

'And if I could reach the Northern lights
Maybe then I'd understand it all
Sometimes I try so hard to find
When all I want to do is fall
Into the night
Into your arms, surrеnder.'


'Aren't our lives wonderful, because of that...' Christine smiled, always delighted to see Asher narrate the lines of his love. Their differences, going back to the very first history tutorial they had at Universite St. Croix under Celine Arnaud-Gibbons, were always stark- the monarch, from the years of lifelong training by her father, always spoke with the sense of all-understanding mater dei, with flares of empathy that her father unfortunately lacked and wanted her to be full of. Asher, on the other hand, was never short of eccentricity and animation in his actions. The tingling of his fingers, the way the limbs would elongate and then sway as if a maestro’s baton, were some of the finest treats any fellow of the Quartier Calanien community would find pleasurable. Perhaps that, in some ways, had Asher become man of every collegiate event, a treat, and may even have helped overcome his challenges with obesity back in those days. Ah, one could have only wondered about what if the Divine Lord, high above, had not designated Her Majesty to be with our favourite Dagan...

In the middle of their conversation about their collegiate memories, Christine delved a bit further. 'Have you ever thought of what if's in your life, dear friend?' she asked, trying not to expose too many details, even to a friend. 'Yesli vyis...'

'Always,' said Asher, trying not to chuckle, 'It would be preposterous to not think of such, especially when not everything goes so fatefully or luckily as your majesty may have had. And it is because of those what if's, that we all make mistakes. But we are also taught to familiarise ourselves with such scenarios, prepare ourselves for the worst, and set ourselves for the best.’

'You are absolutely right, and in that we cannot deny,' Christine nodded, thinking twice before continuing to speak with a bigger smile. '..and it is true that I will be expecting a child, a son, by the year's end. It is a truly blessed news that you may have missed while in Sicoutimont, but I wished to state directly to you.'

'Absolutely. My congratulations on the arrival of your son, the future King, to our earth,' said Asher, smiling for once after all the tensions on their ten-minute conversation.

'Absolutely,' said Her Majesty, relieved that the degree of his response was high enough. 'And someday, a daughter between you and Eileen may be the right match for him, though I'm afraid I may be looking too far into the future...'

'Why would it be?' was all he said, before bowing twice to emphasise the reception of his honour on hearing such promise. 'While such roads may be far and away, at least for Eileen and me, the idea alone will be delightful.'

'Don't be humble,' she continued, her being the more excited one of the two people present in the room. It's almost as if the timing's just about right to shift from a more formal matter of circumstance to a personal situation. 'Caspian and I certainly think that one day, when we all have children, they will be friends by the matter of chance and would find themselves on the wheels of fate all over again...it would be amazing, I would say.'

Asher smiled once more, once again amazed with how Christine turned something so realistic into a magical form. There's a reason why she's Her Majesty, Asher thought to himself.




Twenty four years later...

‘Your Majesty,’ Claire Lundrigan greeted Her Majesty Christine the Second, by placing one place one foot behind the other, slightly bending your knees, and bowed your head. Under the normal constances the Quebecois would have bowed slightly, to indicate their casual approval, but the proper etiquette for the visitors to the Royalty had remained the same- to make a deep bow per Korean-Quebecois customs dating back centuries. ‘It is my honour to be here, as father has often told me so.’

‘Avec mon plaisir, ma fille,’ responded Christine II, her middle-age form allowing the grace to replace the golden aged beauty that she was known for in her initial decade of the glorious reign. After a gentle handshake, in which the commoner followed the protocol and shook her hand, she instructed Claire to sit on an assigned chair, with the tea table right between. ‘My son said you are well acquainted with whiskey, the specific Almagnac XCs of 2010s, if that’s true…’

‘Yes, your majesty.’ Claire nodded, trying to give absolute respect a prospective daughter-in-law, the future Princess of Abitibi, could give. This came even as her late father’s friendship with the late Monarch, whose stories she grew up hearing on the fabled estates of Coxwell Park, would have allowed them to get away with a minor error or two in royal protocol. ‘My late father has told me stories of your majesty, and I am delighted to be under your direct presence.’

‘Well, you are always welcome here in the Palace.’ said the Quebecois monarch, looking at the younger woman. It was evident from her very first glance resembled Lady Lundrigan more than the late Earl himself. Of course, that was a good thing, given the history of beautiful men and women who have come out of the fabled Lauzon house, but she only could have wondered if otherwise, for Her Majesty herself looked lot more like her grandmother, the late Queen Mother Nathalie, rather than any male of her paternal line.

‘Someday, the palace will be home for you and your children.’ she remarked, hitting every bit of truth with the words. ‘I remember that feeling, twenty five years ago.’ Christine reminisced, giving herself a reminder to the five-year period of prolonged courtship between her and her consort, HRH Caspian, Duke of Halifax. Normally a romantic partner to the prince or princess, barring a romantic engagement, were not invited to the Palais Royale per customs, but Claire Lundrigan, the daughter of a lifelong friend, the late Quebecois author, was an exception, especially as they had expected her engagement to Alexandre VI, Prince of Abitibi (approximate title given to the Crown Prince/Princess of this holy royaume). Naturally, Her Majesty had invited Claire for an afternoon tea, which would follow after a normal drink or two. After her arrival at the Blue Room, they were talking about their respective memories.

'As always, I am happy to see you.' Christine said. 'I am delighted to hear that the likely engagement will be happening soon, even though it won't be easy...Alex always takes forever with such matter of concern.' And they both chuckled, being reminded of Prince Alexandre's notoriety for his excessive interest in planning every step of personal matters out. This issue, the product of his schoolboy days at the Kingsley-Avon School two hours outside of Halifax, has become a problem at various points between him and his parents, or girlfriend of four years, and two of the three people happened to be here. 'But I'm sure that all shall turn fine, as the gowns convocate and forms matriculate. N'est-ce pas?'

'Yes, your majesty.'

'No, no, no. Just call me eomeonim (author's note: a Korean-language term for a woman to call their mother in law).' Christine II responded. As she nodded, Claire Lundrigan responded to her question. 'Yes, I agree with you that all will turn out fine with the next year of our lives, as we move into full adulthood, and accept increased responsibilities. Your majesty, Alex and I are all Anglicans loyal to our faith after all.'

Christine nodded in approval, and gave her junior a pat on the shoulder. 'Your father was a loyal man, who truly loved your mother. Thirty years ago, when we were both the students at Trinity College, Saint-Croix, he would occasionally ask me, What would a man be without his love?. It is true that he was proud of his reputation as a rake, someone who would find his pleasure coexist in intersectionality with his ambitions. But never did he let go of what he truly desired, and always carried her photograph, almost as if he wore an icon embedded to his heart. It’s in such faithfulness of a man where humanity's hopes lie, for reasons both good and bad.'

Claire was amused, hearing the Queen's remarks about her father, as she slowly downed a cup of tea. 'It was a happy childhood for us all,’ she responded. ‘One with a truly idyllic setting for me and my siblings. I wish to give back the way my parents had done so too, and that is to live a life appreciative of its gifts, but also to shine the light when asked.'

As the eldest of three children, Claire had immediately remembered the implications of her future mother-in-law's remark as the past and the present intersected. Everybody on Saint-John-Upon-Battersea and the Palais Royale, thanks to many drunk and sober remarks left by the Crown Prince, knew they were getting married soon. Heck, the preparation phase for the festivities and ceremonies that would come with it would suggest as if the eggs were getting hatched before the existence of a chicken that would lay it.

The only downside behind it was the absence of their father, whose passing from an unexpected illness three years ago had left the Earldom to Claire's 19 year old brother Henry, the second Earl of Battersea Woods who was studying at Mount Ester University. Such level of inexperience on the Silverhill estate, had meant that the process, even without starting, had spelled overwhelming weight on the college seniors.

Fortunately, the good thing was that the Palais Royale had long prepared for it all. It was the slightest bit of action Christine and Caspian, from the moment young Alexandre saw the light of the world, had prepared. Was it by the matter of surprise that the lovers were playmates from time to time, or happened to end up in the same private school as freshmen? I believe not.

The conversation continued, with their reminiscence of their late Earl's memories racing their hearts. Eventually, it came down to a tearing moment.

'Christine,' Christine said. 'My apologies for not being able to come to your father's funeral. I know Alexandre and Henri were able to comfort you and your mother back then, but it was beyond my control, a royal protocol, on whether I could attend his or not.' She made a couple of hand gestures, apologising herself for shedding a tear in the presence of her subject. 'But the fates were never wrong, and I wish that he's delighted you are here....'

Claire just nodded. 'I understand, your Majesty,' Claire responded, trying to hold back tears on her own front.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 2:56 am

Running Up That Hill

PART 13 (42) - With or Without You


Three days later, a couple of vacationers in our Asher and Eileen just walked along the beautiful beaches of Astello, San Ortelio, where they exactly stood where their Rushmori journey was going to end before the latter's summer tour. It was a fairly long train travel, coming all the way from Yzerberg Central station, though this had meant that they were able to avoid potential nightmares that would have come along with more than two layovers that they were to expect via flying the whole way.

Even then, they were now at a place for Staring into the pristine, spotless beaches of Astello, Asher and Eileen were finally at peace, as they felt the sand bind into their feet. They had made it through what was a likely failure of war commemoration tour, and even though they weren't going to ever return to the bizarre state that was the Pomeroian-era Sicoutimont, they were still able to make the best out of the challenges it provided. Of course, the couple realised the importance of what they took for granted...and their relationship may have strengthened in terms of the binding forces.

Still, a silence had to be broken just once more. 'Mr. Lundrigan?' Asher turned his head around, and looked at the source behind that voice. It was Giulia Canvelli, the local girl whom he knew via his aunt (uncle's wife, that is), whose sister married an Ortelian twenty-five years ago. Asher and Eileen were told to contact the Canvellis when Asher told his parents that they were travelling just bit longer to San Ortelio. Asher recognised that she looked somewhat similar to his aunty, whom he had last seen on his March Break vacation six years ago as a high school seior, and smiled back at her. 'Yes, you must be Giulia.'

'Welcome to Astello, San Ortelio,' Giulia responded, beaming away with a smile. 'Welcome back after six years away. How are you finding it here?'
'All good. All good.' was all he responded. 'Certainly far from over though. You never know with what future brings sometimes.'
'What do you mean?' she asked, not really understanding what Asher's implying.
'Oh, you'll see...San Ortelio has brought me many memories over here..'




Two and a Half Years Later... (January, 2048)

Stephane St-Amand sat quietly on his table and watched the night of partying unfold before his eyes, as the U20 hockey team centreman slowly observed the movements of the crowds. Even after all these years of illegally and legally travelling to nightclubs, the Royal Military College Cornwall student still felt the same exhilarating feeling that he held back in the days of continuous March Breaks in high schools, and drinking sessions sustained during his Junior A and freshman days as a hazing ritual.

It was a day before the Olympics started, and Stephane St-Amand was already going to be in for some trouble, especially given that it was his friend, the famous The Taegukgi journalist Asher Lundrigan, who had invited him for the occasion. Of course, it did require Asher to provide a nice compensation package for the team's coaches, but the coaching staff also knew it was going to be hard to keep his players of few major junior guys but mostly collegiate players at bay, so the quick nudges and winks were exchanged before Stephane was allowed to travel.

