The Rone Conference (Closed, Attn Tyrrhenia)

[The Fanboyists]

Amanda

She cocked an eyebrow and, leaning on the table, bracing with her arm, said sweetly "I suppose us women have to learn our place. Unfortunately for you, in this case, my place is 'the infinitely-more qualified elected leader of the governing body of one of your homeland's nearest neighbors.' So cut the shit and give me a proper denial, if you'd rather not answer." She looked at Herzland. "Minister, I understand you're probably working to teach the Archduke a thing or two. Something that may be of interest is teaching him who, and who not to call 'honey.'" She even capped it off with a pleasant smile. "It would probably be a good lesson for him to learn before he says that to, say, the High Queen of Ossoria, who might not take it as well as I did."

[Mykola]

Herzland immediately hopped out of his seat and was instantly easing the Chancellor down into hers.

"I am so terribly sorry Chancellor. Please excuse Rudolf, it's mere youthful ignorance, you can't blame him for it, you can only blame the society that he was raised in."

Herzland glared at Rudolf, he would give him hell later, but for now, they would proceed with brunch.

"I hope, Chancellor," he began, "that this does not hinder the development of relations between our nations. His Imperial Highness would not be pleased should his son cause a diplomatic conundrum."

[The Fanboyists]

Amanda

She shrugged. "It's fine, Minister. Apology accepted. Lord knows some of the Moralist Coalition call me worse all the time. It certainly won't be a problem moving forward Minister. I understand he's...a work in progress," (one might have gotten the impression that she actually wanted to say 'spoiled little prick')"That said," she said, fixing Rudolf with a sidelong glance "I'd appreciate it if it didn't happen again, Archduke."

She saw Andrew moving to the front of room, and realized brunch would be ending within a few minutes. "If I'm not mistaken, we're about to get rolling. It was good to make your acquaintance, Minister," she said cheerfully, offering to shake his hand.

[Ascelonia]

(OOC: I apologize for the lateness. I rushed the second half of this post.)

Here they were. A mismatched group, for sure. Four honor guards courtesy of Ascelonia (They thought Arcindin security left something to be desired.), an Arcindin ambassador, and his Ascelonian compatriot. The Arcindin Diplomacy Corps offered to provide an attendant, but Ascelonia wanted nothing to do with the social system in Arcindis where non-whites are considered second class citizens. It brought Ascelonia great shame to see their spin-off engage in such violence and discrimination, but it was in their strategic interest to look the other way. They couldn't complain too much since they indulged in such behavior a few hundred years ago. Then again, history was never Ascelonia's specialty.

A little over a decade ago, the blood-drenched soil in Arcindis brushed the crown of his marching boots with a gentle kiss of trench foot. The torrential downpour spattered on his helm as his eyes darted across the landscape. Under the cover of the monsoon, the native freedom fighters had escaped his company, or what was left of it. Hundreds of men lay dead beneath the flood waters and even more struggled for life as the skies dropped buckets of water upon the dying and wounded. It was as if God Himself had ordered angels to line up one by one and scoop dreadnought-sized ladles full of water from the Levantian seas to drop upon the men damned by fate and circumstance to fight for privilege.

What else was there to fight for? There was no freedom to be had on that battlefield. No honor in the men stretching their jaws to scream for their mothers while the unforgiving storm shoved water down their throats, filled their lungs, and returned their bloated bodies back to the soil from which they rose. No pride in the way former day laborers and farm workers now worked as actors and critics as the losers feigned death and winners gutted the wounded who didn't or failed to put on a convincing act. No glory in the bloodied soldiers who, short of ammunition, swung fists and rifle butts at each other, smashing the skulls that their mothers doted upon and dedicated their lives to protecting. An Arcindin officer once used that analogy in a “regret to inform” letter. It went somewhere along the lines of returning the favor and fulfilling duties for the country. The analogy passed from messenger to messenger until it landed at the doorstep of a young widow and ended up beneath the lifeless feet of a woman stripped of her only child.

There was nothing left to fight for that day. Nothing but his burning hate and frustration, oh, and the plantation and factory owners back home. The landed gentry anointed by fame and fortune to lord over their less gifted counterparts.

Today, Sir Alfred Wortsley stood, if you could call it standing, next to his peer, if you could call them equals, flanked by four burly guards, if you could call it guarding. A large wooden fixture portruded from the bottom of his left knee where his shin once resided. He winced in regret as he boarded the train hoping cushioned seating would grant him some reprieve. He hadn't really stood since that day.

As he boarded, a blank look filled his eyes and he flashed back to the village. A young boy with a dark complexion took one glance at him and started crying. Wortsley hated that. He despised the crying of children, but, most of all, he detested them. The sky thundered as he leveled his pistol and emptied the chamber. Was God really there that day? He had hoped the Lord looked away for an instant, a second. He, the Heavenly Father, should've known what would happen. He, the Almighty, should've forseen the hammer cocked back and the sights pointed straight at the little boy's head. He, the All-Knowing, should've predicted the path of the bullet from the sulfur mines to the munitions factory to the supply depot to the chamber to the boy's skull into the blood-soaked earth and deep into the pits of Hell.

That bullet was calling him. It was waiting for a reunion. The child stared at him in his dreams and asked him in some strange language which he could not understand but he knew the question well. It was one he never asked his superiors and never asked God until after that day. It was why.

“Hey! Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to board the damn train?”

A guard looked at him impatiently. Wortsley snapped out of it and remembered that the guard's job was less about protecting him and more about spying on him to ensure Arcindis' interests were best served. He proceeded up the steps leaning on the railing trying to get a hold of himself.

As the group sat down in their car, the usher stopped by to check on them. No tickets were requested as they all identified themselves as the Ascelonian diplomatic entourage and presented the proper documentation on cue. The usher checked the photo IDs and compared the information he was given to his observations. They matched up perfectly. Count Elricht Visser looked mildly disinterested in his fitted suit and more interested in his fitted suit as he fiddled with the sleeves tailored to fall just a smidgen above the wrist. Arrogant and a bit effeminate much like his countrymen. The Count wore his dirty blond hair slicked off to the side with the Artemis aim of his eyes softened by thick bifocals, which his friends would often elbow him over the supposed causal habit. His crisp blue-gray Spyder-tailored suit followed the contours of his body fairly well and made him seem a bit more imposing than he would be otherwise since he had a rather thin build.

