Never the twain shall meet [Complete]

[Kylarnatia]

The Gothic Chambers, Citadel City
Gholgoth

Silvier was glad to see that Augustus had some strong support within the room, but undoubtedly she had underestimated Nathan's desire for the Executorship. She would be the first to admit to it, and in a way she was pleasantly surprised. While she couldn't deny that he was a capable ruler and cunning diplomat--when he wanted to be--she didn't exactly have the best impression of him. Despite her desire to have stronger ties with the Ghantish throne, that was more so through her personal interactions with the Empress Sophia and the nations fine statesmen and representatives rather than the man himself. But then, the two of them were very different people: he was provincial, reserved and self-contained. She was ambitious, charming and overreaching. At least, those were the words she had heard from Sophia, and the Caesar could agree with that assessment. Despite all her disagreements with the Ghantish Emperor, however, she had no hate for him. Even if he was flawed, his heart was in the right place, and he didn't lay down easily. That deserved respect.

Then there was Valentina. Silvier could not help but admire the girls love for her father, despite the open hostility from her older brother. She watched as the young princess went to cast the vote on behalf of the Ghantish delegation, knowing full well where the coin would fall, the weight of the responsibility not doing anything to phase her. "Many things can be bought, but never a daughter's love for her father." The Caesar knew this full well, and for a moment her mind wondered back to when she was a pint-sized princess following in the big footprints left by her father, Kain the Great. While the pain and trauma caused by his sudden and tragic death to a battle wound had passed, her own wound had not fully healed. Whatever the result of the election, she would be sure to praise Valentina later. The snide remark from Bebe caused her to snap back to reality. Should his father win, she would have to console him.

After Ryslander had voted, Silvier looked once to both Hyperion and Julianus, who both looked to her calmly and it was as if they shared their thoughts together through their stares. Gracefully she stood once again, picking up the coin carefully from the table and observing it closely under the artificial light that hung above her. As she did so, the acolyte - who had for the most part been silent throughout the proceedings of the meeting - began to speak a prayer at a level just audible to anyone who cared to listen, although the prayer wasn't intended for mortal ears. Those who had perhaps cared to study the sacred scripts and tongue of the Silvier Sacerdotium would know that she was praying for the Caesar's "token" - her vote - to reflect positively on the soul of her chosen candidate. After taking a moment of silent reflection, Silvier then made her way to the voting area. Identifying the choices laid out in front of her, she took another look at the coin, rubbing her thumb over the impression of the hydra on the coin, before looking towards the empty throne that would serve as the seat of the Executor, where Dreadfire would have once sat. Then, to all the occupants of the chamber.

"May the Grand Mother strengthen the resolve of whoever is chosen to carry the burdens of this office, and may their heart not grow white at the realisation of the prices this Council must pay in order to achieve peace. Semper Certans, Gholgoth."

For a brief moment, silence. Then the coin dropped.

CINV Resolution, Gholgoth-Class Aircraft Carrier
13th Carrier Battle Group, 5th Fleet
Near the Ekraysian Strait, Gholgoth

The Fifth Fleet of the Imperium Antiquum had been doing a routine deployment around the southern half of Gholgoth Major. The main bulk of the force waited patiently like hungry serpents, chief among them the fleet's flagship - the Dreadfire-Class Superdreadnought Apopthis - in the harbours of Imperium Telros, while various groups of vessels were deployed on rotation to go out further afield. One such group, the Thirteenth Carrier Battle Group, had been originally tasked to sail to the tip of Ekraysia until they received priority orders to make haste to a set of coordinates just off the coast of Shen Almaru. Every sailor knew that this had to mean something important was going down, but their commanding officers had been told to keep quiet as to what. Some wondered if things had kicked off early - all of them had read the opinion pieces on the Scandinvan occupation of the islands and the Pudite quest to reclaim them - and while the Imperium Antiquum had no official stake in the conflict, it wasn't going to sit by idly. Ever since the Milograd Wars, Kylarnatia's military doctrine had taken a sharp turn towards prevention, containment and domination. When the ships of the Freekish Empire started disappearing from the shipping lanes of Gholgoth, the Dux Praefector's of the Caesar's Imperial Navy proposed a new strategy: Mare Nostrum - The Imperium would field a navy to be the envy of the region and the world, and they would police the waves. Since the introduction of the strategy, the Caesar's Imperial Navy had grown tenfold in size.

Proculus Mamilius Celer, Navarch of the Thirteenth Carrier Battle Group and commanding from the Resolution, had become somewhat of a minor folk hero back home in Kylarnatia. He was the model officer, having served in the Navy since the age of sixteen and never looking back, working his way up the ranks by going by procedure until the situation demanded quick thinking and unorthodox strategies. He was great for the recruitment material, but was also praised for his personal heroism; during Operation Broken Hammer - the Kylarnatian naval blockade of Fortress Norska in the First Milograd War - Proculus and the crew of his previous charge the CINV Brigadier had been able to rescue hundreds of shipwrecked sailors while under heavy and relentless fire, before successfully dropping a depth charge on a dreaded Kraven submarine, immeasurably saving thousands more. The whole experience had steeled him, and nothing ever seemed to make him flinch or lose his nerve.

The deck of the Resolution was orderly but full of activity, as officers and ensigns moved between stations, giving and carrying out orders as was necessary. Proculus sat at his command throne, looking out of the windows to the choppy waters and thrashing rain. The deck of the carrier was clear and so the rain just bounced off, dancing up into the air with a natural rhythm that was both awing but also skin-crawling to watch if you weren't a fan of rain. The Navarch was not, but he wasn't going to be picky about a few drops of water; he was in the wrong line of work for that. Instead he occasionally found himself bothered by a brief, but sharp sensation in the back of his head. He had come to count on it as his own sixth sense: something wasn't right, and so far he'd been given little information as to what, other than being told to expect to hear more from the Pudite High Command as he drew closer. He knew that a sizeable portion of the Fifth Fleet would soon be behind him, but he didn't like being kept in the dark by Dux Praefector Osorkon. For now, he and the few ships under his command would be the first on the scene, and that's what he'd have to work with until more arrived.

Running his right hand over his bald cranium as if to dismiss the sensation, Proculus then stood and signalled to one of his officers at the navigation station. "How much longer until we arrive at the designated location?"

"At our current pace, a full day, my Navarch." The officer replied after confirming with his ensigns.

"And the weather?" He looked over to another station.

"Set to clear once we get past the Ekraysian strait, my Navarch." The next officer replied.

"Very good. Once it's clear I want our planes in the air to give us a greater idea of our surroundings. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Navarch!" Several now replied in chorus, pounding their chests in salute.

"Good. Make it so."

[Emperor Myric]

The Gothic Chambers, Citadel City
Ghogoth

It was quite a momentous occasion, and even he felt out of his depth somewhat.

Eidolon Arcovia sat watching the various politics, talking and debating two and fro, votes being cast and history being made. It made him itch, uncomfortably so. He had no qualms about standing and talking to arrayed national leaders, or even speaking to the millions in person at home, but this… This was history being made and he knew his decision could possibly sway a future in the entire region.

Arcovia had always been a small nation, ever on the defensive wary of outsiders and focused very much on itself. Tiny in size but with sprawling urbanisation to the point of colossal spires that contained billions of people the Arcovians had only recently taken their place on the regional stage coming to the conclusion that their varying isolation was to only hold them back. Eidolon himself had overseen the diplomacy with the Kylanartians who had been close allies for a number of years and a deal had been reached with Arcovia kneeling to the Caesar and accepting a place within the empire as a Protectorate. As such the Kingdom of Arcovia had been suddenly been thrust into the limelight and such a leap of faith still was hard to come to terms with. Eidolon had watched the proceedings with interest, the man was in his late forties having been pronounced king after his father had died of old age. The memories of the procession across the islands still ripe despite the years. His long hair was kept in good shape and his long beard was as much an icon for Arcovia as the national flag itself was, often to his amusement when he teased the press about having a shave.

By his side sat his first son Luscious Arcovia, resplendent in his military uniform and paying attention like a hawk, always taking in every detail and always eager to devour new information and experiences. The other side sat Kirine Eidolons daughter, a cold thinker and recluse who also seemed to watch and listen intently. Eidolon smiled to himself, the two would be at much conflict to decide who they would have voted for. Both children were rivals, equal heirs to the throne in Arcovian law and tradition, but that was an age away yet he knew they were not ready. And his two other sons Marklete and Raxis were more statesmen than leaders.

Eidolon was taken out of his musings by the form of the Caesar Silvia casting her vote, she was beautiful and he had admired her for some time. She had his respect as a leader and as a person and he had never in his time of reign disagreed with her insights, while many in the upper houses of the parliament had done so. With her vote cast Eidolon realised it was now a good a time as any to cast his. He suffered in the knowledge that he did not know any of the other leaders personally, neither did he know the two put forward in any sort of first hand way but he had his choice already given to him, the sheer fact that the Caesar had allowed Arcovia to represent itself here of its free will was honour enough. And now he would repay that.

He stood up, the beautifully inlaid honorary suit he wore to represent his nation sparkled slightly. He leant on his equally ornate walking stick as he nodded to all those present here. And hobbled over to the voting area, standing as straight as his damaged back would allow. He fiddled with the coin in his fingers overlooking the choices.

“I choose this vote knowing that I did my part, in deciding the correct history of this region. Long live the Kingdom” He said aloud. With a flick of his fingers the coin was dropped and the vote was cast. Arcovia had done its part, it had finally helped to make its mark.

Eidolon just hoped it was the correct one.

[Lamehk]

The Gothic Chamber, The White Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky

'Well, there goes the most interesting person in the room,' said Serana, resignedly, as Captain Skaro walked the last few steps out of the chamber. Her silver eyes followed the scruffy man until the doors thudded closed behind him. She sighed and then spoke again, this time in a tone with considerable venom added. 'I suppose now we'll get to listen to more preening brats pretend to be lords.'

Lorkahn made no reply and simply shrugged, but the barest hint of a smirk creased the corners of his lips, unseen by his daughter from where she remained perched on the side of his throne.

'Sure,' continued Serana, 'the girl was briefly amusing, but what, now they all have to have a say? The little toy soldier,' she looked to Julianus, giving a brief derisive snort. 'That little bastard,' she said with malice, her gaze falling upon the Crown Prince of Ghant. 'If that one speaks, I may just not be able to refrain from violence, father.'

'Do you want a turn, my dear?' asked Lorkahn, antagonistically, as he turned to look at her. 'I don't mind.'

Serana's glare was scathing, and as no words followed, it constituted the entirety of her answer.

Finally the smirk broke across Lorkahn's face, and he held up his left hand to his daughter, the Lord's Coin sitting pincered between his index and middle fingers. 'Then how about you cast our vote. I don't want you feeling left out.'

To Lorkahn's surprise, there was no retort. No sarcasm or seething looks. Serana simply smiled sweetly and plucked the coin from between his fingers. 'As you wish, father.'

Rising gracefully, golden silk shimmering and golden scales tinkling faintly, Serana circled around the council chamber, striking a radiant and alluring figure as she went. When she reached the voting boxes, she paused by the Drakonian box, casting a brief glance around the room. Many eyes were upon her, but she ignored all but one, her piercing gaze directed solely at the Ghantar Prince they called Bebe, before very deliberating continuing on to the box for Ghant and dropping the Lord's Coin in. She held her eyes on him for a moment longer, and then with a somewhat sultry wink, turned away and returned to the Lamehken throne, where she resumed her place perched upon the arm by her fathers side.

'Perhaps my memory is not what it was,' said Lorkahn, affecting a confused aura, 'but I was sure we were voting for the good Drakonian Praetor?'

'You know,' began Serana in response, sounding particularly self-satisfied, 'I think I am begging to understand your little game. Perhaps not all of it, but in good time. For one, I know you couldn't care less who gets your vote.'

Lorkahn frowned. 'That seems beside the point. Now I’ve said one thing and done another, the Drakonian may be offended.'

Serana made an effort to lean slightly to the side and observe the Praetor sitting beyond her father. 'He doesn't appear overly fussed. And now you might have some goodwill from the Ghantar for whatever it is exactly you are garnering it from all corners for.' She leaned back again and smiled pleasantly.

'Hmm, we will see.' Lorkahn too sat back in his chair, appearing unfazed and as if waiting for whatever was to happen next. 'I trust that you at least had a good reason to choose the Ghantar. You wouldn't possibly have altered the course of Gholgoth's history on a whim to spite some fool child.'

'Of course, father,' answered Serana innocently. 'Only the very best of reasons.'

They both knew it was a lie.

[Havensky]

Joint post by Aldarminia, Ghant, Kylarnatia, and Dephire

As the last vote was cast, the large coin clinked against the other coins in the box.

Atticus rose from the Skyan throne and buttoned his suit as he walked over to the voting box. As he did so, two White Guard members flanked him before reaching the podium that held the box. The Guards removed the front cover of the podium exposing the voting boxes. As the two guards carried the snakehead to the side. Two more Guards moved to the side of the podium and together pulled at four handles. As they did so, the container that held the boxes came out of the podium and was carried to the roundtable for all the Lords gathered to see. The voting may have been private, but the count would be open for all to see.

“My Lords, we will now count the votes. I will remove the coins for each box in alphabetical order. As we have discussed with your government’s before, a member of your security will be next to me to verify our count. The first nation we will count is The Grand Imperial Kosmokratium of Aldarminia.”

The Blood Guard and leader of the Aldarminian security detail, Olav stepped forward and took their place next to Atticus. Atticus removed the top of the box. He picked the box up and showed the contents to the Olav. He then turned the box so that its bottom was facing out and turned it so all the Lords could see.

“The box is empty. Mr. Doshsvyn, do you agree?”

“Da, I agree.”

Atticus closed the box and put it back in its place. He did the same steps for Artitsa and had the Briskan Templar Skarra Halsley stand in for Automagfreek’s security detail. The Freeks had not appeared at the conference. However, the traditions still must be upheld and it made sense to have the oldest nation stand in for the Dreadfires.

As the Skyan diplomat continued the count, Olav returned to his place beside Ryslander. Leaning in over the Prince’s shoulder, he spoke softly from within his helmet to whisper through the vox outputters, “Your father will be pleased to know he will be unburdened by the position’s impartiality.”

The Aldarminian Prince smirked, watching the proceedings continue. History was in the making.

When they reached the Drakonian Imperium, Atticus began to remove the coins one by one showing each coin to the room as he counted.

“Praetor Augustus Drake has received four votes. Colonel Seius, do you agree”

“I agree.”

This continued until they reached Emperor Nathan of Ghant.

“May I have the Knight of Ducks approach?”

As the Ghantish Knight named Rolli Ahateremu stepped forward, clad in his ceremonial armor with the helm in the visage of a rubber duck, Atticus counted each coin out loud as he laid them on the stone table.

“One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven votes for Nathan. Knight of Ducks, do you agree?”

“I agree,” Rolli answered with a plain, but slightly amused expression.

The Nacaal and Emperor Fenric each had one vote respectfully. Finally, Atticus declared Vetalia’s box empty and the counting was complete.

“The counting being complete and witnessed by all, we declare before you the Lords of Gholgoth that Emperor Nathan IV of The Empire of Ghant is the new Executor of the Gothic Council. Executor Nathan, please step forward and claim the Executor’s Throne.”

The reactions from the Ghantish guests were widely varied. Valentina practically jumped out of her seat with raised fists in triumph. Sara, Valerie and Blanche each offered soft applauses including golf claps and muffled cheers. Prince John and Prince Victor stood and clapped. Lara Jarasa looked on with an approving nod. Bebe, on the other hand, sulked in his chair, his face so red that it was fast approaching a tomato.

Nathan, on the other hand, rose from his seat, purposefully but slowly. He pursed his lips and shook his arms loose...as though he could already feel the weight of the office bearing down upon him. Steadily he walked forward towards Atticus, each step a bit heavier than the one previous, though still on gentle feet. One last glance over his shoulder at his daughter Valentina, who spoke so highly of her father that even he was inspired to believe in himself. He came to stand still near Atticus, his gaze wandering amongst his peers.

Atticus paused to allow for the room to offer congratulations and stepped aside from the podium. For his part, he began to clap profusely. Several of the Lords, including Dengmu and Tristan, slapped the table with wide smiles. Caesar Silvier and Lord Hyperion traded glances with each other before she too tapped the table with her gauntlet and gave a warm expression, while the Haeres Julianus gave applause, all the while smiling not just at Nathan but also the Princess Imperial Sara. Indeed, Sara and all of her siblings, with the exception of the Crown Prince of Ghant, slapped the table in unison. Lorkahn offered no claps or smiles but simply gave a slight nod of his head when Nathan’s gaze passed his way.

As the din died down, Atticus raised his hands into the air asking for quiet.

“My Lords, we will break for just a moment while we prepare for the swearing in. Our friend and peer Emperor Tristan has sponsored a feast and drinks to celebrate our new accords. The feast will be in the dining hall after the swearing-in ceremony, but what is a ceremony without drink?”

At that moment, several Templars entered the chamber with barrels of beer and whiskey. Skyan staff had set up tables for the barrels with glasses large and small.

Silvier was the first to rise from her throne, making her way directly to Nathan with Hyperion, Julianus and the Sacerdotium acolyte following close behind. The Haeres turned his attention to Sara and Valentina, congratulating the young girl. “A lot of the credit should go to you, y’know.” he smiled.

The Ghantish Emperor’s children were gathering to congratulate their father personally, none more eager to do so than Valentina. When the Haeres addressed her, she smiled brightly and told him that “sometimes all you need to succeed and achieve your true potential is to have someone believe in you. Nobody believes in father more than me!”

Hyperion pounded his chest in salute of the new Executor, the sound echoing around the chamber like thunder. “Congratulations, your Grace.” Meanwhile, the acolyte gave him a short prayer, asking for the angels of Avaris to guide and protect him in his new role.

Lastly, Silvier spoke, smiling warmly at him. “Well, your Grace, it seems the Lords have spoken quite decisively. I underestimated your presence of mind in the situation, and for that I owe you an acknowledgement of respect. Allow me…” The Caesar then went to the tables where the alcohol was being prepared, and proceeded to pour two small glasses of the finest whiskey available, enough for a mouthful each. She then returned to the Ghantish Emperor and passed him one of the glasses, before raising hers to him.

“It’s no secret that neither of us have exactly seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but I am true to my word: I made it clear that I would support this Council’s choice regardless of my preferences, and that I would support them with all that I and the Imperium have at our disposal. So this is a pledge to you to do just that, and may our efforts not be in vain. My counsel will be available to you at any time should you desire it, and rest assured I shall be vocal in this Chamber when business continues tomorrow. Until then…” she clinked her glass with Nathan’s. “Semper Certans, Gholgoth.”

Nathan accepted Silvier’s offering graciously, with a warm smile, as his children came up to hug him, led by Valentina. “Thank you, Your Majesty and Lord Hyperion. I’ve never demanded respect, or anything for that matter. Whatever respect I am to receive, I shall earn. Your support is welcome, and most reassuring. There is much work to be done, and I believe that together, there’s nothing that we cannot achieve.” Nathan raised his glass and echoed Silvier’s words. “Semper Certans, Gholgoth.”

Downing her drink, she then placed the glass on the table. Gesturing for Hyperion, Julianus and the acolyte to remain, she made her way to Tristan Skragg. Taking the brown envelope from the table in front of him which had been thrown down by Skaro, she gestured simply for him to follow as she turned for the exit of the Chamber. “A word, if I may.”

As Silvier and Tristan left the chamber, the Caesar passed the Ghantish Prince Bebe, who she could tell was clearly disappointed by the result. She paused briefly in her exit to give him comfort, stroking his cheek. “Don’t fret, little one, I promise to not go easy on him. Winning is always the easy part.”

“They’re fools, the lot of them,” Bebe snorted angrily. “He will be the ruin of Gholgoth. Father couldn’t lead sheep to a pasture. War and chaos will consume this region like a brushfire, and when that day comes, he will hide behind the skirts of one of his whores. If we’re lucky, this election will allow mother to carry the office of Executor in his name.”

She listened to the boys wrath, not doing anything to interrupt him before giving him a wicked smile and a gentle kiss on his tomato-coloured cheek. “If only we were that lucky. Fortunately, we have you, but you need to steel yourself and use that anger appropriately. If war and chaos are to come, Ghant and Gholgoth both will need strong leaders.” She winked, before continuing on with the Godsend Emperor.


“...I shall hope then, that my strength and courage will be great enough to lead my country through the dark days to come,” Bebe’s lips quivered as he inclined his head to Silvier, and watched her leave his company, the color receding from his face, though the rage still lingered in his eyes.

***

Upon exiting the room, Tristan turned to Silvier and, while outside prying eyes, hugged her. “I apologize for my behavior. Tynsei’s passing, the attack on the Temple, and all of this has pushed me over my limit. I constantly have three voices talking to me and billions more crying out to me,” He pointed to the cybernetic eye in his left socket. Tristan had lost the original eye during the fight versus Siegfried. “I did not mean to explode as I did. An empire as massive as Dephire was never meant to be ruled by one man. Yet I am always left as the last one standing.” He sighed deeply. “I have no clue what is in that envelope, but with Skaro’s reaction and the three fucks in my head, that envelope contains information. Information that should never be seen by anyone’s eyes but my own. Yet this information found its way here.” He looked down at the envelope, “I am afraid to open it for I fear what information it may contain.”


Silvier was warmed by Tristan’s embrace and smiled. “It’s okay, my friend. You have been presented with many challenges and tragedies as of late, and I have not been as present as I should have been. I truly am sorry about Tynsei, I shall be there to mourn her with you when the time comes. However, I am here now.” She gestured for him to link arms with her as they then proceeded to walk together. Once out of earshot of anyone nearby, she continued, still holding on to the envelope in her fingers. “It concerns me that, despite all the public displays of cooperation, there are many private dealings coming to light that are behind this summit. First it was Atticus and Skaro,” the tone of her voice changed slightly, as if venting some of her frustrations. “And now this.”

Looking down at the envelope, she then moved her fingers towards the seal. “Shall we?”

Tristan nodded and the two opened the envelope like children opening a secret note. He poured over the letters and diagrams, the cybernetic eye recording everything. “Well, these certainly call for a nice chat with my Chancellor. I thought Deconter Industries was bankrupt. Oh well.” Tristan was about to shrug it off until the memory stick caught his eye. “I wonder what this is.”

Silvier pulled a curious face as she placed the small memory stick in the palm of her right gauntlet. “Y’know I’ve never known men to go through this much effort to trade their private stashes with each other.” Cracking a wry smile at Tristan, she then took a few steps out into the joining corridor, and as if by luck there was a Kylarnatian staffer just leaving from the Chamber. They quickly stopped in their tracks when they realised their own Caesar stood before them, immediately dropping to one knee. Placing her free hand gently on their forehead, she noticed the slim pad they carried under their arm. “I’m going to need that.” She gestured for them to hand it over, which they did so gleefully. Waving them away, she then returned to Tristan, loading up the memory stick on the pad.

As one would expect, it was encrypted. “I imagine you’d be able to help with this?” Silvier passed the pad to the Godsend Emperor.

Tristan took the pad and stared at the screen, allowing the AIs to work on decrypting the data. Sadly, the AI were able to break the encryption by simply transmitting the code HalsleyRulez!. The screen flitted to life as several more images and schematics flew across the screen. Several photos showed the battered up Ki’lan left in a Kraven train station. More showed the progress of the man’s limbs replaced piece by piece with machines. In the final photos, a fully rebuilt Ki’lan sat up on an operation table and looked at the scientists in the room. The screens then transitioned into a video feed from his eyes as he began to yell in pain, agony, and confusion, then he proceeded to kill every scientist in the room.

Silvier fast forwarded through several days of feed, then stopped as she recognized him standing in Hab Centre Six. She continued ahead until she saw him fighting Squall. Tristan’s eye began to twitch as Ragnarok was being reminded of the painful fight. He fast forwarded from there up until they both realized where Ki’lan was going next.

“This… This is the night I lost everything.” Tristan paused the feed. “The Temple of the Archangel Scythis was sacked that night. My home destroyed. Wilhelm slain. Tynsei received the wounds that would eventually kill her. I… I can’t.”

Silvier stopped the feed, noticing the pain that it was putting Tristan through. “Now is not the time to watch this. But it seems like the good ol’ Captain has done us a massive favour, even if unknowingly so. This will come in handy when the day inevitably comes that we have to face the Reich again and rally the region to our cause.” Making sure the information was saved and the memory stick was removed safely, she then put it back in the envelope, which she then entrusted back to Tristan. “Come, we should go and see if we can catch him before he leaves, then we’ll want to have a talk with your Chancellor...”

Tristan nodded in agreement, “It’s a good thing his son hasn’t followed too closely in his footsteps. Let’s go have a chat with the Captain.”

***

With Olav in his own tow, Ryslander had risen from his seat to follow Silvier and Julianus closely, but granted the two and Hyperion the opportunity to congratulate Nathan first. As Silvier passed with Tristan, Ryslander nodded with a smile. The two would talk later as she had some other business to attend to then. However, through the crowd gathering around Nathan, the Prince saw a chance to go forward, and so he did. Reaching the Ghantish Emperor with an outstretched hand, Ryslander said, “Congratulations, Your Grace, I hope and believe that you will serve Gholgoth well. I implore you to have confidence in yourself though. Every Goth in the region, if not the world, will be watching you from this moment on. A spurt of weakness from any sort of self-loathing or self-deprecating, even in private, could invite the opportunists to come clawing and ramming at the gates. But you know this, or so I hope, and I pledge that is my nation’s every fiber of will, whim, or even wrath if need be, that stands among the legion behind you now, Executor.”

The Emperor of Ghant sighed, and bowed his head deeply in respect. “Thank you, your Highness. A wise man once told me that there’s a difference between confidence and bravado. I am not lacking in confidence, rest assured. I can already feel the weight of the eyes upon me, and believe me when I say that I will take great cares to make sure that I do not falter in the duties of my office. I appreciate the support of Aldarminia, and though I will not hope for it, should war be upon us, I would be honored to see our nations stand together.”

While Ryslander spoke with Nathan, Olav did his best to stay close to his ward, but he also nodded to Hyperion, trying to gain his attention so that the two may speak. The Dux Imperator acknowledged his nod, and as one of the few individuals who remained in the room he deemed worthy of his respect or time due to their similar roles, decided to speak. “Your thoughts?”

With a finger press to the side of his helmet, pale skin, short locks of brown, and eyes of velvet revealed themselves as poly-glass plating retracted and armor braces unfolded. Glancing towards Ryslander and the Kylarnatian Hæres, Doshsvyn spoke, “I just wanted to offer my apologies again to you, personally, for the trouble with the other children and the acolyte. Aldarminians and Kylarnatians have stood too long together to stand opposed over something so trivial. The subordinate is being discharged from his service in the Guard, and my mentor is probably on his way to scold me personally right now.”

Hyperion, whose expressions were impossible to read due to his helmet - which he never seemed to remove - obscuring his face, seemed unphased by the whole thing. He took one glance over to the young princes, and then to the acolyte, who stood behind him but did not dare to directly meet his gaze. “Your apology is accepted, and the punishment seems fitting. I assure you however that no damage has been done to the relationship between our two nations: it is, as you say, such a trivial thing. In the end everyone involved was doing their duty.”

“Indeed,” agreed Olav, who then extended his armored hand to shake Hyperion’s, “I believe I have forgotten my manners. I know too well who you are, but I think we have never had the formal opportunity. Olav Doshsvyn, Captain of the Blood Guard of the Blood House Aszcheyko, House Imperial of Aldarminia.”