Certainly the one for good treats, Stephane thought to himself, as he slowly downed a bottle of Bourbon whiskey.

Located in Downtown Clayquot with all its comfort and security, this nightclub was filled to the brim with enthusiastic tourists and even some olympians of delegations both foreign and domestic. Stephane knew this was both good and bad- the potential presence of journalists outside, looking for scoops would be one of many reasons behind why- but after all the years of playing hockey he had become numb to the occasional doses of reality that would strike him when travelling abroad.

How depressing was it for Stephane, to only observe the crowd while not being able to indulge upon it so much! All because of simple fear that he, the team's star centre, would have to deal with potential ordeals in being a military member. Stephane knew he had no choice, especially given the orders placed by the RQOC regarding the members of Quebecois military represented in their delegation, and decided to just drink more and more.

Of course, it would only take little bit of time before the silence before the flashy gentleman, dressed in arguably the dazzling piece of suits that were only going to be outdone on Kirsche's Corner, ended the quiet doze of solitary drinking for the centreman. Asher Lundrigan, the name long familiar to all those in sports and arts journalism across the Multiverse, split his way from the crowd, as he slowly danced his way, his hips swinging back and forth, to approach his student from the old days.

His broad shoulders and lanky arms, heightened by the excitements in becoming an expectant father, were more than enough to suggest the good nature this man held towards everybody but his enemies. 'Bout time, Stephane chuckled as he watched Asher enter his way with a woman not his wife, before the boys greeted each other again with a simple grab of hands and then some fist bumps.

'Asher! Always on time and ready to cover for his friend!' Stephane chuckled, as he noticed Asher, the man of fifty occupations and fifty-thousand occupational hazards walking around on own, enter on his own. 'What brings you here?'
'Well, you see....I need you to meet someone.' Asher nodded, turning his head once to the left, before waving his right arm open in a matter of introduction. 'Hello, Giulia, this is my friend from years past, Stephane St-Amand. He plays hockey for the Grim Reapers, and is also at Royal Military College.'

'Hey, nice to meet you,' Giulia shyly smiled, trying not to show too much of her innocent self to the stranger. 'Giulia Canvelli.'

'And now, Stephane, this is Giulia Canvelli from San Ortelio,' Asher then wave his left arm to introduce the lady to the lad. 'She's a magical alpine skier from San Ortelio, whose mum, Tara MacDougall, is also married to my uncle, the Baron. I'm surprised you guys haven't met yet.'

'Likewise.' Stephane farcically reached forward to shake her hand, with alcohol in his system affecting much of his mobility. 'Hope you aren't feeling too nervous about it all, the olympics, the expectations and whatnot.'

'It's....something new.' the girl with the straw-coloured hair responded. 'When I was growing up in San Ortelio, it all seemed as if the snow and the skis, you could only imagine them if you travel abroad. So, even though I've been living in Tikariot for the past few winters, I'm still getting used to everything.'

'I could imagine so,' Stephane responded, before having a hiccup. Giulia laughed a couple of times right after, making him realise that he was with a stranger, but he couldn't help it. 'I've been playing hockey all my life, and travelled to plenty of countries- whether they be in Rushmore or Atlantian Oceania- but everything still feels new wherever it goes. Are you heading to Quebec for school later then?'

'drjgjgkkd university-' was what he heard from her. Of course, Stephane could not exactly hear it, mostly because of how loud the DJ played the music, but he didn't really care about it anyway. There was something with the Ortelian, in how her Ortelian facial features and complexion, as well as her Quebecois height and instinct were mixed, that he couldn't help but to be drawn into her. There was something delightful in the night, and the more they talked about their time travelling and spending hobbies, they knew they were both going to return to her lodgings later...

The tale of Giulia and Stephane will continue on Season 6 of TWGS....stay tuned!
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:01 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:03 am

I Run To You

PART 1 (43) - Chhote Chhote Peg


Of course, dear reader, it is expected that Asher would make such a mistake when he reached Quebec City at six in the evening.

It was a typical, cold, breezing late Maytime evening, with light layers of snow on the ground. Asher initially headed to his house, where he got changed to a much nicer pair of suits in anticipation of grabbing last-minute dinner with his parents in Muryong District. But we the readers know too well on how impulsive his decisions can be in the spur of moment, and the more he thought about his schedules, the more he was realising that the possibility of troubles he would be having with his parents, should tonight’s rendez-vous with the Jeruselemite ‘prince’ be mentioned at the table.

Heading there is a likely imperative, thought Asher as he slowly burnt a cigarette on the terrace of his Quartier-Calanien apartment. Even with light snow on the ground, the time of year provided the Capitoliens with enough light to enjoy the views of their intermediate vicinity. Asher remembered how the boulevards of Quebec City, product of the modernisation that had taken place in the mid-1800s under Queen Arlene, were immortalised in the public, not just by the walkways but also the views the Capitolien descendants of the Industrial Age were able to savour in their own measure of life. There was a passage that he first read from the reading section of the Quebecois Baccalaureat’s International History exam his junior year:

”In the Age of Empires, between the latest of trends and the most innovative of inventions, the arcades had brought the night into day, and the day into night, in their sheer presence. Our fathers and grandfathers would remember how their age had begun, with the pomp and circumstance expected from such celebrations of modernity, whose taste the ordinary people had increasingly become exposed to, and how alien they were. The crowds broke out of opera houses, hot and dehydrated, into the hybridised Hanoks and the latest stores made out of sandstones, smelling the fumes coming out of chimneys and the roses right above them on terraces…”

Lucien-Robert Kwak, The Days of Earliest Promenades in the Capitol (1929) -


By the time he had finished his cup of cappuccino and took the cab, it was dark enough for him to see the streets all light up. It seemed more like the festival of fireflies and Bogong moths than the city landscape, if anything. On his way, Asher remembered that Marco Hertel, who was last heard pre-ing at two in the afternoon, would be most likely heading his way to the l’Alliance nightclub, where he had already booked a spot for his distinguished guests.

“It’s inevitable.” Asher quietly mumbled, as he looked at the window. The taxi driver, a Huayramarcan of his forties, wasn’t listening, casually listening to the music blasted over the radio. In that Asher couldn’t help but to feel delighted in that a man was too busy with his own lives to give slightest darn about the stranger beyond what’s necessary.

Make it quick, as you promised to me earlier.

But Asher also was reminded of the promise that Eileen (Plongeon) had made to him earlier in the day, to not fall into traps no different to Drosera Rotundifolia. But then, as we would expect to mortals whose policy revolves around the phrase ‘Piensa con la de abajo’, he decided to enjoy a high once again to forget his realities with his comrades of days gone past. In a poor matter of judgment, he came with the specific rationale that his promise to Eileen would not be binding because the promise was made months before in account. “It is seeing an old friend, so nothing surprising, just like you going home for a week every other month,” said he earlier in the day, as they rested at a largely deserted beach in Jookrimpo, a resort town where the couple was resting. This was the symptom of their relationship, where one was a sporting journalist who thrives with notorious columns on papers and hours spent on socialisation, and other the high-flying musician who is used to travelling unnoticed on the Metro, buying occasional fast food sandwiches and glimpses at vintage stores. No matter how happy the couple may be in general, it only made sense that Asher often looked to find ways to indulge upon such matters and beyond.

It was eight in the evening when Asher took off to l’Alliance nightclub in Downtown Quebec City. Upon seeing the nightclub barracks that looked similar to the Great Walls of China, Asher went around and entered via the backdoor. The backdoor corridor was completely empty- the expected guests with backstage pass were either not going to come until tomorrow (it’s wednesday), or later tonight at around eleven or midnight.

Asher slowly walked without thinking too much, meticulously clutching his heart and thoughts, and he walked all the way until he reached the end of the hallway, where the bodyguard stood in front of the steel door.

“Password please.” The security guard, in his fifties, asked the enquirer.

“Blue Fun Fest!” shouted Asher. The guard nodded, and to Asher’s delight the door was open, ready for him to immerse into the night.




Finally reaching the Executive Suite of the l’Alliance nightclub, in which there were a penthouse reserved specifically for the Distinguished Guest of the Night, Asher climbed the stairs, turned to the left and then went inside.

All Asher could say about the sight was that it was familiar to him. The pres were over an hour ago, but the guests were far from being predisposed and the bedsheets were still not covering their bodies. Dozens of empty bottles, from the finest of youth-giving Juven wine and miraculous Ming Star Soju reaching their apex of fifteen and fifty percents, were lying around every table and coffee table. The cloaks, first of things to be taken off as a matter of ritual, were neatly placed in the coat hangers, while the shoes were already sold on online auction by a nearby voyeur. The food crumbs, far and distant from the ants crawling underground, were spread everywhere- on the floor, on the bed and on their bodies.

While the sight alone was predictable, so were his expectations to it. There were about a dozen of them, semi-clothed or naked, and they were doing their own thing- drinking, frolicking, xenapchatting, etc. The sounds of laughter, joy, moans and shoutings calling for their parent seemed to suggest the sense of familiarity to Asher, the good ole Ridler Club boy with Byronian aesthetics (OOC: Ridler Club is the Quebecois equivalent of Bullingdon Club).

In such space even an exception would be just agreed upon as a matter of protocol, as from some distance came some ‘oooh’s’ and ‘aaaaah’s’ of the familiar voices, and the growlings of a creature that shouldn’t be there, and the excitement. As you could imagine, two lads, by the name of Deondre Rhine and Tyson Long, were sitting on the back of a young purple dragon, while Amadou Secka, the legendary Banijan international basketballer and the latest Jookrimpo resident and homeowner, was pulling the dragon with a thick chain and trying to set him loose as the others giggled without much notice.

“Ho….Hey……Ho…..Hey,” giggled the Llamaean outfielder, a single father of two, watching the ‘Spin-o-rama’ bump back and forth with every step of the way.

“I’m in love with you, you in love with me, you my sweet….heart!” shouted inebriated Sebastien Petit, the latest signing of the CSKA Quebec who came to the capitol for a week of partying before hitting the Complex.

“Oh shut up, you two!” shouted Aaron Milić, the Zeta Rekan player with PLI Islanders who is busy embracing his secret lover, fellow countrymen by the name of Radek Hrubek at Winnipeg United. The young lovers, who found hope in a hopeless place, were truly the calm ones to sail these shores of fluids tonight.

“You children shut up!” shouted Secka. Among all twelve members of the Best XI and their manager, the thirty-eight year old was by matter of age placed into the role of manager. “We are going 4-4-2 if you guys are gonna behave like this!”

“Home...home...” cried Garthapis Koulouris, somewhere in the curtained-off section. The Twicetagrien, the latest addition to this international WhatsUp Group, was rumoured to be Marco Hertel’s latest lover. Poor kid, Asher sighed, knowing that Marco’s fate was never to marry, unlike that of his father Xavier, as he heard the remainder of the phrase. “Home is wherever I’m with you.”

