The Rone Conference (Closed, Attn Tyrrhenia)

[Laysley]

"Aha well everyone is entitled to their opinion!"

Carlyle presented a walking contradiction. Loud but amiable, amiable but imposing, imposing but old. He lent subtly on his stick, nevertheless something the assembled were likely to notice. It wouldn't do to try and make a scene, considering the options. But, as he reflected later, he'd seen enough bad options taken in his long life for this to make any difference.

"I won't bother you with diplomatic talk folks, we've all been through quite enough back-stabbing power struggles in our careers for that I feel." He grinned at the various wry smiles now displayed around the room.

"To get to the point, the only man who hasn't taken leave of his senses in this room has taken leave of a few other things, so considering that you should all be ashamed of yourselves." He carried on grinning in much the same way as the wry smiles disappeared. "The truth of the matter is that while the Yallakians lie and the high-handed neutral powers arrogantly proclaim the wonders of an impossible peace, a lot of people are being shot, stabbed or in other ways robbed of what, without this war, would be innocent lives.

I am perfectly qualified to be a little angry" he said, without showing any anger at all "because the Laysley has been the butt of the worst end of this particularly bad joke. We cannot stop, as my Waldenburger colleague has shown, because matters have gone beyond politics. There will still be Catoists bayoneting Mykolans ten years from any victory, if there is a victory at all. This war is playing out in the realm of men's hearts, with emotions and ideas and dreams.

For have these dreams not taken quite a tangent, gentlemen and ladies, from the goals of the paymasters in Blünderburg, Skritz or Skant?"

He held up his hand politely, now without any smile at all.

"This war can only be ended by the withdrawal of all Yallakian troops from the Waldenburger continent, which incidentally we can prove are still there Mr. Baeliff or whatever your name is, along with a suitable deal from the Hapsburg Reich to the effect that Cato will succeed unimpeded to the Imperial Throne. Without this the domestic war will continue unabated in the Waldenburger lands, and the regional diplomatic balance, which I'm sure ever diplomat in this room will know that the Layslians were once so apt in keeping, will be broken well into the future.

To conclude therefore, gentlemen and ladies, I simply, as the representative of the starving, bereaved and homeless, ask that the regional community pledges full support to Prince Cato. Whether through respect and understanding or through blood and iron, peace can only be achieved by the complete defeat of Yallakian imperialism."

[Yallak]

Despite the obviously expected hate directed his way and more than a few bad words as regards to his character, Baelin did not lose the wry smile that adorned his face. The machinations of the fools that filled this room were impotent at the best and one thing became very clear to Baelin from their reactions, this conference could only achieve anything if he allowed it. Unless Yallak bowed to their desires there was little they could do but continue to moan like whores and as far as he was concerned it was not seemly for the Imperium to submit to the whims of foreigners without a very damn good reason.

'Speaking of lies, are you quite finished?' Baelin asked the Layslian Carlyle, without need for an answer. 'The only Imperialism taking place in Waldenburg comes from Cato and Mykola. Cato fled the country at the first sign of rebellion and now that he's decided he wants to be in charge, he's paying whoever the hell will agree to kill people for him to follow him back into Waldenburg. You would place a coward and an army of hired thugs on the throne? What a promising future that would be.'

Though Baelin's words still carried the poisonous sting of disdain, he used a more amiable rhetoric to carry his point. There were still some attending this conference that may be of some use in Yallak's plan to restore stability to Tyrrhenia and it would delay the inevitable to get them offside so early on in the day. That the rebel Waldenburger had seemed to become the most cordial attendee told Baelin that he had perhaps gone a tad too far earlier and that he should refrain from levelling petty jibes at people not worth the words.

'And the Mykolan claimant, installed by a military faction and who at this moment wage war against Ibblesgard and deploy troops southward to do the same against the humanitarian camps created by Aschenhyrst peace keepers. Another fine choice?'

Perhaps the words fell on deaf ears, he was fairly sure that most of the conference attendee's had already pledged their loyalties long before they arrived in the Allamunnic States, but Baelin continued anyway. He would not let someone call him a liar and not retort the claim. He could be a bit childish, yes, and the Imperium could be blamed for a great many acts other nations might not be able to stomach hearing about, but neither he nor the Empire needed to lie, especially not in this situation. Lying was pointless, you had to remember the lie then and who you told it too.

'And what of Yallak and Emperor Alaric? Neither of us have any active offensive campaigns which we can call off. Emperor Alaric is engaged only in trying to unite the splintered factions of Waldenburg and force an end to the fighting. We have, and shall continue to, hold our ground and shoot at only those who attack us. And while there are Yallakian troops on the Waldenburg continent, they do not reside within the Waldenburg Empire and so they will not be withdrawn.'

Looking to Carlyle again, Baelin moved in for the diplomatic kill. 'Laysley was lost because of it's own hostile actions and a failure to agree to peace, don't try and twist this conference now toward undoing your nations mistakes. If you so adamantly support Cato and aren't just trying to force us out of your own nation, perhaps you would explain to this conference why eye witnesses report that Layslian Special forces assaulted a diplomatic meeting, held at Libestbach, between Cato and the Governor of Salitz, capturing the prince and, I quote, “dragging him back out through a broken window”?

[Ossoria]

Tara had expected some resistance to the idea of a blanket ceasefire, but to have her proposal be completely ignored by the Laysleyans and twisted by the enigmatic Sebaerian delegation was irritating in a way, though this was mitigated somewhat by the support from their hosts and the Catoist soldier.

"Seeing as how the current positions of the delegates are completely inflexible towards each other, I would like to call for a recess to allow the delegations to discuss taking a more cooperative, and perhaps a somewhat more tactful, stance with their governments. Let us reconvene in say, three hours?"

This would, of course, also allow the delegations time for the back-room discussions that would truly determine the course of the Conference. And as the chief policy maker for the High Kingdom, she would be able to use all of the allotted time for such talks with anyone who had a desire to speak with her.

[Ascelonia]

Silence fell on the delegations in the room. Lord Visser sat in the corner drinking some brandy and biting chunks out of an Allamunnic pastry. After a few seconds of silence passed, he clumsily attempted to rise but Sir Wortsley noticed he was more than a little tipsy and pressed him back into his seat. The old veteran rose, leaning heavily on his cane, and limped forward.

"You know," he began slowly, savoring the words like a glass of Ponean Merlot. His cane bent slightly as he shifted his weight onto it and let off with each step. "In the Bush War, my company engaged a battalion-sized swarm of Ubanto tribesmen. Some of their scouts caught us by surprise and cut down our left flank with rifle fire. We had an instant to react, but that instant was enough to prevent a total rout."

He paused. His audience seemed attentive but confused. Grimmeberger sighed. "It would be much appreciated, ambassador, if you could please get to the point. Assuming, that is, that you have one, and this is not some irrelevant rambling that nobody has any particular reason to care about."

"Pardon me, sir. I was only relaying an experience that's related to the situation at hand. Now if I may..." the old Arcindin leaned on his cane and stood with his back straight. He was not tall, but, at a hair above average height with his grayed whiskers, he did seem a bit imposing. He was not fat, but his barrel chested body made him appear larger than the norm. He was not old, but the experiences of war had aged his spirit and his words carried a tone of elderly wisdom. "I cannot begin to explain the ferocity and bloodfury that consumed the next hour of that war. War, I say, because the scale of slaughter, in my eyes, extended beyond the boundaries of the conventional battlefield."