“I know who you are, Olav Doshsvyn. Your name precedes you.” Hyperion clasped his armoured gauntlet with Olav’s and with an iron grip shaked it firmly from the forearm. “Dalikharl has spoken very highly of you to me in private during his meetings with the Caesar, always telling me about how the two of us should meet. Now we find ourselves here, two warriors forced to play politics and admire theatre.”

Doshsvyn’s expression gave way to a humbled smile as Hyperion spoke and shook his hand. He noted the Kylarnatian’s tremendous strength, if even held back, was somewhat daunting as the man’s reputation implied, if not asserted. “I am honored, Dux Imperator, to hear that. You are right as well. I cannot say I enjoy this much, but it is a lot better than a frontline, and it’s certainly more lavish than anything I was raised up on.”

There was a slight chirp in his ear as one of his subordinates updated him on the progress of the jet from Domostrovgor to Citadel City. After confirming his orders and his own itenary, Olav found himself disappointed to say, “I would offer you a drink, comrade, but I am still on duty, and duty calls me now. I will be relieved here by some of my subordinates. I have informed them that they are to be seen only peripherally, and not heard. If any give you trouble, you have my permission to strike them down.”

Doshsvyn nodded as his helmet enclosed his face again, and he gave Hyperion the standard Gothic salute with an emphatic, “Semper certans, Gholgoth,” before leaving the Chamber in the wake of four newly-arrived Blood Guards who positioned themselves not-too-far and not-too-close around Prince Ryslander. Hyperion watched him go and the Blood Guard’s enter, returning to his silent guardian-like nature as he kept a central and stalwart presence in the room. He tightened his grip on Nightbane, almost tempted to take up Olav’s offer should the opportunity present itself, but he knew the Caesar would not approve.

Meanwhile, Julianus had noticed the two guardian’s speaking and - taking his pardon from Sara and the other children of Ghant - went to speak with Ryslander. “Mother was incredibly impressed by how you handled yourself, as was I. I merely spoke out of my own curiosity and eagerness to see if my education was up to snuff, but you spoke on behalf of your entire nation. A very brave thing to do, and I can only hope to do half as well as you did when the responsibility inevitably falls to me.” Julianus thought momentarily of his future, of his coming of age in four years where he would then effectively begin serving as co-regent with his mother, just as she had done with her father when she turned eighteen. It was a tradition that went back millennia.

“Thank you for the kind words, Hæres,” Ryslander replied, “But it was only my duty as Prince. I suppose we should be getting used to these sorts of things. Why wait for the mantle to be given if it lies untaken? And I am sure you will do as I did. In fact I believe you did. Without even duty begging at its knees, you spoke your words, and your skills shone. That’s more than enough to know that when it comes time for you and my brother, Zloba will have a strong ally by his side. But we are at rest, no? Tell me, you’ve your eye on Ghantish girl, yes?”

Julianus gave a wry smile as the conversation turned to Sara, as he took one quick glance at her before returning his eyes to Ryslander. He tightened his grip on the helmet beneath his arm. “I seem to have made a good first impression, and her on me.”

The Aldarminian Prince chuckled, “Mind if I part with the formalities? You can call me Rys, by the way, and I would like to get you a drink, if you do partake that is?”

“I’m afraid I do not, but I’m not far from the legal age back home. Two years and I can have my first beer.” The Haeres chuckled as he allowed Ryslander to go and grab himself a drink and then return.

“So, the Hammer will be mildly annoyed that Sophie was not here to grab your attentions. He’d much rather an Aldar-Kylarnatian union, but I suppose it’s for the best if we can bring the Ghantish closer into the fold. Zloba’s going to be relieved. I believe the kid has a little crush on one of his schoolmates. Our families will have to all come together some time. Maybe we could go skiing or hunting?”

“I see you are a fan of realpolitik, Rys.” Julianus smirked. “I must admit I was not exactly too concerned with geopolitical affairs when I was socialising with Sara, but then I suppose I should’ve been, and I’m sure my mother was. Maybe that’s the curse of our royal births: alas, nothing is set in stone yet, so I’m sure Sophie and I can make introductions during one of those skiing or hunting trips, which I’m almost certain can be arranged.”

As the Lords got up from the table to grab drinks and congratulate Nathan, Atticus took another deep sigh of relief. An aide came over with a glass of whisky which Atticus downed in one gulp.

One more hurdle cleared.

[Drakonian Imperium]

When the recess began, Augustus Drake had immediately moved to speak with Emperor Dengmu. The two monarchs were quickly deep in discussion. With her father busy, the Drakonian heiress was left on her own. Seeing an opportunity to satisfy her curiosity, Lilliana had made straight for the Lamehken Princess.

"Hello," she greeted smiling, blue-violet eyes open with friendly inquisitiveness. "My name is Lilliana."

Serana, who had been observing Tristan departing the conference chamber again with a small smirk, turned toward the voice. She evaluated the interloper with a cold and penetrating gaze for the briefest moment before silently coming to a decision that the interruption might just be more amusing than irritating. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the harsh expression melted away in an instant to be replaced by a pleasant, charming smile.

"Delighted, little dragon," she replied, recognising the Drakonian, her silver eyes filled with a warmth that belied the ruthless, cutthroat within. "I am Serana."

"How many people have you killed?" The question likely said more about the questioner than the questionee. The young Drakonian helicopter pilot was soon to leave war college and if the recent years were any guide to the future, combat duty was likely. She knew her father had killed while serving as a jet pilot; at the drop of a bomb or the end of a cannon. Soon, that too would be Lilliana’s grave responsibility.

"Well, you are a bold one aren’t you," said Serana, with a soft chuckle. "Quite a lot, I suppose. There were six--no seven, the morning I boarded the plane to come here, but I don’t count my kills, that is a childish thing."

She paused, looking at the Drakonian girl in a slightly quizzical manner. "And why would an innocent thing like you want to know that?" A blink of the eye and curiosity had switched to a devilish, conspiratorial grin. "Is there a warrior behind those adorable puppy eyes?"

Lilliana shifted uncomfortably in her Imperial Army uniform, pinching her lips together as her eyes darted about searching her memory. She was trained to lead soldiers in battle, she was trained as a combat pilot, and she had participated in several wargames. She was a decent shot and quite proficient with a sword. But, there was a difference between practice and application.

Her parents had never used physical punishment on Lilliana when raising her. Violence had seemed something alien to the young princess. Her father had once told Lilliana that "their responsibility was about how and when to use force." At academy, however, there had been an incident when Lilliana had used her physical combat training to stop another girl from harassing a fellow student. When Augustus had taken Lilliana aside after the incident, she could see both pride and sadness on his face. He said: "It is our responsibility to protect those around us, but remember there are always terrible consequences to our actions." She was suspended from the school for a week.

As Lilliana pondered her self-evaluation, Serana thought for a moment that she saw a glimpse of potential in the girl, the hint of a fierce and, perhaps, kindred spirit, but the next moment it was gone.

"I don’t quite know if there is," the young woman admitted.

"No?," asked Serana, more to herself than to Lilliana, her warm smile fading away into an expression of disappointment, even as her interest in the conversation waned with it. "Better figure it out soon then, little dragon. Doubt is weakness."

Lilliana was quiet for a while. Her eyes scanning across the other delegations as she thought. "What is the cost to self," she finally asked. "And what is the price required by shed blood? What is the toll taken upon the conscience and the soul?"

Another chuckle passed Serana’s lips, this one infused with a sharp, mocking edge. "Soul?," she questioned, rhetorically, in annoyance, "Please, little dragon, don't tell me I have mistaken innocence for naivety? It is a word, nothing more. Used by the weak and cowardly to excuse away inaction and fear. Or, by the more enterprising, to exploit and control."

Uncharacteristically, Serana paused and allowed her annoyance to subside, her expression softening slightly. She felt an odd and inexplicable liking for the Drakonian girl, despite the fact she'd proven mostly unremarkable. Maybe, that was why. As a child, Serana could not be afforded the luxury of innocence or naivety. Her father had imparted that lesson on her from the time she could walk and talk, often and in various ways, sometimes painful or brutal, occasionally deadly. The message was always the same though, "Never let your guard down and never permit weakness." Many would have resented that, wished to simply be a normal child, but in Lamehk there were only hunters and prey. She had endured, initially out of stubbornness, a core refusal to beg, cry or submit, but in time as she mastered those lessons a new world opened to her that she quickly came to revel in. Ultimately, she begrudged nothing and liked who it had made her--maybe, too much--as her father's new lessons were trying to teach. So, maybe that wasn't the reason she liked the Drakonian after all. Weakness was just weakness, at the end of the day. Yet, perhaps Lilliana’s ‘soul’ could be saved, she thought, forming a wry smile.

"You should spend less time on philosophy, little dragon," said Serana finally. "Know who you truly are, that is the only understanding that matters. Then, no matter the situation, you will know what to do, or not, when the time comes. And the time will come when you need to kill, so don't hesitate, for that is the only thing that will cost you."

Lilliana thought back to her self-defense training. Her trainers had taught her about how to subdue a threatening opponent. Once, the young girl had come to her parents concerned about how she would know when to use her training. Augustus had responded that "force should be used when you are in fear for your life or if the safety of others is threatened." She had not fully understood what her father had meant at the time, but with armies mustering in Gholgoth the young woman was beginning too.

Lilliana nodded her comprehension. "Violence has its place."

Born into a world where violence was not abhorrent or taboo, but simply life, Serana understood that nothing was more true and had embraced this fact long ago. In her world, which had particularly high standards for violence, she was renowned for being an artist at it. It pleased her that the Drakonian girl seemed open-minded about the subject; that the warrior spirit she'd glimpsed briefly was still within waiting for its moment to burn brightly. And, in that moment she finally grasped why she liked the girl, she had an air of malleability about her.

"Oh, yes it does," replied Serana, excitement obvious in her tone at just the thought, eyes alight with passion for the first time in the conversation. "Always, little dragon, always and often."

__________________

OOC: This post was co-written with Lamehk.

[Emperor Pudu]

The chamber cleared of lords slowly; Dengmu didn’t rise, however, once again adopting a quiet, thoughtful posture. Master Chai stood stoically behind him, a constant presence which Dengmu had, since ascending the throne, come to count on. Chai sensed his sovereign’s uncertainty and laid a hand on his shoulder, as only he was permitted by custom to do. Dengmu spoke then, “How many years did you serve my father, Chai?” was the question. The monk, who was fit but certainly not young, replied soberly “Eighteen years, from the time I left the monastery.” Dengmu nodded without looking back, “So you were with him on Caliga, then?” came the next question, “Was it like this?” Master Chai took a moment then before he answered, and did so carefully, “There was more show, but less substance. Less discord, to be sure. These last hours were of a sort your father never saw.” The old monk stopped short of saying anything more, but it seemed to have been enough. Dengmu straightened his shoulders and stood again, now that the room was a bit clearer.

Behind Dengmu sat Ambassador Otho and his staff. As the Emperor hauled himself to his feet Otho sent Captain Pestrukhin off with a hurried wave of his hand toward the barrels of whisky. The soldier returned quickly with a pair of glasses, handing them both to Otho. As Dengmu turned around to face his envoy Otho handed him a glass, “Helluva speech, sir.” The pair shared a private toast then, to Nathan and Gholgoth and to their own fortunes in dealing with both. “So,” Dengmu rejoined, “Have you been able to raise Mr. Lyme?” he asked of his ambassador. Otho replied “We did,” before he turned to Korinna who was at his side, she nodded to confirm, “Yes, we did. The embassy has a line to him, I expect he’ll be on a plane here within the hour.” Korinna reported. Dengmu chuckled, “So I’ll see him in two days.” Otho shrugged at that, “Sure enough. We won’t need him before then in any case, or indeed for some time after I expect. There’s still the war to win before we offer terms.” The two men had by then finished their modest shares of whisky and, casting glances about the room, saw most had already made their way out.

Augustus was satisfied with the way the vote had gone. He had some concerns over Nathan’s approach or he would not have pushed his own candidacy, but the Emperor of Ghant was his next choice and so he was happy with the outcome.

With the business of the vote concluded, Augustus did not hesitate to move to his next concern. As the Lords left the chamber he got up and approached the Pudite Emperor.

“Greetings Emperor,” he said as he approached.

Dengmu tilted his head toward Augustus, “A pleasure. Too bad about the nomination. It would have made things a lot easier for us. For me, at least.” he afforded at the end.

Augustus nodded.

“I’d like to discuss our time table for action,” the Drakonian Monarch asserted, pushing immediately forward to his proposition. “We can ill afford delay with the sinking today. I believe, we must strike as soon as possible against Shen Almaru. No later than a day or two, unless a negotiated withdrawal of Scandin troops seems imminent.”

“I've been assured our assets are in place,” Dengmu replied confidently, “though I don't believe our commanders had quite anticipated moving forward that quickly.” he added, somewhat less confidently. “I will confer with Admiral Khudoi, who is handling the operation. If he agrees that it is possible, then perhaps we can advance the timetable.” Dengmu looked then toward Otho’s military attache Captain Pestrukhin, inquiring silently after this plan. The officer answered with a look as if to say, ‘he won't like that’.

Otho politely bowed out of the conversation then, “Excuse me, my lords.” he offered, backing away. Once removed he turned to find Korinna standing close behind him, “Sir,” she began, “Chu Lin is outside, cameras rolling.” Otho wanted to swear, but instead he braced himself and said only “I’ll need another whisky for this.” He looked sidelong at Captain Pestrukhin again, who dutifully made his way toward the barrels. Korinna called after him, “Make it two!” As the good captain retrieved their drinks Korinna offered her advice to Otho, “We don’t have to give a statement.” Otho perked up at this, but Korinna wasn’t finished, “Of course, we should. They can make worse out of a ‘no comment’ than they can out of any answer you give, so we had better give them at least one question.” Pestrukhin returned then and Otho downed the glass in one swig, Korinna soon did the same. “Give her one question, more like.” Otho observed morosely. Korinna caught his meaning. “Yes, it will be Chu. She’ll have something good up her sleeve, so try and keep it short and to the point, whatever the answer is. No follow ups.” Otho nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Leaving the chamber, Ambassador Otho and his staff were approached almost immediately by a Channel One cameraman. Korinna was in the lead, “Just one question, the Ambassador has a dinner engagement.” she laid out commandingly. Chu Lin, the senior correspondent for Channel One’s Gholgoth desk, stepped forward then, microphone firmly in hand. Any junior reporters in the pool who thought that they might get a chance at that one question were quickly disabused of that notion. She looked right past Korinna and focused her gaze on Otho himself, “Ambassador Otho, what, if anything, has been done today to ensure that the Shen Almaru crisis does not become a footnote in the context of the looming war in Drana?” Otho paused for only a moment to formulate his response, “Well, our Emperor has raised the issue on the floor of chamber of lords and those candidates for Executor were forced to address those concerns. The crisis in Shen Almaru is the crisis in Gholgoth, that was made clear.” Before Otho could carry on from there, Korinna stepped back between the reporter and the ambassador, “Alright, that was one question, save the rest for the Executor.” She began to bundle the ambassador along and away from the hungry press.

Just as they were leaving the garden antechamber beyond the council of lords Otho and his party were approached by a Skyan messenger, who passed a piece of stationary hastily scrawled upon to the ambassador before quickly excusing herself. Otho looked it over once and then twice, turned it over and finally passed it to Korinna with a quizzical look. She inspected it in turn and then returned his gaze. “The Capitol Police?” she asked then, a note of hesitation in her voice. Otho steeled himself then and replied, “Korinna, go and bring Mr. Golub, meet us at the helipad. Captain Pestrukhin, find the Skyan in charge of security up there and give them a slap across the face; then make sure they’re covering our back. Capitol Police, arriving unannounced.” Otho scoffed. Korinna and Pestruckhin left him then, their tasks assigned. Olifer Golub the intelligence analyst was still in the clean room elsewhere in the White Citadel conferring with the Pudite embassy via hardline after the nuclear attack of earlier today; Korinna would retrieve him from there. Pestrukhin, who was Otho’s attache because he, unlike many Citizens, understood in that moment that he had not actually be ordered to slap a Skyan, would be watching the situation unfold alongside whatever White Guard officers were assuredly even now scrambling to respond to the unexpected incursion.

Ambassador Otho himself made his way back through the gamut of press outside the council chamber and inside to find his Emperor, who was still conveniently embroiled in conversation with the Drakonian Praetor. As he approached it became clear to Otho that the two men did not, ultimately, have that much to say to each other, and were on the verge of resorting to awkward small talk. “My lords,” Otho began, “I am sorry to intrude, but there has been an unexpected development.” Otho decided then to launch right into it, some excitement may do these men some good, he thought. He made sure he had the eyes of both Dengmu and Augustus as he delivered the message, “A Kraven Capitol Police delegation has arrived here at the White Citadel,” he pointed up toward the roof at that point, “And they are requesting an audience with the two of you,” he thought he had finished, but then added “That’s all we know.” understanding, as he did, that this was the sort of thing that would generate questions he did not have the answer to.

Augustus looked from Otho to Dengmu restrained curiosity filling his face. Before he could say anything, Gaia Calpurnia, the Drakonian Diplomatic Corps. representative came rushing up to the two Lords.

“Your Majesties,” she started to speak. “There has been--” One look at those assembled silenced any further comment. It was clear they already knew.

“We may require the services of the Marshal,” the Praetor instructed the diplomatic aide. Gaia nodded and set off immediately to get the Imperial Army officer.

Dengmu looked over his shoulder, searching for the towering frame of Caius Cominius Victricius, the Emperor’s most formidable guardsman. The Captain of the Palace Life Guards, outfitted in scarlet and gold power armor at once ornate and grimly functional, made his way to join his sovereign. Otho spoke up then, “I've sent a man ahead to look over the shoulder of the White Guard during the meeting, which we presume will be face to face on the roof of the Citadel. Further staff will meet us there.” Dengmu nodded at the report, then passed his gaze from Otho to Caius to Master Chai and back to Augustus, “Do any among us have any experience with these, Capitol Police?” he uttered their name deliberately, with emphasis.

Augustus frowned, his hand drifting to the sword that hung at his hip, and then nodded his head in the negative. Otho followed suit, though Captain Caius was not so quick as they. “A decade ago, now,” he began, his voice modulated by the speakers in his helmet, “In a place called Grozny. A place that no longer is.” The captain hesitated then, unsure of the level of detail decorum would allow. “We fought together then. The Capitol Police and my own men. I can not claim to know their thinking, but I can trust that they will give it to you straight. There is no subtlety with them.” Seemingly finished, Captain Caius bowed his heavy armored head and stepped back once more.

As if to punctuate the captain’s commentary, Otho clapped his hands together before him, “Well, I must admit. My curiosity has been piqued. Your Majesties, shall we?”

The party made their way then though the White Citadel and to the landing pad the Skyan troops, themselves seeming as curious of the unexpected arrivals as Otho and the others, directed them toward. Miss Calpurnia rejoined the group with the stiff-backed Drakonian Marshal, Ambrosius Brittius, as they neared their destination. Korinna Ariosto and Olifer Golub were found awaiting their arrival alongside some few of The White Guard of the citadel, who were present there in force. They had seemingly taken care to avoid overtly threatening their newest guests by shows of force and instead were keeping their distance.

Colonel Seius and the two Drakonian Praetorian Guardsmen from the Council Chambers had accompanied the two Monarchs and the were joined by three more Guardsmen when the party met up with Skyan Guard. One of three Guardsmen was wearing what looked like a crude bulky approximation of the Skyan Power Armor. Colonel Seius quietly reorganized the Drakonian Praetors protection detail. One of the Council Chamber Guardsmen swapping with his armored comrade. The extra three Guardsmen falling back behind the party.

The wind took on a cold chill as the group ascended the stairs to the landing pad, they were greeted by the sight of a menacing Kraven VTOL, seeing one of these beasts up close was a rarity, any other time it was either shooting at you or deploying Capitol Police, the engines gently whined, still powered up but at idle, in front were four Capitol Police Officers, their uniforms jet black, a stark contrast to the almost surgical whites of the Skyan uniforms, a gust whipped up the bottom of the lead officers trench coat as he stood watching the group approach, his feet slightly apart and a leather briefcase at his side, his stature was imposing and created an equally menacing figure that complemented the VTOL perfectly.

His gaze was never taken away from the group that approached, his dark eyes stared at the group, drilling right into their souls, the other three Officers too stared with cold indifference as the scene unfolded before them.

The lead officer took a step forwards, moving to meet the group in the middle of the pad, he outstretched his right hand giving the group a stiff armed salute while bringing his heels together with a curt click acknowledging respect for the group.

“I am OberSturmFuhrer 18 of the Kraven-SS Diplomatic Korps, Reich-Marshall Dietrich has tasked us with bringing a proposal, The Kraven-SS Intelligence Division is well aware of the build up towards the liberation of Shen Almaru, tactical analysis dictates that your invasion will be met with heavy casualties. The Reich-Marshall, in a sign of future solidarity wishes to assist, We are here to discuss this possibility.” His words were just as cold as the wind, they lacked any form of emotion, monotone but his words carried weight, as would the shock of what he had just said.

“I have in this briefcase documents outlining our proposal, you will look at them and I will give your response to the Reich-Marshall, however, this offer is not indefinite and I will require you to look over the proposals now.”

Augustus raised an eyebrow and looked over to steady-faced Marshal. The man’s face showed no emotion. He stood straight, however, his head leaned ever so slightly forward, and his eyes darted around, eagerly taking in every detail.

“Assistance from the Reich?” Dengmu mused aloud as he waved Mr. Golub forward to collect the briefcase and examine the documents. Golub did so quickly, turning them over in his hands and absorbing all he could before passing the set of plans over to the Drakonian Marshal.

The intelligence analyst then made a brief summation for Ambassador Otho, whose face turned over with intrigue as he heard the outline of the plan. Otho then approached Dengmu, who was doing his best to take a measure of the Capitol Police troopers, with little effect in the way of insight. “They mean to supply us with these,” Otho nodded toward the idling VTOL, “And pilots, and to fly them in the opening assaults on the islands. Golub tells me it looks sound, though I expect we’ll get a real military opinion here in a moment.” Otho glanced back at the Drakonian officer.

Augustus too looked back to Brittius, having overheard the conversation. Brittius nodded ever so slightly. He was silent for a moment, then suggested, “assuming there are assurances against the abduction of participating special forces, this plan does present an extraordinary opportunity.” His eyes looked to both Monarchs and then to the officer of the Reich, who betrayed nothing. “These craft could be used in neutralizing much of the rebel nuclear and chemical arsenal.”

Dengmu nodded approvingly at the Marshall’s suggestion, “Indeed, curtailing their ready access to such arms is among the primary concerns of the war planners. It would take some hundreds of craft, as I understand it, and of course our troops would require some time to familiarize themselves with operations from these vehicles, but it seems this is a unique opportunity. How soon can we expect to see this assistance materialize, should we agree?” he asked of the OberSturmFuhrer.

The answer was one worded, it wasn't meant to shock or impress, it was matter of fact.

“Today.”



OOC: Co-written with The Drakonian Imperium and The Kraven Corporation.

[Kylarnatia]

White Citadel, Citadel City
Havensky

[OOC: Written with contributions from Dephire and The Kraven Corporation.]

The Caesar and the Godsend Emperor had started in the general direction of the exit, assuming that was where Captain Skaro had been heading. They were quickly informed however by a passing Skyan aide that he had in fact stopped off by one of the staff bars for a drink before departure. Going through a set of winding corridors, they eventually found the place. It was cosy enough, themed to feel like one of the popular watering holes of Citadel City so that the staff didn’t feel too disconnected from the rest of the world while cooped up within the White Citadel.

Despite its friendly and warm demeanor however, the whole place had become devoid of nearly all life. Silvier and Tristan had guessed that by the amount of people leaving the place by the time they had arrived, Skaro was the reason why. Standing alone at the bar with a drink in hand he was kept only in the company of the barman, who was doing his best to calmly stare down the Kravenite but upon noticing the entry of not one but two foreign heads of state, clearly began to question in his body language whether he should hang around.

“Leave us.” Silvier spoke kindly but with an authoritative enough tone to suggest that she shouldn’t have to ask twice. The manager immediately opened a hatch in the floor behind the bar and descended into the cellar, sighing as he did so with such routine, as if what was about to happen was an all too common occurrence in his line of work.

Nodding to Tristan, the two then approached the bar and stood either side of the Captain. Taking two glasses and pouring their own drinks of what he was having, there was a moment where the silence was allowed to hang in the room before anyone said anything next.

Skaro saw the two walk in, the large mirror backing the bar gave him a good view of who came in and who left, it was littered with various liquor bottles standing on glass shelves, it fitted the surroundings well and went with the over decor of the bar, still Norska had nothing like this, alcohol had been banned a long time ago, but being overseas on a diplomatic mission had some of its perks and Skaro was more than willing to indulge himself a little.

“So, Silvier, to what do I owe the pleasure? Are you planning on giving me those come to bed eyes again?”

“And, Tristan too, I’m sorry but I don’t go that way, so you’ll have to busy yourself with something for a short while...”

Skaro smirked to himself and took another sip from his glass of fine Sky Marshall Brandy.

Without missing a beat, the Caesar responded, “You’ve been submerged in that U-Boat for too long, Captain. I imagine the suppressed sexual desire must be killing you. Unfortunately, from what I've heard of Kravenite reproductive standards, I think I'll be left sorely disappointed." She then took a sip of her own brandy, savouring the taste.

Tristan nodded to Silvier before taking a large sip, “I am glad you have a sense of humor.” He smiled before finishing the glass and filling it up again. Three bottles of the stuff would get him buzzed thanks to the nanites coursing in his veins. “I am grateful that you handed the envelope over to me. Sadly I was unaware that Adam was in possession of such information. My nation is still reeling from the attack on the Temple. It has opened our eyes to just how vulnerable our defenses were to an inside threat.” He emptied two more glasses, “That was the reason I ordered Dramman to purge my country of anyone with any ties to your nation. I will be in your debt.” Tristan found another bottle and began drinking straight from it, sighed, and solemnly looked at the bar as he took a seat. “You know what was on that disk, don’t you?” He gulped half the bottle, “I thought I had finally found happiness, Skaro. It was yanked away from me. I hope you can accept my gratefulness. These reforms were a good step in the right direction to prove the willingness of the Reich to possibly play nice. Maybe someday we can co-exist without all the unnecessary killing, war, and deceit. Until then, I will owe you a favor.”

Noticing the large quantities of alcohol the Templar was consuming, and the subtle change in the tone of his voice, Silvier moved over and stood behind Tristan, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not like the rest of them, are you Captain? At least I hope not, because if this is the best the Reich’s scientists can come up with then I might actually have to pity them.”

Skaro nodded at Tristan, “If you owe me a favour, I can call it in right now and you can get me another one of these brandies.”

Skaro swung himself onto one of the bar stools, now these two were here, he sensed that it might be some time before they would leave him alone, so sitting seemed to be the preferred option, he looked into the mirror at the rear of the bar and saw his tired face reflected back at him.

“Well, Silvier, I have to say that I’m surprised an Ice Queen such as yourself even has a sense of humour, it’s a pleasant surprise I must say.” He picked up the freshly poured drink and clinked his glass against that of Tristan and then Silvier’s.