“Asher, is this my Asher?” jumped the host, the tall, handsome, muscular gentleman who stood as the clear Alpha Wolf of the international sportspeople’s circles, with his dress shirt all unbuttoned and his jeans tightly put on. This was Marco Hertel, the son of Quebecois international and CD FAS legend Xavier Hertel and Princess Anna of Jeruselem, the notorious gambler, womaniser, and of course the heart of Servette FC in Metropolis, Valladares. “My boy, my boy, my boy….mesdames et messieurs…..Asher Chania Lundrigan!” cried he, looking at Asher as he jumped fifty-metres forward to give his dear friend a bear hug. “Come here!”

On the back of another dragon the blonde, muscular man raised his voice, his countertenor voice particularly evident among all the relaxed music of the vocal cords, cried forward: “Giddyup! The boys! Tonight shall be our day and Carpe Diem!” And that was Deondre Rhine, widely regarded as the best quarterback to have come out of a Ranorian college in ten years (sorry Garrett fans), a notorious gambler and dancer, who was training with his idol, Dexter Ahn of the Quebec Voyageurs. Asher chuckled, once again impressed with the sheer name value his college friend placed to the table again.

“Seems like we’re back on this again, my friend,” said Asher, laughing at the Birthday Boy tape draped over Marco's body and the crown over his head. “You’re never going to disappoint, don’t you?”

“Shush! You aren’t drunk yet! Here’s a bottle!” said Marco, and picking up the two-litre bottle of marijuana-infused Soju (with 40% alcohol percentage) that some college kids would drink when preing in their provincial college towns, he went and handed it to him with two hands.
“I may be the one on hometown visit, but you shall be the one drinking!” Marco shouted, before hopping on the dragon’s back.

Then like that he was back to his old self, as Asher drank one bottle after another, thinking about the crucial mistakes he had made earlier in life, either closing his eyes or trying not to look too much at his comrades, who had started to put on their blue paint and white hats to mark the symbolism of the night. He was somewhat listening to their chatter and while much were utter gibberish or onomatopoeia blessed to us by the music of the night by the DJ outside their executive suite, he still found them amusing enough because they came without any epiphany he would hear from the angel, the muse of his life, the light of his soul….

Marco and Amadou kept going outside and coming back to feed the boys, refilling the table with fried bustards readily provided from the stall in middle of the main dance floor at the first floor, while chatting about possible contingency plans and the joy and the curse of being a parent.

“Keep drinking, keep drinking,” said Amadou, winking at Asher with a row of Tequila shots lined up right in front of them. “Latecomer gotta pay for it!”

“No, I can’t,” said Asher, his conscience quickly reminding him of his limits. “Eileen...She is waiting for me.” Pushing Amadou aside, he slowly swayed back and forth like a fig, before dropping to the ground.
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Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:03 am

I Run To You

PART 2 (44) - Beans and Lean


The next thing Asher remembered was….saliva. He knew it wasn’t water because of how slimy it was, and he also knew it wasn’t energy drink by the smell of it. It felt like, well, saliva. Asher was getting licked at by a gigantic creature that he could not identify while his eyes were closed. That alone it was evident enough to our poor protagonist anyway. Asher wasn’t sure how to react, as he decided to lie low, pretend to be dead, and hope that this thing would get away from it. He just hoped that the bear would go away.

The next thing he remembered, however, would have him realise that something’s wrong, and it’s not just the presence of this mysterious bear.

“You there, who are you?” Sebastien Petit asked in his highly accented English, as he noticed the bear licking his colleague. Standing beside him was Amadou Secka, who took over for the celebrations while Marco Hertel was busy into his labour of babymaking with the young Twicetagrien. Secka noticed who that stranger was, but didn’t say anything, for he was too busy noticing Asher in his drunken form and was wondering what to do with the young’un wet with bear saliva.

“Um….is this l’Alliance nightclub right? With Marco Hertel as the Man of the Night?” The stranger asked, the vagueness of his words adding further confusion to the partiers.

“Yes, but you aren’t one of the guests I believe not...” Ryan Keating responded, the (in-)famous Delaclav footballer unable to comprehend how in the world the security at this nightclub got breached so easily. A longtime guest to nightclubs, he knew very much about the importance of the club. “But you will be the one on top tonight...you aren’t running away.”

“No, no, no. Not yet.” responded Gregory Reynolds-Walusimbi, the Grim Reapers and Kingston Blue Jays’ starting shortstop, him winking at Ryan twice with particular enthusiasm and heightened sense of readiness. “But I feel like we could beat a stranger up, and welcome! It’s time for us to fuck his bear!”

Sooner than later they seized the stranger by his arms, but he was so slippery from the days of exposure to his friend’s bear that anybody who tried to touch him was regretting the very next moment.

“No, that’s not how you do it,” said Asher, slowly lifting himself up as he caught some breath. Not surprised one bit at him becoming part of this situation, he decided may as well add some personal contribution, a first to the matter. “We are gonna do experiments with that bear! SPYRO WILL FUCK THAT BEAR and we’ll laugh our way into the night! You heard me?”
“Alright, I guess,” said Ryan. “Let’s go boys! Achtung!”
And then the boys caught the bear, tranquilised the QFL kicker, lifted the bear and then brought it to the purple, brooding dragon on the other side of their executive chamber.



Ten minutes later…

“Alright, so what exactly brought you here?” Asher paused, still drying his hair with towel after coming out of shower booth. “I mean I know who you are, because you are Rodrigue Yao-Shcherbatsky, the famous Argos kicker! I see that you weren’t added to the WhatsUp app and I doubt Marco invited you to the party anyway...so how did you find your ways into the nightclub….not that they let the guests in with their animals.” Asher raised his eyebrows, while trying his best to connect the dots, and hoped that his crew did not make a critical mistake by beating up the professional gridiron placekicker.

Since the arrival of the placekicker, the pace and the mood of the orgy had turned entirely different from what the partygoers had originally imagined. After beating Rodrigue up like a merciless brute’s bullying of the neighbourhood kids in the old schoolyard, they had decided to take all forms of pleasures with the grizzly bear. Long influenced by their drunken stupor and excessive enthusiasm in bodies touching, their desire to recreate an unit from secondary school biology class outweighed the basic moral decency expected of a human being.

Of course, some of them knew of what kind of legal troubles this would cause, while others also knew professional repercussions this would cause. There had been several words going around the RQFA circles, for example, about their disappointments with Marco Hertel’s incessant behaviour both on- and off-turf. Of course, not much is expected to be done with it until after the end of the World Cup in Drawkland and Newmanistan, given Marco’s importance to the Grim Reapers. Still, it is just as silly to prolong the inevitable just because you wanted to recreate your boyhood fantasies, and that was the risk they were running under.

“So, I know everybody else is busy with a bear and a dragon mating on the corner, but I came to warn you guys.” Rodrigue said in utter calmness, peeking twice as he heard moans on one ear and the growls on the other ear. It was clear from the sounds of mating calls by the deprived creatures of the night that the world of us, however prosperous and peaceful, stood bits of its soul shattered and broken off. Rodrigue noticed that, and so did Asher.

In curiosity, Asher asked the very reason behind such a word. “What would be such a warning?” The possible warning may have come at the best time possible since he had arrived here. Of course, this did not absolve Asher of sin nor guilt, and he knew that too well. Still, Asher decided that the timing could not have been perfect if he wanted to get out before it’s too late, and Eileen would start asking questions.

“So, we need to get out before the police, and all I’m saying is that six-nine dead.” Rodrigue said, emphasising pronunciation in the dead part of the last three words.

“Soixante-neuf died? How? That rapper rarely frequents Quebec City unless really necessary, and he shouldn’t be travelling anyway, especially if he doesn’t want the Huayramarcan-, oh.” Then Asher, having realised what may have happened, dropped his jaw. He could imply what may have happened, especially after the release of 6oixan9euf’s latest EP that had songs advocating for mass violence against 400-thousand something Huayramarcans living in Quebec. Of course, something had to happen elsewhere in the city and we better run now. Asher thought to himself.

“Yes, and the police will soon be coming to all the nearby nightclubs to look for possible eyewitnesses, suspects, et cetera, now that the body’s turned into charcoals and Marijuana squirrel also severely hospitalised.” Rodrigue solemnly nodded. Asher and Rodrigue knew that they had to evacuate the crew before it’s too late, and they had to think quickly for possible evacuation options. Some would have to go to Amadou’s mansion in Jookrimpo, while others would have better luck Marco Hertel’s Playtoy Mansion.

It was then that Asher asked for specific details. "What exactly happened there though? Quite impressive of you to bring 6oixan9euf's live bear to here instead of calling ambulance." Asher asked.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:05 am

I Run To You

PART 3 (45) - Burn


The Hellhound quietly wiped the sweat off handkerchief, as he watched the orgygoers leave.

Rodrigue Yao-Shcherbatsky, his friend from college days, was still around with the bear, and they were feeling a genuine sense of bond with each other. The Hellhound, his actual name Herman Rogers Garcia, stood and watched them having a good time with each other in their executive suite at the Chambon Nightclub with dim lights and without his boss's lover, a Quebecois singer notorious for her 'love towards fans' named Marijuana Grande, who left for some refreshments in the basement.

'Rodrigue, have a walk around the club. May be the right time for you to entertain some tourists while the boys sell coke in the basement.' The Hellhound said to his friend, signalling that it is time for the Kingston Argonauts placekicker, whose unfortunate association with the Caraqueno gangs of both Winnipeg and Montreal had left him with increased scrutiny by the media. He deserves better, he thought to himself, while watching Rodrigue nod and walk out of the room with the bear.

Now they were alone, and it was evident from the sounds of it alone that something big’s going to happen.

The Hellhound was worried that one of the two would die. In recent weeks Takeshi had become particularly violent, having emerged in the very height of his deprivation from his well-highlighted love affair, and it was evident by some of the incoherent sentences his boss was saying while intoxicated from every form of alcohol and drugs he had indulged since five in the evening. Yet somehow the Hellhound, even after a decade of service under the very same individual, was spared from constant violence that had come to other bodyguards who had quit rather quickly. His trust must be so paramount that perhaps it could be his fatal flaw, oh the irony, The Hellhound thought to himself, as he watched his boss placing his cellphone at a nearby table. 'So what is it that you wanna talk to me about, dear Herman?' 6oixan9euf, his actual name Takeshi Yim Arrado, asked his favourite bodyguard. 'You know, they don't call you the Hellhound for nothing, and you are never wrong...'

And it was then that the Eternal Weaver of Dreams declared that the sixteen years of gang violence and six weeks of heightened tensions, spanning across the nation from California City to Goose Bay, were going to end or explode, tonight. The Hellhound quietly watched and advised, unaware of what the rapper had in mind inside his head. 'You see, the sooner we retreat from the city the better it would look for us.' He advised, as 6oixan9euf continued to touch his charity chest with some rowing and stroking motions explicitly drawn. 'It is not wise to set a collective riot, a potential pogrom, especially when you are viewed as community leader, the man among men, on our industry!'

'I don't think you understand, dear Herman.' 6oixan9euf quietly raised his high-pitched voice. The Hellhound remained still, trying not to make much out of the line. Still, deep inside he could feel what was coming up, and those always shuddered him even after all the years of being a security guard. This shouldn't be happening, and I won't let it happen. Fortunately that squirrel girlfriend of his is tranquilised, wounded somewhere on the other side of the city...