In contrast, Wortsley donned an old ill-fitting gray uniform from his army days. Aside from a few missing buttons and a different belt buckle (his old one had a sword sheath attached, which Count Visser insisted was out of style), nothing really changed. Of course, age had taken its toll on his visage. His sharp facial features were blunted by wrinkles, his faint blue eyes were weathered by the sight of numerous atrocities, and his balding mane and necessary handlebar mustache grayed to a touch like the hair care product that took upper middle aged Arcindins by storm. It appeared he had thickened a bit, his tree trunk form accumulating a pot belly mushrooming out like mold spores on a rotting log. That's what he felt like these days. He no longer took pleasure in his old job as a foreman and quickly found himself on the government payroll again.

On either side of the two diplomats, who seated themselves across from each other in the train car, sat faceless guards who wore fancy sunglasses with barely noticeable ear pieces capable of streaming important information and the commentary for a Yallakian-Laysleyan football game as one crafty guardsman (now employed elsewhere) once demonstrated. They wore clean pressed suits that were a bit larger than the they were to account for some thick under armor which afforded much greater protection than the slimmed down ones the ambassadors wore. After all, they were expected to take a bullet and they didn't want to end up like Wortsley's leg.

~~~

The train ride was a bit rough on his prosthetic, but the seats in the limousine were much better supported. Wortsley's weary eyes darted across the frozen landscape and he was reminded of a postcard from Censory and his pilgrimage to Arkadica during the winter a few years ago. The Bluwaald mountains peaked out over the horizon and seemed to tower over the comparably small motorcade. Such majestic sights left Lord Visser in awe.

“Can any of you take pictures of this?” Lord Visser asked. “With a little work, it would make a lovely letterhead for my communiques during my stay.”

One of the guards promptly replied albeit tersely, “Sorry, my lord. We're not photographers.”

Visser looked annoyed before another guard added, “He means we don't have any cameras, sir.”

“Don't worry. We'll provide some professionally rendered photographs for your convenience. Our President, Andrew Filie, wants you to be as comfortable as possible and we will do our best to accommodate your needs,” the driver intervened quickly and decisively.

Lord Visser sneered as he looked out at the passing scenery partially obscured by tinted windows and suburban dwellings, “Well, at least someone around here knows how royalty should be treated.”

“I might add that we're on a diplomatic mission, not a royal vacation,” Wortsley commented much to the chagrin of the Count.

“Huh,” Visser began to retort, pausing for dramatic effect, “I'll be damned the day I hear an Arcindin telling me to know my place.”

Wortsley shrugged and smiled gently while thoughts of the old Bush War played in the background, “We're all damned, aren't we?”

“I'm only damned by the presence of such low-life scum as yourself,” Visser shot back as he began to shake nervously. He hated such exchanges, because, as the little war of words went on, more would be at stake and with his reputation on the line... the pressure was too great for his frail body to handle.

Wortsley kept silent and allowed Visser to cool down. The guards looked at him with some nodding approval, but Lord Visser failed to notice as his attention returned to the scenery. The old Captain knew better than to stir the pot any further. There were times when lines needed to be crossed but that time had not come yet. He had a keen sense of limitations. A sense that had failed him in the Ubadan infested jungle where clear boundaries didn't exist, but he assured himself that such failure would never happen again.

His thoughts returned to the Ascelonian diplomat. Wortsley knew better to press the issue of how Visser came to the service. The boy couldn't make it into a GehirSver school and lacked the physical endurance and self discipline needed to make it in the military. Yet, his mother was a wealthy widow with a web of well-to-dos in her rolodex and she managed to land him a job in the ambassador corps. Things had fallen into decline in Ascelonia since the reversal of constitutional reforms, but Wortsley didn't things had gotten bad enough for a narcissist like Elricht Visser to come to such a critical junction. Anyhow, it was apparent that the standing Emperor Friedrich Leopold II had become more concerned with maintaining control than with the health of the state. After a long silence, the chauffeur called out, “We're almost there.”

~~~

They arrived with several assistants, non-black to Wortsley's surprise, quickly attending to their luggage. After a brief interlude and a short introduction to their accommodations, the group found themselves in the dining hall. Elricht, a bit frustrated by the long wait, sat in silence while he munched on a bread roll. Alfred turned to the Sebaerian next to him and attempted to make small talk, “And how's your country?”

[Laysley]

Rolings found it was much easier to play the puritan without food, and sat next to the fucking Yallakians. He made no attempt at all to hide his fuming, eyeballing the poncy Yallakians just like the old women who used to stock the front pews. It wasn't a look as such, he reflected, but a state of mind. Thinking your soul was in just peachy condition no matter how lecherous and cantankerous you were by visting a church gave you an artifical but overwhelmingly righteous feeling that mentally crushed everything remotely modern and/or fun in its wake.

Carlyle kept his friendly features up to scratch, grinning pleasently at the Yallakians. Probably more unnerving than the eye-balling actually, bastard had probably stabbed enough children whose eyeballs popped out as he slashed their guts open... see, state of mind.

[Sebaeria]

She had still been watching the display focusing, in some sense with a disgusted fascination as the supposed diplomats cut each other with their words, stabbed each other with gazes of steel forged by years spent in public service and leadership. She had taken a particular interest in the Rodarians, she was almost positive the one sitting in the red dress had been gorging himself since the moment he entered the room, both hands full of this or that and his cheeks seemed to bulge like those of a rodent. She smiled at the thought, though none could tell- she thought it a fitting image for their nation that of a rodent, fattened on blind faith- eager to sniff out a trap to shatter its fragile neck.

For the most part however, the Sebaerians had kept to themselves. The party of three, of which the most notable member was dressed in the black cloak, the black gloves, the hood, and the mask of the Founders, had managed to prevent any from speaking to them thus far. Perhaps the dignitaries had been not known how to address her, technically the proper term was Glorious Founder, though it was also fitting to refer to her almost any of the many names for a god, lord, or deity- something she imagined very few would be willing to do, it certainly hurt a head of state to refer to another as a member of the elite omniscient. However, this man had simply cut through the titles and asked a simple direct question, ‘how’s your country.’