“Best of health to you both.” Skaro responded before knocking back the glass of brown-red liquid

“No, I’m not like the others, I’m nothing like them and I get quite offended when I get likened to those machine men, I have fire, I have heart, I have soul, I am the Last Wolf as the Skyans call me, the last of the freemen in Norska. No Reich scientist could have thought up this!” Skaro mockingly slapped his belly with both hands and gave a laugh, then returned to leaning on the bar with both elbows, running his hand through his beard again, no one could be certain if he did this to think or was trying to remove some bearing grease from it.

The Caesar’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as the realisation dawned on her that indeed, the man before her - Kravenite though he was - was perhaps more human than she had given him credit. True he could be one of the dreaded Replicants she had read so much about in intelligence reports - and even witnessed during the Milograd War - but no, they did not replicate behaviour like this so convincingly. And genuinely. Indeed, she could not help but let out a hearty laugh of her own. “Well, there’s a popular joke back in my country about what you need to do when you come across a Kravenite with a sense of humour; guess I can talk about the lived experience when I get back.”

There was a brief pause and another sip of the drink. “So...Lone Wolf, why stick around with Fuhrer Robotnik’s pack of perfectly synchronised jackboots on parade?” Silvier paused again, realising the joke may go over the heads of anyone not born in her generation. Or with access to a game’s console. “I can’t imagine they provide much in the way of riveting conversation.”

Tristan was now behind the bar serving Skaro and Silvier their drinks, occasionally taking a shot for himself. “I remember stories of you, Captain. It is an honor and a privilege to be drinking with a man as famous as you. Thank you.” He downed another shot and smiled, “I hope that one day our nations will be allies and your people as free as you, so to speak.” He poured the final shots, “Here’s to our future.” He swallowed the final shot before brushing off his jacket and walking towards the door, “I hope to be in contact with you after this is all over, Captain Skaro. I’m off to the banquet!” He laughed and left Silvier alone with the Wolf.

Skaro nodded to Tristan as he left the room, a sign of his respect which was about as much as he would get from Skaro. Silvier watched him go and couldn’t help but chuckle, as she was happy that he was at least in a somewhat more cheerful mood. The man had been through a lot.

“Why do I stay? Why do I stay with The Reich, because, I have nothing else.” He took on a sombre look, as though he relaxed himself a little and the implacable Skaro was just a man, maybe it was the drink getting to him.

“I don’t tell many people, I told Squall and a couple of the lads on the U-96 know, but that's about it. I was once married and had a lovely son, we were happy together, but she had a falling out with her mother. The Reich was in its infancy, they had only just started to clamp down on everyone and everything, back then we still had a few freedoms...” He paused taking another drink and looked at it for a moment as though he was composing himself.

“The mother--her mother--decided to rat on her to The Secret Police, she was taken away and so was my son. I was at sea on patrol so couldn’t be implicated but they were both executed at one of the many death camps that popped up during the early years, it didn’t work out well for her mother though, she was arrested a couple of days later for guilt by association… stupid cow.” he took another drink and rested both elbows on the bar.

“I don’t blame the Reich for taking my wife and child, they were just doing what they were programmed to do, responding to the input given, reacting to the stimulus, it was her fucking mother I blame, the selfish cow.”

He laughed to himself, finished his drink off and reached over the bar, grabbed the bottle and poured out another glass.

“And now you know why I am the implacable Skaro, the Last Wolf, the last free man in Norska, my destiny is to serve until I take my final dive and the U-96 becomes my iron coffin… So, what about you Silvier, what's your story? are you and Hyperion an item? He seems to follow you around like a lost puppy….” Skaro laughed with a wide grin then rubbed his hand through his beard something he seemed to do often, it either irritated him or he used it to consolidate his thoughts.

Silvier had listened intently to the Captain as he told his story and, admittedly, she did feel a little bit of sorrow for his story. The Reich had taken his loved ones from him, and she knew that pain. Laughing at first in response to his joke, she responded. “Ah, Hyperion is just a very loyal warrior. The two of you would get along if you took the time to speak to one another: he’s a bit of a hard-ass, but he knows when a person is deserving of his respect.”

The Caesar then looked down into her own drink silently for a moment. “My story? Well, honestly, I was a young girl forced into a situation that she didn’t expect to find herself in so soon. Of course I was prepared from an educational perspective, but emotionally? How do you deal with losing both your father and your lover on the same day?” She looked to Skaro, the sadness reflecting in her eyes just slightly.

“They both gave their lives fighting the Reich in the First Milograd War: My father sustained injuries from a Kravenite dreadnaught blindsiding his flagship during the blockade of Fortress Norska. My lover was with him - he was a member of his Guard - and tried to take the brunt of the blast. That killed him outright, but it didn’t stop my father dying from his injuries when he was evacuated…”

A brief silence hung across the room, before Silvier took a stiff shot of her drink. “The Reich has taken something from the both of us, Captain. You and I may be enemies again one day, and on that day I promise I will seek revenge for the both of us.” She clinked her glass with his, before finishing the rest of her drink.

“It’d be good of you to accompany me back to the feast that is being arranged by the Skyans. I must admit, I wasn’t best pleased when I heard that they had made a deal with you and the Reich…”

“I am sorry for the loss of your Father and your Lover. War is a harsh mistress the best of times, but the hunt is what keeps me alive and unfortunately the hunt and war go hand in hand.” He finished off his drink and stood up.

“Yeah, actually that is a good idea, I could do with soaking up some of this Sky Marshall Brandy, Shall we?” Skaro mockingly offered Silvier his arm and gestured to the door, “If anything, it’ll give Hyperion a heart attack…” Skaro grinned and laughed as though he was actually enjoying himself, something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

“The deal, was meant to convince the Skyans that we were sincere with our proposals for the reforms, I believe that Dietrich wants to see change, but I’m not sure if I’m a hopeful fool or a blind idiot, either way, Jagada is going to get around 47,000 of their people back, I can’t remember the exact number, it might be more or it might be less, but Fortress Cydonia is the Jagite homelands, the Reich waged a war of extermination against them, the Jagites that escaped thought that all of their kin were wiped out, but in the words of the Kraven-SS they are like vermin, breeding like rats and some of them managed to survive despite the hardships of Cydonia… that's the deal: we hand over the last of the trueblood Jagites, the Skyans push through the reforms…”

“I see.” Silvier processed the information quietly to herself for a moment. She would be sure to speak of this to Atticus when the two eventually had their meeting. Snapping back to reality, she pulled a charming smile to the Captain and chuckled as she took the Captain’s arm, using her other free hand to bring the rest of the Sky Marshall Brandy. “Well then, shall we?”

As the two made for the door, the barman returned from the cellar. Seeing him emerge, and looking over all the alcohol both Tristan and Skaro had consumed. Indeed, of all the alcohol consumed she had only had one glass, but then that was very deliberate. Silvier gestured for Skaro to pause while she returned to the bar. Taking a napkin and a pen, she then signed it before then kissing it, the lipstick leaving a clear mark. “That should pay for the drinks, and then some.” She then stuffed the the napkin in the stunned barman’s chest pocket before returning to Skaro and, linking arms again, departed with him for the swearing-in ceremony and feast.

She had learnt both what she needed and had somehow, made friends with someone who just a few moments ago was a sworn enemy. Definitely not what she had anticipated from walking into a bar with a Briskan Templar and a Kravenite U-Boat Captain.

---

Eventually the two caught up with Tristan as they made it back in the general area of the Council Chambers, where preparations were being made for the swearing-in ceremony. Silvier and Skaro had been sure to unlink arms before making it back so as to not get spotted by any prying eyes. Turning to the Captain, Silvier passed him the bottle of brandy. “Well Captain, until the feast. Thank you for your--”

Before she could even finish her sentence, the imposing shadow of Lord Hyperion was cast over the both of them, standing directly behind Skaro and glaring directly down at him, a burning flare in his helmets eyes and the grip on his great axe Nightbane evidently quite firm, as if ready for a swing. Silvier quickly stood between the two of them.

“Hyperion, you know the Captain.” Hyperion said nothing, his eyes not moving off the Captain. Skaro looked back at him and grinned, slapping the giant’s chestplate before giving a short nod to Silvier and departing, Hyperion not breaking eye contact with him until he was gone.

“Well, that was a very smooth first introduction. You’re improving.” Silvier jested. The Lord looked back at her and was not as amused.

“There better have been a good reason why you were playing nice with him...my Caesar.” Hyperion was angry, but he knew his place.

“Oh come now, Hyperion, the two of you would get along quite well, I’m sure of it.” She took his free hand and looked up at him with a glint in her eye, mimicking the look she used to give him when she was a much younger princess. Relaxing slightly, the Lord walked with her back towards their delegation.

“What did you learn?”

“Enough, my dear Dux Imperator.” Silvier mused, her thoughts becoming more serious again as she thought back to the Jagites, the anger she had felt before when learning of the deal returning slightly. “I’ve learnt enough.”

[Aldarminia]

Several hours ago
West of Gholgoth
Krajrodina Domostrovgor Zhizhnytsentr
Strovarya Domen, Sredniygora Stranyoblast
Jarnbyrg

"Could you roll the window down, please, Pyotr?"

The driver of the armored stretch-limousine obliged the Stratonizhtszar's request with a contented smile. The smile was short-lived as Pyotr's nose inhaled the malodorous particles of the under-city drifted from outside. Pyotr grimaced and glanced over his shoulder and the gaudily velvet leather seats to ask Venkhzmr silently, Can I roll up the partition?

Venkhzmr chuckled and nodded as he lit his cigarette and thought, A man raised in the stables still is not used to the smell of the under-city. Classic.

As the partition raised and as he opened his armrest's ashtray with the press of a button, Venkhzmr looked to see what his fellow passengers thought of the fresh, city air. The Imperial Councillor on Trade and Commerce, Khozyastnizhtszar, Svetlana Trakovsky's face was one of ample disgust twisted into a frown that, to Venkhzmr, blemished an otherwise beautiful visage that had mastered the iniquities of age. Her Secretary-General, though, Gennady Zakharov seemed aloof of the sounds and the smells of the resurgent industrial city of Jarnbyrg. Both courteous and curious, Venkhzmr said, "If it would please you, Svetlana, I will put the cigarette out? Also, Gennady, if you could give me the pleasure of reminding me where you are from, it would be very much appreciated. You seem unaffected by the sensory charms of my home-town."

Svetlana smiled and shook her head from her seat next to the Stratonizhtszar. Gennady looked up from his tablet to answer with a face cold from rearing out of some process of analysis to answer, "Your Excellency, if I am being honest, I'm probably just busy looking over the reports from Strovarya Arms' liaison office, but I am probably just used to it all. I'm from the nizkygorod of Oksanopyl."

Venkhzmr chuckled and nudged Svetlana with his left elbow, "So it seems you are completely surrounded by the grodniki, Khozyastnizhtszar! Sure you're not scared we're going to steal those pretty pearls around your neck?"

Svetlana rolled her eyes and then shot a glare at Gennady to stop him from giggling. She turned away from her pensive observation of the passing-by cityscape to say, "If I was scared of either of the likes of you, I probably would not have made it to where I am today."

"As feisty as always, Mrs. Trakovsky," commented Venkhzmr and then beaming as he tilted his head to Gennady to suggest, "Best be careful around this one. A young, handsome man like you could become easy prey for for such an ill-tempered lynx."

The secretary was too enthralled by the manufacturing reports to even register the comment. Giggling through the woman's elbow jabbed into his side, though, the Stratonizhtszar looked outward into Jarnbyrg. As he savored puffs of smoke from his cigarette, Venkhzmr was entertained by the cacophony of industry and slices of life he could sight throughout the city. Traffic, despite his suggestion to go through the less-automobile-populated under-city, was heavier than expected. The Stratonizhtszar was pleased either way.

Venkhzmr faced little difficulty in his endeavor to spy out the tell-tale signs of home from inside the limousine. As he finished his cigarette, he could see in the distance between the apartment blocks the plumes of industry rising some otherwise indiscernible complex of smokestacks to darken the skies. Amidst the hums and drones of nearby factories, a second-march of grodnik and musician teenagers made their way to some underground club that was probably preparing for a local performer's event. Behind them, a smaller group of young men also seemed to be heading to the same place. One of the tracksuit-ed gentlemen carried a large, retro-style, pill-shaped boombox over his head. He had politely turned the device off so his group's music would not be discordant to the band's ahead. Krug sessiy, circles of people standing around drinking and smoking, some even performing rites, permeated nearly every corner and alleyway. From windows and stoops, local rodbratva vory eyed their neighborhoods for potential targets, outsiders, and fellow thieves-in-law.

The din of life and labor carried on as Venkhzmr extinguished the embers of his cigarette. Tapping on the partition to let Pyotr know that the window could be rolled up, the Stratonizhtszar noticed what he believed to be a new strand of gray in his hair in the reflection in the glass. The limousine suddenly lurched to a halt, and almost immediately, the partition was rolling down with Pyotr looking over his shoulder to inform his passengers. "The APC driver ahead says there's someone broken down a few cars in front of him, and the traffic trying to go around it is just causing a mess. He's sending a couple of the men to see if they can clear it up."

Venkhzmr nodded appreciatively before he turned to look out the window and saw the devil's work of urban traffic. "Pyotr were in an intersection, are we not? Can't you back up?"

Keeping his eyes ahead, wanting to score an opportunity to move forward, Pyotr disappointed Venkhzmr, "No, sir, if you look behind us, the rear security vehicle is right behind us, and the rest of the traffic's all jammed up as well. We're stuck where we are 'til those couple of guys--"

Simultaneously, Svetlana screamed, and Gennady's face contorted into horror. Milliseconds after, for Venkhzmr, there was only empty black.

---

Two hours after Katz's arrest
Somewhere in Domostrovgor

Finally, white. White, flickering light as bright as the sun until his eyes adjusted greeted Maynard back into the world from the darkness of the bag over his head. He had no idea how long they had kept him inside what seemed at first to be a coffin. He was sure that he had been placed on a plane at one point, and Maynard could guess that he was no longer anywhere near Anhavirnjogr. No one had spoken to him, nor he to them. All that guided him inside and outside of the coffin was the press of a rifle or pistol barrel in the small of his back. What concerned him most was that there seemed to be no effort to sedate him.

Maynard's eyes finally adjusted, so he could stop squinting. On the other side of a steel table in a sterile-white room, a man dressed in an immaculate white tuxedo with a maroon bow-tie sat in a steel chair reading from a white folder. On the table, a briefcase of a disorienting darkness was placed as close to the center of the table's surface as possible. Maynard did not see a door, so he assumed that it was behind him. Mere moments after he made that realization a pair of black gloved hands pressed down on his shoulders, and thus he was seated in a cold chair as metallic as the table. Maynard tried to turn his head, and he barely glimpsed the man's eyes through the holes in the balaclava before a fist corrected Maynard's facing.

As Maynard's face throbbed and voice groaned in pain, the man sitting across from him press a loose bang back into the slicked-back formation of his deep red-brown--almost as maroon as his bow-tie--hair. His right hand came down from the top of his head to rub a dark stubble along his jaw line before it suddenly pointed toward Maynard. With a thick, unfamiliar accent that seemed to all-at-once lilt like the sea and curl like hurricane clouds and surge like floodwaters, the man said in the common tongue, "You know, you really shouldn't try looking at 'em unless they're looking at you. They're sensitive about that kind of thing, these gentlemen."

His arms opened wide, and both hands snapped their fingers. On this cue, the corners of the wall behind the man turned as revolving doors, revealing two men dressed in all-black and wearing rib-knit three hole balaclavas just like the one who had punched Maynard. The man dressed as if he was going to a wedding asked, "I'm just being plain rude, aren't I?"

Maynard's eye twitched in either lingered agony or disturbed confusion at the question as the man's deep brown eyes stared into his. Realizing then that the man was not Aldarminian by birth, Maynard hoped desperately, Maybe I can go home.

"Listen, Mister Katz," he said almost jovially, "I don't actually want to hurt you, and in all reality, I've got no love for this little empire. I come from a very ancient city that has routinely been the target of some manner of Aldarminia-borne attempt to 'pacify' it."

Maynard breathed a massive sigh of relief as the man smiled. Then, the man's head started shaking, and his leg began bouncing up and down in some sort of a frenzy. The ends of his lips' smile curled a bit too far for comfort. Finally, a laugh shuddered Maynard's bones. The outburst eventually subsided from cackle to a breath-catching sigh as the flush of red on his face faded away. As Maynard's spirits plummeted, the man explained to him what the expat had already figured, "Somewhat sorry about that. I have a bad taste in humor, but anyways, still being rude and all, I'm from a place called Shalmet. Thus everyone refers to me as 'the Shalmatian.' However, you can call me 'Sir,' okay?"

Eyes watering, Maynard nodded. The Shalmatian continued, "So, unfortunately for you, most of what I told you a second ago was a bit of a fib. A morbid practical joke, really, but a lie nonetheless. I adore the empire, but mostly because it pays me well, and unlike far too many other, so-called 'advanced' or 'developed' nations, Aldarminia is pretty liberal with its drugs. Makes my job easier if I can just push all the bad things I do into a dark, secluded, and hazy corner of my mind, do you understand?"

Another nod and a tear rolled down the Pudite's cheek. "Now, now, Mister Katz, has a cat got your tongue, and this is why you cry?"

The laugh this time came off excessively facetious, but Maynard resolved himself then to put up a stronger exterior. Wiping a tear away, the Pudite prisoner shook his head. The Shalmatian's expression turned to one of a sour disposition. Pulling a cigarette from a steel container from his coat pocket, the Shalmatian politely inquired with a raised eyebrow, "Do you smoke?"

Downcast eyes and a head cocked to the side told the interrogator "No," but he offered anyway, "Surprising, to say the least, but would you like to, Mister Katz? You know, considering your situation as it stands in your mind, you might want to see what you've been missing."

Maynard's eyes returned to gaze at the Shalmatian, and a weak shrug indicated that the Pudite was not going to refuse the offering. So, the Shalmatian opened the briefcase deftly and revealed an ashtray and an unopened pack of cigarettes. Maynard reared his head back in confusion as his interrogator pulled a lighter from a pants pocket. Seeing this and surmising why his prisoner was perturbed, the Shalmatian noted, "You didn't think that I was going to bum you one of mine, did you? That's just silly. Consider this pack of joes as a parting gift from the Empire to you."

After saying as much and packing the tobacco with some haste, the Shalmatian handed Maynard a cigarette, lit his own, then handed the lighter to his prisoner, waited for Maynard to light, and watched as Maynard coughed off of his first few inhalations. He moved the now-closed briefcase aside to place the pack, lighter, and ashtray equidistantly from him and the Pudite. After a few drags from his own cigarette, the Shalmatian said, "So where was I," rubbing his stubble, "Ah, yes! I also don't want to hurt you, per se, but I do want to hurt someone. You see, my night is being a bit held up by some fickle dynamics of the geopolitical realities of the times we live in."

The Shalmatian ashed his cigarette and took a couple more drags before further elaborating, "There, outside," gesturing with a thumb pointed to behind to the wall, "Is a very beautiful and very morally-flexible, half-Kylarnatian woman whose acquaintance I have been waiting to enjoy for a whole evening for quite some time now, and she is currently being guarded by some rather competitively-burly men to my admitted insecurity, yet due to a certain--albeit arbitrary--degree of plausible deniability the Cosmocratium and His Imperial Majesty desire, I must be the one to handle you. They can't be flustering their new allies in the Skyan Republic a bit too much about human and civil rights, now, can they?"

Wiping a tear from his eye before it could fall from its lid, Maynard shook his head to the Shalmatian's expressed displeasure. "Come now, Mister Katz! I just said I had much other important matters to attend to tonight, and here you are forcing me to effectively speak to a brick wall. Now answer, verbally, the question I just asked. To make things easier for you, I'll remind you with some additional clarity. The Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of Aldarminia, in times of imminent war and ambitious expansionism, cannot be disturbing the peace that lies between itself and the Skyan Republic to the south in Gholgoth, and the Aldarminian Empire certainly cannot be producing distrust between itself and its supposed ally, the rightful government of the Pudite Empire, by harming, directly, a former citizen of said Empire, whether or not said citizen may have engaged criminally with a rebellious entity or person. Are these statements correct, Mister Katz?"

"I suppose they are, Sir," replied Maynard meekly.

"Amazing! He speaks!," chuckled the Shalmatian through a cloud of smoke precipitating from a half-inhaled drag. Maynard put his out before asking, "Sir, what is going to happen to me?"

Frowning, the interrogator first offered silently with a hand another cigarette from the pack on the table, but the Pudite refused. The Shalmatian shrugged, extinguished the cherry of his own into the ashtray, and then batted away the lingering smoke trails. "I suppose myself now is time to stop beating around bush. So, I'm going to make myself very, very, very, exceedingly clear to you, Mister Katz. As a matter of facts giving rise to your current predicament, there has already been convened, and concluded, an Imperial Secret Court trial for you. A Mister Lanskon argued valiantly in your favor, but unfortunately, it seems someone wants to make an example of you. A 'throwing of the book,' if you will. You've been found guilty of some charge that will probably get edited to better fit my report."

Maynard tried to protest but the Shalmatian commanded his silence almost as soon as the Pudite's lips parted to speak, "Quiet now, Mister Katz. Well, actually, I suppose we could be done with some parts of formality. So, as I was saying, you will never see the light of day again, Maynard. In fact, you will never see the night sky, starred or smogged, again. You will never see your friends or family again. As of now, you only have two options to choose from for the rest of your life. Trust me, if you can, that in all of reality that there is really only one sensible decision. In a way, we have taken off the extraneous, intermediary burdens of your existence. You get to skip to the end, Maynard, and choose how you want to go with highest degree of certainty. Peacefully or painfully. Follow my instruction, with total honesty, and you will go peacefully. Choose not to do so, though, and I will not hesitate to suspend your death sentence until I am satisfied that you have experienced every excruciation of pain imaginable. How clear am I making myself, Maynard? I really hope my accent and at-times-broken Common isn't too bothersome to your means of comprehension?"

There was nothing stopping the tears now, but Maynard wanted to be a man in the face of death, so he mostly refrained from erupting into a pitiful sob before he confirmed, "Very clear, Sir. V-very clear, Sir."

The Shalmatian's visage was all solemn now, a warm grey hue seemingly washing over his sun-tanned complexion even under the fluorescent lights. The interrogator nodded in a sidelong glance into empty space as he at-first mumbled, "Good," and then more clearly, "Good."

Eyes returned to fix themselves on the Pudite's person as the Shalmatian instructed, "Listen, Maynard, what I need and what you want to do is to give me your life-story. The whole spiel, so to speak. Down to the last drops of essence that make you. Alright, you poor son of a suka-loving ublyudok? Do that now, please, but know, though, that although I am obliged elsewhere, just give me all you've got to tell. I won't mind, but also don't leave anything out that you feel may be important to me and my employers. Speak, Maynard, or forever hold your peace and die in pain."

Maynard chose the better of the two, and did as he was told. He recounted the whole tale of his life. His birth in Shen Almaru. How his family raised him to be a good child of humility while they were making a small fortune for themselves, shaking off the shackles of poverty both his parents had known all-too-well in their own childhoods. He remarked upon how he had several stages of awkwardness growing up in school, but nothing more than normal. He recalled his life's favorites over the years. Eventually confessed that he did used to smoke in school, but quit so long ago that his lungs might have been completely clean of the carcinogenic tar and breath-quaking scars. Talked about his old high school crushes, and how he only ever really had a couple of girlfriends--and one stalker--until he was out of college. How he met the love of his life shortly after getting his first real job, and about the tragedy of the cancer and compromised immune system that took her from him before he ever got the chance to propose. About how he left the homeland after that fearing both the ground she used to walk and the persecution of the loyalists that seemed to rise with every passing day. About how he came to Aldarminia seeking a new and improved life.

Maynard must have talked, back-tracked, and half-accidentally retold for at least an hour, only sparingly catching his breath, but through it all, the Shalmatian seemed genuinely fascinated and never once even hinted physically or verbally an inclination to interrupt. Finally when the Pudite's tale was done, his interrogator stood with a frown, and Maynard thought he could spy the man's own eyes starting to water. The Shalmatian picked up the pack of cigarettes from the table and silently read the branding, Marlsich Specials: Mellowgold. He then displayed the front-face of the pack to Maynard, saying, "You know, I used to steal these from my parents all the time. And whenever my friends and I started smoking or whenever someone who hadn't smoked them before bummed one from me, many, many people said that they tasted like cardboard."

He set the pack down after taking one of its contents and lighting it. Continuing, the Shalmatian said, "I always told those people that if you kept smoking them, this particular kind," gesturing to the pack as he dragged, "Of talking stick, that eventually, they'd get used to them and grow quite fond of them, especially if they did so while drinking. And well, Maynard, I thought you were a bit of a cardboard box, but as ever and always, I am surprised to re-learn that there is no such thing like that among the many peoples. You see, I've grown, in such a short time, quite used to you, Mister Katz, which is why I'm very sad to know that you were, just now, very lacking with regards to the details I really needed to be given. But all the ones you subconsciously surmised I would want to hear were, of course, quite sufficiently provided. That's very unfortunate, Mister Katz, because now I have to use means I no longer at-all wish to. To summarize, Mister Katz, you've made my job very difficult. For but a moment. But being a boss of men, I can simply delegate some matters, however, I must honor, to at least a minimal degree, the words I have spoken to you."

At this, the Shalmatian lunged upon Maynard. After grasping a bunch of hair on the Pudite's head, the Shalmatian jammed his cigarette's cherry into Maynard's left eye. Maynard tried to fight it of course, but the man behind him who had punched earlier now used those devastating arms to restrain the prisoner's resistance. All he could do was writhe, scream, and cry. After it seemed the embers were burnt out into the Pudite's cornea, the Shalmatian pulled away from him, and the man-in-black behind the prisoner released his grip for a moment. The other two men in the room were opening and turning the briefcase so that its primary contents could be seen hazily through Maynard's one good eye. There were nothing but intentionally-dirtied surgical tools inside along with a blindfold. As the Pudite clasped his face in agony and tried to squirm out of his chair and crawl under the table, the man that had been behind him slammed a boot into one of his ankles before pulling the Pudite back into the chair. The same man then stuck a syringe with a long and thick needle into Maynard's shoulder. The other two were simultaneously walking through around the room revolving the corners and the walls to reveal some form of acoustic shaping on their now-interior sides.

Only one last corner remained unturned when the Shalmatian explained as Maynard quickly felt himself unable to move, "I guess I should detail to you what's about to happen. Frankly, I like you just well enough to not want to do so, and I am just not in the mood to ruin a good tuxedo with another man's blood, so I'm going to let my boys handle you. Don't get the wrong idea though. This is not really a favor, or rather, beneficial to you. It's a matter of convenience really, and I must warn you that these men do not hold back with as much mercy as I do. I can't remember precisely the chemistry's nomenclature, but what you were just injected with is essentially a specially-designed paralytic.It won't shut down the actual nocioceptors that alert your brain to painful experiences, but it will however make it extremely difficult if not impossible for you to move by practically locking up the majority of your muscles."

The Shalmatian paused to look at the two men-in-black that had once been behind him. After a nod to them, they began taking certain tools out of the briefcase and setting them on the table. "My boys are going to periodically place and take-off a blindfold so you can have the displeasure of not knowing when the next strike is coming while also being able to see in certain intervals exactly how much blood you're spilling all over these clean floors. See, they're going to pinch, poke, prod, pierce, penetrate, punch, and kick you in ways you never have been before all the while the majority of your senses are going to be deprived per the blindfold, paralysis, and the fact this room is a very close approximation of what is used to train cosmonauts for the silence of the heavens. I'll be returning shortly, Mister Katz, and I sure do hope you've changed your mind about protecting your friend, Mister Shun An, when I do, or else I might have to take you on a detour from this facility. You won't want that."