"And?" Grimmeberger waved his hand impatiently.

"However, there's a Kiliwean word for it, 'Kubadan'. It's almost a curse. The pure embodiment of slaughter, misery, and chaos. In essence, a rough translation would be 'evil' but that's not specific to the situation," Wortsley stopped for a moment, but just enough to sense the inquistive glares. He cleared his throat with a rough grumble and continued. "As I understand it, we've seen some unpleasant words fired against both sides. I agree with Miss Tara over here. We need to stop and reconsider the situation right now. Give us some time to cool off or you'll all know first-hand the meaning of 'Kubadan'."

[Laysley]

Carlyle laughed a not unfriendly laugh, smiling broadly again.

"One always finds these conferences an education. If I may reply first to the Ascelonian delegation" he said, ignoring Grimmeberger's look "I might add that kubadan is most fitting word indeed, but not for this situation. I have had the singular luck to have been deposed from my office and sent off to live comfortably on a island a few years before the Yallakians saw it fit to show off their toys on innocent people myself, but alas the twenty million people, and this is according to a conservative estimate, that have so far been slaughtered in the Yallakian invasion, if I may use such a civil a term, have undoubtedly experienced this kubadan. Which brings me on neatly to the Yallakians."

He turned to Baelin and nodded respectfully.

"I'm glad to see that you've finally abandoned the façade of moral upstandingness and resorted to the petty jibes that befit your status as callous megalomaniacs, but this conference's opinion appears to be that a recess is in order and therefore I will simply state my point. You, and I mean no ill words towards the rest of the delegates, have entirely ignored my point that this conflict is beyond a political power struggle now. You can't win, everyone knows it, and yet you still consider yourselves to be the legitimate authority? The non-imperialists who have catapulted themselves through force of arms alone from an another continent entirely into the arms of a hated authority, and in doing so started and prolonged a deep and terrible kubadan?"

He shrugged, now looking stiff and weak without the wise tone of the Ascelonian or the fascinating defects of the Waldenburger.

"Laysley has now no resources to fight back against the Yallakians, although I will add that we did try. It is the ends of peace, Mr. Baelin, that I am attempting to bend this conference to, as I believe I made perfectly clear before. But, considering the opinion of the assembled as I have heard it, I fear this is a lost fight on behalf of my nation. I therefore ask only that the Waldenburger delegation be allowed to have the final word before we recess. Thank you."

He sat down heavily, his grunt of pain audible to the silent room. Rolings patted him on the shoulder, but there was no comfort for the Layslians here.

[Waldenburg 2]

"Kickball!" Lintz bellowed happily; he had discovered, through process of trial and error, a manageable position to ferry both spoon and lavender scented cigarette to his mouth. "Perfect thing for recess. Draw up some teams, healthy outdoor exercise, and juvenile violence for a trot round the bases. As my most vociferous opponents would suggest though, the only difference would be we'd be outside." A plume of hazy smoke fountain-ed up tainting the delicate crystal of the light fixtures an ethereal violet. "I choose the spunky hooded chaps, they seem the to be the type who know a soup spoon from a vichyssoise fork." He languidly waved towards the Sebaerians with a smile that might have been offensive, ironically pointed, genuinely ingratiating, or simple amusement; even Lintz wasn't sure

"So let's hop out on the dug-out where we can more effectively whisper and snipe, and sharpen our backstabbing knives eh? No, because good men are dying. Consider yourselves creatures of duty. In Milord Baelin's case, a mere addition of duty to his already sterling brutish repertoire. And consider that you live in the service of others. We all took oaths one way or another, be it to a king," He waved a spoon towards the Mykolans, "A President," a sharp utensil jab to the representative of Paloni, "Or to the multiple snake Gods of Thuban Nine." Again to the Sebaerians. "And we all, every last man of us, will grow white hairs with nary a thanks, and never in the confession that we love war too much and man too little. Nothing makes me hotter under the collar than exploding the head of some Yallakian droog at fifty yards, I know the little swell of secret pride everyone last one of you gets when the cannon sounds.

And that is what we serve now. Our oaths are held on the metal of society and I have given, personally, my better half in the hopes that I would kill enough of you, so you would never become one of 'us.' My respected colleague of once great Laysley speaks the truth, we will be fighting this war ten years from now, the same war we fought fifty and a hundred years ago. But the one difference, the one difference that will change the world and will so it over the boiled eggs is we can end it today. There are children in Bluenderburg who have grown up knowing nothing but war, for their entire lives, and will, if we allow, be conscripted into the legions of this prince or another. I love war too much to see our children fight it.... their tiny hands can hardly hold a rifle! Forswear it then. Put it to bed. Choose service over servitude and allow into your hearts an admission that your oaths are broken the moment you need kill the innocent in their upholding.

I will swear," His remaining hand shot up theatrically, inadvertently bringing the lit cigarette into contact with an ear that had received so much nerve damage a little flame was hardly going to phase it, "a new oath, to a new mankind. And as plenipotentiary of His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty, promise a plebiscite on Ibblesguarder independence, and as General Grimmeberger suggest, a reconvening of the electors." Lintz glowered, his lip curling in a savagery that suggested he was flinging about a bloody saber rather than archly promising republic. Everyone knew Cato would win. And if he did not win, he would cheat.

But it was said now, the words left hanging over the buffet. Maybe no one would believe it, but it was said.

[Hyopria]

The Augsburger representative removed himself from his seat and rose. To the eye of a spectator this action would have been somewhat stupendous - it was like watching a well-built machine move; the Augsburger did not seem so much to stand up as to unfold. He was stock straight. The nobility, whatever their foibles, were nothing if not elegant.

"The representative's words ring true, good sirs. This is what any man, prideful or humble, will see as just. It is Waldenburger way of doing things. My forefathers, this Cato's forefathers, even those of the representative of the Republic have done this. We are honorable people, us Waldenburgers. We settle things with a civilized hand. Ours is not the way of the vandal or the barbarian! Ours is prestigious way. Honorable way. True and just and holy way. Good sirs. Gentle ladies. This man is a walking example of the brutality of this war, which is of scale and manner naught seen in this parts. There was once a time when my ancestors fought Waldenburger wars. These are wars of principle. They are fought by dutiful men. What principle is here? There is no principle in wanton brutality, in subjugation."

He rotated on his feet toward the Yallakian representative. It wouldn't have gone unnoticed that his legs never actually bent. He remained straight as an arrow. Behind him, the Major General was holding a fork up in the air and staring at him.
"We will be having electorate. If you and your Emperor are men of God you will see the justice in this. Let all Waldenburgers, let all Sudkriesers and Ostkriesers and Palonians be free in this, at least. We are the natural property of God almighty and none other. Let us decide for ourselves who we are wanting to rule us, for we are not slaves, we are Waldenburgers. If your Emperator is righteous man, he must win."

He looked down and brushed some crumbs off his jacket. "And now to recess?"