For a simple question, it was also strangely difficult to answer. Being a Founder certainly gained one many skills, but small talk was not one of them, a side effect of having to be people’s nonelected leader and their savior ensured no time for small talk, who makes small talk with a god? However, he wasn’t Sebaerian, he was a diplomat she presumed, meaning that his question was likely an attempt to gather information without being so forward as to say so, much like she’d seen done to the Archduke earlier.

“Sebaeria,” she paused a moment to regain her calm, aloof tone which was customary of Founders, it was becoming more difficult to maintain without yawning, as she now approached the twenty-eighth hour mark, having managed only miner success in sleeping on the train. “Sebaeria prospers under the wisdom of the Founders,” to this both members of the Most Holy Office of the Inquisition nodded and were eager to agree if she had given them permission, “We can only hope that your nation has likewise been so pleasant?”

[Yallak]

'Ah,' said Baelin with peaked curiosity as he turned to see the rebel Waldenburger representative standing in very close proximity, possibly even attempting to intimidate him for a brief moment before common-sense prevailed, 'I must confess I had been greatly anticipating seeing how the so-named Crown Prince would make his presence felt here today.'

As the Waldenburger tried his very best to talk down to him, Baelin pondered the idea of trying to recall the man's name but quickly decided that he would only find out he hadn't cared enough to commit it to memory, if he had even heard it in the first place. Instead, without apparent movement of his eyes, he cast his gaze over the Waldenburger and studied the man. How disappointing. Though he was slightly taller than Baelin, he didn't seem imposing in either a physical or mental sense. If he had to guess, it was almost as if Cato had found the least damaged tool in a hospital and shipped him out. If the Crown Prince was forced to scrape the barrel like this then perhaps seeking to deal with him had been a mistake. It raised the question of whether or not Cato could even hold to his part of the agreement at all. Then again, maybe it was deliberate, a means to generate sympathy for his cause. Either way the Waldenburger was of no consequence or value to Baelin or the Imperial agenda for the day.

'I would accept such a gracious invitation of course,' responded Baelin with a tiny hint of sarcasm, 'as you certainly need some enlighten in regards to the ongoings in your own country. Perhaps the head wound effected your memory? Last I looked, it was Waldenburger soldiers doing the slaughter of each other. However, I'm afraid today has too many other pressing concerns to see attended. A rain-check certainly though.'

Baelin didn't have a chance to feel smug though, his words earned him an express but subtle glare of displeasure from the State Commander who stood by his side. It screamed “behave yourself” and he was forced to accept that he had sunken low to retort the Waldenburger's prodding. Sometimes though, he just couldn't help himself.

'Condolences for your bush, but i'm afraid I haven't seen it.' He gave a traditional Yallakian bowing of the head. 'If you will excuse us.'

_____________________________

Baelin laughed quietly when they first caught sight of the designated seating arrangements. The Yallakian's were being directed to sit directly between the Layslian's and the Waldenburger rebels and if he had been a mewling diplomat like many present he might have found the setup insulting.

'You don't think...do you?' queried Myrcella

'I do!' declared Baelin with a disquieting glee. 'The level of incompetence you'd need to create this seating plan without it being intentional would cause your brain to stop telling you to breath long before you finished putting out the chairs. We are about to be part of a social experiment.... maybe this will be interesting after all.'

Another displeased glare headed in Baelin's direction. 'Get rid of the grin and explain just how you think this is a good thing?'

The High Lord of Kilrah looked genuinely surprised. 'Surely you head about Vienna? No? Well, lets just say the last regional peace conference turned into a giant politician punch-up. Looks like someone wants a repeat.'

'Just great,' sighed Myrcella, 'Come on, let's take our seats, and for the love of the Imperium be serious now, our actions today could have a real impact on the ongoing war.'

'Don't worry, this thing will bore me quiet in a couple of minutes.'

[Cukarica]

"It seems that the Rodarion delegation will be sitting next to us. This is quite insulting to us, Alex." Severus looked toward the Rodarions with disgust as he spoke to Alexander.

"Well, old friend, It's an insult to them as well, this isn't something they were looking forward to as well, probably caught them by surprise. Let's stick around I don't really care who sits next to us. The Allamunae will pay for this, I assure you. As you can see this was probably done on purpose, Yallakians next to Catoists, us next to Rodarions, quite a coincidence, don't you think." He turned away from Severus, and signaled one of his aides to come forward, and whispered into his ear.

"Mister Holz, sent the message to my father and the Magisterum Militum to proceed with Operation Condor."

Turning toward the Mykolans, Alexander kindly replied to them. "A private meeting is just what I had in mind gentlemen, there are quite a lot of things that must be discussed before the situation escalates beyond repair. To be honest with you, I'm not very optimistic about this conference, and it is highly unlikely that this will end at this meeting, more likely that it will end in unimaginable bloodshed, and because of that alliances will have to be made and agreements set in motion."

Noticing Sir Alfred Wortsley, Alexander turned again toward the Mykolan delegates and spoke:

"Gentlemen, if you'd excuse me, I will be leaving you for a moment as a good friend of mine has apparently joined this charade, I'll be back with you in a moments notice." he said and smiled at Herzland and Rudolf.

As he quickly moved to Wortsley, he noticed that he was talking to the Sebaerian delegation, he waited for a couple of moments for them to pause their conversation, and gladly extended his hand to Wortsley.

"Ah, it was quite a time since we last time spoke old friend. There's quite some things we have to discuss, after you finish your mingling with this strangers, I'd like you to join me and Consul Severus at the table, but first I must ask you how was your trip, these Allamunae have quite a railroad network." he said shaking while Wortsley's hand.

[The Fanboyists]

Steven

Studying some of the emissaries' expressions, Grimmeberger gave a small chuckle. "Lovely. They seem to be a bit dismayed about the arrangements. The Cvkaricans and Rodarions in particular. Oh, and those Yallakian pricks." He looked at Filie, who had the good grace to look disapproving. "Oh, come on, there was a legitimate reason for it. I wanted to make them uncomfortable. In my experience, uncomfortable diplomats have a tendency to let slip of things they should keep quiet about, and are easier to get a leg-up on. The entertainment is just an added bonus."