The blindfold was going over both Maynard's eyes as he was getting gut-punched when the Shalmatian was turning the last corner of the "quiet room" as he left. The Shalmatian began walking towards the primary exit when a plump, young woman of Aladamian heritage hurried across from the other end of the corridor where a secondary entrance-exit was and called after him, "Sir! Sir!"

Turning the man asked in the girl's native dialect which he guessed from her accent, "What is it, m'lady?"

She handed him a flat-tablet and said worriedly-so, "Sir, we just completed triple--no, quadruple checking our analysis of all of Maynard Katz's electronics, metadata, traffic, commun--Sir, Katz could not have had anything to do with the detonation or the message to the embassy. It seems that the last time he and Shun An spoke was several weeks ago before Shun began his most recent cyber-warfare campaign. Apparently the two's falling-out was taken a bit more harshly by An than by Maynard, because Shun decided to use Katz's phone and laptop as a sort of zombie, or proxy. Katz wouldn't have been able to notice anything except for maybe a minor degradation in performance as An was trafficking his malware and so forth under the cover of bloatware originating from a game application the two used to play together quite frequently."

The command liaison paused to catch her breath, but quickly returned to the matter at hand, "Katz's connection to the Pudite embassy's wifi as he made his on-foot commute from his workplace by the embassy offered Shun the chance to send the message. Shun would have known this favored routine of Katz per numerous conversations we gathered from Katz's phone after they were decrypted. Sir, unless he somehow defied the odds and managed to pick up and use a burner under our surveillance, Maynard Katz is innocent of all charges of criminal actions we could ever conceive of attributing to him."

The Shalmatian threw the tablet against the wall, shattering its glass screen into several shards. The woman jumped back in fear, and even the the man's face contorted into shock as he realized he had let anger get the best of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted his downcast eyes in a stressful musing. He looked back up to face the command liaison for the cyber-warfare and surveillance analysis staff and said, "I'm really sorry, m'lady. Tonight's just not going my way as of right now. Unfortunately, it's far too late for Mayn--Mister Katz. What I need you to do is go into the quiet room, and tell my men to stop whatever it is that they are not doing. Understand? And please do inform that it is mine and the Bureau's order to have Mister Katz brought downstairs to a cell where he will be provided a proper and decent last meal before he is to be disposed. Understood?"

The woman wanted to protest--make a statement regarding that she was not cleared to enter the quiet room--but she figured that it would be best not to provoke the renown man's anger again. She saluted the Shalmatian, and the two promptly set about their different paths through the corridor. The Shalmatian ignored all appeals for his audience as he made his way through the various stairwells, elevators, tunnels, hallways, and office sections of the facility and its many subterranean levels before he finally arrived at the ground floor. He repeated his orders to the young woman to his second-in-command that waited for him sitting in the processing and holding lobby. The Shalmatian also informed the two-i-c that he was not to be disturbed for any business matters for the rest of the night. Under the watch of armed guards posted at walls and corners and beside him and cameras nearly every other half-meter, the Shalmatian exited the Civil Intelligence and Security Bureau black-site and entered his limousine to the immediate, exuberant pleasure of the woman inside.

"Smikeyboo! Oh, by the Grand Mother, we're so late for the party! What took you so long?!"

"Apologies, mon chéri, but duty and work have been fussy tonight," he explained as he sat down and his chauffeur shut the door. After waving his hand to the chauffeur upon his return to the driver's seat, the Shalmatian and his escort were quickly on their way to a party and far away from the black site.

The two embraced each other, by lips and by arms, until the Shalmatian pulled away to inquire, "Consentia, are you a fan of the macabre?"

Puzzled, the escort looked up into the black interior overhead of the limo before answering, "I do think I get excited by the topic of death. At least a little bit. I assume that's what you're really asking me."

Slapping his knee, the Shalmatian confirmed with a twisted smile, "That it is indeed. As perceptive as always! Well, now that I know it might be to your fancy. Let me tell you all the things I would like to do to a particular man I want to kill right now..."

---

Xituvar
Krajrodina Vernulsya Starshrasshyrat
Lesatmy Domen, Kassakkæzhstan Stranyoblast
West of the Igorsik ZRSK

There was only one thing that could draw Dalikharl away from a meeting of Gothic Lords. That was the din of combat in his own empire that still occasionally pervaded some obscure stretch of territory within it. Unfortunately for the Dreads that had decided to invoke the Hammer's ire, the obscurity of Igorsik ended the moment it became an agricultural development zone. A place to become a new weave in the endeavored-for new breadbasket of the Cosmocratium. Being a latent copy-cell with little to no contact with any major hosts, the particular strain of Myrizstrakha that had decided to use their stolen tanks and APCs to harass local villages and townships around the ZRSK were grossly incompetent compared to their predecessors, and thus they failed to perform the reconnaissance that would have told them that a larger-than-normal quantity of Imperial troops were supplementing the Jarl Defense Corps. Thus was spelled the doom of the late-appearing Dread emergence in Lesatmy.

The Grand Emperor, as he had ever since he had declared the War of Reclamation strategically over, took it upon himself to head to the front of the fray as rapidly as possible. So he had spent the month or so before the Anhavirnjogr Summit and the seemingly eternal hours after it gradually hunting down the Lesatmy Cult.

First, several companies of Imperial Army infantry were dispatched to the forests surrounding Igorsik to flush the Dreads out. Next, Vanguard special operations units were tasked with finding and capturing the pair of Draugai leading the cult, and when they did, the whole host erupted into a frenzied spree of assaults upon the defensive perimeter of western Igorsik. Then, eventually, they were repelled back into the forests and finally out from there into the grassy hills. What remained of the Cult was being chased through these hills to their sole remaining defensive position just north of Dalikharl and his squadron of "ceremonial" Nakils and several platoons of Imperial Army soldiers. There, and finally-so, the Dreads planned to make their last stand in the ruins of a medieval fortress once used by some Aladamian lord to police the kassak horde that had settled within the wooden fortifications that had now evolved into the modern Igorsik township.

Shell-wrecked hulks of metal, their camouflage paints thoroughly blackened by fires, were scattered between the low-rolling hills of the edge of the steppe as the battle raged to its end. From atop lower-lying hills south of the ruins hill, the fifty-eight Nakils that made up the Hammer's Armored Honor Battalion of the Blood Guard, arrayed into a four-part semicircular formation, demolished what remained of already-crumbling parapets and ramparts. Below the tanks' positions, across the knolls and all-around the ruins, platoon after platoon after platoon of Imperial Army soldiers, loaned with KHODOK Oa.III Birzirkr power armor from the Vanguard's armories, were storming forward to their final positions at the foot of the fortified hill, trying to defilade themselves as much as possible with the carcasses of fallen Dreads or the destroyed Wolfhound tanks that had been stolen by the Myrizstrakha host. For just a few minutes, the sounds of firefights had begun to die-down and the streaks of tracer rounds had begun to dim--both eventually completely dulling to an ominous tranquility.

From his vantage point atop the turret of a headquarters Nakil among the easternmost quarter of the armored formation, the Hammer watched through binoculars as his foes made their preparations for whatever they believed was about to come. Dreads here and there between rubble and debris crawled, stood, knelt, ran, and rolled into all manners and modes of firing positions. Dalikharl lowered the view to his own troops directly ahead of the nearest western quarter of the tank positions. In an instant, the whizzing of a piss-poor-sniper's bullet sounded very close to the Grand Emperor, and in milliseconds afterwards, the whizzing was followed by a sharp collision and reverberate ring of that bullet's ricochet off of the armor of the tank's turret. Near-simultaneously, as that ricochet grazed a neat cut into Dalikharl's cheek, a large, power-armored hand grasped the collar of his civil-war-ragged, black trench-coat, pulling him off of the turret.

Reorienting himself into a kneeling position after being dragged to the ground, the Hammer looked up to see who had put him there. Towering over the Grand Emperor although on his knees was the helmet-less-but-power-armored Gunnsvyg Sigrskvor, his Obirstnik Blood--and body--Guard. Sigrskvor's eyes bled solemnity into the air between the two men. Overhead, someone had spotted the sniper for the tank crew which was then giving retaliatory hell in vengeance for the assault upon His Imperial Majesty. Next to Sigrskvor was a radio officer who looked just as emotionally downtrodden. Dalikharl touched his cheek to confirm the additional warmth was from a wound, and before he could even mention it jokingly under his breath, a medic was tending to the injury.

Grabbing the radio from the soldier next to him, Dalikharl shot Gunnsvyg a glance that said, Tell me after I do this.

Speaking at a pitch and volume to compromise with the volley of tank fire and the returned cacophony of small arms munitions' discharges, the Hammer levied the Peoples' Will, "Grom Oden, Grom Oden, this is Syuzeren, confirm fire!"

Two seconds parsed a silence over the channel before a clear vocalization came over from the other side, "Impact in three... two... one..."

Zero, aptly thought Dalikharl as the weapons-density rod-shell of tungsten practically annihilated the Dread last stand. Even if there were somehow any survivors of along the perimeter of their beyond-ruined fortress, the Battle of Igorsik as far as the Hammer was concerned. Standing up as the combative orchestra quieted, the Grand Emperor asked Sigrskvor bluntly, "What the hell is wrong? I told you to stay in the rear. You know I don't like you protecting my ass in these situations!"

The bodyguard's eyes were downcast before he could work up the nerve to break the news, "Your Majesty, Venkhzmr Jormshgalnsvarij is dead. Svetlana Trakovsky and her secretary, Gennady Zakharov are in critical condition. Drunk driver hit their vehicle as they were leaving Jarnbyrg the meeting with Strovarya Arms factory supervisors."

Grand Emperor Dalikharl II's wound from the Battle of Igorsik would be stitched and glued, but some scars never really heal. He was on his official diplomatic jet within the hour afterward to head to Citadel City while being briefed on all the recent events since he had departed Anhavirnjogr. With the most recent Myrizstrakha emergence thoroughly beaten into oblivion, it was time to return to grander schemes and bolder maneuvers.

---

Meanwhile, the last ships of the Grand Armada of Liberation, consisting of the entire Yugostrana Imperial Armada and both of the Sredigotov Imperial Expeditionary Fleets, were forming up with the Allied cordons around Shen Almaru. The Fourth Home Guard Fleet, specializing in anti-access and area denial, began immediately reinforcing the vast yet somewhat porous blockades; the four Expeditionary Fleets--IV, VI, VII, VIII--followed suit by preparing to support the operations of their allies in destroying every single Shun-loyal ship between allied forces and the islands of Shen Almaru. Unbeknownst to the world, the Blood House Aszcheyko had declared domvoina upon the House of Shun.

[Ghant]

"Odolzin"
The White Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky
(Co-written with Havensky)

During the break, the Skyans had removed the Ghantish throne from the round table and replaced it with a Gothic one. This particular throne was slightly larger than the rest of the thrones and made of Crimson King Maple. A tree motiff was inlaid in the back with Gothic Hydras moving from the base of the tree towards the arm rests. It probably wasn’t the world’s most comfortable chair, but it did have a rather dramatic effect to it.

On stage, a line of Gothic flags were arranged next to the chair with national flags intertwined between then with Ghant’s being most prominent. A small press area had been partitioned just to the left and right of the stage with a pool cameras set up in the center of the room. The podium was placed just off to the side with several microphones set up.

As the press was getting set in their position, Skyan Press Secretary SJ Craig assisted Emperor Ghant with his lapel mic and began to explain that the press would be broadcasting the swearing in as well as any speech he intended to make afterwards. The press wouldn’t be asking any questions here, but would be shepherded to the Citadel Press Room after the swearing in. Not every Gothic nation had a free press, but the Skyans did and they wanted witnesses for this event.

The Skyans had also opened up the chamber’s upper decks to prominent Ghantish that happened to be in Citadel City at the time as well as the entire local embassy staff.

The White Guard began to gently inform the Lords that the ceremony was about to begin. As they were seated, the Ghantish national anthem began to play and Emperor Nathan was directed to stand in front of the throne. The doors opened and the Ghantish Ambassador walked down the aisle.

Atticus stood at the podium and addressed the Lords.

“The Emperor of Ghant will now be sworn in as the Gothic Executor. Emperor Nathan IV has chosen to swear the oaths upon his own blood. The Odolzin ceremony will be administered by the Ghantish Ambassador to Havensky, Jenara Torrea.”

Atticus stepped down from the podium as Ambassador Torrea took his place. She was a tall brunette with wavy shoulder-length hair, smooth fair skin and hazel eyes, dressed in a silver evening dress. Once she had assumed her position at the podium, she began to recite the ritual in its traditional manner for all to see.

“Is there one among you, of Ghantish blood and ancient name, who can command the words of the people?” Jenara asked, generally.

“I, Lara of House Jarasa, of ancient name, shall command the words of the people.” The curvy blonde Ghantish noblelady with lilac eyes stood tall and proud as she spoke, and upon saying the words, came forward and joined Ambassador Torrea at the podium.

“And who among you calls themself a Knight? Who has sworn upon their life and honor to fear the Gods and to maintain their laws?” the Ambassador continued, her voice booming.

Ser Rolli, the so called Knight of Ducks, answered the call. “I am, by my honor I swear.” Having said that, the knight walked forward and joined Jenara and Lara upon the stage.

Finally, Jenara called forth for “By blood and honor, I call forth Nathan, the Fourth of His Name, Emperor of Ghant, High King of the Ghantar, King of Low Ghant, King of Gholghant, Lord of Zahaghant, Lord of Dienghant, Lord of Gholgoth, Lord of Ghish, Lord of Gaztelua and Protector of the Realm.”

The Emperor of Ghant made his way towards the three of them, their eyes cast upon him firmly. “What brings you before us, he who would presume to answer the call?”

Bowing his head deeply, Nathan got down on one knee, and then upon the other. Kneeling on both knees, he said, “Upon my blood, the blood of kings of old, I would swear Odolzin, upon the blade of my ancestors, in the sight of Gods and men.” Nathan drew forth his Arragaran steel sword, the one once bestowed upon King Robert I of Low Ghant, and with the blade exposed, dragged it across his right hand.

Still kneeling, Nathan showed his bleeding hand to Jenara, Lara and Rolli, and then to those present, Gothic Lords and members of the press alike. “Upon my own lifesblood I swear to be true as Executor of Gholgoth. To honor and obey the Gothic Alliance and its laws, to adhere to the Council and to respect my fellow lords.

“As you have sworn upon your life, before blood and honor, so shall your oath be kept. Rise now, as Executor of Gholgoth, in the sight of Gods and men.” Just as Jenara finished speaking, the Emperor sheathed his sword and stood. Then he approached the podium with a bloodied hand, and looked for the words that he wished to say to all those gathered to witness him speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, words cannot describe today the honor that I feel. Any prepared speech wouldn’t do it proper justice, so I decided to speak from the heart. To think that I, Emperor Nathan of Ghant, stand before you as Executor...it’s surreal. Yet I understand that winning an election isn’t the prize. No, something like Executor cannot be won. It must be earned...it must be achieved.

I’ve spoken many things about what I’d like to achieve. I cannot do it alone. Peace is a group effort, requiring unity of purpose. These are dark days filled with uncertainty that we find ourselves in, and in the darkness we must learn to live together, or die alone. The canyons that divide us are sometimes great, but so too are the bridges that connect us. We must never forget that we are men and women of Gholgoth, first and foremost.

Is it fear of what we’re capable that inspires awe and terror in the hearts of men? Aye, because we are capable of anything that we put our minds to. There’s nothing that we cannot achieve together, against any shared problem or common foe. It’s that resilience, that dogged spirit, that drive to endure against all hardship that inspires fear in the hearts of men. We can be invincible...we can be unstoppable.

Together, we shall have peace amongst us. The War with the TGT and the Triumvirate shall end. The dispute concerning Shen Almaru shall be resolved decisively. Gholgoth shall be more united and stronger than ever. I believe it’s possible, and so should you. Together we will leave it in a better condition than it was when we came upon it, and leave that for our children.

Yet, if any nation would wage war upon this Council, we shall let them know that the price is heavy. Let us not spill blood unnecessarily, but always be prepared to do so, if that is the cost of peace. So long as there is war, we shall win it. So long as there is peace, we shall enjoy it. Whatever this Council strives to accomplish, we shall achieve it, because we have the strength to achieve great things. Whatever it is that we dare, know that we shall succeed, and usher in a future brighter than anyone can imagine. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The room began to cheer upon the conclusion of the new Emperor's speech, though the Emperor was anything but exuberant. He talked a big game and made great commitments...he could feel the weight of the responsibility. My blood is upon it now, he understood, dreading the thought of failure and what that would mean for not just himself, but for his family and his country. Much hanged in the balance, but for now, all he could really do was drink some water and smile for the press.

[Havensky]

As Nathan finished speaking, the room was silent except for the clicking of cameras recording the moment for history. And then, applause.

There was applause in the room as Executor Nathan walked down from the stage, shook hands with everyone, and proceeded out of the room escorted by the Knight of Ducks and his own security forces. Skyan Legionnaires had taken positions at the edge of the walkway and saluted the Executor as he passed. They maintained their salute as each of the Lords rose from their seat and left the Council Chambers.

After all the other Lords had left, Atticus walked out of the Skyan Chamber escorted by the Head of the White Guard. After that, everyone else was invited to leave the room.

The hallway that the Lords walked down was reserved just for the Lords and their guests. It allowed the Lords that wanted to attend a press availability to do so by using the press room side door. If they didn’t feel like talking to the press they could just keep walking towards the feast.

The press room was set up very simply with podiums spaced out and each adorned with the Gothic Flag. Several dozen reporters had gathered in the press room all over the region and a handful of pool cameras and microphones were pointing at the stage.

At a minimum, they would hear from Atticus and any of the other Lords that choose to appear before the media. The Skyan media would play any Lord’s remarks in full across the globe.

The corridor began to descend downward and ended up at the VIP entrance to the Citadel’s Grand Ballroom where the feast had been set up. The flags from each nation had been hung from the stone ceiling interspersed with long ribbons in Gothic colors.

The feast was to be served tapas style with small plates of food from all over the region. From Skyan brisket tacos, Ghantish amaigaberregosia, Kylarnatian kabkabou and even Kraven nutritional grey paste. Or at least, the Skyan approximation of it. Skaro had been cagey about what the paste was made out of. So, the Skyans had simply used tofu and food coloring along with added nutrients.

The Skyan had arranged the seating. There wasn’t a head table, but rather the diplomatic staff had mixed everyone up as not to show favoritism to one nation or the other.

There were exceptions of course. The children of the Gothic Lords were seated at two tables. The high school age children on one table and everyone else - including Bebe - at the other table.

The candidates for Praetor and their guests were also seated at the same table. Their positions weren't yet official, but the diplomatic corp though it might be useful to have them all have some face time.

Executor Nathan was seated with Atticus, the Pudite Emperor and the slaver Emperor Fenric. This was done in order to allow the new executor a chance to work on a peace accord in a more casual environment.

Newly minted Ambassador to Dephire Lady Regina “Glitch” Raven had joined the feast alongside King Gavin Ironwing. They were seated at the table with Emperor Tristan.

Queen Jessica Heart, the true Gothic Lord of Havensky, sat at the same table as Emperor Fedor of The Golden Throne as well as the Aldarminian Grand Emperor Dalikharl. With the reforms passed and the Executor elected, Atticus’ job was nearly finished. Queen Heart, a former Secretary of State herself, would take on the next challenging task.

The Golden Throne was a powerful outsider who was currently at war with a fellow Gothic nation. The slaver empire had used Havensky’s alliance with The Golden Throne to foster suspicious and used it as an excuse to bomb Citadel City. Gholgoth was hostile to outsiders and this was a chance for Fedor to be getting acquainted with the Lords before his official speech to the Lords.

As for all the other tables, it was a mix of different people from different nations in what had to be one of the largest state dinners ever hosted in the region. The ballroom itself was immense in its size and could hold hundreds of people. Prominent foreign nationals who lived in Havensky would also have been invited.

There were also several tables for journalists from across the region although they were told not to pounce on people during dinner.

All across the room, servers would be walking to and fro with drinks of all kinds. Champagne, beers, wines, various juices and all manner of liquor. There would not be an empty glass in the entire room.

This would be quite the feast indeed.

[The Scandinvans]

Fenric abruptly stood up and proclaimed,""There is no real nation of Havensky. The people there lack any common roots. They have no unified sense of purpose, history, and self. Their society is nothing more than a hodgepodge menagerie of different peoples with no true attachment to each other. Fundamentally they are little better than a gaggle of unwashed vagabonds who have coalesced into some sort of semblance of economic cooperation.

The vanity of their delegation here is a mask for the inherent weakness manifest in their people. They demand reformation so that the greater and truer nations do not turn their eyes upon them. Yet, their depravity will in the end force them into dissolution. The light of civilization will begin to prevail once more in the near future. It shall eventually burn away their wickedness and expose the lies of the dres'nalar. For their lack of capacity to acquiesce to reason has rendered any conservation with them futile.

The faith that they bring is one of compromise and thus there is nothing truly in it. The morals they preach are ones designed to protect the offal. The rights they espouse defend the most depraved the most. The laws they create detract from the truth of humanity. The governments they elect are nothing more than wardens of disorder. Their entire system is thus nothing more than an insidious lie. Democracies are all vile enterprises which deserve to be pushed into the dustbin of history.

The belief that all humans are created equal, which is so dear to them, is a fallacy. There is no evidence for it anywhere in nature or in scripture to support that supposition. When people operate with this as an axiom it is, in effect, constructed as a apparent falsehood designed to mislead people and give them false hope that they can thrive. When in reality all your systems do is further the wealth of a parasitic elite who lacks the courage to openly proclaim their status.

These lies end up condemning the very nature of all their efforts. The semblance of order for these proceedings damns any efforts born here. They seek to oppose the rights of my people to defend ourselves, our traditions, and any prospect for our own sovereign future. We shall never yield to those who seek our destruction. We shall overcome any of the pitiable efforts arrayed against.

My warning to the Havenites present here, in the deepest of pits shall your leaders be thrown. In the vaults of the world's spine shall they be kept. Hidden away in the darkness shall their sin consume them. Madness shall shatter their pathetic minds. Their will shall be laid bare and they made to recant for their depravity. When only the word of the Almighty issues forth shall they be at last redeemed.

To the rest of those here, I hereby exercise my right to liberum veto. I am a sovereign lord of Gholgoth. None here can compel me to yield my ancestral prerogatives. My nation's rights shall be preserved. My people's future shall be secured by us alone if need be. Any of those who seek to hinder our efforts shall be considered to be oath breakers who violated the ancient pact which we forged with the fellow lords of Gholgoth. We shall continue to offer diplomatic options to those who wish them."

Reaching to his side an aide brought him a collar and taking it he placed it into onto the table," This is the fate of those who dare to invade our nation."

[Jagada]

The White Citadel
Citadel-City,
The Skybound Republic

The affair had been well over her head and Empress Renuae knew it. Despite her reservations she kept glancing over at her father, Nalur al’Maw, who sat impassively watching the unfolding spectacle. Once during the voting there had been a clear pause in the procession where some eyes fell on her to cast her vote. She had tried to rise but a firm grip from Nalur stopped her and the look in his sideways glance told her to remain quiet. The moment passed and it was assumed she would abstain from the voting altogether. The election of Emperor Nathan IV of Ghant had been a surprise … or at least she thought it should be? There were no tales of gruesome deeds involving Ghant which made Nathan’s election awkward. Didn’t the Gothic Lords favor strength?

Once the election and the immediate speech following the coronation had been done she had left with quiet dignity, escorted by her ever-present father. They walked through the halls of the White Citadel and she could feel a certain charm for the Skyans populist approach to monarchy. The two of them found themselves a short time later in the feasting room. Finding it hadn’t been hard given the delicious smells that wafted through the air. She entered seeing the graceful, but chaotic, scene of state leaders being seated while servants scuttled about bringing in great trays of food from across the region. She began to worry as to where to sit; even Nalur looked about tepidly.

Thankfully a servant spotted them, and her badge of office as a Gothic Lord, and immediately made herself useful by bowing graciously and escorting them to a nearby table. Her name was on a small, gold-edged piece of vellum on the table, and an extra seat was brought for her father soon after. Pulling the seat out for her, Nalur made sure to follow all of the steps to show proper respect.

Once seated and refreshments delivered – a glass of water for her, and a whiskey for her father, he leaned in close to her while appearing to stare off into the distance.

‘Do you understand why we abstained,’ he said softly.

‘Something involving power politics no doubt.’

A slight clenching of his cheeks the only sign of annoyance at her, ‘That’s a lazy answer. This new position, the Executor, is untested and the first of its kind for the region. If it fails, our hands are clean. If it succeeds, then our abstaining vote will be forgotten and disregarded as neutrality.’

‘Is it well that Emperor Nathan won the vote,’ she asked trying her best to make the entire conversation appear bland and uninteresting so as to keep prying ears away.

‘Better him than Skaro,’ said Nalur before moving away from her abruptly ending the conversation.

[Havensky]

As soon as the slaver emperor started speaking, Squall felt that this was more than just a slight.

This should have been Emperor, no Executor Nathan’s moment. He had triumphed in a popular vote of amongst the leadership of Gholgoth. He was now endowed with the responsibility of stopping the conflict between the slaver empire and the Alliance. Making a big speech now seemed like a surefire way to steal Nathan’s thunder and insult the hosts all at the same time. The cameras in the room would naturally broadcast the entire speech to the world stealing the moment away.

Squall had seen both Atticus and Nathan had leave the room. So, the slaver was insulting the Skyan People from behind the back of their designated representative.

Coward.

As the slaver emperor went on, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Squall’s power armor crackled with electricity as it began to power up in response to his clenched fist. All around the room, a low rumble began to form as the Skyans in the room expressed their displeasure. The White Guard in the room began to key off Squall moving into positions around the room to keep the non-combatants behind them.

The tension might have been dissipated with time. There might have been a reality in which the Skyans ignored the taunt, ignored the insult, kept their mouths shut and their hands clean.

That reality became impossible the moment the slave collar hit the table.

Over the next second, there was silence at first followed by the sound of Squall’s armor following his hand as it reached for his blade. His fingers grasped the handle and the sword’s metal began to sing as it started to leave the sheath.

And then...a boom from above.

“Major Squall!”

Squall looked up lighting quick at the source of the voice.

“Escort this man out of the Citadel!”

Lamula Hagane, the Skyan World Assembly Ambassador, had been sitting in the chamber’s upper balcony watching the proceedings. The balcony only made her already six foot frame all the more commanding. Her dark wild curly hair contrasted starkly with her bright white dress. Her words boomed throughout the large hollow chamber and the rest of the room went quiet at her command.

“You, Emperor of the Slavers.

We invited you here to break bread with us, as our guests, to begin a new era of brotherhood. We did this despite your attack on our cities. We did this despite your continued insults on our values, our people, our way of life. We bore your insults because we felt that it was more important to try for a peaceful resolution.

We have been patient.

We may not be originally from here, but we have paid our oath to this Alliance with blood. Time...and time… again. Despite your attack THIS VERY CITY we welcomed you our into our homes to share with us and foster a new era….and is this how you treat us? In our own home? As our guests? You dare throw a slave’s collar at us? In a city built by in part those who escaped such bondage? In a city, that offers asylum and sanctuary to those who yearn to be free? Slaver...your disrespect for our generosity knows no bounds but our patience does! You will leave this chamber! You will leave this Citadel! You will leave this city and never darken our doors again! I will not abide your hatred any further. OUT!”