[The Fanboyists]

When everyone had finished saying what they had to say, Filie nodded again. "That sounds agreeable to us. And, with that discussed, I think now would be a good time to begin our recess. You're welcome to wander as you please around the estate, talk amongst yourselves, snack, snowball fight, whatever. Just try not to break anything please." With a cheerful smile, Filie said "Because I will bill you if you do," he said with an amused chuckle. He rapped his gavel on the block. "Meet back here in three hours."

As the various delegates stood up and began leaving, he turned to Haldstadt and Grimmeberger. "Well, that went well, I suppose. Steven, would you be so good as to find the Mykolans and Captain Lintz? Amanda, see what you can dig up. Maybe talk to Mister Carlyle? I...I guess I'll try and find Allanae," he said. The conference had so far gone less-than-ideally. Perhaps giving everyone the opportunity to cool their heads and reevaluate their opinions might help that.

[Yallak]

'Baelin!' As the delegations broke apart like shattering glass, moving off in small groups to various places around the hall or by the buffet table, Baelin heard his name shouted, and yet it was still little more than an sharp and directed whisper. He looked toward the direction of the sound and saw Myrcella approaching, a vision of anger and yet still as graceful as ever. She stopped directly before him so that they could speak without any prying ears overhearing.

'I know,' said Baelin apologetically, holding up a hand in an attempt to forestall a beratement.

Forestall it did not.

'What was that?!' she hissed, 'You promised you'd behave.'

'I was behaving,' declared Baelin, and there was no joking to be found in his tone or his expression. In fact, the High Lord of Kilrah appeared mildly insulted. 'Those primitives should be very grateful that I was restraining myself when they dare speak about me or the Empire like that.'

Though his reaction was understandable, Myrcella felt as if he was missing the whole point. 'You know that we don't have to fight them to win this war.'

'Tell me Myrcella, do you actually believe we will achieve anything here?' the question was once again rhetorical. 'On the way here I thought maybe, but what has occurred so far has only made me realise that our mistake was thinking that these insects had become civilised enough to communicate with. They ask for terms and then say they have no interest in terms, they raise issues and then verbally attack us when those issues prove false and now...'

Baelin left a small dramatic pause. When he continued his voice carried with it an air of exasperation. 'Now, they want to let their imaginary 'god' resolve everything. This conference is going nowhere at light speed.'

Myrcella did not reply immediately and Baelin could see she was pondering what had transpired and what might yet. He continued, 'And if they really cared about a peaceful resolution, why does no-one seem to care that the Layslian's attacked one diplomatic meeting already? Because they don't care. This entire affair is an orchestration to put Cato in a position to buy his way onto the throne.'

'We want Cato on the throne though,' interjected Myrcella.

'Yes,' agreed Baelin, 'but not at the expense of giving up everything we have bled for so far.'

After another moment, Myrcella nodded her concurrence, albeit hesitantly. 'I would still like to see this through to the end, one way or another.'

'So be it. I will leave you to deal with this conference as you think best then. In the meantime, I must meet with certain people before the recess ends and I suggest you contact the Council and make sure we are prepared for what I think is coming.'

_____________________________

After they parted ways, it was not challenging or time consuming for Baelin to locate the Rodarion delegation. They were perhaps the least liked nationality in attendance and stood away from the other parties. Though there was at least one other representative that he would rather speak with before he missed his chance, Baelin felt it best to respond to the Menarci's private meeting request first lest they find some offense in being sidelined.

'Menarci Viktorda,' he said coming to a stop before the Rodarion man and bowing his head in the traditional Yallakian formal greeting, 'A pleasure to meet you at last. I thought those fools would never stop rambling and deny us the chance to speak privately. You wished to discuss something with me?'

_____________________________

Having found a corner away from the bulk of the conference happenings, Myrcella activated her communicator and attempted to contact the remainder of the High Council in Arrandin. She did not have to wait long before someone accepted the tranmission and a shimmering blue holograph began to form from the surface of the device as she held it out before her with one hand.

'Sollonaal!' the name came as more of a disappointed exclamation than a greeting however the ghostly representation of the Supreme Magistrate did not seemed perturbed in the slightest.

'My Lady Saroir, a delight to hear from you as always.' No matter how nice he was being or how innocent the topic of conversation might be, Sollonaal's voice always carried like that of a serpentine hiss and left those that heard it with an odd feeling that they should guard their words and even their thoughts carefully. 'How goes the conference?'

'Not all that well.'

'Oh, that is a pity,' proclaimed Sollonaal with an air of disappointment. 'How can I be of assistance?'

Myrcella did not believe for a second that the Supreme Magistrate cared at all about what transpired at the conference however she did not let this sentiment show in her words or her expression, maintaining a passive appearance. 'Baelin believes that the conference has already failed and that escalation of the conflict is inevitable. We should look to preparing the Empire for full scale war.'

'Such measures have just been taken. Has nobody told you?'

'Told me what?' demanded Myrcella.

Sollonaal's holograph looked away for a moment, as if speaking with someone nearby him and then he turned back and spoke in a sorrowful tone, whether or not it was a genuine feeling. 'We have just received word that the Emperor has been murdered. Apparently he went to Laysley without telling anyone and while there he was assassinated in a bombing.'

'WHAT?!'

'Yes, it was a horrendous and barbaric act by cowards, but it will not be unanswered.' Try as he might, Sollonaal could not quite subdue the glee from his voice and it seemed to Myrcella that he was almost proud somehow, though she couldn't quite understand why that would be the case. 'The news has brought the Senate to their senses at last and the Council has been given full leave to conduct the war as we see fit. I have just now issued orders to the relevant Marshal's to make all Legions and Battlegroups ready for deployment. The Empire will obliterate all those who interfere with our rightful rule of Waldenburg. We will not stomach foreign intervention any more.'

Myrcella found herself speechless. She could not, all of Tyrrhenia could not, even imagine what was about to be unleashed on the region. No Emperor had ever before been assassinated in the Empire's existence. Such an act was the greatest offence an Imperial citizen could suffer and the entire Empire would scream for vengeance on a scale that couldn't be imagined.

'You may return home now, my dear Myrcella,' purred Sollonaal, 'or you can continue the negotiation charade to keep all their attention preoccupied.'

The transmission ended and the holograph began to dissipate into nothingness.

[Laysley]

Carlyle coughed politely. Myrcella span around, an obvious mix of shock and anger on her face. She was a very pretty woman, but the look did not suit her in the slightest. She had at least closed her mouth. Still, the usual intelligent, confident expression was gone.

The old man smiled a thin, tight smile.

“I used to be quite good at reading signs, my lady, much better than my father anyway. The Commonwealth Club used to run rings around him, I should think that in ten or twenty years’ time the historians will attribute this flaw in his character as yet another cause for the lamentable decline of my city.”

Myrcella almost hissed as she found words. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you now, you crude blooded half man.”

Carlyle nodded respectfully. “I expect that’s true.”

He held out his hand.

“I was simply referring to the fact that my people reading ability may have been watered down with age, but it’s perfectly clear that you’ve just been informed of the death of your Emperor.”

She drew herself up to her full height, slightly taller than stooped Carlyle.

“So you were all involved in it?” She spat, hands trembling at the end of her stiffly controlled arms.