After a moment, Grimmeberger muttered to him "I suspect we'd be doing the world a favor if you'd let me detain them all." Andrew had to stifle the urge to laugh, given the timing. As it was, when he repeated his statement about the goal of an immediate cease-fire, he was smiling. Hopefully, it would come across as good-natured, rather than amused.

[Ossoria]

Tara alone seemed to be perfectly without issue at the arrangement of the delegations, although she was still slightly annoyed with the impertinence of the Haaldstadt delegate (she had lost her tenuous grasp of his name during the break), she held no qualms about sitting next to him. With the Sebaerians, the matter was more the peculiarity of the mask and costume than anything else, but were likewise not a source for complaint from the young Ossorian monarch.

With no troops deployed inside the combat area, Tara was content to sit back and allow the combatant states to begin the conference.

[Rodarion]

Tyrin was getting restless, he noted Lord Baelin and nodded in acknowledgement to this presence and quickly scribbled him a note and passed it to one of his aides. It read: It would seem both of us have been placed next to some rather unpleasant creatures, but we must soldier on. When recess is called I must I have a private discussion with you, it is most important. And welcome to this grand assembly of apes, homosexuals and whores, many regards Menarci Tyrin Viktorda. The aid hurried over to the Lord from Yallak and handed it to him and proudly walked back with his mission accomplished.

Atticus was growing restless, he leanded towards the Menarci and squinted. "The Cvkarican smell is quiet unsettling, I think a fresh scent of manure would bring much comfort" and began to chuckle, Tyrin did so in kind. Tyrin adored Atticus, he phsyical looks were also humorous, red faced, fat, balding, but a fervant Libraists, talented Cardinal and an excellent judge of character and an incredibly sense of humour.

"It's a shame we didnt spit on their chairs before they sat down, fucking disgusting little whore loving idiots" Tyrin was turning red with hatred, this was to be expected. Tyrin was the second most powerful man in Rodarion and shared the closest relationship between Doci and Menarci ever seen in Rodarion.

"It's shame there aren't any candles, the Mykolans and Cvkaricans may of mistaken it for an orgy in a Church hall, and all us would of have to watch as the two groups start conducting sodomy" Atticus roared with laughter, attracting the stares of all the other delegates, Tyrin also roared with laughter and perked up incredibly. The two men quietened down and awaited the Conference to start in earnest.

[Waldenburg 2]

Lintz fumed. He was a professional, and though his usual recourse involved the simple flip of his safety catch a few well aimed shots. He toyed with the idea for a moment: The Butcher of Rone? You probably couldn't be the butcher of two places he reasoned, but as he stalked back to his seat he was delighted to see the Yallakians had been seated next to him.

"Ach! Mi'Lord so good of you to change your mind. I'll ask the waiter if they can sear up a pan of newborns for you!" Lintz sat beaming at the fortuitous table setting. "You'll have to excuse my manners Mi'Lord, I am above all things a rough and common soldier. Alas not a gentleman like my fellows, but a raised man; raised from the peasantry to command hussars. I have not been blessed with armigerous birth or ennobled by anything but victory so you shall have to forgive my asking, but is the 'stabbing lecherous traitors knife' beside the olive fork, or the soup spoon?" Lintz was indeed an impressive man; the type who was more accustomed to balling out troopers two inches from their nose than polite dinner conversation, and indeed his voice was rising on its own accord. "Indeed I would put it to Mi'Lord that my commonality is a stain upon this table, some soupy," his eye grew distant for a second, "blotch upon the linen of good relations. So if you haven't any objections I shall state my case presently and in the only language I know." Lintz was growing red his icy blue eye seemingly melting among the rage in his face.

"I hate you." The whole table could hear the man, there was no great anger in Lintz's voice strangely, just a sharp commanding tone edge ever so lightly, gilded with the promise of an explosion. "And were we not among the company of such esteemed and august ladies, and indeed in the embrace of our generous hosts, I would have no hesitation in decorating the buffet table in innards. So allow me to state the case of His Majesty, the Emperor. Waldenburg was meant for Waldenburgers. And long have the bastards at the helm of that floundering ship oppressed, and enslaved, and connived, and converted their way through billions of innocents. I offer no equivocation; indeed they are hanged, every last man of them till the gallows creaked under its burden. But the way of the world, the path down which we all tread, proscribes a new generation of bastards to fill the roles of the old.

And now there's you. I'm not some gormless peasant, scared too shitless by his own shadow to lie down and accept the world as you would have it. Do you remember Easen? Or Blünderburg? Or Amburg, so long ago? Do you remember what free men can do? We stood outnumbered with only our convictions; Tyrrhenia, the Phoenix against all the world. Because the truth is, Cato can die. Honestly, he can go stuff himself as far as I'm concerned. Because Empire, Republic, or bungalow by the beach every last man in this room will fight tooth and nail for the freedom to hang his own bastards.

Hang the Prince, hang me, hang the whole world; there is not enough rope in this sphere to strangle the rebellion. It is in my heart. And be it me alone against the whole breadth and thrall of your legions, I will come after you: with every bomb, bullet, lance and sabre at my disposal. So I will offer you the only concession that we will countenance: you may go home, and we won't follow you." A waiter punctuated the sentence neatly by placing a china patterned bowl filled with soup before the Captain.

"There would be a parliament you know," Lintz picked up the wrong spoon and thrust it into the steaming mass, "After two thousand years. There would be a parliament." All the energy was gone. All the flame, all the vigor. All that was left was a sad, armless, old man slurping his soup.

[The Fanboyists]

In the meantime, John Anderson, the nation's Secretary of State (or Chief Diplomat) had taken a seat at the front table as well. The taller, grey-haired man looked perfectly used to his spot next to Grimmeberger; after all, he'd been occupying said spot since Steven had ruled the country as its dictator, and Anderson's diplomatic skills had been a major building block of his rule.

Anderson stood to explain further Filie's suggestion for cease-fire. "The reason we ask for this, of course, is to prevent further bloodshed for the duration of this conference, so that the situation on the ground does not exacerbate further while we are attempting to negotiate a proper, and more permanent, end to hostilities."

[Hyopria]

Some time before the Captain entered into his passionate monologue, the front door of the estate was greeted by four rather cold and windblown guests who looked thoroughly out of place in the middle of Stalhamark.