'It is by our right to seize the rights of our streets, and kick the Serranos back to where they have come from...' was what he said. Fortunately, that was all that's needed to be said. Of course 6oixan9euf was going to say more, but the Montrealer had no time to continue as he felt the Charity Chest tighten up and groaned mightily so. "Your cock is mine now!" shouted the Hellhound, as he pistol thwacked the sorry chap on his head twice, knocking the rapper back to the ground.

6oixan9euf, in disbelief that his bodyguard would dare betray him on this, was left in clear disbelief. 'You...Herman my homie...what is this? This isn't a fight we need to fight for...or is it?' he shouted, not really being able to move due to how the chest, successfully hacked by the regiment of specialists seving the Huayramarcans on the south shore of the Fleuve (roughly around industrial heartlands of Levis and its outskirts), gradually tightened the internet-connected chastity cage. The bodyguard watched him tremble back and forth, and shot a couple of rounds of bullets at his legs, effectively demobilising 6oixan9euf. He then watched for few seconds, before picking him up with his right arm.

The Hellhound quietly chuckled at the pedophile with looks of no more than pathetic and no less than pity. 'Sorry, but the night's off.' Hellhound laughed like a madman, almost as if he had become another variation of Takeshi, before taking his mask off and spat twice at him. 'Yours is done. The mobs killed my wife while she was walking home, leaving my daughter without a mother, and this is all you have to ask for?' Then he slapped the rapper twice. 'Your lover won't get that, I am better than that. But she's going to remember tonight.'

‘No….no….no……!’ The coward screamed, not being able to move much even as he struggled to break free.

'Enough with you.' Hellhound throttled him once more with a chuckle, as 6oixan9euf twisted back and forth before realising that it was late. 'C'est fini, Takeshi.'

'No...no...no....the llamas, the fuckers, the llamafuckers!' 6oixan9euf attempted to escape but he was kicked on his ankles and dropped backwards. Hellhound charged and punched him twice, knocking him out upon sight. There was no more fight after that. Knocked unconscious, his teeth knocked out and his legs shot with multiple bullets, what followed was the pouring of the gasoline. Hellhound acted without much thought as he quickly put his plan into action. For a sec he thought of his wife Cecily, who was murdered by the Caraquenos in an accidental fire. Nothing could bring her back, but we all know that, he thought to himself.

Of course, 6oixan9euf could think about nothing- the pain of the Chastity Chest constricting the movement of his lower torso and reproductive organs was just one element of pain he had to go through. Besides, there would be no need for 6oixan9euf to think any further- when the police found out about the unconscious Marijuana Grande, his whole body was on fire. The news were out, and it's that the harbinger of hatred, with his notorious history of criminal offences so disgusting that even the Lord would not permit a stable trial for the guilty party, was left as no more than pieces of charcoal after the bonfire of flamethrowers in the middle of a purple rain.




They say that the hardest part of an orgy is being able to safely get out of it. Right route, right clothes, and right smell. Those were what that mattered. Also in the case of our silly Asher, the escape spot.

Asher stared into the windows of the taxi for solid ten minutes thinking about what he may have happened, and what's next for him. The death of a notorious Caraqueno-Quebecois rapper, whose criminality had long extended past the musicality of his lyrics and aesthetics of his dreads and street clothes. The death, a deserving price for attempting to bring forth xenophobic insurrections against another significant ethnic minority group in this country, was inevitable. But the night of unrestricted fun, however guilty-filled and whatnot, were over- and Asher knew he was going to pay once the taxi arrived at their hotel in Jookrimpo. A snoring Rodrigue Yao-Shcherbatsky and awkwardly awake Marcel Bottcher reminded him that he had some explanations to do.

Of course, they won't be coming to the bird's nest, where my dove rests.Asher determined to himself. He was being harsh to himself because in his deepest sense, he was unable to believe that the crew were going to find themselves recongregating by the matter of dodging legal justice. It wasn't helped by the complicated nature of Marco Hertel's Playtoy Mansion, where its central location in the heart of Quebec City's Jaures District. If the reporters were as nifty or aware as him, and had spent enough time on nightclubs, they would be heading to the source of the contagion, and the news would sooner than later spread over to the other quadrants of the Multiverse.

"The latest news breaks out, as Montreal rapper and recent convict 6oixan9euf is found dead in middle of a Quebecois nightclub. For those who just tuned in with us at TV1 tonight, welcome as we are live at the site of fire...as you can see from five hundred metres away there is....*hears the explosion*

The taxi driver, who looked no different than the Huayramarcan in the evening, switched the radio to a country FM station. Asher quietly stared into the void, and prayed to the divine being. May he the highest above forgive me...and atone me... he quietly prayed, as he closed his eyes.

Not only was he failing the expectations held of a loyal partner, but he knew what he had planned all along was now not going to happen. Only two years into their second stint at relationships, the Lundrigans and the Lauzons already expected the two to get married and settle down, where Asher, someone who could afford to work from home, would be the one supporting her by the side.

He could imagine what the fate was supposed to write on his journals- it would first start with a life in Coxwell Park with her, waking up every morning to the pastoral settings of the southwestern Acadien countryside, then progressing to the expectations. In few years, he would be walking their future children to kindergarten and perhaps write novels in the hopes that they, one day, would read and talk with their school teachers about it....the idea of such life was the one that he was betraying not only himself, but her and their beloved ones from, and the possible spreading of news would be the go-to way for it.

His head spinning all over, Asher placed his head by the window, as he asked the cab driver. 'Have you ever been in love, monsieur?'

'Of course I did.' said the middle-aged man, trying to cheer up his passenger with some glee. 'It's a beautiful feeling. Are you feeling that right now?'

'Comme...'

'La chaleur. The warmth. Not sure if you do right now given the stupor, but we all do at some point in our lives.'

'I guess I do, just not right now.' said Asher, his gaze slowly loosening. 'As you could see from our sorry selves, I have committed to the very opposite and hope for the best...'

'Sometimes, you gotta ask for forgiveness.' Responded the taxi driver, his windscreen wipers madly going back and forth. 'We all make mistakes in life and deserve second chances, so to put forth. That's what the God has always advocated for, if you read more of the New Testament, you see...'

Then the rest of the two hour cab ride to Jookrimpo went along quietly.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:07 am

I Run To You

PART 4 (46) - Green Light


Every happy couples are happy for a good reason; every unhappy couples are unhappy for far too many reasons.

A living nightmare was unfolding at Asher and Eileen's suite in The Morehouse Hotel. Eileen had found out that Asher had unintentionally, but definitely fallen into the temptations offered by his friend Marco Hertel, whom she had long heard of his infamies but had never met, and she was going to face him with grim that clearly indicated how hurt she was.

Eileen de Ramaut, in a sweater, and with her washed hair flowing all the way down her shoulders and below, and with her piercing look of disappointment, was playing the grand piano placed in the living room, watching the views of the mighty Fleuve, from which she was reflecting over the songs on her latest album.

Hearing Asher's steps after the door opened, she kept playing the piano, trying not to make much out of it, and did her best to save herself from breaking down. Eileen felt she was afraid of either side breaking down, and was afraid of what she would have to say to him. She was attempting to block what she had heard from the television over past six hours- to pretend that Asher wasn't anywhere near, and that all was well.

Sure all went well- the text conversations between them were more than enough to suggest that he was more than fine, and that our poor boy was going to be fine. Only except that she did know of what was going out there, and all the guitar strumming and piano key tugging were no more than her attempt to ignore the reality behind their relationship. Only two weeks into their six-month sojourn in Jookrimpo, she could not bring herself to do this; but she really held the determination this time as she said to herself, 'He won't get away from this. How could he dare do this to me..' to confront him with what exactly happened, put him to shame, and then place the question marks before themselves again because of the sufferings Asher had once again caused on her. If Eileen de Ramaut were determined enough Asher's sorry ass would be booted from the suite and they would be breaking apart the moment he were to open his mouth, but unfortunately Eileen did not have the heart to do so because both sides still regarded each other as the won-ahng, the symbolic bird of cheonsaeng-yeonboon, and loved each other.

Besides this, Eileen also knew well that Asher's problem definitely went beyond the time they got back together, and that a breakup won't necessarily improve their situation. Having grown up with five siblings, she knew well about people's mindset without them having to tell her- there was something wrong with Asher since they had gotten back together two years ago, and while she wasn't sure on what had turned him into a different shade of man since their breakup seven years ago, this was something that would improve by celibacy. Thus, Eileen was aware that no status change would occur.

Hearing Asher approach towards her, Eileen stopped playing the piano, and only turned around when she was ready to look at him. Her face, the normal product of radiant happiness, gave off absolute suffering, betraying and bewilderment that only those who had been through such situations in their normal lives would understand.

'Oh no..oh no...oh no...I'm so sorry, Eileen!' Asher said in an exhausted, timid voice. He bent his head, trying not to look at her face that he had no privilege to look after a night of shame, and did his best to look as pitiful as possible. But the poor woman knew very much, from the smell of marijuana and alcohol, that his partner had perhaps indulged too much with it, and that even without the absolutely horrible possibility of mixing flesh with somebody else, that was going to require a lot of explanations. But she did want to hear about that? I don't know about that, chief.

Is he truly sorry or happy about doing this? Eileen thought, as he took a look at him once, twice and thrice. I love him for his good nature- for all the goodwill and honesty- and hate him for falling too closely to his pit of honesty. She bit her lips twice, a sole tear formed out of her left eye, and her hands twitching multiple times.

'Why are you here?' Eileen asked, her body quivering and shivering all over, as she struggled to control her voice that was behaving unnaturally. 'You're supposed to be with your friends, your boys, your gangs in the blue...'

'Eileen, it's not what you intended...' he shouted in desperation, hoping that she did not get the wrong idea for what had exactly happened. Of course, us the readers know that he did not commit to mixing flesh with those not named Eileen de Ramaut, for he was a faithful boyfriend in that kind. Unfortunately, the association alone he knew had made the twenty-five year guilty, and there would be no exception for that. 'I wasn't at the nightclub on the news...'

'Does that matter? You came back to me after you hurt me the first time, and this is how you lie to me?' She shouted back, demanding immediate answers.

'No, no, no...that's not what happened...'

'Go away! I don't want to see you!' She shouted, pushing him away from her, as if the pain were directly mauling her as if a physical being, before heading back to their bedroom.

Asher Lundrigan wished he were able to think of anything better, for he was a magician with words, who could very much kill or save a life with what he would write and advise to people, and served the people as asked on The Taegukgi or Landslide International. But there was a limit to the impersonal elements behind the words he would state, and when he saw her suffering from the sheer act he had committed, and how her beautiful features were affected, he couldn't have helped but to look back into the very freshman self of his and stare in the face of despair. As he left the room with a bag of overnight clothes, the very minimum needed for the night, his eyes were filled with tears.

'What have I done? Why am I like this again? Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned-' and he couldn't go on, for his throat was jammed with chockfull of emotions.




About an hour after his ejection from the couple's suite, Asher *Chania* Lundrigan, as he specifically mentioned in the Vdaran Student Society, was lying in a guest bedroom of Amadou Secka's maganimous dacha. The clock striking at five-fifty and with sun starting to peek at the still-awake, he rolled around a couple of times on the bed while naked, before finally lying on his back against a comfortable bed in this room. Feeling as if a gigantic bullet has left a hole at the very centre of his being, Asher felt the hollowing winds breeze past him and closed his eyes.