“As a matter of fact, my lady, none of us were.”

A hint of confusion showed through the thinly veiled rage.

He retracted his outstretched hand and shoved it awkwardly in his inside pocket, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. She snatched it up, a patently more appealing gift that his hand. She efficiently but aggressively unfolded it, the explosion like noise of paper being handled heavily making Carlyle’s chest jump a little, to his frustration and distress. She scanned the words from under her increasingly perplexed frown.

She looked slowly from the sheet to Carlyle, the intelligent spark back in her eye. “You can testify to the genuineness of this communication?” She asked, professionally.
Carlyle suppressed his usual smile. “I don’t think my attaché is capable of deceit, my lady, and they of course trust me fully with information now there’s a chance I could get my old position back. It’s a copy of an actual statement from the provisional governor of the Yallakian Imperial Territory of Laysley.”

[Rodarion]

Tyrin began to shake with anger, this conference was the total failure they knew it would be. Rodarion had come here for what reason, to see heathens demand such self benefitial rubbish? Cardinal Atticus held his head in his hands as the other delegates
screamed at one another like rabid animals. When recess was called the two stood up, Tyrin slammed his folders into the table and walked off.

There he was met by Lord Baelin, a huge relief as Rodarion had struggled to put in a word edgeways as the concerns of the other delegates were somewhat more of an irritation than serious news. Atticus decided to walk towards the High Queen of Ossoria for some respectable conversation, of another nation that had similiar standings on the worries of the other states. Yet Tyrin took to proper business with the Yallakian representative.

"The Pleasure is all mine Lord Baelin, and yes the note was vital. I wish to speak to you about the current situation, and of course ignoring the ignorance of all others that sit with us, I believe we have a stronger hand to be dealt. I have come to tell you the whole truth about Rodarion's decision to aid you in this righteous war. We have not only decided to aid you through good will, but also for our main aim in our agenda, we wish as we have done for centuries to bring much pain and destruction to the Waldenburger Catholic Church, it is indeed a major foe and threat to security and freedom not only in Waldenburg but also Tyrrhenia as a whole, it is a vile monstrousity and a stain upon the soul of mankind. I hope you can understand this?"


Cardinal Atticus found the High Queen and bowed his head in respect. Looked up and smiled, he smiled at her aides also to avoid being seen as rude. "Good day to you, your majesty. A pleasure it is to speak to you at last, I hope you are as infuriated at the ignorance of people in this event as we are?" he opened up and got straight to the point, not only did the conference offer Rodarion a chance to put its voice to the region, but also acted as a PR moment, if it could appear honourable to heads of state, it could very well prove it had changed its ways since the disaster in Paloni.

[Ossoria]

High Queen Tara was singularly displeased with the proceedings of the Conference thus far; the various factions choosing to bicker like petty chiefs than the dignified representatives of various Tyrrhenian heads of state that they claimed to be. As she left her table, she noticed one of the Rodarion representatives approach. With a quick signal to one of her aides, she was given a name and title seconds before he greeted her.

"Good day to you as well," Tara said in response, pausing slightly before finishing with "Your Eminence." The Priestesses of Osrai, the heads of the Ossorian henotheist faith used a very simple structure, and did not have an equivalent to a Cardinal, prompting Tara's slight pause. "Indeed I am displeased at the current state of this farce that people call a conference; it's as though none of them understand the terms 'negotiation', 'diplomacy', or 'compromise'."

[Ascelonia]

Though Alfred had tolerated the harsh exchange of words in the conference, a few things had irked him. As he saw the others gathering in their little clusters, he rose and banged his wine glass with a salad fork.

"It seems as if this conference is for all for naught. The delegates seem fine settling with naught for all," Wortsley rose from his seat, after having listened to the other delegates. "Frankly, as a representative of Arcindis and of the Aarsindiin people, I can no longer sit idly by while actors play diplomats and these ambassactors make an embarassment of our vocation.

Though a simple farmer and a working man, rest assured. Mr. Baelin's words have not fallen upon deaf ears. Neither has Miss Tara's nor Mr. Carlyle's," he spoke a bit faster than usual, without the long pauses and tangents that consumed his normal conversational dialogue. He continued, sensing an annoyed Grimmeburger's stare, "These actors cast aside the bonds of diplomacy and reason. Lintz offered a perfectly reasonable solution to the situation, which you all have ignored. Now, millions more will perish for your foolishness, but none of you care. That's right isn't it? Hmmph."

Visser stirred in his seat. His ears perked up and his attention was drawn towards Wortsley.

"Mr. Carlyle, I'm afraid I made a huge error, overlooking the current situation in your country. Allow me to apologize," Alfred held his hand to his heart and bowed in his direction. "It's obvious that Mr. Baelin is obfuscating facts with lies and half-truths. Blood has been spilled and blood will continue to be spilled for the arrogance of his Emperor, a man worthy not of his current title. I remember reading those little books about everything when I was not much taller than a potted fern. If I recall my early childhood correctly, the word Emperor is derived from the latin Imperator. A title granted by mere mortals like ourselves to men who surpassed the average monarch in terms of power and humility. It was a contract between the ruler and ruled. An Emperor would serve his people and the people would serve their Emperor."

The words started filtering through to Lord Elrich, but his mind struggled to gather thoughts and formulate a proper response. He shrugged lazily and brought a bottle of Empirian Brandywine to his lips. Sucking down a few gulps of the liquid calmed his troubles.

"Yet, ever since the fall of the Elysian Empire, the meaning of the word, the title, and the social contract have been subverted for years by lesser men. Tyrants, sadists, and hedonists, who serve none other than themselves and a small fraction of the people while the rest perish in battlefields and famines. These mortal fiends whose supplications wish cruel deaths upon their enemies. They are not worthy of the title," he paused to take a sip of brandywine from his wine glass, which an attendant had kindly refilled, and went on. "And here we have men in service of a man not worthy of his title or their devotion. Footsoldiers whose sole occupation is the dissemination of one man's lies." He gestured with his wine glass towards the Yallakian delegation.

"A High Queen, who in all her wisdom and maturity, cannot rise above a petty grudge to see the truth of the Layslian's words." He motioned with a gentle wave of his hand towards the Ossorians talking to the Rodarions. "Some damn nutjobs." He threw his index finger around at the delegates of belligerent nations, stabbing in the air as he named their respective countries and ending with a half-joking thumb thrown over his shoulder towards the Ascelonians.

"As much as we try to be, we're not barbarians anymore. The measure of a ruler no longer lies in the length of extremities, but in the depth of hearts and minds. Yet, try as I might to instill some reason in these gentlemen, it won't happen," his accented drawl was struck with a firm certainty. "Kickball, indeed. I see nothing but children who still place faith in extremities. Who compensate for the lack thereof with sacrifices of the blood and flesh of better men. I say, if you scum truly place yourselves above the status of mere mortals and if you claim to serve a power higher than Almighty God, then strike me down here and now. Or have your master do it for me. I'm an old man now. I've served in two wars and fought men far better than these scoundrels. So, don't bother inventing excuses for your wanton lust for wealth and violence. Strike now or forever hold your peace."