Squall let his sword go back in it’s sheath and walked towards the Emperor and his guards. Behind him, a dozen members of the White Guard snapped in formation alongside him bringing their rifles out to the ready position. Above in the balcony, dozens more members of the White Guard took their positions.

Squall voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Emperor, you will come with me and we will escort you to your aircraft.”

[Kylarnatia]

Lord Hyperion had listened to the newly elected Executor's speech from behind the Caesar's throne at the table. He never saw it as his place to comment on the affairs of politics or diplomacy, thus he didn't think too much about the whole ordeal. If it was up to him, things would be settled in combat, but even he acknowledged the need to avoid that if it could be helped. He just knew he wasn't very good at it, so he made sure to keep quiet unless asked to voice his opinion, or when he really couldn't ignore what was being said. While the eyes and ears of the world were on the Ghantish Emperor, Hyperion's mind wandered to what the Caesar had told him, of the deal between the Skyans and the Kravenites.

His attention was brought back when Nathan's speech concluded and the room erupted into applause. The Executor was then quickly escorted out along with Atticus, and the Caesar made sure to follow close behind. As they all passed the Dux Imperator bowed his head, before turning his attention to a presence he had felt in the room: a tall female figure standing at the back of the media pool. He made his way to go and speak to her, on his way noticing the presence of the Kylarnatian Imperial News reporter Josephina 'Josie' Whitehall - a veteran of the industry who was known to everyone in the Imperial Government as both an asset and a potential threat depending on how she framed her story - who was still busily working on live-reporting the events as they happened. The two shared a brief glance before the Lord got one step closer to his intended target.

Then the commotion started.

The giant slowly turned his frame to witness the events as they unfolded. The Scandinvan Emperor rambled like a madman as he denounced the Skyans in a fashion that Hyperion found more laughable if anything. Oratory was a skill, he would admit, but it was a skill few had. Maybe these sorts of theatrics played well in the Scandin homeland, but here they just seemed a bit too much like one of the caricatures than somebody from the massive press pool witnessing the spectacle would go on to create. The mood all seemed to change quite quickly however when the slave collar was produced, creating a buzz of excitement amongst the press as they scurried to get pictures to share on their media feeds. Within Hyperion however, there wasn't so much a buzz, but a spark.

Squall and the White Guard were quick to respond to the insult as one would expect, the situation quickly escalating as they demanded the mad Emperor's departure from the proceedings. That was certainly the most important thing going on in that moment, but the Dux Imperator's mind remained on the collar. The symbolism, the gesture, the intended message. The spark inside became multiple, and then those turned into flames. His eyes became more alight as - almost completely ignoring the rest of the commotion going on around him - Hyperion stepped up and came between the Skyans and the Scandinvans, his large titan-like figure towering over them all as he picked the collar up in his one free hand, keeping a now increasingly tight grip on Nightbane in the other. He studied it for a while, the clatter of its chains ringing out despite all the commotion.

This time, the Lord would speak.

"Never, in all my many years of witnessing the affairs of this region, have I witnessed anything such as this." He began, his words silencing everyone in the room as they listened. "Never have I witnessed a head of state try to exercise a right which does not exist, nor insult their hosts in such a grievous fashion while trying to then say that they're open to diplomatic discussion. You speak of the oath which your people took, as did the rest of ours, long ago which gave birth to our Alliance. You call us oath-breakers, yet it is you who have broken the oath this day."

Hyperion's grip tightened on the slave collar, as he then looked directly into the mad Emperor's eyes, caring little for all the other eyes that looked upon him. "None here can compel you to yield and yet you threaten to place the Skyans - a people who have, with their own blood, taken the exact same oath - in bondage, from which they have already escaped once before. You act as if your word is law, which it may be in your lands and you can therefore say you will uphold them, but know today that they have no power here. You say that the belief that all people are equal is a fallacy, yet it is this belief that forged this very Alliance, has brought us here to make the steps we have. The truth is, that terrifies you. You do not like that you are being called to answer for your crimes, slaver, and instead of accepting the equal place at the table you've been offered - despite all the ills you've already committed - you lash out in anger."

The titan edged a little closer to the Scandinvan Emperor. "My father was once a slave-owner, like yourself. He owned my mother and her people - my people - and treated them like chattel. When he wanted more from my mother and she refused to give him what he wished, he lashed out in anger, just as you do now. Eventually he became a victim of his own cruelty and hubris and we turned on him for his crimes. Do you know what I did to him? I placed him in his own chains, and cast him into the darkness for him to go mad." The Lord presented the chains back to the Emperor, his grip still tight on them. "He underestimated my mother and my people and he paid the price. If you underestimate the Skyans - a people who've suffered in ways equal to mine, and for that I respect them greatly - you will pay an even greater one."

"As you are a Lord of Gholgoth, I will give you this one courtesy, but only once: this whole summit is a diplomatic offering to you. It has all been a chance for you to present your case and come to a non-violent solution, as the Executor has promised for you and I alike. That is your right, to expect a delivery on that promise. But if you walk away from this table, there will be no suspension of the proceedings. The only veto will be of your right to the promise that has been given to you. You can puff up your chest and throw around all the bondage you wish, but should you close the door we've opened for you..."

The Dux Imperator then tightened his grip so much on the collar, that the metal started to buckle and twist. Once he released it, it was not so much a collar but a deformed mess. "This will be your fate."

As a deadly silence hung over the room, Hyperion's mind thought to all the scolding he'd likely receive from the Caesar, but he did not care. It was not for him to be a diplomat or statesmen. It just had to be said.

[Dephire]

Tristan positioned himself between Hyperion and Fenric and took the collar from the gentle giant, “Let’s not be too hasty to start an international incident, Hyperion.” The emperor of Dephire smiled cooly and handed the collar to an awaiting Templar, who bowed and hurried away. “We do not want to validate their fanaticism views, Squall. No matter how offensive they may be.” he mouthed towards Squall. He then turned his attention to the guards from the dozen or so nations, “Please return to ease, guardians.” Finally, the man’s eyes settled on the man who stirred the pot.

Squall looked coldly at the Briskan before looking up at Hagane who nodded approval.

Squall spoke softly into a channel he once knew was the private channel of Tristian’s late friend Wilhelm guessing that only Tristan would have kept open. “As you wish.”

He stepped aside and assumed an at ease position. The rest of the White Guard followed suit a half second later moving returning their rifles to parade rest.

“Fenric, brother, please do return to your seat and allow the Templars to bring you refreshments and food.” His eyes panned the room as to take in everyone’s reaction, “This is a celebration for an astonishing achievement! We have made one great leap that shall resonate throughout our history. So it is on that to which I say leave your squabbles outside this hall.” Tristan’s eyes returned to Fenric after gathering their fill. “You were invited and have arrived as a guest, as the good lady pointed out. Now, I am not sure what fascinates you so much with S&M roleplay, but that must and shall be kept in the bedroom.” He looked to Hagane in the hopes of seeing a smile, and gave a sly wink before returning to Fenric and pulled back the collar to his jacket.

Intense scarring encircled the emperor’s neck, with several dark spots where the skin had been punctured, “I know just how rough things can get.” He looked to everyone again, making sure that they remembered his time being held within Hell’s Gate’s dungeons. “So trust me, Fenric, they aren’t as pleasurable as you make them out to be.”

There was an audible gasp from the public gallery as Tristian’s scars were shown. The cameras had turned toward him and had put them into focus. If the tale was a secret before, that was no longer the case. In the studio, the anchors silent as they could not possibly add to what had transpired.

He waited for some response from the Scand before chuckling and playfully patting the man’s shoulder, “I’m only jesting.” He took a few steps back from Fenric, “This banquet seems to have lost all the pizazz for such a joyous occasion. I think karaoke is in order.” He turned to walk towards a platform where a few templars were setting up a karaoke machine, but stopped short and turned he head slightly towards the slaver, “I do suggest you take the offer of peace that I have placed on the table, Fenric. I will not tolerate another transgression from you. It won’t be a Skyan that will kick you out to the curb. I will do it personally. You may make all the threats you want and have your men attack the city, but I will make sure to retaliate a thousand fold. I remind you that you are a guest in the city of a dozen nations, so very far from home. This is not a threat, but merely a polite reminder to respect your host.”

Tristan stepped onto the platform, “Alright, I’m feeling the need for a strong partner in this song… Hyperion, care to sign with me?”

Hyperion took one glance at Tristan, and with a slight pause, turned on one heel and proceeded back to the female figure he was approaching before. "You're drunk."

The Emperor of Dephire laughed, "That's what makes karaoke so great! Come on! For old time's sake you big goof! Silvier? Fenric? Lucas? Someone sing with me or I will start singing Spin me Right Round!"

[Aldarminia]

Meanwhile
Emissary Airport
Co-written with Havensky

The streets and the tarmac had, for the most part as far as onlookers were concerned, cleared of pedestrians long ago. However, a carefully concerted effort between the Imperial Public Relations staff and the Skyans’ had changed that. Hours ago, as the Hammer’s plane had taken off from the airport in Oruzhiyheim, Vernulsya, it had started as speculations and rumors. “Leaks” were dispersed about where he was heading and what exactly the plane was carrying besides the usual cargo and soul. Several points of contact were made with the ethnic Aldarminian Radugrasseivan communities’ organizers and leaders in the Skyan Republic, who, with their suspicions confirmed and hopes fulfilled, rallied as much of their people as they could.

By the time Dalikharl’s plane was finally landed and was properly taxied, the crowds had been redrawn to the thousands. Most of these were Skyan-Aldarminians who had come to see the arrival of the Grand Empress and the children earlier and had decided to stay the night in the city. Others were new arrivals from the Radugrasseivani that could not bear missing such an opportunity. A great many were Skyans who were simply curious as to why there was so much more fanfare about someone supposedly equivalent in suzerainty to the Empress. Unless they were very familiar with an Aldarminian migrant in the Republic, the Skyan people would have no idea of the living legend that the Patriarch of the Aszcheyko had become in the Empire.

In the Second Empire of the Golden Throne, the centerpiece of the zeitgeist was the Willed. In the Grand Imperial Kosmokratium and the Empire abroad, the hearts, minds, and souls of everyone who lived with Aldarminian blood flowing through their veins and colors of the Zhirvtorniki in their eyes were perfectly intertwined with and encapsulated by the Hammer.

Towed by a truck, a large, byzantium-curtained trapezoidal contraption was placed where passengers would exit from the regal jet. The murmur of the crowd started to become a cacophonic drone as the curtains opened up for the first time when a long velvet-trimmed gold carpet was rolled out.

A total of twelve ornately power-armored Blood Guards marched out from under the curtain in two lines adjacent-to-but-not-on the carpet. The armor of each was as byzantine as the contraption they marched from but with the addition of golden stripes, and upon their helmets were the gilded and preserved skulls of tigers hunted long ago. Hanging from each pair of shoulders were capes of tiger pelts. All of the Blood Guards except for one carried either a glaive or full-length sovnya. The one that did not knelt down upon the carpet, just right of center, as he held-straight-upward in his right hand a tall hetman’s sign with a stave of pure gold and a ball of platinum that golden tigers sprawled around it at the top. Below the ball, alternating arrangements of tigers’ pelts and eagles’ feathers dangled in the wind.

From within the contraption, the sounds of some sort of beast could be heard and a wave of silence fell over the crowd. And then the Skyan band played. Ahead of the Skyan welcome wagon, a man in black robes, head topped with a black papakha, stepped forward just a meter in front of the Blood Guard kneeling upon the carpet. This man, with his mustache reaching around and down his chin and a braided beard hanging down to his waist, also took a knee and bowed his head.

As if choreographed to the bow of the head, the curtain split apart once more, and the crowd roared over the music of the band. Dalikharl II was dressed, as his sons had been earlier, with a few too many layers. However, the choice of clothing, even given how extravagant it was, served the purpose of reminding his subjects of home and their Emperor’s familial roots as one of the great Sevrnoykassaki and Hetmanvegorakh.

A long, black fur cloak made from mink was maned with similarly-colored feathers. Underneath the cloak was a purple cherkeska kaftan with golden bandoliers that carried purple masri bullet-like decorations. Further below, was a golden, true-sleeved arkhaluk adorned with byzantium tsvetoklilii, or fleur de lis. Also below the cherkeska, the Hammer wore purple, gold-trimmed shalvarketill pants. He had left behind the Amethystine Crown, but instead, atop his head was a purple-dyed kubanka with a golden tiger rampant at the front. The hairs of his head went unseen, but his beard was braided with golden rings, and hanging from his neck were several large gold and platinum chains, which were variously ornamented with gems, especially diamonds, or traditional pieces, and their links were either in rope, snake, or spiga style. At either side of Dalikharl’s waste were sheathed shashka as ornate as his dress.

Darysha Kassakhana, the sole-survivor of the Kassakhan Veiled House and leader of the Veiled Guard, walked beside the Hammer, on his left, in her own traditional dress. Her black hair was styled in ringlets that barely concealed the silver crescent-shaped earrings that marked her as the last of her family. A woman of plain and practical taste, she had not chosen to burden herself with as many layers as her Grand Emperor. Rather, she wore a purple-trimmed damask-patterned wide-wrist-sleeve arkhaluk and similarly-designed sharovary pants. She wore a single platinum snake-linked necklace with an amulet of amethyst that was also accompanied by an elaborately-engraved silver torc with horseheads at each end. Darysha also carried a shashka at her waist with a sheath that matched the white, silver, and purple scheme of her clothing.

Not far behind the two, a large entourage of servants, staff, specially-selected schoolchildren from the National and Imperial Academic Circuits--all dressed their best either traditionally or by modern standards--and leading them, between the Grand Emperor and his plus-one in place of Katya, was a man dressed decidedly more in the modern formal fashions.

If the colors had been less-Aldarminian-oriented, the man’s heavy-set profile would have appeared exceedingly plain in comparison with the rest of the fashionably-late-arrived Aldarminian delegation. His tuxedo was gaudily purple with a golden dress shirt and purple bow-tie. Below his short, blond curls, his purple, gold-flecked eyes darted back and forth as his soft-curved chin bristled with an unkempt stubble and nervous smile. Waving with his free hand at the crowd and the cameras, unlike his Emperor and Darysha, Marat Suvorov was armed with a plain, black leather briefcase.

Perhaps the most astonishing members of the Aldarminian delegation, though, were not the people themselves, but the tigers. One male and one female Western Field Tiger marched their way ahead of the Hammer and Darysha. They were not moving freely, but were instead leashed by gilded iron chains. The female’s chain was held by Dalikharl, and the male’s was held by Darysha. On their heads, the tigers wore specially-made purple-dye wool caps that functioned as both blinders and earmuffs. They had been designed to nullify the tumult of crowds and filter out the flash of lights just enough to let the predatory beasts move without being stressed by the human senses’ predilections. Fastened to these caps were also two pointed golden horns that symbolized the creatures’ exalted place in Dorozhkaism’s cosmology.

As the tigers passed parts of the crowd, those Aldarminians there stopped cheering and bowed down on their knees in reverent silence to the holy beasts until Dalikharl and Darysha themselves passed beyond that point, creating an interesting wave-like effect through the almost-frenzied crowd. Most of the Skyans either stood agasp or even decided to participate in what appeared to be a ritual of respect. Though, either portion of the crowd had been intentionally given a two meter buffer zone from the carpet, some Skyans did jerk backwards as the tigers turned their heads to the traditionally-unfamiliar people.

After reaching the kneeling Blood Guard, he rose and took his place to the Hammer’s right, lifting up the hetman’s sign as he did, holding it steadfast to his right shoulder. Anyone familiar with those of particularly high favor with the Hammer would know this to be the Grand Emperor’s daunt-tall personal bodyguard Gunnsvyg Sigrskvor. If the tigers had frightened the man in robes at all, he did not show it as he rose from his kneeling position at the touch of the Hammer’s free hand. The whole delegation stopped here, and so the tigers turned around and decided to lie down just behind the robed man.

Speaking in the old tongue, Dalikharl asked the man, “So Master-of-Temples, how are things among your congregations?”

“I am honored by Your Majesty’s presence and concern,” the Svoboda’Dorozhka priest answered with quick bow of his head in respect and smile of adoration, “The days long here, and the nights pleasant. The Skyans treat us well. I believe Aldarminia has already gathered and may expect more adoptions and marriages, by Graces of Thorondor and Endurance of Aldarik.”

The Hammer beamed at these words. With the likes of some worse examples of Aldarminian faiths and cultures lurking about in shadows across the world, it was a pleasure to the Grand Emperor to hear primary-sourced news that the Aldarminian people were making positive and inclusive impacts at the least in Gholgoth. With that consideration in mind, the fact that every Skyan-Aldarminian marriage increased the number of his subjects by action of traditional law was just an additional bonus. Dalikharl said, “You please and bless me with your words, Master. But what of the Rainbow, Governor?”

Nodding, the Governor-priest explained, “The Republic and her citizenry, they are very amicable to us, and their democratic nature is highly conducive to harmony. We have little trouble practicing faith and following our laws, but there are some minor issues. For one, there is bit of grey area, uncertainty, in the Skyans’ legal codes regarding some of our sacraments and customs, particularly the Grass of Aldarik, the sacrificial rituals, and the Dances. Also, of course, the Bolshoi’ and thieves-in-law are occasionally troublesome, but many seem to mean well enough.”

The Hammer looked around into the crowd with a grin. He could spot more than a few tattooed faces and crossed-arms, a few even under hoods. Those that made eye contact with the Dalikharl, plummeted down to their knees. Whether you were of the Great or the Free Path, you were a proud and loyal subject of the Hammer. Turning back to the Governor of Citadel City’s Radugrasseivan and yet-nameless Master-of-Temples, the Grand Emperor assured him, “We,” tilting his head back towards Marat and then forwards to the Skyans, “Shall we what we can do of these things that trouble you… My apologies, Master-and-Governor, I seemed to have forgotten your mortal name, and where, if I may ask, Your Holiness, is your Mistress? My escort here, Miss Kassakhana, is probably getting lonely with just us two men chatting.”

“Your Majesty, my mortal name, t’is still sealed,” said the man to both Dalikharl and Darysha’s shock, “And unfortunately, my Mistress is ill. She sends her apologies and blessings through her prayers right now most likely, If it pleases you, Your Majesty, and,” looking at Darysha for the first time, “Your Beauty, the two of you may call me by the holy name ‘Zhretso Nizhsvyatykh.’ T’is what the Skyans use on my documents. They were little confused when they registered me as a citizen, and I say words, ‘I have no name but Aldarik, the Dreaming, the Enduring, the Undying, Elsewhen and Now-here.’”

The three shared a laugh, and then Darysha bowed slightly at her waist to the priest, saying as she did, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Holiness, Zhretso. By the Dreaming, I wish your Mistress-of-Shrines’ return to health.”

Returning the bow, but slightly lower, Zhretso thanked Darysha before gesturing to the stitched wound on Dalikharl’s right cheek, “I heard of the recent crusade. Igorsik, yes? A tragedy, the start of it. I knew the Master there. I’m sure His Mistress misses him, and she Her Master. But it appears you have injury, Your Majesty, and I have duty spurred on by this and ordered by Emperor and Enduring.

“First, of course, Your Majesty will be blessed, followed by those of delegation, and then the beasts. Afterwards, we finally get show on road, yes?” rhetorically inquired, Zhretso with a wide grin and opened arms.

The priestly governor blessed the whole of the Aldarminian delegation, including the tigers, with the hand-sign of the Svoyuim and an aspersor filled with the consecrated waters from the Holy Rivers of Ihrilles, Yihros, and Iordan and the Holy Lakes Tsvet, Ponchartreyn, and Morepas. After blessing the tigers, Zhretso returned the aspersor to the innards of his robes where it hanged clipped onto a humble necklace of brass. The Master-of-Temples then held out each of his hands to the Grand Emperor and Kassakhana. The two relinquished the chains leashing the tigers to the priest. Finally, between the cheers of the Skyan-Aldarminian onlookers and with the Blood Guard flanking them, the delegation moved towards the Skyan welcoming party.

Two Skyan Iron Guards walked alongside King Ironwing and the Ambassador to the Aldarminians. They presented both the Grand Emperor and Kassakhana with freshly baked bread, chilled water, and vodka. The Aldarminians had cautioned the Skyans against the usual savich which would normally be offered in celebration and instead had called for vodka.

Ironwing reached out to shake hands.

“Grand Emperor, on behalf and at the behest of the Skyan People, I welcome you to Citadel City.”

[Jagada]

BOG Shelter Constans
Undisclosed location beneath the Coral Mountains

Being called to the Box was rare, and that was saying something for a man who did rare things. The room was a perfect ten by ten by ten cube embedded deep within the mountains was as nondescript as possible with the only distinguishable figure, if it could be called such, was a small camera mounted directly in front of him. A red light as lit up just above and to the left of the lens. He got the impression not only that was being watched by someone but many. He knew he should be nervous but didn’t feel the slightest anxiety over being here.

A voice spoke from seeming nowhere. Even a few turns of his head and careful scanning revealed no evidence of speakers.

‘State your name, rank, and identification number,’ said the calm female voice, accented in the Anasian style.

‘Brandt Wulfric,’ he began, keeping his voice crisp and his words clipped, ‘Specialist. 19821.’

A few moments of total silence passed before the voice continued, ‘Acknowledged and confirmed. Welcome Specialist Brandt Wulfric. I am Commander Vinae. Do you know why you are here Specialist Brandt?’

‘A mission ma’am, but I presume nothing,’ he replied. He realized his eyes were facing straight ahead and he was tensed. There was no chair in the bland room and so he stood at the ready.

‘You presume correctly. You have been chosen by COM to take part in a mission with classification Vendetta.’

Brandt was a solid man. He stood over six feet tall with a barrel of chest, hard patrician facial features, and piercing eyes. He flinched at the last word, only a tremor but he knew Vinae would have noticed. Missions were ranked on a priority and risk scale using colors. Vendetta was not a color, and thus ranked outside the traditional system. Vendetta had always been reserved for missions involving one foreign threat and one alone. The Kravenic Reich.

‘I stand ready for briefing ma’am.’

A soft purr of the lenses focusing on the camera were surprisingly loud and almost unnerved the large man. I will not show weakness again, he thought, I will be what my people need me to be. He kept repeating the mantra in his mind over and over to steel himself as he waited.

‘The overview is simple. You will be attached, unofficially, to a Skyan humanitarian fleet. You are to be the eyes and ears of Gharsash during this mission. You will make note of any suspicious activity, note it only mentally, and provide a verbal approval or disapproval via secured channels.’

‘To what end ma’am? Who are the people I am assessing and how should I judge approval or disapproval?’

‘The Skyans are going to Cydonia.’

He flinched. Goddamit, he said mentally. But Cydonia? The old homeland of his people. It had been lost nearly eighty years ago to the Kravenic Reich, his ancestors had been one of the lucky few who managed to get aboard evacuation ships and make it to Gharsash. As a boy his father would speak of the homeland in between his bouts of insanity as he suffered through the trauma of actually living through those days as a child. His father, once an honorable man, became a victim of Extermination Syndrome and lost himself to madness.

‘Why?’ was all he managed to squeak out.

‘In their typical white-knight mentality they have struck a deal with the Enemy. There are apparently a handful of Jagites left in Cydonia, descendants of those who didn’t escape. The Skyans will be treating them for their medical issues, caring for them, and once the deal is finalized bringing them back to the Empire.’

It began to add up in his head, ‘I am there to assess whether they can be trusted enough to be brought back to the Empire?’

‘Yes, more or less. They will be returned to Gharsash regardless. Even if they are compromised we cannot be seen spitting in the faces of the Skyans for this kind act. Regardless of that kindness however, COM is not willing to let potential Reich agents run free in the Empire. You know how that ends.’

He did. He’d been apart of more than one mission to hunt down suspected Reich agents or sympathizers within the Empire and neutralize them. It was always a messy deal as the Agents were anything but machines. Good men and women had been lost in the early days of BOG to those fiends.

‘Further more Specialist Brandt … you understand what a Vendetta branding means, correct?’

‘Yes ma’am. This mission never happened. This conversation never took place. I am not technically alive and if captured or compromised by the Enemy … the Empire will never know my name.’

‘Then you understand that you cannot be captured, under any circumstance?’

‘I understand,’ he said, fully knowing exactly what she meant. Black Operations Group (BOG) did not exist on any official document within the Empire. In fact, there were no paper documents with those words anywhere and BOGCOM did not produce any paperwork that could be compromised. The vast majority of its administrative system was digitized via virtual intelligence. If captured he could only provide surface level details about BOGCOM, but even that was too much. His tongue flicked over a hole in one of his back teeth where soon as cyanide capsule would be secured. Apply just the right pressure and he’d be dead in seconds.

‘Good. Specialist Brandt, you had your orders. Additional details will be provided to you by your immediate commander. Know that the Empire values your service even if it will never know of it.’

‘Until vengeance.’

He saluted with a raised fist and turned about heading for the door. His hand reached the handle and he heard the distinctive click of the door unlocking.

‘Specialist Brandt … one more thing.’

He half turned, ‘Yes ma’am?’

‘Your special indulgence is granted prior to this mission. Make the most of it.’


Skyan Humanitarian Fleet – Cydonia
Undisclosed location in Fortress Cydonia

It was snowing for lack of a better word. He had been standing on the deck after abandoning his quarters below, intent to see the state of the fabled homeland. The oppressive, menacing black cloud was what he first laid eyes upon. It was hard to miss as it stood directly over the landmass and covered it as far as his eyes could see in either direction. There were no flashes of lightning nor the rumble of thunder to suggest a storm. For this cloud wasn’t a meteorological event but rather the byproduct of unthinking machinery. To create such a cloud of pollution as this was an achievement in and of itself.

The ‘snow’ began to fall a when they were a few miles off the coast. Of coarse he knew what it was before he even considered that his armor’s display showed a steady increase in ambient temperature. It was ash. In such quantities that he thought impossible. Some of it settled on his armor as he walked up and down the deck of the ship, making sure to avoid getting in the crews’ way as they rushed about preparing to land. He wasn’t wearing his typical suit of Ironclad that he had grown accustomed to but rather a bland suit of standardized Skyan power armor that marked him as nothing more than a low-ranking officer amongst their ranks. He had to admit that the Skyan suits were far more sophisticated than their Imperial counterparts. He had more sensors and information readouts than he knew what to do with and the entire suit moved like a second skin. No one thought such things about an Ironclad. And yet he almost felt naked in the suit, for the Skyan armor was far thinner.

He kept to himself as the disembarking of men and material began. The Skyan captain knew who he was and had been briefed by his superiors and chose to leave him be since he wasn’t causing any issues. The less attention drawn to him the better. The Reich would be watching.

[The Scandinvans]

Raising his hand his signaled to his guards to at full attention. Then he hit a few keys on his wrist which had been covered by his sleeve until just now and mumbled a few indecipherable words into a microphone hidden behind his mask. Analyzing the situation the Crown Prince fully understood that the Havenites would be quite willing to follow through with their threats. Their actions however had gone exactly as he predicted they would. They had shown that they were willing to draw a sword against a diplomatic mission. Something that many would not abide. \

He chuckled for a second. He was not afraid of death in the fashion that they likely were. They, as secularists largely, did not invest any substantial amount of time in the spiritual side of things. They fought in order to protect their material existences. They fought for this world, whilst the Scandinvans fought for the world to come. The divide between these wildly different perspectives inherently created a chasm of misunderstanding which was difficult to cross. Added in with the vying styles of governance they supported, it made things all the more hostile.