There's nowhere else to hide, if I have to be honest. Asher thought, thinking about what had just happened since the moment he left the nightclub. I knew this was going to happen, the moment I pretended to be strong for those I love...they expect me everything and yes. It's like everybody ask me how I am doing, but I don't really have a lot of answers to give them. Past and present merge where we stand, like Inferno by that philosophe father had mentioned on the other side of the portal (author's note: It's Dante, duh)...and I live in the circles. One moment I lose control, I hurt her like that. Almost as if those decanters at the restaurant tables were us... he thought to himself.

Then, like that, he caught himself trapped into his past, the memories of his senior year of high school. 'No...the gaol...down and deep..the caverns held...the nights of darkness, and how the wolves howled and us chained against the wall...the night is perpetual and eternal on the cells there...' And hearing the sound of his colleagues drinking, playing cards and wearing clothes as a matter of punishment for a game of naked poker, he tried his best to cover his body and twitched back and forth and compared his weakness to that of a little child who was left out in the cold for Christmas. And then, as he used to do back when he was a catcher for both Erskine and St. Croix championship teams, he raised his hands to the sky and pretended to throw a ball as high as possible.

It was then that Asher realised he was the odd one among the six who had escaped to Amadou Secka's mansion from 'the orgy', and felt no comfort from it. He really was a lucky one after all. But then, who are we talking about? Like the initial thoughts of a famous sportsman Gianmarco Del Prete of San Ortelio, Asher always was enamoured into a romantic thought with her, but he was also aware that the promise of happiness would have been an unsuitable one for the man with smurf orgies on one roll of honour and the list of other miscellaneous sins on the other.

Somebody's gonna leave tomorrow, but this time she's pushing me away. With me as the guilty party again..he slurred, trying not to think back to what he had caused her the first time and would dread for its possible return. And again every bit of his mistakes, whether as eighteen or twenty-five year old he had made, would sap his energy away from the corps d'esprit as he accepted the guilt once again, for the five-hundred and fifty-eighth time.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:09 am

OOC: Thank you to many people who had enabled the creation of a very emotionally consuming chapter. Special thanks to Zeta Reka and Hügeltaldom for allowing me to have Asher and Janet participate in YourNewWorld and Fuwa.

I Run To You

PART 5 (47) - Surrender-I


While a history student playing catcher at St. Croix, Asher Chania Lundrigan became very aware of his abilities. Thanks to his gift with words, he was almost always at the top of his class back in high school, but their breakup and heightened expectations back in Quebec City had left him in a state no less than that of a degenerate and no more than that of a disgrace, and therefore he did not finish any higher than upper-second in his class.

But in spite of his material degeneracy, sexual indulgence, and ways with the public, Asher Lundrigan's status had meant that he was left alone in middle of an expensive cafe in Walden District of Montreal. This cafe he had long been familiar through its proximity with Eileen's flat, and their memories spending occasional weekends together in the nation's largest city as teenagers continued to sprinkle his twenty-five year self. But even if Asher had not learned about this place, then somebody else in the industry or high school friends- whether they be working in the commercial blocks of Songdo Boulevard or Strathcona Avenue, the West End's bright lights or even his friends in professional sports- would have told him about this space. Due to the nature of his work, whether with Landslide where he has spent increasingly less time, or The Taegukgi and the Concord Heights Times, Asher Lundrigan would have spent more time here.

In the manners only rivalled by Stiva Oblonsky from Anna Karenina, it is true that every other members of Montrealais and Capitolien high society were either related to or friends with Asher. Of course, the privilege he held were the product of his background, but also the product of what had happened since the breakup. For example, one half of those he had befriended in the Ministry of Sport, the Royal Quebecois Football Association or either Koreana or CSKA sport societies were the men and women he had known all the way back when he was a wee summer intern with Landslide, Bleu et Blanc's star catcher, or continuing his journalist path post-graduation. Those were the people who, while coming from different backgrounds, were also able to help him in an unilateral fashion when the moments of crises struck in the age of early adulthood, like that time when he had decided to forgo a chance at what looked to be promising professional career after a major injury, and when he had needed early scoops or even possible interviewees.

Then the other half were his chums, or the children of his father, mother or uncles' chums from their St. Croix days (uncle Andreas aside, but he too had connections, just on the other side of country), and they, being familiar with the ways of a Ridler Club boy whose talents had long allowed him to get away with almost every earthly sin out there, knew to do best by offering him blessings, both material and immaterial, in forms of plane tickets, concert billets, rents, and possible real estate offerings.

It was by the virtue of such gifts, not necessarily common of a cousin of a baron with family history towards the Parti Justice, that enabled our protagonist to keep his hostilities at bay and rather contained. It is in this that Asher took particular solace and joy in not pursuing excessive pursuits like politics or other forms (if we remember correctly from the first series, the Lundrigans are traditionally known for their presence in the Naval folklore). He was content in being left alone, only being asked to take over when needed, and rather being behind the scenes in order to get what the men of his age and stature would have been interested in terms of stability.

While an athlete, Asher, not being known for particular physical attraction, was liked more for his incredible honesty, faith in people, and virtuosity. His good nature, from the highs to lows, had indicated some form of promise that he rarely betrayed, and determination in his eyes had meant something too. 'Ashley-Asher-Ash,' as he was called by his friends, were almost always praised for his gentlemanlike conduct. If anything, even though he had always made sure to tell every lover or a hookup partner that permanence did not exist in his words during his five years of degeneracy, the magic would repeat over and over again to the point where not one person would speak badly of him as a person (his conduct, marked by a long list of five dozen men and women he had slept with in four years of Odeon's laurel-covered walls, is another story though).

But the matter of going back to the usual way of life, with the couple somewhat awkwardly back in Eileen's Montreal flat for the summer months per their arrangement, was another story. The news of the big blue fun fest that night, after his seemingly-perfect success not making any mistake with her on surface, had lost Asher respect several in the industry held with him, and one of them happened to be the woman she was going to chat with. The principal qualities Asher held as a music journalist (his sports journalist side is a different story, of course) were his understanding of the unpredictable schedules, nonexistent timelines until the very last week of a movable deadline, and his ability to hide the inherent sense of elitism that while he knew he held it too often, he chose that not to affect his work. Music, after all, was where his bones weren't going to be buried, and he didn't want to cause trouble for something minor either.

On reaching a deserted second floor of the cafe Asher, wearing a backpack filled with feuilles de papier he had to write down after a nighttime period of writing, was shaking a bit as he walked towards a quiet corner with a couple of stalls. How do I explain this? Asher asked himself, heading to a tall, lanky woman with long hair who, even on her sixties, was very much at the very apex of her health. She nodded, as he quietly made a gesture of bowing twice at her in a measure of respect. His face, while normally the one of good nature, quickly turned into that of horror when he recognised the sheer presence of Janet Mullen-Baker, Eileen's manager, for the five-hundred and fifty-ninth time.

'Thank you, as always, Janet.' he said with gentle deference in his voice, as he attempted his best not to be intimidated by Janet's gaze. 'It brings me delight that you've come to the cafe as asked, and I needed your help.'




'So what are you going to do about the ring?’ asked Janet, who was bothered enough with the issues regarding the acquisition of a local studio in Carnstone, Delaclava, and decided to place greater importance to the holy matrimony. ‘You know that’s all said and done, you’ve blown it.’

‘I really don’t know.’ responded Asher in a single breath, feeling uncertain about it all.

‘Really, is that all you have to say? After all this time?’ Janet asked, raising her voice. ‘You know Eileen was waiting, for you, to make the right call, and the whole Battersea Woods have heard about it through a family member or a friend. What will you say to them after your attendance in Marco Hertel’s fest? That you slept with other men and women while she was waiting for you?’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not exactly what’s happened,’ answered Asher to the most genuine of his voice. While he wasn’t sure if that was going to convince the longtime veteran of forty years in music management, he knew he still had to. Else the doors would lock again- it was a well known part that Asher wasn’t really welcomed even at her concerts or recording sessions, simply because he, without notice and much rationale, told her that she deserves someone better. ‘I was tricked...he told me that the boys’ night out will be different, especially with latest signings by the CSKA, the old army boys’ clubs...but that’s not what happened.’

‘Pathetic excuse!’ shouted Janet, pushing away an empty mini-bottle of Sherry that she had already drunk half an hour before Asher’s arrival. The bottle, spinning twice on counterclock twirls, rolled before dropping to the ground, shattering within a second of its impact. ‘Disappointing, horrendous and unacceptable! What will Her Majesty hear of this?’

Asher, in self-defence, tried to describe that the measures were taken in place by his almighty employer, The Taegukgi, and CSKA Quebec, the sports club owned and operated by none other than the Ministry of Defence and the Royal Quebecois Army, to prevent the spreading of the news.

‘No, but that’s not just it.’ Janet, finally calming down, interrupted Asher. ‘Listen. You hurt her by betraying her promise of coming back by two in the morning. That is not a fucking difficult task, and you know that. Even if you were to take the last commuter train from the Reneegrad station, you would have been there by four-thirty. Sure, us Quebecois are always going to have that problem where our indulgences empower our strengths and serve our bravery, but our ways of gallantry, however proud and memorable, too have cost their lives before their loved ones- Having fun is one thing, but to risk your life like how you did seven years ago isn’t going to work.’

나 돌아갈래...그곳으로… Asher’s very next expression was that of horror, the stunning reminder of what had happened with their breakup his senior year. Much of the relief to Asher, when they came back together was how little was said about what had happened in the span of five years between ‘the tragedy’ and ‘the miracle’. Few were said about the years between, and the days of mischief and decadence seemed to be portrayed as episodic occurrences, rather than a consistent pattern of troubles that had soiled the Baron of Valletta title.

But the truth was that however silent the people, the growing pains of two young people’s relationship were very much evident. It had only been a week since the domestic news of 6oixan9euf’s assassination-execution had swept the country’s majority in wildfire, but the parallel, foreign-originated news of a ‘big blue fun fest’ seemed to have struck the nerves of everybody else who weren’t swayed by it.

Those struck on their nerves were highly aware of the circumstances behind their breakup as eighteen and nineteen year olds, and that did not help the matter. [Wilfrid96RKilkenny], a CSKA beats writer best known for his Fuwa account (writer’s note: Multiverse’s equivalent of Discord, that’s originally from and is based in Zeta Reka and Hügeltaldom), was among the first to message him when Asher were still on middle of his cab ride back. All the response the thirty-four year old got back from Asher was ‘Yes’, just enough to give him a ‘Vietnam flashback’.

Soon, all the news had shut down, but those on their social groups ([Wilfrid96RKilkenny] was a friend of his back in middle school) knew that he likely needs to settle the matter and either offer closure to the past, or lose Eileen forever. It is said that their cobweb extended all the way to Christine the Second, which is a helpful news, but is it, dear reader? To do what you thought was the right thing for the loved one’s safety, only to realise, after half-decade of self-destruction and beyond, that you were wrong and that all your friends had to be on their tippy-toes every time a major news comes up?