[Waldenburg 2]

Captain Lintz pushed himself away from the table, accidentally knocking a china bowl to the ground with his stump where the intricate piece shattered. Fortuitously, the soup had been entirely cleared. "Sod." He said as a waiter silently moved forward to clear up the pieces. The delegates were dissipating into their cliques, discussing no doubt the fall formal and boys they liked. Lintz wasn't exactly prepared for diplomacy, and had no orders to arrange anything.

"General," Lintz sauntered over to Grimmeberger who sullenly picked at the armrest of his chair, "Do you mind if I join you for an aperitif?" The Captain sat down next to the man without a response; a lavender cigarette was automatically and by some inborn muscular tick inserted into his mouth. "I hate people, General. They have the immeasurable defect that they are not me. And though I am loath to give into the more coarse side of my nature, nothing would give me a more plausive tickle than to go home. I have a horse, a winded old screw somewhere in Ibblesguard, that misses me...." he paused for a puff, "But my wife can wait, my courser needs attention." Lintz laughed to himself, and leaned back even further in the chair.

"I don't suppose I could press you for a division or two?" Lintz said suddenly and without much conviction. He had the feeling he and Grimmeberger were the same person, and consequently he didn't feel the urge to press the man very hard. "I only ask because they gave me a pair of trousers, and you know... massacres and all. It seems the right thing to do you know?"

[The Fanboyists]

Steven had simply settled down in his chair as the recess began, trusting that Lintz would find his way over without needing to actually ask him. Sure enough, the weathered Ibblesguarder wandered over, asking to join him. "Feel free," Grimmeberger said in a voice that was basically a growl. It was a friendly growl, but a growl nonetheless. "I thought you might find your way over here, Captain. Good o' you to join me."

Lintz continued "I hate people, General. THey have the immeasurable defect that they are not me. And though I am loath to give into the more coarse side of my nature, nothing would give me plausive tickle than to go home. I have a horse, a winded old screw somewhere in Ibblesguard, that misses me." He puffed on the lavender cigarette, and Grimmeberger involuntarily coughed. "But my wife can wait, my course needs attention." As Lintz laughed, Grimmeberger's own barking chuckle joined it, and it would be quite apparent to anyone listening how he had earned the nickname "Wardog."

Then came Lintz's request. It was delivered in a somewhat unenthusiastic voice, which caught Steven's closer attention. "I don't suppose I could press you for a division or two?" the Catoist captain said. "I only ask because they gave me a pair of trousers, and you know... massacres and all. It seems the right thing to do, you know?"

Steven nodded. "So it does. And that means it ought to be done, no matter how distasteful these" (and here he practically spat) "politicians might find it. I'll see what I can rustle up. Actually...what day is it again?" He paused for a moment, thinking for a moment. "The tenth of January, right? If I'm not mistaken, there ought to be a number of my countrymen already on the continent. Of course, they're there to keep our allies safe, but I highly doubt the situation can get much worse if they happen to get some muddled orders telling them to help out your people. In fact, an old friend, and his vanguard, as he likes to call it, might be quite happy if he can creatively misconstrue his orders. If it's not like to cause some catastrophe, might I know where Allamunnic blood and iron might be of the most benefit? If our people are going to make sacrifices on the behalf of yours, we'd best make it as efficient as can be. The fewer lives lost in general, especially of ours and yours, the better. And maybe even too many of the enemy, if it seems doable, although I highly doubt but anyone but Alaric will lose any sleep if the Yallakians lose a legion or three."

After a moment, he added a question. "How bad is it?"

[Waldenburg 2]

"That is unnaturally generous of you General," Lintz sighed satisfied and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "I'm grateful above all things General, and in the spirit of diplomacy I hope you will not be offended in that I ask the price of your favor?" Lintz was, despite nearly four decades of contrary experience, an optimist. A soft hearted optimist. "I recall at the War College a certain instruction major who required his entire section to awake at four in the morning and greet the sun. And he'd ask us every morning, 'Why do you serve?' and we would respond usually with our oath, 'For our Emperor!' but one day, perhaps a bit fighty from waking before the ass end of breakfast I responded, 'For the tips.' He ordered me to march to Ibblestern, nine hundred miles through the mountains. Well, ramblings short, I won my commission by strangling gray wolves among the frosted peaks I have to fight up again. Reward through strife, so reward first?" Lintz smiled vaguely. He wasn't very good at telling stories. "What can I do for you?"

Lintz didn't allow a word in edgewise but waved down a waiter and rubbing his stump up against the horrified man's arm, "Do you know what a cosmopolitan is?"

The waiter nodded vacantly.

"Good. So civilization continues even here! Bring me two of them, with cherries." The man fled. "General..." Lintz turned back, "I don't know where to place any divisions. The south is where the war will start though, I assume Paloni will be the hot water faucet on the bloodbath.... Alas in Bluenderburg 80,000 civilians die every day from Alaric's dehydration. The riots kill more but... who's fault is that... Relief there would make all the difference but a thousand divisions wouldn't take the city. So how bad is it?" Lintz waved his drinks over and set them one after another on a side-table, "Not nearly as bad as it will be in three weeks."

[The Fanboyists]

"Alas, I can't actually promise anything besides that I'll do my best. Although the way this thing is going, I suspect I'll at least be able to send discreet help. Assuming, of course, this doesn't convince the President that all would be well served by Alaric not being allowed near the throne with a ten-foot-pole, which I suspect it will." After a moment's pause, he thought before his next words.

"What you can do for me, Captain? Ah, now there's a question. Because at this point, I don't lack for anything that can be given by anyone in this world. I am personally living a fairly comfortable life, my family, although I don't have children or a wife of my own, are looked after, and my nation, which I have served all my life, looks to be on the verge of true power and prosperity. Influence, as it were. Although, now that I think of it... here's my requests. First, get Cato, and I assume he still lives, onto that throne. He's the best hope for lasting peace on the continent, and when that's there, we'll all be able to rest a little easier. Second, help me make this thing quick. Enough lives have been lost, and if more must be lost, so be it, but let's keep the suffering and death to a minimum. Thirdly, you keep yourself alive. You're far too interesting and, I suspect, far too useful, to die in some crater on a battlefield, even in the name of a great cause. Fourth, help me get my boys and girls back home as safely as they can once their job is done. I look after my own, and if I'm to send good Allamunnic men and women into battle, they'll damn well be looked after."

After a moment, he pulled a bottle of Stalhamarkian cider (or sydr) out and took a drink from it. "But, Captain, you must know, I ran this country for nearly thirty years. You don't last that long as an autocrat without being able to see the long-term benefits of things. Honestly, I'm offering help because my gut and experience tell me that a stable and peaceful Waldenburg under anyone other than that Yallakian megalomaniac is what's also best for the Allamunnae, even if our own people don't yet realize it."

He paused, thought, and continued. "I have a theory. That all politics and economics is an attempt to pawn off one group's suffering onto others. It's a big old game of hot-potato, passing hardship off to others so as not to be holding onto it when the shit hits the fan. It's a leader's responsibility to keep the potato out of his people's hands, and a mistake is liable to leave them with it. I suspect, if I may risk speaking ill of the dead, that Emperor Wyatt made his mistake when he did not think to clarify who his heir would be. I don't think it was malicious, but the mistake, a human one, did its damage, and the shit hit the fan and the potato was held by Waldenburg." He collected his thoughts again, and pressed on. "Those not holding it owe it to the unlucky one who gets hit with it to make the suffering and hardship as quick and relatively painless as possible, and get on with it. I know that one day, one of my successors will make a mistake, and we will be stuck with the hardship. And I hope then, your successors and descendents will remember what we did for you, and will afford us the same mercy."