Naturally the door guards were somewhat bemused by their presence. How, for example, had three such as these managed to reach the estate's front door with the rather significant security that was in place for the Conference?
They were so caught up in bewilderment that they were quite unprepared for the arrival of the man at the forefront of the party.

His dress uniform would have caused a more forward-thinking and aesthetically inclined clothing designer to blind himself with his pins. It was of a style that had gone out of fashion around the same time that the door guards had been born. A lot of green cloth and rather significant shoulder pads struggled admirably to hold in the gut of a man who had obviously been issued the suit several decades previous and had failed in the interim to see it updated. It was stained and faded, with rather poorly stitched repairs. The front looked like he might have been shot in it a few times except that closer examination and a good whiff of the smell (not that one would be inclined to get close enough to smell it) would indicate that in fact the large stains were wine and tomato sauce.

Then there was the rest of the man. He looked a bit like a badger. His body was very broad, but his head, almost comically, was narrow and long. One normally expects a fat man to have a few chins but it appeared this man's chin was too weak to make much of an appearance at all. His nose was rather large and pointy and featured a rather violently red cyst on one side that caused one of the door guards to almost begin suggesting he see a doctor about it.

"Well," the man growled in a strong accent which had the effect of increasing his resemblance to a badger(it was a very high-pitched yap of a growl), "We are here."
His accent made Vs of the Ws and at first the guards thought him some Palonian until he stuck out a sweat-stained ball of paper. The door guard who took it managed to avoid touching too much of it while at the same time seeing that it was the authorization of a diplomat from the Libertarian Coalition of Hyopria, the Ayá Camut, and Navaer.
"I don't think I need to tell you that I am very hungry. Is long journey we have done."

A young guardsman with an unfortunately sparse attempt at a goatee managed to speak up at that, "W-we didn't know that Hyopria had sent anyone to the Conference, sir."
One of his companions found his tongue as well and added, "Our apologies, sir, we were not told that your party had arrived at the station else we would have been ready to welcome you."

The Hyoprian nodded. "No, we were not at station."
"How, then, sir, did you arrive?"
"We take taxi and walk. Train unreliable. Never come on time and the..."
He paused and looked to one of his companions, who said "tracks".
"Yes. Trucks. The trucks are slippery in cold and I do not trust. We take taxi and walk."

Totally nonplussed at the ridiculous nature of the man's story, the guards eyed the envoy's companions who looked like they didn't really enjoy being associated with this rather ridiculous Hyoprian.
The young guardsman with the few strands of black hair on his chin took the initiative for his colleagues.
"On the behalf of the Federal Republic of Allamunnic States we welcome you to Rone and this Conference, Mister..."
His comrade glanced at the authorization but a combination of sweat and the rather cheap ink used in Hyoprian bureaucracy had smudged the name beyond recognition.
"Prodan. Major General Traian Prodan." He puffed out his chest which was weighed down by at least half a stone of copper and bronze medals. After a rather long pause he realized that the door guards expected his introduction of his companions. "I have great honor in introducing Count Gerlach von Abendburg. Call him Gerry. He is not minding."
It was rather obvious that the Count von Abendburg did in fact mind, but the Hyoprian seemed unconcerned. "He is representative from Saxe-Blünder Augsburg and is here to represent all Ostkreis in absence of other representative."

The man who had supplied the word 'tracks' was shorter than the Count and the Major General but handsome in a dark way. The Major General seemed to stumble over this introduction. "This my assistant Mr. Nistor. He speak better than I in your tongue."

The last member of the party had avoided the spotlight. He was a bald man whose ears shone bright red in the cold weather.
"This representative of Republic of Paloni, Herr Karl Bergmann. He is having papers as well."

Anyone well-versed in contemporary geopolitics would have found the situation rather unusual, beyond the oddity of the group's arrival. Hyoprians were not known for their concern for other nations. A more comically minded geopolitcal analyst would have suggested that the General was only in Rone for the food. Generally the Hyoprians took the side of their close neighbors in the Emperatium Drakonicum, and unless another group came walking out of the snow it did not seem likely that they would be making an appearance any time soon. The Augsburger was a far more understandable participant. Augsburg was the largest state in the Ostkreis, and after Waldenburg itself and the Republic, the third most populous state in the entirety of the continent.
A Republican in the company of a citizen of the most powerful monarchy in the territory of Margravate of Paloni was not something one saw every day. It was even stranger that the normally aloof Republic, which prided itself on it's independence and disassociation with all thing Waldenburger, would come to a conference intended to end a conflict that had been very, very good to it. Experts estimated that Paloni supplied a substantial amount of goods to both sides of the conflict, as well as filling the gaps in production that the collapse of Waldenburger industry had left for the other states of the former Margravate. If any of the guards had been a student of international relations he might have warned his supervisors about what kind of intentins the Republican might have for the conference.

"You will naturally have to be screened before entry," the young guardsman said. The declaration seemed to have a satisfying definiteness to it. It was something that was solid and understandable, much unlike these four guests. "Do you have any other bags?"

"Yes, we are leaving in taxi with rest of party. If you are having men to spare, they are at bottom of hill."

The dark-haired assistant spoke up. His accent was considerably less noticeable than that of his boss. "I have the phone number of the taxi driver if you can authorize him to come up the hill."

The major general turned on his assistant. "He has phone in taxi?" The idea seemed rather crazy to him. "Very rich man, this taxi driver. I am hoping we are not paying too much for him."
His assistant was about to disabuse the major general of the notion that just because a cell phone plan in Hyopria cost as much as renting a house didn't meant that every nation was so communication-impaired when the four were led inside, much to the relief of the Palonian whose ears appeared to be slightly frostbitten.

"I was not expecting to have to walk," he muttered to the Count, who looked rather annoyed at being addressed by such low-born Republican scum. However, the entire group looked like the warm air of the estate was a welcome relief; all four of them were from warmer coastal climes.

After a screening made rather difficult by the Major General needing to take off his medals (finally someone told him just to remove his jacket), the group was escorted toward the room where the rest of the representatives were having their meal. The sound of Lintz's tirade was shielded by the doors, and the group had the good fortune to arrive in the awkward moments after the man's outburst.

The silence was broken by a cry of joy from the Major General at the presence of a well-stocked drink service.
He seemed totally ignorant of the tension in the room. His assistant and the two Palonians, Republican and Augsburger, stood at the door as their companion devoured the food with his eyes. The entire room had turned to look at them.