With such divisions, the Scandinvans had decided that peace as it stood would become impossible even when they had the accord with Havensky. They merely had hoped Kraven would keep them distracted for the foreseeable future. However, the Havenite to the Golden Throne and their murder of a prince of the House of Erid had pushed the schedule for conflict ahead. Nonetheless, the plans for the war were already full made by Warsmiths. They had a credible understanding of the dynamics of such a dispute and believed that the Havenites would remain fearful of potential invasions from the West. Thus they believed they had an innate advantage in a one to one. They additionally estimated that sufficient diplomatic posturing would be able to remove the tensions with the other Gpthic powers in a relatively straightforward fashion.

The presence of Fernic at the conference was part of that plan. They believed that him even showing up would provide enough of an opening to begin to enter into talks with the other Gothic Lords. The actions by Havensky in response to a simple gesture and a profoundly incorrect reading of Scandinvan speech would play to that end. Deciding to keep his reply fairly short he started, " You seek to set the terms of debate. You see us oppressors. You see yourselves as liberators. You justify your actions with anything you can cling onto you. You would go so far to threaten with force of arms a sovereign underneath the protections of a diplomatic mission. You show yourselves to be everything we know you to be: you are degenerates incapable of understanding honor.

There will now be a price paid by you for this sacrilege profligates. That however is not something that will be revealed by me at this time. The wages of sin is death. The glory of faith is life. Your lies shall be exposed, your manipulations proclaimed, and your guilt proven."

Finishing that he gestured towards his guards and began to leave. Though whilst that was happening sorties of Scandinvan bombers began to depart Vismer making a direct run towards the Havenite forces near them. They would test, in battle, a new variant of hyperonic missiles. The beginning of the penance to be paid for the vileness Havensky had shown to Fenric. Though the Crown Prince would safety be back in his own fleet before any attack from them could take place.

[Kylarnatia]

The White Citadel, Citadel City
Havensky, Gholgoth

Lord Hyperion watched as the Scandin lord departed, and only when they were out of sight did his attention finally turn back to the cloaked woman he had approached before. She stood at around six-foot-eight, with a moderately-built physique, leaning against the back wall with her arms crossed. She was dressed almost entirely from head-to-toe in black leathers and a hooded cloak, save for a golden brooch which held the cloak in place in the shape of a fox with tiny emeralds inlaid for eyes. The hood up and concealing her face, the only other distinguishable feature was her burning red hair.

“That went well.” She remarked, to which Hyperion audibly groaned in disgust.

“It is the slaver’s own failing in humanity that led to this, or more likely cunning political stunt to take back home.” He waved his free hand in dismissal. “The Executor wishes to convince him to stay, and that is his duty to make it so. Our duty is to those who remain. Come.”

The Dux Imperator made his way to the exit, the cloaked woman now following by his side. The two walked for a moment in silence in the direction of the Caesar’s accommodation - to where she had retired to prepare for the feast - before they were almost entirely alone, at which point they continued talking.

“Do you have faith that these reforms will work?” The woman asked the Lord. He did not respond for a moment.

“It is not my place to judge or influence what they do and how effective that might be. It is my place to help make it so, since that is the Caesar’s will.”

The cloaked one looked at him until he looked as well, at which point Hyperion continued. “As it will soon become yours to enact the will of this Council. I shall be presenting you as the Imperium’s nomination for Praetor at tomorrow’s proceedings.”

The cloaked woman nodded. “I will be sure not to disappoint either you or the Caesar, my Lord.”

“You won’t.”

After a few more steps, she noticed that only the faint sound of hers continued. Turning swiftly on her heel, she saw that Hyperion had stopped dead, his head tilted upwards slightly. Walking back to him, she uttered a whisper.

“Are they singing?”

Fortem Basilica, Citadel City
Havensky, Gholgoth
Nine months ago

Anton Tate was a Public Safety Officer of the rank of Sergeant in the Heart District of Citadel City. He had lived a fairly ordinary and peaceful life in the city with his wife, Fortuna Tate - an expat from Kylarnatia - and their young son Justinian “Justin” Tate. He was a popular man amongst his peers and colleagues, and was known for being both fair and committed in his duties, having received several commendations for his work in the Heart District. He was tipped to move further up the ranks.

Then his life was cut short a few days past, along with four of his colleagues, when they defended schoolchildren from Scandin Attestors with only their pistols. While they stood little chance, it bought enough time for the children to get to safety and for Brave Company to intervene and neutralize the threats. Their sacrifice made them one of the few casualties of the attack, and the grief was felt all throughout the city. When news of their heroism spread, Anton Tate became particularly noteworthy in Kylarnatia; not only for his wife, but also for the fact that to wed her, he had converted to the Silvier Sacerdotium.

Therefore when the Caesar sent aid to help rebuild the damaged parts of Citadel City, she also sent a convent of the Daughters of the Cloister - an exclusive order of the Sacerdotium who tend to holy sites and perform sacred duties, rarely venturing outside Kylarnatia - to carry out the ritual rights of Tate’s funeral. In her role as Pontifex Maximus, should also renamed Citadel City’s seat of the Sacerdotium the Fortem Basilica, or “Cathedral of the Brave”, in honour of not just Tate and his officers but also the Skyan people.

The day of the funeral was dark and overcast, but that had not stopped thousands from turning out to honour the late Sargeant. Archpriestess Allison Moor - also a Skyan convert to the Sacerdotium - spoke to the crowd from the steps of the Basilica prior to the arrival of the deceased, his family and the Daughters, telling tales of bravery and sacrifice from the Sacerdotium’s holy scriptures. According to them sacrificing yourself for others was an honourable death. Most of the crowd that gathered were Skyans who wished to pay their respects but who were also curious about the Sacerdotium - this foreign religion which they had heard of - but also believers and worshippers from a variety of backgrounds, though predominantly Kylarnatian.

The procession of the deceased appeared on foot, the route guarded by Public Safety Officer’s who had once been under Tate’s command. Others that were still uniformed but off-duty - his closest friends - flanked his body, which was being pulled along by horse on an open-air carriage in the shape of a boat, representing what would traditionally be a boat sailing the deceased across the Seraphis River to one of the many necropoli on the west banks which served as their final resting place. Tate would have an even more unique resting place: the Fortem Basilica itself. Leading the carriage were his widow, veiled and entirely in black, and his son who wore a child-sized version of his father's uniform, decorated with all his commendations, and carrying a toy Skyan airship. Following them from the rear were the Daughters, veiled but entirely in white with seams of gold, the one furthest to the back openly weeping. As the procession passed them, onlookers threw flowers of various kinds. Once they reached the steps of the Basilica, his friends retrieved his body and began to carry it as the Daughters proceeded to the front and followed the Archpriestess inside.

The onlookers outside would have to listen to guides who explained what happened next as the procession found itself in the innermost sanctuary of the Basilica where a representation of the Grand Mother stood, visible to the public only from a gallery that looked down from above, where relatives and loved ones of the deceased and his family had gathered. Once there, Tate’s body was placed on an altar before a representation the Grand Mother. As his wife, child and closest friends watched on, Archpriestess Moor tended to the Mother and spoke of the deceased. The Daughters tended to the body, and began to sing in High Seraphic: to everyone who listened on, it was if they could understand without knowing any of the words - it was a song of grief, asking for the Seraphim to take the deceased into their arms once he reached Avaris. Many began to weep.

Tate had been mummified in the Kylarnatian tradition, with his organs removed apart from the heart, and then his body was dried in sacred salt for forty days, before being oiled and wrapped in several layers of linen wrappings. Now the Daughters performed the finishing touches: as they sang - the sound now reverberating through the Basilica - two proceeded to fashion him a crown out of Ironweed - a native Skyan flower - around his head, while the rest took turns to place various protective amulets and trinkets within his wrappings, said to protect him from the wayward forces of chaos within the Duat or “Otherworld”, which surrounded and kept separate the realms of Seraphim, Daemons and Humankind alike. They continued singing once their tasks were done, as Fortuna and Justin were directed forward towards his body. Now weeping uncontrollably, she looked upon him for a moment before kissing his forehead, while Justin just looked on unable to fully make sense of what was going on in front of him. They were allowed a few moments before the ceremony continued.

Once the Archpriestess had finished praying to the Grand Mother, she led the procession down into the crypt, which had been built especially for Tate. His wife and son went first after her, then followed his body being carried once again by his friends, then the Daughters who continued their song.

The walls had been decorated with many bright scenes and colours, emblazoned images showing Tate as he was in life and then how he was to be remembered in death: an Aspect of Bravery, one of the many Seraphim who would help inspire the quality within the living who aspired to it. His sarcophagus was shaped to his image, with the added decoration of wings both on the interior and enveloping the exterior, representing his own and those of his new kin. Slowly, his body was placed inside, and once he finally laid to rest the Archpriestess gave the final rites. As she did so, the young Justin - who was slowly beginning to process what was happening - approached the sarcophagus and dropped in the toy airship he carried. He wanted it to go with his father, to keep him safe.

Then the lid was closed.

Present Day

The Daughters of the Cloister who had accompanied the Caesar - including the acolyte who had now rejoined her kin - had gathered at the Fortem Basilica to return to the grave of Anton Tate. They performed a different song - led by a Daughter who had remained at the Basilica after the funeral - one which celebrated his rebirth as a Seraphim, traditionally believed to occur after nine months. A small crowd had gathered to witness the event, including his family and loved ones, this time joining those outside as screens displayed the ceremony inside: Over the sealed entrance to his crypt, at the base of the representation of the Grand Mother, a new representation was unveiled: It was Anton Tate, now an Aspect of Balance, his form reborn and naked in the classical style with wings outstretched and standing defiantly with a shield in hand.

When the image appeared on screen, the crowd cheered.

White Citadel

The Caesar had changed from her ceremonial armour into an extravagant diamond-studded dress, with a golden diadem decorated with scenes of cherubs and angels flying together adorning her forehead and holding together her locks of blonde hair, which had been pushed back. As the final touches were being made to her makeup, she spoke with both Hyperion and the cloaked woman, who had filled her in on what had happened with the Scandinvan lord. The Dux Imperator had of course neglected to tell her the exact details of what he had done, apart from saying that he spoke up in the Skyan’s defence.

“And you say that Nathan has gone after him?”

“Yes, my Caesar.”

Silvier mused over what she had been told for a moment, before turning her attention to the cloaked woman who stood in her view thanks to the mirror she was using.

“Khonsu, make yourself presentable for the feast. You’ll be dining with the other Praetors, and I want you to learn all you can about them.”

“As you wish, my Caesar.” Khonsu bowed, before leaving the room. Hyperion watched her go, before turning back to Silvier. She also looked at him through the mirror for a good moment before cracking a smile.

“Well, how do I look?”

The Lord looked for a moment, almost as if he was asking himself whether he felt the need to answer the question. “You look fine.”

Silvier laughed, knowing that was as close as she’d get to a compliment from him. “Such a way with words.”

***

[OOC: Written with Aldarminia]

The Caesar’s approach to the Grand Ballroom sent the media into a frenzy, all of them trying to get a perfect shot of her diamond-stunned dress glimmering in the bright light of the White Citadel. Her arm interlinked with Julianus, the young Haeres smiled to the press pack and waved while Lord Hyperion and Khonsu stood stalwartly behind them, watching everyone who walked past closely. Silvier peered down the hallway and took note of the Lords and guests already entering the Ballroom, and as she looked back she noticed the commotion happening at the other end.

“It seems as if we have a new arrival.” She mentioned to her party, and now all their attentions turned.

Trudging with a thinly-veiled grimace towards the ballroom was the Hammer, Dalikharl the second, and his entourage. Just before he made a step to turn towards and into the feasting area, the Aldarminian Grand Emperor felt a tug at his arm. Darysha was the culprit, but her crime was pardoned the moment Dalikharl saw what her head was tilting towards. With a simpering swagger, the Hammer marched towards his Kylarnatian comrade with open arms, “Sil-! Err, Catherina! I cannot tell you how glad I am that you’re the first besides the Skyan I am to see here.”

Silvier smiled warmly as the Grand Emperor opened his arms, returning the gesture and embracing him tightly for a moment. She raised an eyebrow as he attempted to address her with her first name - a taboo, in Kylarnatian tradition, to speak the Grand Mothers name in casual conversation - but was pleasantly surprised when he corrected himself.

“Dalikharl, how glad I am you came to join us. I was worried that with Katya’s departure, the Imperial Cosmocratium’s voice would be lost in the shuffle, though I will say the young Ryslander has impressed thus far.” She gestured towards her party, “I’m sure you remember Julianus, although he’s much older than when you last met.”

“It is an honour to see you again, Grand Emperor.” The Haeres saluted him and bowed his head.

Dalikharl returned the Haeres’s salute with pride stretched on his face. Clasping the boy by both shoulders, the Hammer said, “And it is a joy to see you again, Julianus. You’ve grown well, and I’ve been informed of your participation in the debates. You bring pride to your people and all of Gholgoth.” The Haeres eyes lit up and his smile widened, much to the pleasure of his mother.

Silvier then gestured to Hyperion. “You of course know Lord Hyperion. I can never seem to get rid of him.” She laughed.

Hyperion ignored the joke, and stretched out to clasp the Grand Emperor’s forearm and shake it. “Your Imperial Majesty. I trust the fighting against the Dreads goes well?” The Dux Imperator knew of the fighting, for the Imperium was heavily invested in the conflicts of the Imperial Cosmocratium. He had personally committed his own men to such conflicts.

Dalikharl’s smile became slightly austere when he greeted Hyperion with a handshake, “It does. Igorsik,” gesturing to the stitched wound on his face, “Is free of their scourge, and that makes us clear on major cells. We believe none should emerge for at least another month. And of course, it’s an honor and pleasure to be here with you, Hyperion.”

“The honour is mine, Hammer. I am glad to hear the front is well.” The Dux Imperator responded.

“And then this, is Khonsu. My nomination for the Imperium’s Praetor.” The Caesar gestured to the young lady with burning red hair and a venetian mask in the style of a fox. Khonsu’s emerald eyes looked deeply into those of the Hammer, and she silently bowed her head.

The Grand Emperor looked curiously at Khonsu, taking in the mystery of her mask, “Pleasure to meet you, Khonsu. If you are the Caesar’s Praetor nominee, I have little doubt you will serve all Goths well.”

Stepping back a little, the Hammer’s expression turned sour as he foresaw the necessity to come. Violaceous, downcasted eyes heralded Dalikharl’s words as Darysha came forward, “Catherina,” facing the Caesar, “Katya sends her regrets, as do the children. Circumstances as of late have been,” pausing with a cursory glance to nothing only to return to Silver’s gaze with a dim fire behind the pupils’ black, “Troublesome. This, though, is my plus-one in my wife’s stead, Her Beauty, Darysha of the Veil Kassakhan, Voimyntszarina.”

Tears held back salted the Emperor’s eyes, “The late Venkhzmr’s replacement.”

Darysha bowed to the Caesar with a warm expression, “Honored to meet you, Your Majesty. Tales of your beauty will never do it justice.”

“You are too kind.” Silvier smiled, adjusting her diadem slightly. “You are deserving of the compliment yourself. I would expect nothing less of Dalikharl’s company.”

Gesturing to the man who had been gawking at Silvier, the Hammer continued the introductions, “And this good fellow would be Marat of the Veil Suvorov. He is my nominee for Praetor alongside Ryslander.”

Marat bowed as well and stammered, “I-I-Honored to meet you, Your Majesty.”

The Caesar smirked, nodding gently. Khonsu’s attention quickly turned to Marat, observing every fine detail about him, trying to get an impression of this man who was likely to become her counterpart in the Praetor programme.

“Nothing to say of her beauty, Marat? Odd, you were enjoying it a second ago!” roared from under a helmet a hoarse voice.

Darysha rolled her eyes as the Hammer carried on, “And you might remember the man standing in the corner, Catherina, but this is Osaul Gunnsvyg Sigrskvor. The man is determined to be even more clingy than Lord Hyperion, albeit with less tact.”

Removing his helmet after a salute to the Caesar and Hyperion, Gunnsvyg nodded and then confirmed, “That I am. Good to see you and the Haeres again in health, Your Majesty. And Hyperion, glad you will be joining us, as if it is a surprise. When will you be coming over for another vacation? You missed the party at Igorsik you old fool!”

Silvier and Julianus gave hearty laughs. Hyperion looked over to Gunnsvyg and offered him the same handshake as he did Dalikharl. “If it was up to me I would have been there, Sigrskvor, but as I’m sure you’re aware there are growing storm-clouds across the whole of Gholgoth.”

With all the introductions out of the way, the Caesar now interlinked her arm once more with Julianus, gesturing for Dalikharl and his entourage to join them as they proceeded towards the Ballroom. The Hammer stood next to her while Darysha, Marat and Sigrskvor followed close behind with Hyperion and Khonsu, the latter still watching Marat closely. As they walked, Silvier spoke quietly to Dalikharl, so that they weren’t overheard by the press or any other unwanted attention.

“I assume you’ve already been briefed on what has happened so far?”

What may have seemed rude to the others nearby was simply a necessity. With a wave of his hand, Dalikharl had quietly ordered Darysha away, and she promptly took leave of the entourage entirely. The Hammer returned his attention to Silvier to reply, “Indeed. I am not so sure Nathan can handle this, but from what Katya tells me, I suppose I can trust him. How are things going with the greater scheme?”

“The best thing we can do in regards to Nathan is work with him. The Alliance needs to show a strong front; I too have my doubts, though he has surpassed my expectations thus far, and I intend to support him in all that I can.” the Caesar remarked. “Besides that, Tristan has been granted his own Fortress off the coast of Briska in an effort to try and contain the Reich.”

Hyperion interjected. “The Reich is biding it’s time. They’ve been playing a long game and have engaged in some underhand diplomacy in order to keep the attention off of them, but we’re not so dense.”

Silvier glared back at him for a moment, as if to remind him where they were. She then leaned in closely to Dalikharl, “The Skyans have brokered a deal with the Reich to be a part of the reforms in order to secure the release of Jagite prisoners in Cydonia. You do not utter this to anyone: I will be speaking to Atticus in time.”

The Hammer stopped in his tracks for a moment, pausing to process. His face was unflinching but an informed observer would have been able to see the cogs and gears turning. He continued his step, keeping pace with Silvier. “So,” said Dalikharl, “Tonight still has its surprises.”

He took off his cloak and papakha, handing it to a servant who had shown up beside the Grand Emperor, cued by the motions. As the hat came off, Dalikharl’s hair rushed downward across his forehead and toward his neck. The long locks created a strange effect on his visage. From between the brown bars and under the shadows of the cage-like mop, a single eye could be seen piercing into some sort of stare, thousands of meters ahead in focus. Making no attempt to regulate the volume of his voice besides keeping to respectful levels, Dalikharl said as he fiddled with his beard, “And I have declared house-war on the Shuns. After denying the Lordship, they dared to continue their attacks.”

After retrieving a tie from one of his pockets, Dalikharl’s hands covered his face before they clawed their way over his scalp to deftly tie the locks into a quick braid of sorts. After this was done, the Hammer grasped his shashka’s hilt, and spoke with a dark grin, “Those scum will die with their dynasty’s claim to power. More importantly, Hyperion speaks true. Whatever game the Reich is playing, we will have to be and will be prepared. I agree that we will need the Gentry folk, but Skragg coming into the fold is the greater victory in my opinion. A coordinated defense is best, and he’s got the unfortunate privilege of being at the very front of the lines, so to speak.”

The Hammer’s expression twisted into a frown, “I unfortunately have to play diplomat tonight it seems. I will be sitting with the Brass Chair Emperor. The Great Intruder himself. Any advice on how I should dance with this man Fedor?”

“You, Nathan and I will have to speak with Tristan at some point to reaffirm our commitment to him and his people, and to start making greater plans on what to do in response to the Reich. We must start laying the groundwork now for the inevitable: I fear that the Fortress Continent may become uninhabitable to anything except the Reich’s machinations in the near future.” Silvier thought silently on those words as Dalikharl got himself ready, and then the conversation turned to the feast’s guest of honour.

“I only know of the Emperor of the Golden Throne through what my intelligence tells me, and one does not find himself in the position he is in without being shrewd and capable. That said, I get the impression he has little understanding of our ways and of the Alliance, and thus is treating this only as a formality: I trust you to make the case to him that we are more capable than we seem. As for how to act, create a common dialogue between the two of you: both of you I’m sure have a lot to say about your experiences of war and peace.” Silvier stopped so she could come behind Dalikharl, fixing his hair tie just a little so that it was perfectly even.

“I meanwhile will be making friendly with a few of our Southern Gothic brethren. A much more uneventful, but nevertheless important task. That and I will have the company of Captain Skaro, the Reich’s representative at these talks. He is not like them: he still possesses a human mind. A part of the Reich’s deception, for sure, but the man himself is deeper than that.”

The Hammer nodded his thanks for Silvier’s assistance but shot a bewildered look at the trusting tone in regards to Skaro. He trusted the Caesar, but he would never provide engender that confidence into anything attached to the Reich. “Better you than I, Catherina. I am certain that my acquisition has set some of the South on edge, so it will be good to have you assuage their concerns. But Skaro though,” facing the heavens in a brief train of thought, “Whatever humanity the Reich has allowed to inhabit that… Man’s rank is undoubtedly there for the purpose you describe. Plus, he is a submariner. His art is one of patience, deception, and evasion. He might be using it to survive, but it’s equally like he’s using what remains of a soul in him under the Reichmarshall’s orders.”

“I sense your concerns, Dalikharl, and I share them. I do not trust the man, however he presents an opportunity to understand the Reich in a way that we’ve never had the chance: a way which, either knowingly or unknowingly to him, might tell us what we need to know. I shall be careful; I always am.” Silvier placed a hand on the Hammer’s shoulder and smiled.

The Hammer scratched at his beard and spoke low, “If we can put an end to the Reich, Julianus and Zlobaskar could rule during a peace like no other.”

“If such a thing could be achieved, I would be glad for it.” Julianus piped in. Silvier took one look at her child - someone whom she adored more than anything else in the world - and her eyes glowed at the prospect of being able to guarantee him such a future. But that quickly faded, as she knew deep inside herself that such a dream would be near impossible to bring to fruition without great pain and suffering. How many childrens futures would they have to deny in order to make such a reality possible?

“We shall make the Reich rue the day that they decided to undermine us when we were in disarray. They will come to respect the will of the Alliance once again, and united we shall contain and prevent any future bloodshed and achieve such a peace.” The Caesar regained the glow and fire in her eyes. Sacrifice was inevitable in war, but she would ensure that it’d only be taken when necessary. “I swear it, on the lives of my people and yours. I will not rest until the Reich is cut low and the Alliance ascends to a glory which surpasses even the days of Dreadfire.”

And with that, they arrived at the entrance to the Ballroom. “Well, I’ll allow you to go off and enjoy your evening at the high table. I have no doubt you will do Gholgoth a great service.”

The Hammer smiled and reached into his pockets again, revealing a flask from which he quickly swigged before replacing. “Semper Certans Gholgoth.”

“Semper Certans, Gholgoth.” Silvier gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a further embrace, before the Grand Emperor departed.

“Shall we enter the feast, my Caesar?” Hyperion queried.

“No, not yet.” Caesar responded, turning promptly to watch Atticus entering the Press Room, whom she quickly followed.

[Emperor Pudu]

Citadel City

The unexpected rooftop rendezvous with the Capitol Police had left Dengmu with a general feeling of unease. As the Pudite and Drakonian party made their way back down to the council chambers Dengmu stopped to beg the pardon of Augustus and excused himself from his fellow sovereign. Dengmu and his people left the Drakonian Praetor and his entourage then.

Breaking away from their compatriots, Dengmu sidled up to Otho and spoke in low tones, still in the open corridors of the Citadel as they were. "I should like a cigar and a whisky, Lucius, each of a vintage more ancient than the other, where does indulge in these tastes about here?" The pristine white walls and relentless concern for things like health standards and courtesy meant that it was unlikely the Skyans would permit him to light up in the White Citadel. Lucius Otho, however, was exactly the person to ask. "Don't worry, your majesty, I've already solved that problem. We'll have to pop next door, however. It's where the staff here do their drinking." Dengmu nodded appreciatively, and Otho added one more thing, "And I never leave home for important events such as these without a pair of hand-rolled Almarans at least old enough to buy their own whisky." he produced a pair of cigars from his jacket's interior pocket. Dengmu took one in hand and examined the gold leaf wrapper and saw the vintage, 1972, "I was five years old when this was rolled. Excellent choice."

The small party, now reduced to Dengmu, Otho, the ever present Master Chai, Commander Victrius and Korinna Ariosto, made their way out of the White Citadel and took the short walk to their destination flanked by some half dozen dark suited and grim-faced agents of the Imperial First Cavalry Horseguard they had met on the way out. The intelligence analyst Olifer Golub and the military attache Captain Petrushkin had returned to the suite of offices the Pudite delegation had the use of in the Citadel where they were again in conference with the embassy, bringing news of the Kraven offer and arranging the deployment of relevant assets.

When the party arrived at the bar they found it empty except for the bartender standing idly behind the bar with a napkin in one hand and his phone in the other, apparently on a video call, speaking excitedly. So much so that for a moment he failed to notice his newest patrons enter the bar. It was Commander Victrius, ducking his seven foot frame through the doorway in his immense power armor that finally seemed to catch the eye of the man. Otho advanced to speak with him while Dengmu and the others hesitated at the door for a moment. "Excuse me sir, I'm so sorry, do you mind cutting your call short? My companion there, well, he doesn't like to be photographed. Emperors, ya know?" Otho shrugged nonchalantly as the man's eyes drifted to Dengmu and back to the ambassador, "Oh, uh, yes, of course." he stumbled over his words momentarily, "Sorry dear," he said into the phone, "I have customers." he said it with a wink and a smile before ending the call.

With the full attention of the barman and the outside line closed the Pudite delegation took seats at the bar. Commander Victrius took a post at the door, politely but instantly turning away any would be patrons, while the agents of the Horseguard took positions around the room, at windows and on the balcony outside. Dengmu, Otho and Korinna took seats at the bar while Master Chai stood silent sentinel behind them. "Whisky." Dengmu then said, "Nunkid whisky if you have it," he elaborated. The city of Nunkid in the Dominate was renowned domestically for their whiskys, "If not, the best you've got." Otho followed up, "Make it two whiskys," he turned to Korinna, "And for you? Don't worry, I'm the boss and this is a covered business expense." Korinna smiled, "In that case, make it three." At that point Otho tossed a gold coin onto the bar, a Pudite gold crown, with Dengmu's profile on one side and the crane sigil on the reverse. "Open a tab with that." It was, the barman was soon to determine, an ounce of solid gold.

Drinks in hand, Otho led the way to the balcony. Dengmu and Master Chai followed, though Korinna remained posted up at the bar, her phone now in hand. The swearing in of the Ghantish Emperor as the new Executor would begin shortly, she would find a live stream of the council chamber for the occasion.

Otho and Dengmu emerged on the balcony just as the sun was beginning to set. Looking westward the pair had an view of the skyline on their left and the vast encompassing bay on their right, with the great orange ball of the sun dipping below the horizon behind it all. The two took positions at the railing and made to light their cigars.