After a moment's thought, he said "Now, onto business. I suspect that Tyrrus, unless I missed my guess, did precisely what I told him not to do and hitched a ride with the Empirians to Eisenbach. He said something about kicking the shit out of some Aschenhyrsters around Tettenburg, if I got his message right. He's got three, if I recall. Three divisions and four battalions of Katafracts. God help whoever gets to be on their receiving end. Or, I guess, as Tyrrus would say, gods help them." He mused about the other divisions. "There's another eighteen divisions in Haaldstadten-Aachensboro, if I recall. Although they were ordered to stay put. The Graetjaarls are known to be oh-so eager to fight, though, so I think Baeryk will be happy to oblige if I tell him to disregard his previous orders. Hell, General Faaldryk might even go along with it." After a moment, he added "And I suppose Commander-General Kaepurnik in Aachensboro might do something with the Auxiliary Corpsmen, but I don't think they'd be of much help, as small in number and untested as they are. I'll not tell Harper to strike through Daarnhulm though. Help is one thing. I'm not telling anyone to commit suicide, and striking directly at the Yallakians in Laysley with 50,000 troops is exactly that."

"So quite bad, then. I suppose there's nothing for it but to get the bloody business done with as quickly as possible so we can all start picking up the pieces."

[Rodarion]

Atticus smiled at her agreement, "You'll find your majesty the needs of the few always outnumber the needs of the many in Tyrrhenia, historic hatreds always simmer through and destroy hopes of a solution. Waldenburg is indeed a touchy issue, we Rodarians believe that perhaps Waldenburg be divided up into occupation zones and different independent nations form, it would end the civil war, end the possibility of a regional war and of course make all problems void. But of course most nations that we share this room's air with won't agree to such a move, as they will want to make sure they take the power position. Sad isn't it?" He smiled in return.

[Ossoria]

Electing to ignore the jab at her made by the Arsindin delegate, Tara continued her conversation with the Cardinal. "We Ossorians have long had a history based on the few ruling the fates of many, so that is nothing new to us." Casting a glance towards the Layslian delegate as he disappeared somewhere, she continued "And we can understand the lingering of petty grudges and historical hatreds, as we ourselves still harbor our fair share."

"However," she continued, "my family has not held the Emerald Throne for as long as it has by sacrificing the good of the nation to satiate such inane sentiments as exacting blood retribution for offenses long past and the selfish interests of the minority. To do so is to invite unrest and succor the cancerous elements of society whom are never satisfied with society as it is."

"It is indeed a sorry state of affairs when such grievances cannot be put aside even when we claim to come together in order to solve them."

[Mykola]

Near the culmination of the diplomatic slug fest, Herzland exaggerated a yawn, making it plainly obvious to the Yallakians at how little in particular he was affected by their insults and lies. Just before the recess was called, he turned to Rudolf and whispered, "A first year intern in the diplomatic job would do a better job here. Pay heed to their words for they are breaking every single rule with regards to diplomacy," Herzland gestured towards the Yallakians and then to the Allumunnics, "they are arguing over positions, ergo positional bargaining. You get nowhere by doing such things and must instead find the common ground you share, not the position you hold. Secondly, for Baelin to retort with such...remarks is most unsettling," Herzland shook his head for a moment, "stupid type 'A' personality, thick headed brutes from the Army. They give all of humanity a bad name."

Rudolf chuckled for a moment, attempting to see himself as not being a thick headed brute from the army, but soon realizing that he in all actuality was. Regardless, he stood up with the rest of the delegates and followed Herzland, who quickly addressed the Cvkaricans.

"Sirs," Herzland began, the smile gone from his face, now replaced with a much more serious look, "we have much to discuss and it would be best if we did so sooner rather than later. Perhaps the building next door would be a suitable location?"

[Ascelonia]

Visser stumbled from his seat, bottle still in hand. He wavered for a few steps, but built a drunken momentum towards the door. The words dawned on him slowly and, though he did not quite understand everything Wortsley had said, he was infuriated. Wortsley stood outside with a pipe hanging out of his mouth, enjoying the fresh air rolling off the Bluwaald mountains. His eyes cast upward at the night sky, basked in the serenity of the twilight and freed from nightmarish visions of war. Then a hand settled itself on his shoulder. He turned and a dialogue began between his face and Visser's fist.

Doubling over, Alfred clutched the cheek that took the brunt of the impact and stared at Visser in awe, "Have you gone mad?"

"No, M-mister Wortsy. F-fuck you," Visser mumbled and fell to one knee. The stench of alcohol escaped his lips and tainted the mountain breeze. "You haf disgrayed our country."

"Any more than you've disgraced yourself, Mr. Visser?" Wortsley fired back as he carefully stood up with his cane and dusted off his old dress pants. "Bastard. Ruined my pipe."

"No mor than you runed our relations," Visser sneered and spat at the ground. "Youve runed your best cance."

"Chance of what?" he asked as he wiped himself off with a handkerchief. "Of getting back at Mykola? You realize it's been two hundred years, Elrich. We don't care anymore. It is our territory, but what's it to us? A rock. A rock upon which millions will die to service their selfish leaders."

"Your so fullit. God knows that you all want reven. Yallaks yer best cance. We must keep the Mykes ofteh throen," Visser sighed and took a last swig, downing the contents of the bottle. Wiping the liquor from his lips with his tailored sleeve, he spat, "And you know yerself. This world is ruld by tyrans."

"You neutrals really piss me off. Hiding behind a veil of impartiality while you scheme and plot. Ascelonians, Ossorians, Empirians, and Cukaricans. You may be right. Tyrrhenia ruled by tyrants. However, this world isn't meant for schemers who plot behind curtains and twiddle their thumbs while the world burns. It's meant for people who actually do things," Mr. Wortsley snapped and kept on. "I can no longer fall in line with Ascelonian cowardice. You people say Arcindis is independent, yet you deny us the ability to set our own foreign policy directives."

"Wot you just say?" Visser looked a bit confused. His vision was fading and so was his reason. Anger boiled inside him though. He hated being made into a fool. No one was around, but he sensed the shame of defeat. He stepped forward and motioned to the throw the bottle at the Arcindin, but he stumbled forward, instead. His face hit the ground with a thud, blood exploded from his nose, and the shattering of glass shredded his hands. Wortsley folded his hands, "Case and point. We cannot follow drunken fools who can't throw a proper blow, let alone juggle foreign policy. Whether it's alcohol or power, your inebriation has allowed your betters to manipulate you."

He leaned over a crying Visser, "Hush up old boy. The salt of the tears will only cause you more pain. Listen, my boy. I came from a farming community. Self-taught. Self-educated. I didn't have your fancy cars or your private schooling, but I will let you know right now."