Asher wished to add something, but, with his head feeling as if shot to the head by a round of bullets from an ancient pistol, he stopped. After ten minutes, having come out of the pit, he returned:

‘Yes, it is my fault, no matter how we talk about this. There is no way to retract it, unlike a thought that’s not said, a mind that’s yet to be cultivated, or an article that’s yet to be approved. I deserve the pain, and that’s what we have to live through. It will haunt me. I had to let everything go, to keep those I love at bay and free from harm, and may be near such a moment again. I deserve the doors slammed on my face.’
‘And that will never happen, especially after what happened seven years ago.’ Janet shot back dejectedly. ‘You still do not realise that what you are doing is an act of cowardice, where you do not take responsibility for your lack of thought and judgment. You may have run yourself off to the Quartier Calanien and the Vdaran court, but not everybody had the luck to run behind the shields.’

‘Leave me be,’ Asher cried with horror. ‘If that’s what she wants, then I deserve it!’

‘It will not. It will destroy her this time, Asher. It will, and this better not happen!’

Another minute of silence followed, as the two, in agreement over who’s the guilty party but in disagreement over what is to be done. The pieces of glass, still shattered from earlier in their meeting, were lying all over the table as they both stayed quiet, waiting to see who would break the ice this time.

‘I...am sorry.’ Asher cried, sobbing before the woman who’s known never to sob. ‘I am...I am...I am..I am…’

But he couldn’t say any more words. There were none left for him to say, and even less energy for his throat to open. Such is expected of our protagonist though. He does not deserve our pity, dear reader, and you should know that too.




The subsequent hours, spent without talking about the lost days, the narratives of those cursed days, were spent instead on not thinking about the tragedies that unfolded then or could unfold now and at some point. Asher and Janet, the longtime veterans of YourNeWorld and its sports server in Fuwa, had a project to work in the forms of their results.

'Terra Salamantica hasn't done as greatly as expected from a third ranked nation, and it bothers me,' Asher sighed, as he checked the backlog of direct messages about the Matchday Two's scores, a mere draw that he felt, as an eight-year veteran, should not be happening. Of course, he's also a man of ridiculously consistent temper to his real-life situations when it comes to gaming, and that showed with the particularly aggressive tone over the last week or so.

Janet chuckled, before brushing aside a lock of her hair that landed on her left palm. Her nation, Cash and Gold, was having a relatively better fate on the other hand. Part of it came around her decades of experience browsing through YNW, though Asher did help her adjust early on. 'Cash and Gold's still cruising smoothly. But I may want to experiment with the style. Of course, the ways of the industry would not fly with the moderation team, but that's to be expected. You did say that your college self RPs like, as Terra Salamantica, were quite different after all.'

Asher nodded and explained: 'On my two absences that did happen. First time, it was because you know, moving from Quebec City to Plibury and Concord Heights. As you know, I wanted to go somewhere farther and try something different, maybe delve into more spiritualism and whatnot- thank god it worked well, but you know, people used to tell me that I was stressed all the time as I wrote...and hosting a couple of hockey tournaments weren't fun as well. And then the second time, trying to fly out as often to see Eileen, you know, and watch her happiness when live...It did give me new shifts in writing. Certainly missing out two cycles ago was a bad move, but it did have me a think. Like how do I shift the mouvements and whatnot...'

She agreed, and mentioned about the past as well- when she was younger, at a prep school near the West End of Montreal, she was always thinking about whether there's a world beyond that of the theatrics that to her, provided a three and a half of dimensions, but not necessarily the beyond. Her case was reminiscence of the Sylvain IV's late years, the era marked with political turbulences started by the far-right revolts of 1997 that were suppressed with absolutely necessarily use of brute force, and all of sudden Asher had gained the feeling that he was feeling the surrender.

Asher had got up. His back slowly aching, almost as if the time back home was necessary, he was folding his Pomegranate laptop and then cleaed the papers he was transcribing earlier. Almost an expected social custom, Janet pulled out a cigarette packet, opened it, and then lit the cigarette.

Receiving another cigarette from the older woman, Asher also took the hit himself, and slowly gave himself an arpeggio of hums and murmurs- now that their eyes were tired, the signals of the night grew clearer than ever, as did the reminders of past selves in this cafe that were kept, unkept and therefore had a particularly magical power that bind us all.

'Spakoynaya noch, as if it's the very snowy morning of 1990,' Janet said with strumming on her voice, with her left moving like a pianist's instruction for the Andante, Andante. 'Have you thought of RPing about a classical romance?'

Asher, his left hand holding his chin with his second and third fingers, thought for a sec, before dropping it. 'No, I believe not,' he said.




Then, like that everything became less distinct, with every paintstrokes of fate changing the colours of the streets, every arpeggio moving the limbs of us mortals, and then have the strangers vanish like the acceptance of a medieval concept of prima nocta in our civilised minds. The outlines of the people, who pass by their lives in the busiest streets of the Western end of the nation's economic, Anglo-capitol, and the dark-coloured cabs of the Summerlea Circus, where our dear protagonist used to spend innocent dates without being noticed by pesky journalists of the West Coast or all-knowing Halifax.

Asher, instinctively walking his way back to Eileen's flat, is feeling the effects of the daytime stress at five in the evening. First came in the appearance of fellow prisoners, whose hollowed eyes and tattoos had suggested that they were imprisoned in this underground cavern for centuries, the victim of three Caraqueno Civil Wars that had plagued the northeast Teranean country for past fourty-eight years. Then came the bewildered face of Heo Myeong-Yoon and the old high school crew (see Season 2), who had found out after his miraculous return from March Break that Erskine Collegiate's 2039 Prom King was going to need a new partner. Then, at last in the willow of his consciousness, there was a golden-strawed appearance of his grandmother's tears, who were comforting the poor boy's shaking figures, with the streams poofing into the outdoor parlours at the famous restaurant next to his.

He was tired, perpetually disappointed in his week back from the very Smurfgate, and he was left disappointed that what he viewed as the moral solution, with her freed from very sordid tales of madness the journalist had brought upon any loved ones and those who had acquainted with him, likely being unfulfilled per the accords of our unofficial moral codes. With that evaporation....he was tired, perpetually disappointed in his week back from the very Smurfgate, and he was left disappointed that what he viewed as the moral solution, with her freed from very sordid tales of madness the journalist had brought upon any loved ones and those who had acquainted with him, likely being unfulfilled per the accords of our unofficial moral codes. With that evaporation, Asher swayed back and forth at the end of his evening walk back home. At last is their flat, where the quieter lives of the twenties and their parents, just two blocks away from major Summerlea Cross, had prevailed like a Swiftian magic.

With both his eyes closed, Asher located the very front door and pressed the lock combination of the digital lock of the apartment. Every flat, on top of the lock combination at the front door, had a different combination available for the insides so that when both were pressed at the very front, the resident would have little problem entering the suite.

The first worked with a clear ding-dong. But somehow, the second lock combination, the one for her flat, did not work.

'Oh dear...am I high again...' he muttered, pressing three different variations of the locker, and then began tugging himself along the screen. 'What is this...' he sighed and groaned and then retreated, in order to make out what had happened.
WORK IN PROGRESS: The Wanderer's Guide To Somewhere: Megathread!

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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:10 am

OOC : Around two weeks have passed since Asher got locked out of Eileen's flat. Oy vey.

I Run To You

PART 6 (48) - Wrong Number-II


Blistering Taenneris Ethanobarbus!

Asher contemplated as he wondered on his very next move. He got locked out of his house again, with his mind unintendedly blurting out the latest thing he had learned- the news of a lethal stomach bug that had come out of a lab at Farrer University early this morning- and now he had to wait and see if somebody will come out of his flat building. Once again inebriated and intoxicated with yet another day’s material indulgences, Asher swung back and forth along the sidewalk.

The Capitolien streets, unlike the labyrinthic pathways the Montrealais were exposed to long ago, were much more straightforward. The stars shone above him as his movements swayed like that of a ballerina in Swan Lake, and how beautiful yet pitiful the sight is! But then, dear reader, don’t be surprised by the very sight of it all, for this is reflected in its inhabitants as well. Those who live in the fabled Quartier Calanien usually were one of the two cases; they either grew up in the City of Eternal Lights that they had long accustomed themselves to smell the cigarette smoke or avoid the beret unless to parody themselves, or they came from somewhere far and provincial, to be immersed to the corridors, the arcades and the limestone blocks, and of course, to drink affordable cocktails and do proper wine and cheese.

Being a Capitolien at birth (though not of growth), he belonged himself to the latter category. Unfortunately, the years of degenerative conditions brought by years of his trauma had done the very opposite of what those ‘wine and cheese’ were supposed to do on his health, and now all we- the readers- could hear, were his indiscernibles grunts and chants.

‘Hey, can somebody sing a song about the trapped bastard, who also doubles up as a night's husband!’ he shouted to the air at the fiddler from some distance, whose songs were anticlimactic to the state of his mind (OOC note: this is a reference to certain scene on Episode 5, Season 1 of Bridgerton, where Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, is found in drunken stupor the very evening of their wedding vows by his friend the boxer). The very fiddler, a joly 38 year old bloke named Robert Goh, is a friend of his, and in the happier days they would be having a nice chat or two while the locals would have a nice sequence of box dancing to the tunes. Unfortunately, our poor souls became so devoid of colour, now they no longer knew what it meant to enjoy the plainest and richest of earthly pleasures. To ignore his buddy’s shouts, Robert played a classical tune, which agitated Asher even further, and chuckled his neighbours too.

Fortunately her landlord with gracious temper, who wore a petticoat and a fur hat even in the summer days- only those around her know that is due to her ailments, which we will dare not speak of here- heard our bedny chelovek’s (author’s note: poor boy, which is a reference to Nikolai Karamzin’s 1792 tale, Poor Liza) eleventh consecutive day of finding himself locked out of a homely h(e)aven’s door, and came downstair to pick him up.

‘Still recovering?’ the landlord asked, looking over Asher who had no trouble recognising her at least. Asher, having no option but to bow to the Korean-Quebecois woman, a true Capitolien who spent all her life here, nodded and then went inside the door with her. Then, feeling shameful at repeating the same old story, Asher hurried his way up the staircase on borrowed breaths, gave his keys a couple of twists at the end of the third floor hallway, and then went inside his flat.

It’s all dark and dim, just like how the taste of last night’s dills from the market, Asher thought, looking at how empty the rest of his week looked. He was thinking back to free lunch at Cahiers du Monde for a weekly work meeting on a Tuesday. It was also yesterday- today’s thursday- when Asher had sent away a long piece on an illustrious career of Sir. Lionel Mah, the greatest Quebecois football manager. Since then, not much had happened but a list of growing disappointments and losses, and all he could feel were the shame. The morning’s deception of a promise did not prevent him from the emptiness of his bed, and the dreams of a novel did not radiate when the soul did not have its Orthodox icon by the night.




It was later in the night when Asher started being reminded of the past again. After the shower at two in the morning, just as the night finally slowly turned down, Asher rolled in his bed to think about a page of the novel he had forgotten to transcript earlier in the day. But Asher was losing the control of his own mind, and the lines, however hard he tried to read, were looking no less than a combination of Judeo-Arabic and Sanskrit, or Mayan and Georgian, that the beast had conquered the man instead of the other way.