As the two enjoyed the silence and the view Otho thought back to the brief conversation he had shared with Dengmu before their entrance to the council chamber. It felt like months had passed since that solemn moment, and no doubt the days ahead would pass no quicker. This was another one of those little moments, though, that the Emperor had professed his love for, and so Otho remained silent and enjoyed it with him.

For that reason, it was Dengmu who was first to speak. Some minutes had passed, in the way time passes in silence between old friends, and now the old man was moved to words, "What will become of Shen Almaru once it is retaken?" he mused almost to himself. Otho raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dengmu, "You'll put some new, presumably more loyal, governor there and it will go on as before, won't it?"

"Can it?" was Dengmu's immidiate reply. "Governor Lartius wasn't wrong to recognize the weakness of the archipelago's position in Gholgoth. His only mistake was in estimating my response to his action. Who's to say the islands won't be made a victim again, and this time, perhaps without invitation. No matter how traitorous that invitation was or would be."

Otho digested what his emperor had said, his mind still turning when he began to answer, "It is a diplomatic weakness, rather than a military one, that the islands wrestle with. I don't think there's any doubt that this ongoing crisis will be, ultimately, good for our position in Shen Almaru and the region. We will have forged lasting bonds, established strong positions and enforced a status quo that is in our interest."

"You say we," Dengmu answered, "As if you meant 'the nation' or maybe just 'the two of us' but from what I have seen and heard of your actions here since the coup, it is you who are forging these bonds, these personal relationships." As Dengmu spoke Otho reflected on the time that had passed since he fled Mazaraan for Citadel City. His network of allies in the islands had allowed his escape, and now it was he who the Skyans championed as the liberator of Shen Almaru.

"I want you to lead Shen Almaru." Dengmu spoke it definitively. Otho remained quiet. "I am Emperor, I can appoint you governor. Your only alternative would be to retire. Of course, I'd rather you wanted the position. Do you?" he asked.

Do I? Otho thought to himself in that moment. His instinct was to say no, but what if he did? What if his instinct was to hide his ambition, something that had often been necessary in his political career. "I am not an executive." He finally answered, "I am not the man for this job."

"Hell to that," Dengmu growled back, "You're the man I chose, that makes you the man for the job. I want you to lead. How you manage it is up to you. You have my trust." Again Otho had no immidiate answer. Something the Skyans had mentioned to him then came back to the ambassador, "How I manage is up to me?" Otho queried. "Yes." was the emperors only answer. "Then this is what I propose."

Otho then laid out his plan, one which drew inspiration from discussions he had held with the Skyans in the last months. In the plan the changes to the governance of Shen Alamru would become part of Dengmu's Five Points reforms. Elections would be held across the islands to select a legislature, from which would come a Prime Minister to act as head of government. Lucius Salvias Otho would accept the role of President, a role that for now would remain one appointed by the Pantokrat, and would act as head of state in a largely ceremonial and advisory capacity for the new government. Furthermore, the President would serve as the de facto representative to Gholgoth for the Pantokratic Dominate, a role Otho already filled in the sometime-absence of Dengmu.

Chewing on the end of his cigar thoughtfully, Dengmu took in his ambassador's proposal. As Otho wrapped up the plan both men noticed their drinks had run quite low. "Allow me to refresh that beverage, your majesty," Otho offered, leaving his cigar in an ashtray and taking the two glasses in hand. Dengmu remained on the balcony, cigar in hand, thinking.

Otho ducked back into the bar and immidiately sensed the excitement coming from the persons of Korinna and Kaeso, who were huddled around the bar while the bartender peered over from the other side at the object of their attentions. He could soon see it was Korinna's cell phone, laid flat on the bar. As soon as they noticed Otho enter he was waved over to them, "You have to see this!" Korinna exclaimed, "It's the feed from the council chamber! The Scandin lord Fenric has lost his mind!" Otho rushed over to the bartop, setting the glasses down forgotten, as he watched the scene unfold.

There were audible gasps among those watching as the Skyan legionary stepped forward and barked his commands. The Skyan bartender, for his part, slapped the bar and shouted, "YEAH, KICK HIS SLAVER ASS SQUALL!" The exclamation caught some of the Pudites by surprise, but they couldn't help but feel the man's enthusiasm. "Gods," muttered Otho as the situation calmed down, "And I actually want to remain ambassador to this body..." As the others continued to watch, the youngest of them, Kaeso Vorenius, stepped back a few feet, turning something over in his mind.

As the situation calmed and the Dephirian began to break out the karaoke equipment Otho turned away, back to the bartender. "Two more, please." Once his request had been obliged he returned to the balcony, leaving Korinna to her viewing and Kaeso to whatever he was working on. He had requested a pen and paper from the bartender and was now furiously scribbling.

Outside once again Otho rendered the second whisky to his emperor and rejoined him at the balcony rail, picking his cigar back up. "So, you've thought on my proposal?" he asked. Dengmu took a thirsty swig of the brown liquor and a long drag on his cigar. "Aye. We'll make the reforms. You'll be the first president of the Republic of Shen Almaru, if that's what it takes to get you in Lartius's old office." Otho too pulled a long and satisfied drag on the cigar, "Excellent, thank you your majesty. I am proud to accept your generous offer."

The two men passed the next few minutes quietly, enjoying their refreshments and the beautiful vistas that the balcony overlooked. As their cigars burned down to the end, Otho looked back to the sovereign, "Well, dinner will be getting started soon. Shall we return to the Citadel?" Dengmu's reply was a sardonic "If we must." The party finished their last round and made their way out. The bartender, fidgeting with Otho's gold coin in hand, explained to Otho that he didn't have the cash on hand to make change for this ounce of gold. "Keep it." was the reply. "It's yours, but I trust you'll buy Squall a drink next time he stops by." Otho winked as the group left the, now decidedly richer, barman and headed back up to the White Citadel and the state dinner that awaited them.

[Ghant]

The White Citadel
Citadel-City,
The Skybound Republic
(co-written with Dephire, Havensky, Kylarnatia and the Scandinvans)

Meanwhile, the Emperor of Ghant had departed the room with his delegates, personal guard and children, the former feeling satisfied with how everything played out. It was an odd feeling for Nathan knowing that he was Gothic Executor...what was he expected to do now? He didn’t necessarily feel any different...yet was he supposed to act differently than he did before? Perhaps...there are certain expectations for my conduct that I’m being held to now…

It was further down the hall that he thought he had heard shouting coming back from the reception hall where he had given his introductory speech and was sworn in. Just then he could feel the cut no his hand pulsating, the wound beating against its tightly pressed bandage. The so called Black Guards stopped in their tracks and looked especially alert, while the children appeared anxious, aside from Bebe, who seemed rather amused at the prospect of there being an argument.

“...I should go and see what that is,” Nathan informed his party, before turning to the Knight of Ducks. “See my children safely to their chambers, Rolli.”

As the knight began to nod, Lady Lara Jarasa gazed with an unamused expression at the Emperor. “You’re going to go back to the reception hall? And do what, exactly? Don’t be ridiculous... you know how dangerous some of these people are. No sense in putting yourself in harm’s way so early into your term.”

The Emperor snorted in response. “And just keep walking away, when there could be an argument that I might be able to resolve? I can’t just turn my back and not care...that would make me no different from my predecessor.” Nathan directed eight of the Black Guards to gather around him, and then he added “Don’t worry about me...I’ll be fine. Aren’t I always?” Inclining his head to Lady Jarasa and watching as his children were escorted away, the Executor turned back and walked briskly in the direction that he came from.

Upon his return to the reception hall, he could see Fenric and his men in some sort of defensive posture against Squall, some Skyan knights, Tristan and Hyperion, the lot of them looking like they were poised for some sort of confrontation. Knowing the persons involved, Nathan assumed that Fenric said something to piss someone off, and now the scene teetered on the brink of an international incident. For fucksake, talk about a baptism by fire…

“What’s going on here?” the Executor asked with a firm voice. “I heard shouting down the hall. Is everyone alright?” Well...nobody’s dead, so I guess that’s a good place to start…

Lord Hyperion, who had now rejoined the shadowy female figure he had approached before, turned his massive frame to face the Executor. Bowing his head briefly with respect, he then answered. “Executor, the Scandin Prince has intentionally provoked a response from our Skyan hosts by threatening them with bondage.” He pointed to the warped mess of a slave collar - his own doing - that was now in the hands of a Templar. “They wish for his removal from these proceedings.” He did not speak of his own words, for in his mind there was no need: he had spoken personally, and that in his mind did not concern the Executor.

“Nathan! Welcome back to the party! Care to sing a duet with me?” Tristan shouted towards the Executor, seemingly trying to continue to de-escalate the situation by now ignoring the tension.

“...And the Godsend Emperor appears to be...intoxicated.” Hyperion added. To the Emperor’s credit though, he had at least made a proper effort to de-escalate the tension, although the Dux Imperator was concerned for his inhibitions.

No sooner did Hyperion catch Gholgoth’s Executor up to speed did Tristan start singing “I will Always Love You!” Making several gestures towards Fenric, Nathan, Silvier, and others. His intoxication levels would be dangerously high, were he not actually intoxicated thanks to the nanites converting the alcohol. In fact, the man singing his heart out was quite sober.

For fucksake, the Executor thought as he listened to Hyperion explain the situation and showed the mangled collar. It really is one thing after another with these people isn’t it? “Thank you Lord Hyperion...I would have hoped that Prince Fenric would have refrained som such...behavior, but alas, what is done cannot be undone, all we can do now is try to deescalate the situation…”

It was at that moment that Nathan noticed Tristan begin singing “I Will Always Love You,” which just so happened to be one of the former’s favorite songs. Tempted as he was to sing along, he couldn’t help but notice that Fenric had signaled his guards, as though perhaps he were about to leave. Right when I got here too…

The Skyans seemed to believe that Fenric intended to leave quietly and Squall and the remainder of the White Guard seemed content to allow him to walk away. They resumed their positioned the the edge of the room. Their rifles moved to a position of parade rest and their watchful eyes moved with the slaver as he walked away.

Squall scowled as Fenric left the room. His armor barely betraying the excess energy that had built up from the episode. He had been to stand down, but was still very much charged up. He looked up at Hagane who nodded. From there, he stormed out of the room his red cape flowing behind him.

“Squall,” Nathan called out to the heated Skyan. “I’ll deal with it...consider this my first true test.” Squall stopped his march and pivoted 180 degrees to face the Executor clearly still angry. His face contorted to a calm facade and Squall gave his thanks. He stood at attention for a moment as if waiting to be dismissed. After that, Squall simply returned to his march. Following this, the Emperor inclined his head towards Tristan, and told him “maybe next time” in regards to karaoke. To Hyperion, he nodded deeply. “Stay vigilant, my lord.” Then the Executor turned on the balls of his heels and went out after Fenric, hoping he could catch him before he got too far down the hall, his Black Guards in tow.

Tristan watched as the Executor chased after Fenric, “You're too good for him!” He yelled to Nathan, but it was too late for the Executor to respond without backtracking. Nathan did hear it, however, and allowed himself a subtle grin.

Fenric was flanked by his guards as he was leaving the summit. He was reasonably pleased with the performance from the Havenites. They had shown that they could easily be provoked in what amounted to one of the most sensitive meetings possible. This was a sign that emotional manipulation remained a credible strategy for the near future and one that the Scandinvans would likely employ in the future in order to further their own objectives. Though the manner in which such a ploy might be utilized was not currently known as the plots had not been fully articulated as of that moment.

The scenes at the summit remained at the forefront of his mind however. Fenric needed to keep himself fully invested in the events at hand and dedicate himself to solely to his thoughts on the matter. This was the state of the Scandinvan Crown Prince when the Emperor of Ghant came upon him. Nathan bowed and inclined his head to his peer, and spoke to him formally. “Your Highness...I heard that there was an...incident back in the conference room. If you’d have a minute, I’d like to talk, one man to another…"

[Havensky]

Co-written with Kylnaritia, Dephire and Ghant

Citadel City Press Room

Atticus had popped off to a hidden breakroom to catch his breath and collect his thoughts before heading to the press room. He was in a very good mood. The reforms had passed, an ally had been made Executor, and even the Reich had behaved themselves. Emperor Fedor would be at the Feast and tomorrow morning he’d address the Lords. He felt that things were going pretty well.

He walked into the press room and took his place behind one of the podiums. He caught a glimpse of several reporters he recognized as he got settled in. He looked up when he heard the flutter of the cameras increase about ten fold.

Following Atticus into the press room was the Caesar Silvier, eloquently dressed with her head held high and smiling firmly as she stepped up onto the podium with the Skyan Secretary of State. Atticus smiled and made a welcoming gesture as she adjusted her mic, and the Caesar smiled warmly back at him. Lord Hyperion stood just off camera near the entrance, but his presence loomed large in the room, while Khonsu and the Haeres Julianus had remained backstage.

“Good evening! I want to thank everyone for coming. I know it’s been a busy news day and we’ve kept you in the dark for most of that time and I thank you for your understanding. Before we get started I wanted to first thank all of the Gothic Lords who responded to our call for a Gothic Summit. Obviously, this Summit would have gone nowhere without their attendance. Additionally, I want to thank the staff of not only my own State Department but from all the nations involved in these negotiations. These reforms reflect countless hours of prep time and work by staff members around the region. When you write about this effort, I want you to keep in mind that this really was a regional effort.

While I consider today a victory for the Skyan people, I want to stress that the work is not done. We still have serious issues to tackle… the People’s Government has serious concerns with the Scandinvan occupation of Shen Almaru as well as the fact that this city came under attack very recently. I’m hoping we can make progress on this issue tomorrow as the Emperor of the Golden Throne is here for talks as well.

Finally, I want to thank the people of this city. It takes a special kind of people in the aftermath of an attack to say ‘Yes, we will open our doors to other world leaders - even those who ordered our destruction - and we make sure that people feel welcome!’ This Summit is a lot of work and you have my eternal gratitude for it. Any success that comes from this summit is shared by this city. So thank you.!”

Atticus then did a half step back from the mic and turned to Silvier to listen to her opening.

“Thank you, Atticus, and thank you all for being here this evening. I echo the sentiments of the Secretary of State: today’s successes are thanks to the many, many hours of work from hundreds of civil servants all across the region, and it is to these men and women that we owe more than can ever be put into words. The region also owes a lot to the Skyan people, and I would personally like to thank them for the warmth and kindness I’ve received since being here, and indeed in all my interactions with the Skybound Republic and her people. On that fated day when you joined the ranks of our Alliance, I knew it would be for the better, and I’m glad to say I’ve been proven right by all the actions you’ve taken thus far.

Today, the region has achieved something many were saying had gone past the point of being possible. We’ve reformed our Alliance, taken the first steps in making it stronger and better than it has been before. Of course we are far from being out of the woods yet, and there are many threats that lurk in the darkness that lies ahead, but with the peoples of the region united, we shine bright enough to throw back any danger that tries to harm us. The Executor is our guide, the Fortresses our shield, and the Praetors our sword. All of these reforms that have been adopted make us stronger, and any nation or organisation that wishes to test that will do so at their own peril.

Our first test is already clear to us: the Scandinvans must answer not only for their support of an illegal occupation on the islands of Shen Almaru, but also the heinous attacks carried out on this great city, who have come back stronger but still deserve answers and justice served for the deaths of Anton Tate and his men. Meanwhile outside forces converge on our borders, and while the response of old would have been to respond with brutal and aggressive force in defence one another, we must consider the legality of all parties and determine whether it is acceptable to defend a state who has been aggressive towards their own brethren. The Skybound Republic has done all it can to facilitate a diplomatic resolution to this matter - even now - and it rests upon the Scandinvan Empire to do the same. Should that not occur before the midnight hour, the Alliance stands ready to do what is necessary to ensure that justice is brought against those who broke their oath and yet plead innocence to those who took the oath and kept it.

I have no reservations in saying to you all now that I have the utmost faith that the Alliance will succeed in answering this charge. The discussions today have proven to me that there is renewed hope and vigour amongst the leaders of Gholgoth, myself included. The Imperium Antiquum stands ready to defend its allies, from here in Citadel City to those further beyond: we shall never surrender our hope, and nor should you surrender yours, for it is our hope that binds us all together. Hope for the future is what will make us stronger, but without it we will surely falter. I’m glad to still find it here, and so long as it continues to burn bright here - in this marvellous city - there will always be hope. May the Grand Mother continue to be with you all, and all of Gholgoth, in the trials that come ahead. Thank you.”

Once Silvier had finished speaking, Josie Whitehall was the first to raise her hand, with a calm sway demonstrating countless years of experience in this sort of environment. “Secretary of State, Josie Whitehall, Lead Reporter of International Affairs for Kylarnatian Imperial News International. Going into the summit, it was no secret that the Alliance had seen better days: after today’s proceedings, how are you feeling about the health of the Alliance going forward?”

“The state of our Alliance is strong. These much needed reforms will help strengthen the Gothic Alliance and gives us many more options when it comes to responding to crises in the region. Additionally, with the construction of a regional capital as well as appointing permanent representatives to the Gothic Council we will be able to maintain a permanent dialogue with everyone in the region. In short, I’m very excited about our future together. Your Grace, what say you?”

Silvier smiled as she looked over to Josie, someone whom she had come quite accustomed to. “To add to my earlier remarks, Josie, today’s talks show great promise for the future of the Alliance. There is already a sense of greater cohesion, understanding and united purpose then there has been in years previous. Whereas before we were united by our sole desire to be in control - which then led to some abusing that position - we’re beginning to find a higher purpose: while the Alliance is still at its heart a military alliance, the creation of Pax Gothica and democratisation of the Executor promotes a greater understanding of cultures, economies and relationships of the Gothic states. Appreciating those complexities and working with them instead of demanding blanket conformity will only allow us to go from strength to strength.”

The next question came from a local reporter from the Skyan World Service.

“Your Imperial Majesty, have you been enjoying your time in Citadel City and what do you think of it’s progress?”

“Citadel City is a remarkable city and one that I am personally quite fond of. My time thus far has been pleasant and I’ve been provided with a great deal of comfort and respect from my Skyan hosts, to whom I am very grateful. I’m also honoured to have been named an Honorary Dean of Citadel University, where I shall be speaking tomorrow morning in acceptance. The City has made incredible progress since its first days of construction, and has quickly become one of the most important cities in all of Gholgoth, a title which it unquestionably deserves. I hope to make a full official visit in the near future once the current crisis have concluded so that I can experience all it and it’s people has to offer.”

Another question came from Kylarnatian Imperial News International but this time from the Lead Reporter of the Havensky Desk, Raad Nahresi, an expat from northern Kylarnatia. “Secretary of State, following recent events including those of today, how would you personally judge the mood in Citadel City, and would you say that will have any bearing on the upcoming elections?”

Atticus thought for a moment before responding. He held up both his hands and started to speak.

“I think the people of this city and of the nation at large understand the stakes of this summit. Every time that there’s a crisis the council, until now, has been unable to act decisively enough to put a stop to it before bloodshed. When there is bloodshed, it is often the Skyan Legion who bears the brunt of the fighting. And, without fail, the people who die are often people are not soldiers at all. I’ve been to too many hospitals where we’re treating civilian war wounded and too many of those are children… and it breaks my heart.

The mood in Citadel City and across Havensky is one of hope. Hope that these reforms will lead to less violence, less conflict and a more peaceful world for all of us. Thank you.”

As soon as Atticus had finished answering the question, a Briskan reporter was quick to follow him up. "Atticus, with the success of the Reforms, when are you going to finally make the official bid for your next promotion?"

“Well, Skyan law is quite clear about when elections are and until the Prime Minister calls for elections nobody is saying anything including me. I will say that I’m honored to have served under Prime Minister Artemis these last ten years. Her work on building up the Skyan economy and state deserves the gratitude of our entire nation.”

A big and tall man with black hair and dark glasses raised his hand and was called upon. “Jonas Mandaburo, the Ghish Post. This question is for Her Imperial Majesty. Those in the Ghantish media industry are aware of your...interesting relationship with the Emperor of Ghant. What are your thoughts and feelings about him being elected Executor?”

Reporters turned to face the Ghantish reporter and gave him a disapproving look. Lord Hyperion’s head also turned to face him, and the photographers who noticed made sure to capture it, moving quickly to get the right angle. Caesar did not hesitate and smiled, laughing softly even, before looking directly to the reporter. “Your Emperor and I are leaders of vast, ancient and deeply rooted states. Those roots draw from different strengths, and so I agree that he and I have an interesting relationship. It’s a relationship built on these differences, especially of opinion, and no more so has that been proven true today. I toasted his confirmation as Executor, and I assured him that he had my support and would receive my counsel, which he gladly accepted. He brings fresh optimism and a new vision, which I will make sure is realised with all the power at my disposal. To me, he is a fine man for the job.”

It was at that point that the Emperor of Ghant had walked in, fresh from his private conversation with the Scandinvan Crown Prince Fenric. He looked exasperated, but tried to shake it off and replace it with a more pleasant expression in his own casual laid-back manner. Once he took the podium, he availed himself to some water, and then introduced himself as “Emperor Nathan of Ghant, Executor of Gholgoth. I’m happy to answer any questions that any of you may have.”

“Emperor Executor! Are you confident that you can negotiate a peace between Havensky and The Sla-- Scandnivan Empire?” the first question came in.

Nathan smiled and rubbed his chin in contemplation. “If you want to be formal, you can call me ‘your Majesty,’ otherwise ‘Lord Executor’ would be fine. This is as new for me as it is for you, and I’m still wrapping my head around the election. It will take some getting used to. As far as Havensky and the Scandinvan Empire, there’s been a lot of damage done to that relationship. Healing is going to take time and hard work from all parties involved. I’m committed to facilitating that, and working closely with the Skyan and Scandinvan governments to that end. I had a word with Crown Prince Fenric not too long ago, and I’m confident that I can work with him, as well as with Skyan leaders in order to achieve a mutually satisfactory outcome to the conflict. It won’t be easy, and it won’t happen overnight...but it can be done.”

The second question for the Emperor was “How do you feel about being elected Executor!?”

“Honored, truly,” Nathan tapped his heart with his right hand. “Never did I think I’d ever wear the shoes of Damien Dreadfire...those are huge shoes to fill. There’s a lot of work to be done, hard work...but my peers in the Gothic Council believed in me, believed in my ability to be a peacemaker and bring people together in a way that this Council badly needs. I’m dedicated to doing that, and like I’ve said, it isn’t going to be easy. I value my personal relationships with many of my peers and with leaders in Dienstad, and I think I can help bring us closer to peace and unity. That’s worth it all to me.”

“Lord Executor,” Josie Whitehall was granted the privilege to ask another question, on account of the Executor’s fresh arrival. “Josie Whitehall, Lead Reporter of International Affairs for Kylarnatian Imperial News International. You say you’re confident that you can work towards reconciliation between the Skyan and Scandinvan delegations. Do you think that’s a realistic claim considering the abhorrent actions of the Crown Prince Fenric earlier this evening? You’re confident in working with someone who threatened to place one of your own allies in chains?”

Nathan rubbed his forehead for a brief moment, unaware that the press was aware of that incident. “...Crown Prince Fenric did have an outburst, and yes, it was woefully inappropriate and in bad taste. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I was told about it, and that’s what I spoke to Fenric about before I got up here. The Crown Prince and I spoke, and we will continue to do so. There’s going to be dialogue, and not only am I going to listen to what he has to say, but I’m going to tell him what he needs to hear. That no man is an island, and that actions have consequences. As long as he’s willing to talk, then yes, I’m confident that we can achieve some sort of reconciliation. That’s my job, to listen to the Gothic Lords, and to help them understand the reality of the situation. What they do with that is up to them, and I, along with the Gothic Council, will conduct ourselves according to that.”

***

Squall’s boots fell heavy on the marble floors of the Citadel’s VIP entrance level. He still had not shaken off his anger at the events that had transpired. He also realized the events had caused him to run late. He was supposed to meet Edwidge here ten minutes ago.

She was sitting on one of the many benches that lined the edge of the Salaam River which lapped against the stone shore of the Citadel. Her platinum blonde hair blowing in the breeze. She turned as she spotted her fiance and rose to meet him.

She was wearing a Skyan blue high slit dress of Kylarnatian design that cinched tightly around her waist. The gold trim shimmered in the evening sun as she flashed a Gavin a smile. The smile faded a bit as he got closer even as he reached out his arms to hold her.

“Elên”, she said softly in Middle Närvärynese, the tongue of her native Xirnium, as she put a hand on his chest. As she did, the storm in Squall’s eyes seem to subside little by little.

“What’s wrong my love?”

“It’s nothing.” replied Squall a bit unconvincingly back to her in Närvärynese.

“You can’t fool me my Knight of Broken Hearts.. What’s happened?”

“It’s.. the fucking slaver emperor.” Squall said in the common tongue out of frustration unable to really curse properly in Närvärynese.

“He threw a slave collar at us. When Atticus was out of the room and the tv cameras were on.. He insulted us.. belittled us.. and then he threw a slave collar right at the Skyan Throne.”

Edwidge covered her mouth out of shock.

“Goddess, are you alright? That’s awful. What did you do?”

Squall’s face flashed a look of shame.

“My hand reached for my sword. I never drew, but… I don't know.. Ambassador Hagane ordered him thrown out and me and the other guards responded in force to back her up. We’ll probably catch hell for it, but gods damn it. Were we really supposed to take that? I know we’re supposed to be the diplomatic ones, the nice ones, the good guys, but that’s too much.

Would they have pulled that shit with the Briskans and risk their temper? Would that have worked on the cappers? No, because we’re nice. Well, I'm not nice!”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. You all wear your hearts on your sleeve.” she said as she moved her hand to his Heartbreak Combat Patch.

“You literally have your hearts exposed. No wonder you get upset. It’s because you care. Very much. It’s part of why I love you. Don’t listen to the slaver ...what’s the phrase you like to use… He was born sorry! And you have saved so many… I don’t even think you realize it sometimes.”

Squall looked down at Edwidge to try to have some sort of reply. Instead he just hugged her again.

“I needed that.”, he said as he kissed her. He took a deep breath and held out his arm.

“You look amazing by the way. Can I show you off to all the high and mighty of the region?”

[Havensky]

Post co-written by Xirnium, Aldarminia, Dephire, Kylarnatia, Telros, Ghant, and Kraven

Sir Gavin Squall and Edwidge Nalôrna walked into the Grand Ballroom of the Citadel and into the feast. Their arrival was announced by a the Sergeant at Arms.

“Presenting!!! Miss Edwidge Nalôrna of the The Eternal Republic of Xirnium! Daughter of Heartknight Companion Dórottya Nalôrna (BOOM BOOM) and escorted by Heartknight Guardian SIR Gavin Squall (BOOM BOOM) the HEARTBREAK COUNT!”

Squall nodded towards the sergeant as they made their way to the Praetor Candidate table. Edwidge complained softly in her own language.

“Goddess, I wish for once I could walk into one of these events without the town crier yelling about my mother and my soon to be husband and banging their shield to the ground.”

“It’s tradition.. They always do that whenever they introduce a Heartknight.”

“Sure, but for it would be nice to be introduced as ‘Edwidge Nalôrna of Citadel City...famous fashion designer… and maybe fun pop music plays.”

Gavin smiled at this.

They sat down at the table and a server brought them waters and took their drink orders. Meanwhile, more dignitaries began to arrive.