A herald declared their arrival, "Count Gerlach von Abendburg, Representative of the Kingdom of Saxe-Blünder Augsburg and of the interests of the Ostkries! Major General Traian Prodan, Representative of Hyopria! Karl Bergmann, Representative of the Republic of Paloni!"

It sounded as though the declaration of the last name had caused Lintz to choke on his soup.

[The Fanboyists]

"Right, right. We welcome the representatives of Hyopria, the Ostkreis Circle, and the Republic of Paloni," Filie said, barely concealing his irritation at the mess of diplomats. Since he had called the Conference to order, none of them had done anything besides squabble and bicker amongst one another. Of course, he knew at least the cause of that problem. He looked to Grimmeberger. "This is entirely your fault, Steven."

Steven shrugged. He stood himself, as Filie and Anderson sat down, paused for a moment to give everyone a chance to settle down, and, a few seconds later, realized that they wouldn't on their own, at any rate. He sighed, took a deep breath, and, using the battlefield voice honed nearly forty years previously, barked "ORDER!" Those that knew him were aware that he was resisting making the threat to arrest some of the offending diplomats, even if it was known that he wouldn't follow through on such a threat.

That seemed to get everyone's attention, at least. Grimmeberger treated the assembled diplomats to his best glare. "If the seating arrangements discomfit you, you are welcome to rearrange yourselves. If you are capable of behaving like adults for at least a few hours, though, we need to get started. As Secretary Anderson and President Filie have both said, the first order of business is to negotiate an immediate cease-fire. The reasoning for this being, of course, so that the situation on the ground does not get any worse, which would not be conducive to our main purpose here, which is negotiating a permanent and lasting end to the war over the question of succession of the throne of the Waldenburg Empire. Key to this, of course, being the upholding of Waldenburg's right to self-determination. So, can you all settle down, so we can get to work? Lives are at stake here, and the longer we piss around, the more people are going to die. I'd like nothing better than to have a way of ensuring that you lot will be among them if we fail because you can't behave yourselves for a couple of days. Now. Terms. Of. Ceasefire."

[Yallak]

ooc: sorry, it's not great, i've not been able to get into a creative mood of late. Also, reply coming for OTD very soon.

Baelin casually unfolded and read the note from Menarci Tyrin Viktorda, the contents roughly matching what he had expected to find. He looked across to where the Rodarion delegation were sitting and gave the Menarci an accepting nod. Before he had a chance to do anything else though, a figure suddenly appeared and took the seat beside him. Baelin recognised him as the rebel Waldenburger and quickly refolded the note and then stuffed it into a pocket in his pants. Frak. With a silent, inward sigh, Baelin prepared to endure the conference next to the constantly talking and never subtle Waldenburger.

When the man let fly though, it came as some surprise, though not entirely. He had expected the man to stick to throwing barbed comments and snide remarks, but he also knew that there was no guarantee of civility from the petty life forms that inhabited the world around the Imperium. Baelin just sat and listened. He found the Waldenburger intriguing, the 'simple soldier' seemed to have quite the eloquent tongue and he didn't want to interrupt the speech.

To the right of the spectacle, Myrcella sat quietly, the picture of stately disposition to anyone but perhaps Baelin, who might have guessed that she was in fact rather tense and awkward at the present moment, torn between intervening in the potentially violent situation with the Waldenburger or instead directing her attention to the Layslian delegates who sat glaring and eyeballing her from the right. Though she realised that Baelin would probably goad and prod at the Waldenburger until he snapped, she decided that could be his problem and turn towards the Layslians.

There was a question that she very much wanted an answer to, but she couldn't think of a diplomatic way of wording it. She wasn't a diplomat after all, her background was in the legal system, so when the curiosity finally overpowered reason, Myrcella went with what she knew, cross-examination.

'You didn't come from Laysley did you?' she queried. Though it was an open question to either of the two who were looking her way, she directed it to the one who was smiling, albeit in a creepy fashion.

It was then that Grimmeberger stood and shouted at the assembled delegations. The Waldenburger finished up his rant and a hush descended over the room. Baelin lent over to Myrcella and after a very brief and whispered exchange, he turned back to the Waldenburger rebel and said, 'Feel better now?'

Before the man could reply, Baelin rose from his chair and was about to begin addressing the whole conference, when he caught another glare from Myrcella. And as always, the angry eyes conveyed all the words she didn't speak. Looking to the Waldenburger again, he delivered his first serious and earnest statement of the day, 'And there will be a parliament.'

When he continued speaking, it was to the collective group. 'Unfortunately, Alaric, the crowned Emperor of Waldenburg, is unable to be here today due to security concerns and recent assassination attempts by some of the nations present at this very conference, but I will present his terms on his behalf.'

Baelin walked into the center of the open space between the front table where the Allamunnic hosts sat and the rest of the seating. Primarily so that he could be heard by all with ease and secondly, though he would never admit it to Myrcella, so he could see the reactions of the other delegations as he spoke. 'In order to reach a cease-fire agreement, the following conditions are required by Waldenburg. Firstly, the Mykolan pretender and his associated invaders must cease their attempts to usurp the nation, withdraw from Blünderburg and any other occupied locations and return to their own lands. Secondly, all non-authorised foreign military assets must be surrendered or withdrawn. And finally, that all nations present must agree not to interfere again with the ongoing internal insurrection taking place in and around Waldenburg.'

[The Fanboyists]

Filie cocked an eyebrow, but remained more-or-less impassive. He knew that beside him, Amanda had done an even better job of remaining unreadable, and Grimmeberger had had to stifle a barking laugh. Though the exact demands weren't quite what he'd expected, he had more-or-less imagined what the Yallakians would have to say about the ceasefire. He had prepared for it, as well, and was replying no sooner had Baelin finished, rising with as much Presidential dignity as he could manage and avoiding conveying his irritation about being proved right. Just because he had guessed did not mean he had not hoped to be wrong about it.

"I'm afraid that that only makes sense if all foreign troops are withdrawn from Waldenburger soil. A ceasefire would be meant to prevent further escalation, and I doubt that that could be accomplished by removing those holding the legions which your country appears to have let slip into the Empire in check. I think I speak for all of us when I say that we don't intend to allow any other nation to befall the same fate as your countrymen have inflicted on Laysley." He paused for a moment, and added "To be fair, and ensure that the results are unassailable, all claimants to the Waldenburg throne should leave the country, with any associated troops, and await a properly-organized convening of the electorate."