So Asher placed it back on the tea table right next to the bed, lit three cigarettes, and then slowly inhaled the fumes, immersing himself into the memories brought by the night. The setting of his new flat, a product of the fin-de-siecle and its early modernist culture, could not have served its intended purpose for our readers any better. The room’s three walls, dark and smoky with the silverish fumes, were stuffy with hot air long reminiscent of his time on the very underground pit he was interned in Nuevo Caracas, a country located in the northeastern tip of Terranea infested with four decades of civil war. If he were to turn his head to the left, he would have faced the terrace and the streets, but there too the curtains had blocked any source of light coming from outside. Like the frozen image of a gaol from your childhood visit to a national historic site, there were barely any furniture out there for you to feel the ambience of home, and the flashbacks to the eighteenth year of his life had all come too real for the twenty-five year old.

To Asher, it all seemed horrific and unreal, but also expected and deserved, almost as if the doses of those painful memories were mandatory. Asher remembered how his sophomore self, feeling bored on the bus ride back from an away trip, read a renowned comparative historian’s remarkably sharp book review on a wannabe-bestseller he no longer remembered its name. However the effective that said scholar’s rhetoric and rip on the details may have been, what drew then-undergraduate the most was his ability to close it with a spellbinding statement:

‘Sure, it is one way to say that the city, upon his return, may look like a haven for a voyageur who returned from his vacation in the Inferno. But the other, more fitting way to describe the situation in the Salamantica we live nowadays is that trauma exists on every boardwalk, the brushstrokes come alive from paintings into history and indiscriminately eats its viewers alive, and the underground walkways are filled with thrift shops that close at a two-to-one ratio. Combine that with the reminders of his fathers’ atrocities, Xavier can rest in relief. Happy ending does not exist, and the same goes to heaven.’

So he laid, started to crawl and roll in the imaginary barriers of the imprisonment with self-imposed limitations. Then, as we had expected, the details came even more alive than before, and Asher, finding it all unbearable, crashed into the sleep that repeated those sequences, over and over again.
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
WORK IN PROGRESS: The Wanderer's Guide To Somewhere: Megathread!

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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:11 am

OOC: I would like to thank Tequilo for the use of Isabel Jurado, one of three submissions I had received back in WC85 about a class of internationally-renowned scholars from across the Multiverse.

I Run To You

PART 7 (49) - Rise


Thus began Asher's summer. It was true that our protagonist, whom I should warn you to start having more pity and sympathy from this moment moving forward, was hanging by the tightrope- less bottles were lying on the ground and more sheets of paper were lying around in his room, and all just felt like the weird state of relationship between Asher and Eileen, where they had both not gotten over the past-life traumas but were unable to let go of each other, the most effective method possible.

Gradually the month of June passed. Asher's landlady had long given up on wondering about his tenant's mental status, just understanding the situation as a price she had to pay for normalising this kind of behaviour as a life-long Capitolien. His work patterns of sleeping like a workaholic, drink like a Barbarian and emerge like sterotypical notion of a cinematic vampire subsisted. His novel, a work of the Quebecois-Novopetrogradian emigre family whose adventures bring them to Nyhavn, then to Lac-Drouin, and eventually in a small Quebecois country town where they taste the Grapes of Wrath, was still a work in progress.

Still, promising signs existed on the moments unexpected for him either way, as a literary agent, who demonstrated major interest in the Capitolien writer's literary future and wanted an abridged short story of his childhood to send to a magazine. Asher was able to find a couple of waterholes to enjoy a pint or two of beer in his neighbourhood, and the tales exchanged from there began to feed him with folkloric ideas. Once outside, the streets of Odeon-Southwest, the neighbourhood he seldom visited when a keen undergraduate at the dawn of his twenties, welcomed him with its buskers and he came to reminisce about the fin-de-siecle…




'Thank you for coming today, Asher. How have you been feeling since last time we talked back in June?' Dr. Nam Chang-Geun asked, the chief psychiatrist at the nearby clinic writing down his notes for their third appointment. 'I assume you were there for the World Cup coverage?'

'Fortunately, another senior correspondent went to Newmanistan on my behalf.' Asher smiled, not the slightest sense of emotion detected in his response. In all honesty, that was his choice not to travel to the Grim Reapers’ first world cup group stage in eighteen years, an effort that while ended up in unfortunate nil point, was still a joyful one for many. ‘But I was happy about it.’

The same joyful feeling, of course, was not why Asher was here. Asher knew, right from the moment he was locked out of Eileen’s Montreal flat, that he had to seek help. So he did and the results were starting to come around in his third appointment. If we have to be honest, he found these sessions helpful in understanding the mistakes of his college days, when he had felt as if he held the keys to every chest in the Multiverse.

While he was not familiar in explaining his own achievements, Asher was also very much self-aware with his limitations and knew there would be no loss attributed to him for talking much about his mistakes. Being a Lundrigan, one of many civil children of the long lineage of Naval officers and generals, Asher was drilled from an early age to owe up to his decisions, and so far stayed faithful to it.

That may have been why the appointments with Dr. Nam, a twenty-seven year veteran in his practice just down the corner from his small universe of writing pods and pads, may have been going well. The appointments went very slowly, with him describing his childhood and current occupation as sports and arts journalist, but the stakes gradually increased as Asher began recalling his earliest months of his first relationship with Eileen. Both Dr. Nam, who had heard of Plongeon the artist but not much else, and Asher had genuinely enjoyed these chats, and knew the next series of chats were going to be the important ones they especially had to go through, in order for the medical professional to offer proper closure for the writing professional.

‘That’s good, Ash.’ Dr. Nam smiled, giving the younger man a slight nod to suggest approval at his lack of worry over what would have been viewed by others as a snub. ‘I see what you mean. Have things improved with Mille. de Ramaut since last time we had an appointment?’

Asher closed his eyes, counted from one to three, and then opened his eyes again in hopes that a coherent answer would come to his head. ‘I think so, though everything still feels like a field filled with endless landmines. She’s still beautiful as always, and I do not know how I was so...’ Asher then tried to figure out the right word, before picking one that best described his past self that sometimes would creep up in his behaviour to this day. ‘..childish, when I wake up in those mornings.’

‘I see, Ash. Well please understand that you are next expected to share something you don’t want to.’ Dr. Nam grinned, giving him an invisible nudge. ‘So for today, you said that you wanted to talk about how you were able to escape Caraqueno jail. As we expect from our appointments, absolute confidentiality will be ensured, so please do not rush with how you want to explain it.’ Dr. Nam, while a man of sciences, knew the unpredictability of the human mind at times, and Asher knew he was able to tell his stories without being viewed as an insane man or even worse, a QAnoner.

After thinking about it for three seconds, Asher closed his eyes and slowly narrated what he was going to say. ‘Well, I was lucky, for as it turned out I wasn’t the only one there.’ He rubbed his eyes with his hands, to ease their tension, much to the psychiatrist’s amusement. ‘On the fifth day of the Pit, came to me a loosely cloaked woman, who had naturally assumed to be not a prisoner, because the way she dressed and moved around...and how she went beyond the rooms...seemed to suggest something.’

‘Oh?’ Dr. Nam lifted his eyebrows in a measure of heightened interest. ‘That’s good. Was it a Shaman, and of what cultural background- an indigenous medicine man, a Mayan priest, or a Tequilian?’

‘A Tequilian by birth and blood, but with shades of Tamarindia and Wight in her blood...’ He muttered. ‘When I asked her what her name was, she only said Isabel, without a surname. She said she was running her experiments among the prisoners, to see how the confusiónist modelling in fluid time calculus would fly among the veterans of human suffering. She said the decisions made by those imprisoned under the five decades of civil war, while often beyond her control, were why the self-proclaimed Lady Luck was here..’ Asher refocused his loose gaze, now googly and starry-eyed with the shooting stars hitting Asher with the lightning. ‘So Isabel said she liked me and that she speaks directly with Búa, whom she wanted me to travel with to see the alternative realities to our decisions of very moment...and become her companion, a travelling partner, a mysterious lover, however you may put it.’

‘And what did you say to her?’ Dr. Nam asked.

‘But I told her that all I am is a poor voyageur who was kidnapped from my colleagues when we visited the beaches of Astello, San Ortelio, for our March Break trip...and that all I wanted was to escape this seemingly-impenetrable jail.’ He started feeling the shiver, still dizzy from the thoughts this underground prison had brought on him. ‘I knew nobody had any idea, since they assumed I was on one of the deserted islands just for a few days in the wilderness, almost a Byronic recollection of paysage..and then she agreed, telling me my wish was in her command, and then just told me to climb without a rope like a warrior.’

Dr. Nam was noticing an odd glow in Asher’s eyes, drinking a cup of leftover coffee from his seven a.m. breakfast spent at this very desk. He knew this was going to be an important moment that the psychiatrist could not miss out, regardless of whatever the outcome may have been. It’s like the screening of a movie you have long heard of its ending, but you wanted to go back and watch it anyway because you wanted to know how it happened. ‘Go on...Go on…’ was all he’s saying, giving the gesture to that of a philharmonic maestro.

‘She told me that fear is nothing here, and that climbing the walls without a rope is how to bring that feeling back, and bring the normalcy to that lucky mortal in this pit of doom.’ Asher responded, his tone of voice changing to a bass, as opposed to the usual baritone-pitch he carried under conversation. ‘And she was right.’

Dr. Nam nodded without saying anything, which had meant that it was Asher who had to go on.

‘And so I did...and I did and I did...took me several tries, as my limbs and fingers started feeling numb. But Isabel told me not to give up, and after several trials...the plan had worked. as small instant changes, from finding the right lock to break for one prison cell to getting the ex-countertenor to sing a freedom chant..which rang across the hollow, hallowed pit, as I climbed its scaled walls, the cursed asymmetry of stones...and then got out.’

‘And is that it?’ Dr. Nam asked, grinning and twisting her limbs to suggest that their time had come up. ‘But what happened after?’

‘And that’s where everything started to go wrong, when Isabel appeared to me just outside the pit, a little bit transparent or hollow from her travels, and we went back to San Ortelio…’




....After work or such appointments, Asher went back into the streets, and recalled the list of names he had to research for his pieces with The Taegukgi, before giving up. There once was a time when our wanderer, long familiar to the plane rides, used to come up with dozens of scouting reports for his subjects. But now, having gone through enough simulations in his dreams and also the chess table of his fictions, those names of the industry Asher started to forget and confuse, with no desire to spend further work beyond what’s required to conjure up his magic into the sports or musical sketches.

If it were another professional with just as much ability but less pedigree, or more experience but less ability, said person have been a goner for taking such liberties. But this is Asher Lundrigan, also widely known as the most prominent sports and arts&culture journalist under the age of 40, and he knew he could afford being lucky in such departments though. So did The Taegukgi, whose policies towards its staff writers usually stayed lot stricter, and they decided to stay quiet in order to keep their man, for as long as possible.

In the afternoon, just after leaving his office at two in the afternoon, Asher would find himself blasted to the blisters of sunlight, as the fresh produce trucks would play out the familiar Trot tunes. Children, especially during the weekends, would sometimes dance and play with their childhood friends, whose memories would continue well into their adulthood and beyond, fitting the essence of a rare experience in being a lifelong Capitolien.