He knelt down and made sure not to get blood on his pants. Wortsley leaned in until his lips hovered over Visser's ear and whispered softly, "I will always be better than you. Those men who perished so you could live a life of luxury and excess will always be better than you. You are nothing more than a coward and nothing will change that, my poor boy."

A bubble of bloody snot burst and Wortsley wiped his face off with his handkerchief. The guards assigned to them appeared at the doorway and one of them spoke while the others hauled the Count up and away, "Excuse me, Mr. Visser. You're being recalled to Cyrone. i hope you won't mind if we escort you to your limo."

"A bit late, don't you think?" Wortsley smiled gently and leaned on his cane. "How'd you know, by the way? How'd they know? I made sure to find a quiet, secluded spot to smoke."

"Yes, well. My official explanation is that your argument with Lord Visser was rather loud and our hosts have extensive surveillance. The unofficial explanation, since I'm no longer obligated to keep secrets from you, is that that isn't your cane," he gestured towards the cane Wortsley leaned on.

"Oh, you devilish, tech monkeys," he grinned as he patted the man on the back. "And why not keep secrets, now?"

"Because Kristaan wants you to work for us," the man wore an emotionless expression, further obscured by designer sunglasses.

Wortsley looked at the guard in disbelief, "Work for you? After all I've said?"

"Yes," the guard said tersely.

"Well, I can serve no other country as faithfully as Arcindis," he replied as he headed back inside.

For the first time that night, the guard showed emotion. No one had ever turned down the Emperor, especially not an Arcindin. He said confusedly, "So, that's a no?"

"My heart belongs in Levantia, my good, sir," Wortsley responded as he reached the entrance.

Unwilling to fail the Emperor, the guard shouted, "And your heart is set?"

"The hearts of men can be brittle and weak like stalks of grain. Easily swayed by the wind and crushed by their foes. They can be hard and cold like steel. Stubborn to enemies and resistant to change. They can be grand and malleable like gold. Incorruptible and open to all," the puffs of vapor that emerged from his pink-lipped mouth, backed by a grayed mustache of Nordic stature. "But I say mine is but a human heart made of muscle. My convictions remain with Arcindis, but that does not mean I cannot stretch my heart to encompass Ascelonia or any other country in Tyrrhenia, or the world, for that matter. My heart itself though lies in Arcindis and will always belong to this country that I love, in spite of the women that may steal it for brief escapades or other nations that may take residence with a lease of affection. In short, sir, my answer is no."

[Emperatium Drakonicum]

Several Hours Earlier

Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr. HitlerWilhelm?

The sun hid its face behind endless ranks of drifting snowflakes and a ceiling of iron-bellied clouds.

By silent agreement, they had left the lights off. What little sunlight remained straggled through the room's wide windows. In the dim, the colors in the small side room seemed muted. Allanae ran a finger along the teacup's rim, the steam curling in the gray Allamunic morning, and stared through the windows. Outside, the slopes of the snow blanketed valley, dotted with civilization, curved down to meet the Rone as it wound its way North. Enfeebled by the chill of winter, the river itself seemed to be settling down for sleep, sheets of ice creeping along its banks. The whole world seemed very still and silent.

“Who do you think you are kidding Mr. Wilhelm?” the record player warbled.

“It's a pretty old song,” Grimmeburger said, his voice calm and deep, “I think I like it though. Can't say I'd listen to it everyday, but...”

Cradling the cup and saucer in her hands, the Empress turned her eyes back to the former Generalissimo. The old Allamunnic soldier was sprawled back against the cushions of the sofa, the button of his rumpled greatcoat open to reveal the plain shirt and jeans he was wearing underneath. He stared out windows, eyes distant.

“It's got that old timey charm to it,” he said, smiling slightly.

“If you think we're overrun,” The trumpets piped up cheerfully.

Allanae nodded, “My father would have it played on occasions. Sometimes he'd put me on his lap and just listen to it.”

“Huh, didn't think he'd be the type. I always thought you Royals would've been too stuffy for it,” Grimmeburger said, glancing at her with a quirked eyebrow.

“We are the boys who will stop your little game.”

“No offense,” he added calmly.

Allanae laughed lightly, careful not to upset her tea, “None taken.”

She stared out the window herself, watching the dancing snowflakes. She took a moment to speak, almost to herself, “He never explained, of course, but after having been in his boots for a few years, I think I understand. He was reminding himself of the dangers of hubris.”

“We are the boys who will make think you think again.”

Grimmeburger grunted something that vaguely sounded like approval.

“I've known a couple of people that could have done with remembering that a bit better,” he said, snorting. He paused, peering at the woman across from him, amused, “Actually, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were doing the same for yourself. The both of us, actually.”

The Empress daintily brought her teacup to her lips. She stopped the cup just before her lips and smiled beatifically, “I have no clue about what you are speaking, Mr. Grimmeburger.”

With a careful breath, she gently blew the steam away and sipped. He snorted.

“Cos' who do you think you are kidding Mr. Wilhelm, if you think old Laysley's done?”

The fine china clinked as she set the cup back down onto its saucer. A sofa creaked as Grimmeburger suddenly shifted in his seat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Actually, I've got a question. A serious one,” he said, pinning her with his eyes.

Allanae stared back serenely.

“What's your angle with Waldenburg?” the Generalissimo asked. As she opened her lips, he held up a hand, “And no bullshit please.”

The Empress tilted her head fractionally, and smiled, “The Confederacy wants a strong Waldenburg, ruled by a clever, crafty Waldenburger. A powerful Waldenburg, which bends knee only to its grand ambitions, with the agency to fulfill them.”

“Mr. Brown goes off to town on the 8-21 but he comes home each evening and he's ready with his gun!”

The former dictator arched his eybrows, “That's mighty generous of you, sending several million of your own people to prop up another another Empire.”

“Generosity is not the word I would use,” she answered, “Quite the opposite. I would describe this action as selfish.”

Setting the teacup down on the table, she folded her hands in her lap. “How many billions are there between the Confederacy and the Allamunic States? Fifteen billion? Twenty billion? Whatever the exact number, it is a large one. The Empire of Waldenburg alone, fractured, savaged, dieing, has many times that number. Many, many times, and it is willing to put those many billions to arms against invaders. When those numbers are marshaled under a strong command, Waldenburg has defied even the greatest of enemies. And Waldenburg is a proud country, one that is unafraid to rattle its unnumbered sabers in response to provocation.”

“So watch out Mr. Wilhelm, you have met your match in us”

“Okay,” the old soldier said skeptically, stretching the word out, “I'm not sure I get the logic. That means you're spending to lives to make sure you've got an angry, mustachioed giant living next door. Isn't that a bit dangerous?”

“It is an acceptable risk,” she smiled, baring her pearly teeth, “Because good Generalissimo, here be dragons.”

“If you think you can crush us, we're afraid you've missed the bus.”

Grimmeburger stared for a moment, then snorted. He slumped back against the cushions, and the snort quickly became a belly laugh.

Allanae bowed her head.

The old general, still chuckling motioned to speak.

“Cos' who do you think you are kidding Mr. Wilhelm, if you think old Laysley's done?”