After a moment, he added "I will note that at the current time, the federal government of the Allamunnic States recognizes no Emperor of Waldenburg at all, with all current claims being viewed as equally legitimate. We will not allow the ceding of the nation to one person, especially not while their succession will be in doubt. We want the matter done properly and done with, and allowing Yallakian legions to run amok and apparently unrestrained through Waldenburg and Laysley is not the way to do it properly. The presence of those legions is as illegal as any other foreign forces within the Empire's borders, and for any such agreement to be reached for a cease-fire, High Lord Baelin, your nation will have to see that their troops are removed as well. So, unless your demand includes your own countrymen --unlikely-- I'm afraid no such deal can be reached."

[Yallak]

A wry grin appeared on Baelin's lips in response to Filie's words, however, despite the devious twinkle in his eyes and the obviously forthcoming scheming, it only served to enhance his handsome features. The High Lord of Kilrah turned on the spot until he was almost facing the Allamunnic States President, his dark blue cloak billowing behind him like a ships wake. And though she was now outside his field of vision Baelin knew that Myrcella would have already predicted what he was about to say in response to the President and be, at this very moment, glaring disapprovingly at him once again. Anyone who knew Baelin personally would know that he was the kind of person who would laugh in the face of his enemies even, nay especially, when it's inappropriate, and an opportunity like this was no time to change that part of his personality.

'Perhaps you require more time for preparation, Mr President?' asked Baelin rhetorically. He could almost hear Myrcella cringe behind him and though he would be hard pressed to explain to her how he justified such a comment later on, he believed it would be worth it. At the least, the Rodarion's were sure to be delighted. 'Some basic intelligence work on the situation in Waldenburg would tell you that there are no Yallakian Legions within the Waldenburg Empire's territory.'

Baelin turned back to the main body of the conference but as he continued, his words were still directed primarily to the Allamunnic leader. 'Nor is this, as you put it, my demand. I merely relay the terms from the Waldenburg Emperor, it is not within my place or power to alter them. Whether you recognise it or not, Emperor Alaric is the only claimant to be coronated officially before the people and not inserted by rebel military factions weeks to months later and his are the only terms we will recognise in relation to the ongoing internal insurrection in Waldenburg.'

'And as for Laysley,' said Baelin, changing the topic to round out the final counter to Filie, 'those events are of no relevance to this conference. That situation occurred because Laysley launched a direct assault again the Imperium and refused to acquiesce to reasonable terms. It paid the price for its hostilities and having already surrendered, there is nothing left to discuss.'

[The Fanboyists]

Grimmeberger, unasked, added his own opinion to the mix. "Well, then. If the 'legitimate' emperor of Waldenburg is who you say he is, I daresay he is not much fit to hold that office. At least, with an 'insurrection', as you so artfully put it, as large as the one we have seen, on his hands, it would appear that this man who claims to be emperor not only lacks much in the way of institutional control, but can hardly be up to the job of ruling a country if it threatens to crack apart at his mere entry into it. Which makes our need for a proper convening of the electorate all the more important. So that the issue can be laid to rest." After a moment, he added. "If Alaric is, indeed, the legitimate emperor, he should have no trouble keeping the electors in line. So what is it he fears from due process, I wonder?" A wry smile had crossed Grimmeberger's face, and Andrew knew he was resisting the urge to say what he really wanted: That is, pardon my Fictionese, bullshit.

After a moment, he added "And I assume that the Yallakian legions in Laysley were simply "on-hand" to invade that country at a moment's notice from two continents away? No, I imagine they came from a good deal closer than that. So while His Excellency's capacity for disdaining the intelligence of others is admirable, he can't feed the rest of us with the same spoon of shit that he appears to use for his advisers. Just because there are no Yallakian troops in the Empire at this precise moment does not mean that they haven't been wandering through Imperial territory in the rather recent past. And if they did it once, I fail to see what's stopping them from doing it again, if we don't make explicit concession that Yallakian troops do not then return to Waldenburg soil."

Andrew took over at that. "As for Laysley, the matter is still of some relevance. The fact is, it is, whether we like it or not, within the sphere of the greater Waldenburger conflict, and so by necessity, discussion of the situation there is very relevant. Not that we'd expect one of the Yallakian Emperor's clearly-in-the-dark advisors to realize that. But the situation arose because of the aforementioned past presence of Yallakian troops within Ibblesgard. Which makes it relevant."

[Yallak]

Baelin chuckled quietly, but the sound dripped with mockery and barely concealed contempt. They could have bored him to death with tedious legal rambling, sent him into a comatose state with endless and pointless proposals and counter-offers or even kept up the facade of the diligent and neutral hosts they were meant to be, but no, instead they had decided to challenge him directly, and nothing could have been more enticing for Baelin. He would choose pointless argument over tiresome discussion with the foreign barbarians of the region every time.

'Ah, and you must be the one who arranged the seating,' stated, rather than queried, Baelin to Grimmeberger. In all honesty, such actions actually endeared the man to him a little, it took no small balls to purposefully attempt to sabotage your own nations conference, but there was no reason at all to let the man know that. He was after all a foreigner, and one that Baelin had no intention of letting talk down to him. 'You would try to derail this whole peace conference with purposefully displeasing seating arrangements and then think you know anything of leadership? Be silent and let the grown ups talk for a moment.'

Baelin didn't give the man an opportunity to respond and turned his focus back to Filie again. 'It's not a hard concept to grasp, so let me say it again. There are no Imperial Legions within the territory of the Waldenburger Empire. The forces that occupied Laysley were indeed nearby, and were diverted from other assignments to counter the direct hostilities from said nation. Yet that war is over, Laysley has surrendered already. If you wish to speak more of this it is pointless, but by all means go ahead, I’m sure that no-one here has anything more important to discuss.'

[The Fanboyists]

Grimmeberger snorted. "Purposefully-displeasing? Please. If we had wanted you all displeased, it would have been much more obvious, I assure you." Grimmeberger then made it a point to cross an extra line. The man was low-born, insofar as class-distinctions existed in the Federation, and he was quite proud of the fact. "We would have had to dispense with any subtlety to penetrate dense nobles' skulls." Filie looked at him, his eyes lighting with amusement, but his expression remaining impassive.