Then, after a short walk, he would find himself reading a book, or writing the book mentioned earlier, with a pair of sunglasses covering his eyesight. Surrounded by the fresh flowers and the young trees carefully maintained, the hours would sometimes be confused for years if not decades, and if you aren't being careful, you'd often end up like Asher, who has a habit of confusing a baby peach tree to that of a Metasequoia Glyptostroboides he remembered climbing as an eleven year old travelling out west coast.

By five in the evening, the lilac scent of the rosy glasses were replaced by the smell of gooseberry pie. It would have been nice for Asher if there were white nights and he could never leave this place, but it was time for him to go home. There, the civilised man’s cultivated senses would be replaced by his primary desires, as Asher and Eileen would kiss passionately for several, blissful hours, before the gigantic bee quietly folded himself inside the delicate flower.
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The Royal Kingdom of Quebec
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Posts: 7437
Founded: Feb 15, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The Royal Kingdom of Quebec » Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:12 am

I Run To You

PART 8 (50) - Hey Now


Dear readers.

I know many have asked me on what degrees of torture or pain do I need to impose upon poor Asher Lundrigan, in order for him to be finally absolved from his sins. It is a popular question that I, of course a merciful creature, have to answer at some point.

Unfortunately, it is a must-do part of his journey as a man under conversion plot, or the couple running up that hill, and so we may have to wait a bit more before any form of acceptance, closure and the happily ever more’s will happen. If anything, it’s better to wait for such endings to come than just having all end in utter tragedy.

Oh my....what I have done....

That was the first thought that came up for Asher as he, feeling the sunshine peek before him, looked at the very last mistake he committed last night. Of course, it also doubled up as the very first mistake he committed on this day, with likely implication that the list was going to be long and illustrious in twelve hours' time. As he turned to the left, Asher saw Eileen, still asleep and unmoving, and couldn’t help but to smile for a second, as he skimmed over a lock of brown hair that casually took a lost man's stroll over her petite form. Asher could definitely sense, from the way the previous night’s turned out, that Eileen probably did not want to be woken up early on a Sunday morning, and that he probably had to grab a cup of coffee first before heading to the airport.

Then, as Asher slowly emerged into guilty thoughts while observing her body, he wondered about how long he could hide the truth away. The first time, he had done so without a word, and even though that may have left him a destitute at Universite St. Croix, he never regretted the decision. But the servants of holy fate, who may have been bribed with a form of confectionaries by Wightling agents, had different ideas and Asher and Eileen were brought together in the manner that was blessed by the divinity for those unaware of the curse he bore in his blood.

A series of basic, yet the most complicated questions for every male of the eternal pairings, pressed Asher as he looked at Eileen with remorse: Would she have been luckier if they had not met at that cafe eight years ago? What if she had never allowed him back into her life after the atrocity he had committed before all eyes? What if she had broken all things with him on the assumption that she had heard of the disease, however slow or benign it may be on the surface, that plagued members of his family...and himself?

‘Grandmaman, so am I doomed from earthly pleasures or basic premises of happiness?’ Asher remembered asking this question, shortly after his rescue, to his grandmother, late baroness Cecily Nam, whose family’s genetic conditions had only come into effect five years into her marriage to the Baron of Bron-Yr-Aur. By this point, she was very much confined to her wheelchair and rarely travelled outside of the plot, but Asher could still recall how the Lady Nam-Lundrigan, outliving her husband, was vibrant even with her conditions.

‘Happiness isn’t what you think it is, if it can be stopped by an earthly condition.’ She responded with a smile long familiar to the Welsh-speaking islanders, but not Asher or Frank or some of his Cornwall-based cousins (the children of second uncle Brock).

That may have been why his fears were still ringing wide and above, for he remembered how it was not the sort of thing that was shared in collective memory, even though the Bron-Yr-Aur plot’s tales of happiness were the ones he had remembered somewhat firmly. Asher, unlike his father, wasn’t an islander and had a different understanding of how to get around such problems than that of Robert, who was bold enough in his acknowledgement of potential risks to the King of Vdara, his future father-in-law, even though Asher’s father did not inherit the disease (his aunt Rachel, another islander, did however).

She deserves someone better, even as I say this on the beds we share… Asher closed his eyes and prayed, as Eileen continued to sleep gently.




On yet another expected day filled with guilt, Asher was once again forced to make his way towards the Metro station. He had a long ride, to welcome the arrival of his brother Franklin, who was younger but certainly more traditionally Lundrigan in his values, and to be eventually seized with the horrific realisation that both of them, in whatever the manners expected of them, were living the nomadic lives that while fittingly so given the Lundrigans’ naval heritage, was increasingly becoming out of fashion.

If we were to say this to another author, like one of those many bastards who claim nobilic heritage, but write a fratire or chick flick as if they were making their public declaration that they do not worth our precious time or trained eyeballs, then that he or she would be better off doused with holy water. But, on the other hand, if such a promise, in which Asher has started to realise by weaving the fiery flicks after coming back from the living nightmare, were to be realised, then we may be witnessing slow steps for a future writer, the youngest Royal Society Prize winner in fifteen years’ time, and look into how his mind functioned at this critical point in his life.

Asher, with his own vision of a masterpiece or two in mind, chose himself to behave like a latter person. Thus did Asher, in spite of reliving his senior-year nightmares every therapy session and washing his hands every morning after committing his mortal sin, continued to live with the hopes of completing his historical trilogy, a hope that he had started to form while a keen-eyed history undergraduate at St. Croix, and had continued with him when he lived in Grearia and Concord Heights for a year. While it was still some distance away, Asher knew from the way butterflies flying across his teary eyes on the Line 2 of the Metro, that his dream was becoming more attainable each passing day.




'Welcome home, at last.' Asher patted his younger brother on shoulder, as they slowly walked down the alleyway in Quebec City's Catherine III International Airport, also known as 'Yongseong'. Asher, being the younger brother of an increasingly-known football star, held Frank's luggage carrier with little issue as they slowly made their way, waving at the crowd who would take pictures of the siblings. Both Lundrigan siblings, no less familiar to travelling across the Multiverse for their trade of choice, were accustomed to every shape and form of airports, and embraced their way as needed.

Yongseong Airport, being the older of two airports of the nation's capital, has always been on the minds of the Quebecois citizens. Those who had grown up in the early days of air travel would remember about a dozen classical films that came to represent the notion of the Quebecois Dream in the 1950s and the 1960s, the romantic age of air travel, while the younger generation would remember it more for the 2000s and 2010s romantic comedies that would always make use of it or Montreal Regimbault airport (those that used latter did have better box office success, now that I remember). Thus, it was in such cultural impact Yongseong and its rival Regimbault held that perhaps those two, being public individuals, that they embraced along potential risks and just carried along.

In clear awareness of how short Frank's weeklong visit was going to be, Frank travelled loose and brought little luggage to not disrupt the cleanliness of his girlfriend Tessa's apartment. Asher, being a man on the outer edges of the high society circles, wore full evening dress on an overcast day, while Frank sported much simpler clothes, wearing no more than TSV Marzig windbreaker and jeans.

Ah, the beautiful match of contrasts. The unassuming footballer and the flashy journalist, who behaves more like a socialite...Asher couldn't help but to notice the contrast between him and his brother, as they slowly got out of their way from the first floor. He knew this was almost always the case, the product of growing up and living out different lives from the moment they had noticed what their respective gifts were at.

Asher was the genius in his words and describing the shape of his emotions into the colour of the night, while Frank was a methodical, calculated thinker with his interests in equations and analytics. Former was a superstar catcher who's won 5 national titles on a squad filled with prospective QBO stars, latter was the sole light in the team that struggled to beat what was a strong Kingston South division for boys football.

The way their lives had turned also reflected such manner. Asher was lucky to have fallen in love with someone too good for him, and was punished for his lack of dilligence, while Frank stayed quiet and true to his comrades in the battle of teenage years. Asher had a highly-celebrated time at St. Croix, where his connections were more than enough to serve several lifetimes of own and likely that of his children and grandchildren, but many fragments of his soul were lost, too. Frank, on the other hand, read Mechanical Engineering at Saguenay Tech, where he developed gradually but consistently enough to find what was a more fruitful ticket for the humble man, and had kept his integrity (somewhat) alive.

'Are you heading straight to her place?' Asher asked, thinking about what his brother had in mind, as they found themselves at the long, 500-metre hallway between the metro station and the terminal 1 exit.

'Probably. Unless you wish to join us,' Frank responded without much context. 'She's clearly not happy about how the locker room's gone bit noisier than how it was back in April.' Asher nodded a couple o times, being aware of the latest situations that had unfolded on CSKA Quebec's locker rooms. While all the fuss and the questions about the unfortunate adventure of the Grim Reapers were sprinkled on the newspapers, the news of the CSKA Quebec's latest signings and their troubles - both over Sebastien Petit's life back in Villeneuve, Savigliane, and the pregnancy of Twicetagrien midfielder Garthapis Koulouris - had kept the Capitoliens' mind fresh, and Frank's eyes quite drowsy. One can only imagine the horrors felt by Frank, the most famous Quebecois man out in Marzig, and Tessa, the team captain who came back from her holiday back in Handon…

Asher and Frank were now starting to see the waves of humans come and go by, as they slowly walk past him towards the concourse of the metro station. The effect, on the verge of an urban idyll placed under total recall by the shamanic verses of the late Quebecois Romantic period (1865-1905), was profound. The brothers knew the steps of their lives that were coming down to them, and were able to hear the raindrops that weren't falling on the oversight day, or the purple stop sign right next to the traffic lights.

'This hallway always feels the same, yet different, don't you think?' Frank asked, thinking about how amazed the footballer could get, even after all these years of education in applied sciences or the endless journeys of flying Aeroquebec or AirRepublika can get. It was of no surprise to anybody who had known about Frank - he almost always had that childlike edge, which had kept the inexperienced associable and the popular sociable. Sure, being from the southwest, where the Kingstonian weather had meant that he'd only see white christmas every five years, may have helped. But the essence, regardless of its origin, was genuine, and every decent person would have appreciated him for that in the end, even if they may have thought of Frank a coward for not being frank enough with himself.

‘It’s like thinking about looking at the same lifelong love over and over again. After every morning, before every evening, the sight...’ Asher responded, as they neared the end of the route only to face the gigantic concourse. Of course, he knew what Frank had meant- his brother, unlike the legend himself, was not really the most….womanising of his footballer bred, and he stayed chaste and free from the concerns that would have infected most others with that dangerous gut parasite Asher remembered hearing about it earlier. No wonder Frank Lundrigan had fallen in love with a dull Schottian, Asher thought to himself, but it all works out because different groups of people have their different ideals and preferences. Like that one night in a Handon apartment two years ago...
Last edited by The Royal Kingdom of Quebec on Tue Feb 02, 2021 3:12 am, edited 1 time in total.
WORK IN PROGRESS: The Wanderer's Guide To Somewhere: Megathread!

Happy 420 Friends!

2x World Cup, 2x Baptism of Fire, 2x Cup of Harmony, 5x World Cup of Hockey, 2x World Bowl and 2x International Basketball Championships Host

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