The door swung open and slammed against the wall with a loud bang that rattled the fine china. Allanae jumped slightly, and she couldn't help but notice that Grimmeburger subtly reached under his long coat, turning his body so that he could present the muzzle of the gun at his side to whoever knocked on the door in an instant.

Unbidden, the memory of blood running in the streets flashed in her mind.

The needle warbled on into static.

Zoe zipped into the room with a swish of skirts, an exasperated looking Katafract, rifle slung over his shoulder, standing in the hallway behind her.

“Sorry Sir, I thought she was going to-”

“The other guests are arriving, and a surprising number too, so few of them. You were both expecting me to say that I was surprised by how many, but no, what struck me was how few, how paltry few. It seems as if none of them seem to have brought staff, not a real staff, not one I'd trust to steer me correctly when I penned my signature on such a great document as peace in Waldenburg,” Zoe said breathlessly, as if the soldier had not said a word. She bounced into the seat by her mother, braids flying in every direction, and beamed across the room at Grimmeburger. Allanae carefully balanced her teacup in a practiced gesture, not a single drop falling out.

“Now it is possible that they are one and all geniuses such as you, mother, or at the very least confident that they have it. However,” she continued, legs swinging freely, “I suspect that deep down, no one is expecting this conference to yield peace, or are using it for other ends.”

“...knock,” the Katafract finished lamely.

“Uh-huh,” Grimmeburger said, grinning from ear to ear at the guard. “Don't worry about it Karl. Get going.”

He turned back to face Allanae and Zoe. Side by side like this, for all the similarity of their silk dress and their similarly braided hair, it seemed hard to believe that they were mother and daughter. The sedate, porcelain calm of the Empress and the vibrant, green life of the girl. Aside from generalities, they were further apart than he could have imagined.

“Do not be so skeptical dear,” Allanae said as she returned the cup back to its saucer.

“I'll say I told you so~,” she answered in a sing song voice.

“Well, since only two of them are pretty women, they won't need all the staff to keep up appearances you two do,” he joked. Allanae sipped the cup, her half lidded eyes and wickedly curved smile promising an eternity of torments. Zoe leaned back against her palms and laughed like silver bells.

No, he decided, on second thought, they were certainly the same. It was their eyes, he decided. There was the same, grim hardness to them.

“I am going to take that as a backhanded compliment,” Allanae said in a sickly sweet tone.

Grimmeburger reached down and plucked the mug of coffee that had been resting on the table the entire time, unfazed, “Take it however you please, Empress.”

“That news, however, means we should probably finish up here,” he continued, before knocking back the cooling coffee in a single long gulp.

Zoe leaned close to her mother, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight, and whispered, “He's so much like father, when he thinks no one is looking, it's scary.”

Allanae nodded and opened her mouth to respond when she paused, and looked her daughter up and down.

Voice rising, she asked, “Are your sleeves wet...why....Zoe, why is...is that snow in your hair?”

Zoe winked at Grimmeburger, and leaped into motion, blurring out the still open door. She poked her head back in, smiling, and said, “It was nice to meet with you again Mr. Grimmeburger!”

“Zoe!” Allanae snapped as the girl disappeared.

Grimmeburger carefully hid his expression as he slurped the last of his coffee down.

“That girl,” Allanae sighed, “What am I going to do with her.”

“I bet she's right about the peace, you know,” he said, staring into the empty cup.

Present

“I told you so~” Zoe sang as the recess was called.

The staff and advisers they had brought shuffled and muttered to each other behind them, scrawling away at the sheaves of notes and documents they had brought.

Allanae watching the commotion, “If you want to know a secret, Zoe, I was not very confident in peace myself.”

“The recess, though, will open up the opportunity we have been looking for,” she continued firmly, examining the contents of the folder in her hands, “Go and ask the Allamunae if we can not be given the floor after the recess is over.”

Without a word, Zoe got to her feet and disappeared into the milling crowd.

[Waldenburg 2]

Lintz visibly bridled at the idea the previous Emperor could have done any wrong; if there was one thing every Waldenburger, Cenobiarch to the lowliest boot licking peasant could agree upon was that things were better when he was around. The Captain held his tongue though and nodded; it was true, and the General had the concerns of a soldier, ones which Lintz could sympathize all too well. "I should," A cosmopolitan was already drained, the glass tinkling on the table, "Assure you that is the case, but in the honesty of one man to another this war will make fools and liars out of all of us. I promise though that I will request transfer to fight with your men, my hussars too, and will do our damndest to see their bathed in butter and scrubbed in powder." Lintz waved his stump about a bit, knocking a wrought iron lamp to the floor, "Not that I suspect I will ever have a front line assignment again. As for deployments then I can only suggest where I would like saber to meet meat, and that is Horenburg. Cato's army is preparing in the south, and if the Empirians come from the north the blitz will be unholy and more satisfying than a chocolate massage."

"Waldenburg must not only have peace, we must be disarmed and I assure you now. The world will be different. I have no doubt I will be seeing you again General, hopefully in Horenburg, but in the meantime I have to convince a Yallakian gentleman to remove himself from a certain chair. General," Lintz stood and watched one of his buttons roll away across the floor, "Thank you General, your support will make the world of difference for so many." Lintz bowed slightly, "Now.... we see what happens next."

[Arcindis]

Alfred limped back into the conference room with a bruised cheek, scarred by a jarring right hook. A spot of make up, it seemed that was all Arcindis was good for these days, concealed the bruise fairly well. Swelling could have been worse, so Wortsley counted his blessings. He had gone through far worse in the service. Speaking of service, the same guard appeared, faceless as ever, "How's your face?"

"Swell," Wortsley chuckled as he tapped his cane. "I'd like my old cane back."

"Bit of a long story about that..." the man started.

"Well damn!" Wortsley seemed a bit upset. The cane had served him throughout the years and the wood itself came from the core of an oak tree he once played under as a child. "Blasted kids these days have no respect for old men."

"Wait," the guard said leaning forward. "One more thing you should know. Ascelonia's sending a team of ambassadors by the order of Emperor Kristaan I himself."

"Oh? And I would hope they aren't fools like Visser," he grinned. "I hope they can at least throw a proper punch."

The guard laughed a little, "In all fairness, he was a bit drunk."

"Drunkness is no excuse. After all, I fight better drunk then sober," Wortsley retorted and the guard chuckled a little.

His looked serious again as he spoke, "They'll be here in a day."

"A day?" Worstley cackled. His dropped his voice so others couldn't hear. "Odds are the Conference might be over by then."

[Cukarica]

Alexander sat silently as the diplomats exchanged insults across the table. It was amusing for him to listen the delegates fight, at least to some extent, but soon he was bored and just wanted to end the charade, announce the stance of Imperium, and get back to his unit. He preferred to let the delegates slug it out between themselves before he got involved. He noticed the Mykolan delegate approaching him, and he knew at first what he was going to ask.

"Yes, Mister Herzland, there is no time to waste. Plans have already been set in motion."

There was a pause, before he looked down at the notes which were in front of him. He continued, "Shall we Mister Herzland? I'd like to make a few more secret alliances before the end of the conference." Alexander sighed and extinguished his cigarette. He was concerned if he was going to miss something interesting on the conference while he talked to the Mykolans, and because of that he left Consul Severus to represent the Imperium while he was gone.