"In any event, you miss my point," Filie added. "Which is that the fact that Yallakian troops are indeed in Laysley, and were, until recently, within the Empire, is a reality that cannot be ignored, and must be provided for in any agreement that is intended to leave all sides at least somewhat satisfied. If one nation is expected to withdraw their forces or lay down arms, provisions must be made that all nations do so, and that loopholes will not be left to allow any nation to violate the spirit of such an agreement. Which brings me to the point: if you wish for all others to remove their troops from Waldenburg Imperial soil, Yallak will need to make provision that its troops do not return to that same, out-of-bounds area."

[Ossoria]

"This bickering is pointless," said Tara, who elected to remain seated. "Setting aside the more abrasive of our host's apparent desire to induce these talks to fail, it seems rather trivial when compared to the complete and utter lack of flexibility that both of your delegations have just demonstrated. Seeing as how neither the Yallakian representatives of one of the claimants to the Waldenburg throne nor our Allamunnic hosts seem able to compromise on what is a rather mundane matter, I would propose that we set the matter of withdrawing forces aside and simply agree to a blanket ceasefire on all fronts.

"The past is the past, there is little that we can do to remedy what has happened during the conflict to this point. Instead I suggest that we instead focus on what we can do in the present in order to impact the future."

[The Fanboyists]

Grimmeberger muttered. "That was the original idea," he said to nobody in particular. It wasn't even audible to anyone but Chancellor Haldstadt or Filie. Andrew nodded. "That's what the original vision was for such a cease-fire, prior to High Lord Baelin's statement. A simple ceasing to hostilities for the duration of the conference. Can that at least be agreed upon by all?" He paused and added "It makes no sense to continue to aggravate the situation there while we're attempting to find a proper solution to the damned thing."

[Waldenburg 2]

"Your Excellency," Lintz dribbled soup down his chin as his remaining hand jittered its way to his mouth. "Comport yourself."He glanced at Baelin as the sniping went back and forth across the table. "Speak with the decency and respect which our hosts deserve. Her Majesty of Ossoria makes a point." Lintz was rather tired now; he felt like this every so often, and all he wanted to do was recline and watch the world fall apart. "Catoist forces would be willing to agree to a ceasefire however," he paused waving his spoon, "We are not in regular contact with forces outside of this continent and even within we have spotty control. A ceasefire could not be easily enforced, even if the desire existed. We could ensure a local ceasefire in Paloni and Waldenburg itself if that is amenable to our Yallakian guests."

This seemed the prudent course, every week that his soldiers weren't being hunted, thousands more would join the cause. It was a game of attrition that Cato had nearly nothing to lose in. And if the Yallakians refused.... Well it wasn't all that hard to portray them as warmongers, but Lintz felt he could buy some time.

[Sebaeria]

The Sebaerians had been sitting with intrigued silence while the Yallakians and the conference hosts nearly came to blows over the matter of troops in, or perhaps more correctly not in, the Empire. Though the mask concealed her expressions, the Founder allowed herself an amused smile. It was very seldom that Founders, and even more seldom average Sebaerians, had anything to do with foreigners and to watch them here, arguing like immature children at a peace conference, it was truly a delight. The Founders had debated for hours the matter of this conference, to send a delegation or not to send a delegation, that was the question. On one hand, Sebaeria was very close to the Empire in the scheme of things- it was entirely possible that they could be enticed into combat if the war continued without an end in sight, but being an island nation several Founders were confident they had little to fear from the troubles of the mainland as they lived very removed lifestyles, when a fog settled on the Sebaerian coastline, it was said the rest of the world vanished. Of course, the Founders were having a field day tracking the war, watching action and reaction as the powers that be played their fatal chess game, each trying to check the other, each with only marginal means of success- and it was that, more than anything else, that enticed Sebaeria’s curiosity- who would win this life and death struggle? In truth, the victor meant nothing to Sebaeria, the Founders had endured with the last emperor, and previous, and previous, and previous also, the Founders would endure with the new emperor just as easily. The combination of these factors is what lead to her presence here today, Sebaeria wanted the war to continue and they simply could not take the chance that these apes would, by some miraculous means, find said peace at this conference. However, it seemed this would be a simple assignment given the verbal sparring match just passed, but Sebaeria wasn’t entirely prepared to let the matter die. If they could push the topic subtly for a moment longer, it was possible that the entire conference could collapse, leaving the Founders to their observational, if not a touch cruel, entertainment.

“We can only imagine the Waldenburg people are most displeased with the immense international interference in, what is truly, a domestic matter. We would be infinitely surprised if the common men and women of Waldenburg were not most disheartened to learn that an mismatched group of nations constituting the whole of the region would attempt to resolve this conflict, as the only thing the region has thus far provided for Waldenburg is pain and warfare.” Asade had been given permission to speak by the Founder, who sat unmoving at his words, almost as though she was a world apart, completely unattached and disinterested in what he had to say, though in truth she listened with immense interest and judgment, he would expect either praise or punishment by the end of this Conference and it was a responsibility of a Founder to be fair. “If we cannot agree that the troops in the nation should relocate, we serve only to reinforce the notion that this is but a half-hearted effort to project the façade of empathy. Furthermore, so long as foreign troops are within the Empire this conference which is meant to bring peace will allow the aggressors and invaders to fortify their positions, making it ever more costly in both credits and blood to force them out.” To this the Founder gave the slightest of nods to signal her agreement, “as the High Queen just said, the past is the past- to focus on the present, Sebaeria believes it is of the upmost importance that all troops presently,” Asade added with a point and cast a glance to the High Lord, as if to agree with the point he had made earlier and, to some degree, to grant him support, “within the Empire should withdraw, to prevent a greater loss in the future.” Asade returned to his seat beside his deity, and all three waited with curious eyes to observe the response. At the very least they would be afforded a response, one which they hoped would serve to bring up the topic again, and the imperial pig seemed more than happy to spar, argue, and insult whenever possible. The irony of the statement, Sebaeria cloaking its agenda for continued bloodshed by invoking the prevention of bloodshed was entirely lost upon all three individuals.