The guard spoke out again, “Presenting!!! The GRAND EMPEROR of the Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of ALDARMINIA, DALIKHARL the Second of the Blood Aszcheyko, HAMMER of the People’s Will and Justice”

The Hammer swaggered to his table almost like a serpent slithered. The preliminary swig after he had left Silvier had reignited a buzzing stimulation in his constitution. He began to mentally push aside the emotional strain caused by Venkhzmr’s death and the physical strains of the battle and the flight. Dalikharl ignored most of the gazes that tracked his saunter’s path. With Gunnsvyg heel-tucked behind him, the Grand Emperor took his seat as he sipped once again from his personal flask--vodka splashing a harsh-smooth, bittersweet calm down into the back of his throat. The translucent stitches of the wound on his cheek marked a grim sheen under the lights of the feast’s hall.

“PRESENTING! MARAT the Fifth of the Veil SUVOROV of the Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of ALDARMINA!”

As had been instructed to him, Marat promptly entered after His Majesty. The air of imperial confidence that had emanated from Dalikharl had not graced Suvorov at all. Despite once being a military man just like so many here and having engaged often with all sorts of the higher echelon of Aldarminian society, the Aszcheykos’ ordained Praetor nomination was not sure he could ever become used to auspiciously gallivanting among a surplus of Gothic Lords. Bound by duty, though, as he took his seat, Marat resolved himself to quell his anxiety with a small dosage of medication and rapid-fire requests for cocktails.

“PRESENTING!! PRINCE of the Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of ALDARMINIA, RYSLANDER the First of the Blood Aszcheyko”

Having just missed the chance to speak to either Silvier or his adopted father beforehand, Ryslander was going cold into the feast. Of course, he had had many lessons on war, but Dalikharl had rarely made the effort to impart diplomatic knowledge unto the eldest prince. What little he had acquired had come from only one or two conversations with the Hammer, many more with Katya, some with Silvier, and studying alone in the confines of the Palace. While the debates within the Chamber had certainly been instructive as well as good practice, Ryslander knew that this feast was as much a cooperative meeting of statesmen-and-women as it was a social gathering.

As the Prince took his seat, the Grand Emperor fiddled with his beard and silently mused, Now, let’s see how well my pieces can move.

“NOW PRESENTING! The QUEEN of the Skybound Republic of HAVENSKY..Heartknight Consular (BOOM BOOM) and GOTHIC LORD...Jessica HEART!!... escorted by her husband GRANDMASTER of the Heartknight Guardians (BOOM BOOM) ..the BUTCHER’S END...KING of the Skybound Republic...Lucus IRONWING!”

The Skyans in the room applauded as the Ironwings entered the room. They waited a moment just outside the entryway to await the next guest.

As Ironwing entered, Dalikharl smiled with a nod to quietly greet the king. While Jessica approached their table, the Hammer stood politely to welcome her, “It is a pleasure to dine with you, Queen Heart. I hope you will be kind enough to deter my boorishness in regards to--”

“NOW PRESENTING! His Imperial Majesty of the Golden Throne Fedor the First!”

All eyes turned towards the Fedor. His arrival at Citadel City was not a surprise to anyone as the Skyan State Department had been working on his visit for weeks. Still, the arrival of an Emperor from outside Gholgoth still turned heads. Those that had been aware of Fenric’s remarks and subsequent banishment from the Citadel would probably wonder if it was even worth Fedor coming all this way. The idea was to have Fedor and Fenric talk things over in hopes of ending the conflict. However, Fenric’s disrespect of respect of the Skyan people had thrown that plan into serious doubt.

Interrupted by Fedor’s entrance, Dalikharl glared at the Macabéan Emperor, but the Hammer stayed standing nonetheless to tersely greet the Willed with an outstretched hand for shaking, “Welcome to Gholgoth, Fedor…”

“NOW PRESENTING! His Imperial Majesty, Nathan, Fourth of His Name, Emperor of Ghant, High King of the Ghantar, King of Low Ghant, King of Gholghant, King of Dienghant, Lord of Zahaghant, Lord Executor of Gholgoth, Lord of Ghish, Lord of Gaztelua, Lord of Degusa, Protector of the Realm.”

The new Executor hadn’t changed since his earlier swearing-in ceremony and press conference, still wearing his loosely-fitting court uniform, worn cape and old black boots, though the bandage wrap on his hand had been replaced. Nathan was not the sort of man who relished the spotlight, so he made as plain an entrance as he could, and simply went to his designated table escorted by his small retinue of Imperial Black Knights.

“Joined by His Imperial Highness, Nathan, Crown Prince of Ghant, Crown Prince of Low Ghant, Crown Prince of Gholghant, Crown Prince of Dienghant, Vicelord of Zahaghant, Vicelord of Ghish.”

Unlike his father, the crown prince of Ghant and his siblings had adequate time to go back to their rooms and change for the feast. If the father was somewhat modest in his garb, eschewing style for comfort, the son was the opposite. By all measures his clothing for the evening was lavish. He wore a brand new black and gold court uniform, complete with a cape, pauldrons, black boots and exquisite silk gloves, so that only his head was exposed, revealing a petulant expression on his face. He cherished the limelight, and fancied himself good in front of a camera.

“His Imperial Highness John, High Prince of Ghant, Her Imperial Highness Sara, Princess Imperial of Ghant, Her Imperial Highness Valerie, High Princess of Ghant.”

The Empress of Ghant was not the sort of woman who let offenses go unanswered. Those children born to her both received the title of “High Prince” and “High Princess” in order to distinguish themselves from “lesser” children born to the Ohaides, and also instructed the Imperial Heralds to announce them first before the other said children. So it was that John, Sara and Valerie followed their brother the Crown Prince, escorted by Imperial Black Knights.

John, like his father, was more modest in his dress, though still clad in rich garb as befitted the second in line to the Obsidian Throne of Ghant. He wore a court uniform of white trimmed and accented with gold, with a smaller cape than his brother and golden pauldrons, the outfit sparking in contrast to his mop of jet-black hair. Naturally shy, he imitated his father, merely walking to his table in order to avoid the intensity of a hundred eyes upon him.

The Princess Imperial, like before, wore a white gown, though this one was more formal, the back of it dragging across the floor as she walked. Her gown was wrapped in a black sash from shoulder to hip, and though she wasn’t yet twelve, it was clear that she had all the makings of a true Ghantish beauty in the mold of her mother, with long lush dark brown hair that framed an unblemished fair round face with two dark blue eyes beneath a gentle brow and dainty nose. Polite and well-trained for such occasions, she shined in the spotlight, and wasn’t afraid to play to the crowd.

Her younger sister Valerie, on the other hand, was said to combine the most idiosyncratic characteristics of both her parents. Like her sister, she wore a long, formal evening dress, this one teal with a beige sash. Her hair was a lighter shade of brown than her sister, and her eyes a lighter shade of blue, and she sported a few dark freckles on her face, neck and shoulders. Though she was only ten, she already had the makings of a playgirl about her, as she fancied the spotlight, but wasn’t...especially polite with it. Her eyes narrowed and she smirked at this thing or that.

“His Highness Victor, Prince of Ghant, Her Highness Blanche, Princess of Ghant, Her Highness Valentina, Princess of Ghant.”

The Ohaide children trailed behind the trueborn half-siblings. Victor strongly favored his father, with red hair and green-blue eyes dressed in a black court outfit. He wasn’t keen on the spotlight, and tried to fade among the Black Knights escorting him and his siblings. Blanche likewise wore a modest blue dress that matched her eyes, her long brown hair tied behind her head. The Emperor’s “secret weapon” Valentina was last, wearing another red dress, albeit this one more formal, her shoulder-length red hair left loose to its own devices. She didn’t care for the spotlight, and acted like it wasn’t even there.

Another person that didn’t really care much for the spotlight was Captain Skaro. As he walked in, he noticed the guard begin to breathe in deeply in preparation for his pronouncement.

“I’d rather you didn’t Sergeant.”

The guard let out a breath and simply extended his hand in welcome.

“As you wish.”

Shortly thereafter, the would be an introduction of one who did very well in the spotlight.

“NOW PRESENTING! Her Imperial Majesty, Silvier Catherina Silvanus, CAESAR of KYLARNATIA...and LORD OF GHOLGOTH!”

The room would of course draw their attention to the Caesar (though perhaps unsurprisingly, the Emperor of Ghant looked down at his silverware as he fiddled with it). How could they not? Her beauty and power were stuff of legends. People who weren't used to her presence might have whipped out their phones to take pictures. Silvier gave her trademark gleaming smile, shining as brightly as her dress did under the grand lights of the Ballroom. Along with the press pack her own personal photographer, Iohannes Pastor, was getting the best shots he could from around the room. He went everywhere he could with her, and gained clearance in the most secure of places, all to capture history and the role that Caesar played in it.

One might be forgiven if one didn’t hear the rest of the Sergeant at Arms statement.

“...escorted by Dux Imperator Hyperion, First of the Caesar's Guard and Black Cobra, Aspect of the Night!”

BOOM BOOM

All at once, the White Guard had banged their shields in respect usually due to the Heartknights. One could assume that word had gotten out about Hyperion’s speech to the slaver emperor and had earned the Respect of the Legion.

Hyperion turned his head to face the White Guard as they banged their shields. He respected no foreign forces above his own, and only held a few close to them, but one such force was the Heartknights, for they had time and time again thrown themselves into unknown horrors to rescue those who were at the greatest risk. Caesar looked at him inquisitively.

“It seems they hold you in high regard, Hyperion. Now tell me, why is that?”

Hyperion, having still not told her what occurred earlier with the Scandin Emperor, simply carried on. “Why shouldn’t they?” Caesar laughed.
“His Imperial Highness, Julianus Kain Silvanus, Haeres of Kylarnatia and Centurion of the Fangthane Palace Guard!”

Julianus entered the Grand Ballroom behind his mother and Lord Hyperion, still dressed in his ceremonial armour from before though now with added ribbons and honours, he saluted the Sergeant-at-Arms with a pounding of the chest of his breastplate as he passed him, which he repeated for the Heartknights. He then stopped for a moment to appreciate the spectacle in front of him: he was truly astonished and excited by the spectacle he was witnessing. This was his first time being among so many prominent and powerful international leaders, and he soaked it all in with great enthusiasm. Quickly though his attentions turned to the Princess Imperial of Ghant, Sara, who had made her way to their table with the other Lordspawn. Quickly he made his way over to her, deep purple cape flowing behind him.

Squall escorted Edwidge to the table with the other Praetor candidates, pulling her chair out for her and letting her sit down before taking his own seat. A server came by to take their drink orders. Edwidge ordered champagne and Squall ordered tea.

As they sat down, they could hear the very faint singing of the next couple to arrive.

"PRESENTING!! EMPEROR TRISTAN SKRAGG of the DEPHIRE!"

The rest of his honorifics were somewhat drowned out by his duet with was one Lamula Hagane who had entered the feast on his arm.

"Escorted by SKYAN World Assembly Ambassador Lamula HAGANE!"

While the Skyans kept booming out the names of the known Gothic Lords and their titles, their soldiers stamping their feet in appreciation, one group quietly snuck in, slipping past the throng of reporters and journalists that were harassing Silvier and Atticus with questions. Unlike the other parties, the Telrosian Compact diplomatic party had snuck in bit by bit, as much as one can sneak in when needing to provide security and diplomatic clearances and being checked/asked to hand over their weapons by the Skyans. First it was the lower members of the party, the diplomatic aides led by Fáradt Támogatás, clad in a variety of dark blues and black suits, suitcases and folders in hand to prepare for discussions that were going to be had. They were tasked by the Anax to go and make contact with the various nations of Gholgoth as much as possible during the feast and the aftermath. They had been getting a lot of information on nations, their leaders and their dispositions, but a lot of it was colored by the Caesar's and the Imperium's perspective, and they wanted to see what she may have glossed over. Also, good to get everyone to know of the Compact and hopefully get some favorable deals out of it.

Fáradt snorted at the displays and the Skyans attempts to run the show. ”When we let the internationalists run wild, this is what we get. You could have accomplished this without half of the pomp and circumstance.”

These were followed by the Vestals, the group of five priestesses of the Silver Sacerdotium tasked to accompany the Anax to events such as these. Identical in their blue-white dresses, with veils over their faces, and symbols of the aspects and the Grand Mother, they would come in, but remain as a unit instead of dispersing like the group with Fáradt did as they waited for the Anax to arrive. One of their number, Anya Sorrend, looked around nervously, gazing at all the people, Lords or not, and the large guard presence in armor. Her hands shook as her self-control slipped enough to let her overwhelmed senses take hold.

”I hope they have a chapel here for Sacerdotium worshippers; I need a place to collect myself before we begin in full.”

Despite their attempts, however, when the last part of the group arrived, it drew some heads, as happens when the Anax of the Telrosian Compact and the Arch-Priestess of the Telrosian Sacerdotium both arrived. Adon Baldassare was the more conservative of the two, wearing a simple dress the darkish blue of her nation, with her blonde hair cut fairly short to end around her ears, allowing her simple clear crystal earrings to be in view, as well as her necklace showing the symbol of the Grand Mother. Complete with simple black heels, she wore an outfit that didn't stand out amongst the rest, but her posture is what brought it to life; she had the straight back and gaze of a military member, eyes quickly and efficiently reading the crowd, before turning back to speak with the woman next to her. Next to her Isteni Hatóság was the more ostentatious of the two, her dress being what has drawn most of the attention. Throughout the designs on the ensemble, one could see symbols of all ten aspects of Silvier's sons and around her head and neck were the symbols of the Grand Mother, the aspect of Balance. Her black hair, long enough to reach her back, had been carefully prepared to cascade down her shoulders onto her front. Her manner was regal, as if a queen, but with the sense she saw more than simply the people here, her eyes flashing through the crowd. When they met Silvier's, she smiled briefly and nodded in acknowledgment before returning to the rest of the crowd.

They came up and met with the Vestals, whom all bowed their heads at the Anax and the Arch-Priestess. Isteni waved a hand and spoke. “Rise, my children. You have more to do than honor me and the Mother. Are you prepared?” A chorus of voices met her question, but her eyes focused on Anya as she detected a warble in her tone. Her eyes lowered in shame at the Arch-Priestess' knowing look.

“It is alright to be afraid, young Sister. These events are not without their dangers, their pitfalls for the foolish and the unwise. While it is our duty to step into these dens, know you do not do so without the aid of your fellow Telrosians and the gaze of the Grand Mother. We are never alone in this world.”

“Y-You are correct, Arch-Priestess. Forgive me for my moment of weakness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, child. You and your sisters will not be needed for a little while. Go and bask in the light of the Grand Mother; the Skyans have a local chapel for our practitioners. Once you have prepared yourselves, come back here.” With a final bow of their heads, they turned and left, leaving the room to head for the chapel. Adon watched them go before facing Isteni.

“You are too hard on Anya. She's a recent graduate from the class you handpicked for me.”

The priestess' face became more stern, looking away from the backs of the retreating Vestal's. “You are a kind woman, Adon, it is one of your greater features as Anax. But these children have been given training and preparation for their role to accompany and conduct the rituals of the Sacerdotium to bring the Mother's blessings and enhance your image at places like this. We all have a role to play, and they must be able to play theirs. Otherwise, we will need to find their true role if this is not for them.”

The Anax glanced back and reluctantly nodded. “I...suppose you're right. Forgive my impertinence.” A hand drew her attention back.

“As I said to them, there is nothing to forgive. Your role is to look out for all Telrosians, and all of those under the Mother's light. You are doing as you should. Now, I do believe a seat with food and good companionship awaits us over there. We shouldn't keep Her waiting, should we?”

A laugh. “Indeed, I have been starving since the plane ride began.”

“And that makes two of us.” The two women made their way over to the table with Silvier had chosen to sit down and a quiet cough from Adon sounded to try and gain her attention.

“Greetings, Caesar. We apologize for our lateness, but attempting to get time away from the workings of the Compact has been difficult as of late. I hope there are still seats available for us here, if that would be alright?”

Both Caesar and Hyperion, who had yet to sit down themselves, turned to face the approaching women. As they approached, Hyperion bowed his head in respect of the Archpriestess especially, while Caesar smiled broadly and extended her arms out to embrace them both. “Adon, it is a pleasure to see you here. Do not apologise! I’m glad that the Compact has decided to attend these talks; they are a great first step for your country to become more involved in regional affairs. Of course you may sit with us, I made sure these seats were reserved for you especially.”

Then, she turned to Archpriestess Hatóság and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Archpriestess Hatóság, you grace us with your presence. The Mother surely smiles on us all this day that we may be together at such a great gathering. I noticed the Vestals as you entered, my own are currently assisting the Archpriestess of Citadel City, Allison Moor, at a ceremony in the local Basilica. They will all be joining us later in the evening.”

“You of course, both know Lord Hyperion.” She gestured to the giant, who raised his head and said nothing, simply looking into the eyes of both the Anax and the Archpriestess for some time.

“Please, do sit. Let us break bread and talk!” Silvier and Hyperion sat again as chairs were pulled out for both Anax Baldassare and Archpriestess Hatóság. From the basket in the centre of the table Silvier grabbed some bread and, breaking it with her hands, she split it evenly amongst herself and the other three. A waiter brought some water for them to drink.

Adon quickly sat down and accepted the bread from the Caesar greedily, taking large chunks out of it and grabbing the water from the waiter when he came to her and taking a long draught of it. She noted the herbs and spices used in the bread and leaned back for a moment, enjoying the taste before it was gone and consumed the rest of her piece. The Arch-Priestess was doing the same, but more measured, despite being about as hungry. As she sipped her water, she began to speak.

“It has been some time since we have been able to see you in Telros proper, Caesar. I understand you have been busy the past few months; the Foreign Affairs minister has been keeping us apprised. While the Skyans were the ones who presented this Summit, and organized it, I do not believe I am wrong in detecting your hand behind some of the forces at work here, no?”

Isteni took a moment to meet the gaze of Lord Hyperion and bowed her head once, a knowing look in her eyes in response to his introduction, before turning her gaze back to the Caesar.

Silvier smiled as she took conservative bites of her piece of the bread, in between sips of water. “Time never stops for me, your eminence, as it won’t for you as Telros takes greater strides out onto the world stage. As I’ve told you before, the Compact has more than earned its place amongst these proceedings, and deserves even more.” She took another bite before continuing. “As for these talks, I made sure to give my advice to the Skyans where appropriate, and assured the attendance of several here. Do not look over them too much though, they are a brave and noble people.”

At that moment, Hyperion interjected, his voice booming even at a low tone. “How fares the Compact? Caesar has been kept up-to-date with all the recent developments since her last visit. We’re aware that most of the damage has been repaired and most of the Duskflower dissidents have been rounded up. How are the people?”

Isteni nodded, face taking on a solemn expression.. “I think of anyone in the region, the Compact is least able to look over anyone. The Skyans may have their...quirks, but they have at least been involved and attempting to make a difference. We have not, and it is to our shame that it took the Rebellion to correct that.” Before she could continue to speak further, Hyperion interjected, his deep voice stilling all conversation and rousing the Anax from her enjoyment of being able to curb her hunger a bit. The Arch-Priestess turned to her water, relinquishing the floor to Adon as she faced the man. Her eyes took him in, gazing at his larger than life form, the expression in his eyes and his stance. Isteni had spoken much of him, and it was always in this odd double-talk way; to anyone else, it would have seemed just a man who is a close confidant of the Caesar and by his actions today, a known opponent to slavery and injustice. However, now that she had a chance to meet him in person, there was something...else to his presence, something that made him seem more than he seemed.

Still, he had asked her a question and she intended to answer. “Yes, it has been some time since you both visited the mainland. We’re seeing the last of the summer season now, and we’ll be back to the biting fall and winter we know so much. So the shipments of food we have negotiated for will be greatly appreciated in helping us get through it without too much hunger for the citizens. Overall, the people are doing much better physically, spiritually...well, Isteni and the Telrosian Sacerdotium are doing what they can to soothe the hurts of what happened in the Rebellion, and help many see the why of it. I’ve had many distraught parents or families begging me or her why the Grand Mother would allow this. It has been...hard to handle it all.”

She looked off to the side, looking towards one of the other delegations as her thoughts slipped back into memory. “We’ve finally finished all the burials and memorial services, commemorating those who died to preserve the Compact and who were victims of democratic orthodoxy. Now the nation is turning to the question Eshmun and I are trying to solve: Who do we want to become? The Council is rife with debate on the matter; while the reforms my fellow Anax is pushing through has cleared many of the isolationist obstacles for our new engagement protocol, the Isolationists are fighting against any greater engagement. We are going to assist the Pudites with their conflict in Shen Amaru, but it’s going to have to come from the Expeditionary Fleet that we have command over. Any further resources require Council approval and that’s not a possibility at this time.” Her gaze turned from the table to the doorway where the Lords have come from the debate and voting of the regional reforms. “The concern about Kraven has been helpful is overcoming most of their objections; your records on the Great Gholgothic War and their other activities has helped shore up the Liberty party’s insistence on dealing with them. So for now, anything involving them you have Compact support; outside of that….it’s a work in progress.” A hand reached up and pressed on her temple.

“I’m just thankful I have the easier job of handling the foreign matters; I can only imagine the aplopletics the Council politics is driving Eshmun into. As good of an administrator as he is, the Council is a mess and we may not have the time to clear it up before this Scandinvan’s crisis explodes further.” A weak smile is directed at Silvier.

“Sometimes, we joke about creating a monarchy to handle the problems, just to make things easier. My time in the military did not prepare me for this much paperwork.”

“No nation in the course of human history is born with the assurance of greatness. It is earned and built through hardship and sacrifice, of which the Compact is still growing used to the taste.” Lord Hyperion responded. “Just as my people fought free from the bondage of slavery many millennia ago, yours fought for their independence from us over a century ago, but have now had to fight a bitter war against your kin whose heads had been filled with treason. You are still reeling from the pain, but you will grow stronger from it.”

Silvier had come to her last piece of bread, and instead of finishing it herself, broke it a further three ways. She gave a piece each to both Adon and Isteni. “The pain of your people has weighed heavily on me since my last visit. It is only natural to wonder why such things would be within the design of the Aspects. I can only feel in my heart that the Mother, who is within all things, understands more than any of us the meaning and value of pain and loss. Through the injustice that she and the Seraphim suffered, to the sacrifice she made to restore Balance, and the loss of her dearest--”

Before she could continue, Hyperion shuffled in the slightest of ways. Noticing this, she continued on a different track. “But you know all these stories already, I’m sure. I know these things may not console any of the immediate grief, but these things shall become clear, I promise you that.”

“We may be stronger in some ways, Lord Hyperion, but we are always weakened by such internal conflict. And it is the second time such a conflict has plagued our people; I fear the individualism that runs through our nation is its own crippling weakness. How can the Compact rise to the threats of the modern era, if we are so divided we feel we have to take up arms to fix it?”

The somber conversation was broken when Silvier broke bread again, handing a piece to her and Isteni, who accepted with a word of thanks and one for herself. They accepted the bread, consuming it quickly and draining the rest of their cups before waiter swiftly refilled them. Isteni nodded along with the Caesar’s words, eyes flashing over to Hyperion when he shifted and the conversation suddenly turned. Adon glanced at the Arch-Priestess, questions in her eyes, but a shake of the head dispelled them for now.

“Yes, it is hard to understand the Mother’s views and actions in situations like this, but we must remember while she has become one with everything, everything is not her. Humanity makes its own choices, as it did even under the Old Gods, and while she empowers and blesses us, she cannot stop us from straying and becoming lost in Chaos. This is why it is so important to pursue Order and Balance in all things; the world has become too aligned with Chaos. Conflicts such as these are reflections of this imbalance; once it has been put right again, we shall see the peace we once enjoyed once more.”

“Such wise words, I would expect nothing less from the Telrosian faithful. Stay true to that and the Grand Mother shall stay with you. For tonight, let us feast and drink to the Blessed Dead who now sing with the Seraphim in Avaris.”

Both raised a glass at the mention of the Blessed Dead.

“May the journey to Avaris be a swift and gentle one for them.”

“May the Seraphim see them to their proper places in Avaris.”

They swiftly downed their glasses before setting them down again. Adon leaned forward, capturing the attention of the Caesar.

“In brighter news, I heard your son Julianus is here with you at the summit. I’ve been meaning to ask how he has been doing. He was such a bright and attentive lad during your visits to the capital.”

Caesar smiled at the mention of her son, and proudly pointed him out at the adolescent table. There he was dressed in full military regalia, his silver armour gleaming from the lights of the ballroom, ribbons and medallions in full view as he smiled and laughed with the other Lordspawn in attendance. “He is growing up quite fast. I try, despite everything that is expected of me, to still be his mother. Bright and attentive he certainly is, but also quite excitable. A spitting image of his father. The Mother has blessed me with such a gift. I shall make sure to bring him over once we’re done eating.”

“Oh that would be lovely. It’d be nice to speak with him when we’re not both elbows-deep in our work.”

As Adon and the Caesar chatted, Isteni leaned over towards Hyperion, hoping he’d take the hint and lean in himself as she quietly spoke. “I have a favor to ask of you, Lord. The Anax’s Vestals are in the Sacerdotium chapel, praying as I instructed. The big names, events and all matters of this event has shaken their confidence, especially a one Anya. If you wouldn’t mind checking on them and making sure they are alright. A visit from one such as yourself would help calm their nerves and prepare them for their tasks ahead. I would go myself, but the Anax is still...grieving over the losses and I need to be here in case she becomes too overwhelmed.”

Hyperion looked down to Isteni and listened. He had indeed sensed the discomfort amongst the Vestals when they had entered the room, especially this Anya she mentioned. Taking one look at Caesar, who gave him a firm nod, the Lord looked deeply into the eyes of the Archpriestess and his eyes burned bright. “I shall see to them, your eminence, once the festivities commence.”

[Jagada]

The Feasting Room
Citadel City

‘We take our first steps onto the stage,’ said Nalur as the procession of Gothic Lords proceeded ahead.

Nalur stood beside his daughter the Basilissa Renuae al’Maw, flanked on both the left and right by the Sacred Watch – two eunuch Janissaries fully dedicated to his daughter in body, mind, and soul. He straightened his uniform of dark navy blue and made sure each of the brass buttons remained shining. His uniform was a throwback from the days of the Monotheistic Empire; the last government to hold power in Old Jagada. The style had been fading rapidly in the decades since they arrived in Gharsash and it would vanish completely soon, but he intended to keep the spirit of the homeland alive as long as he could.

His daughter stood nervously, but resolute, before what had to be the largest gathering of eccentrics this side of the known world. ‘How do you feel?’

Her platinum eyes flickered over at him and she slumped, ‘Terrified. I am clearly outmatched here Nalur. The people on the other side of those doors have destroyed entire civilizations with a wave of their hands during supper. Ones like the Slaver King have burned hundreds of thousands alive on mountainsides and even the saner ones would be put on trial for crimes against humanity anywhere else in the world. How, exactly, should I feel?’

Nalur swallowed his anger because he knew his daughter was right. Jagada has never been a particularly fearsome nation before it was exterminated, and had wallowed in self-pity and hedonism ever since then. But gods be damned if he wouldn’t drag his people, kicking and screaming if necessary, into glory.

‘And we have killed hundreds of thousands more,’ he hissed quietly, ‘Don’t let the body counts blind you girl. Even gods bleed. You’re the first Jagite to ever attend a session of the Gothic Lords and you’re blessed that it is only a feast – they could have asked you to vote on the killing off another country.’

Renuae was already a very pale woman and he noticed she became a shade paler. She turned to face him for the first time as the next group entered the gilded chamber, and in the distance a booming of shields on stone echoed, ‘What do I do? How do I speak to them? I’m not ready for this.’

Sensing her growing terror Nalur placed his hand on her shoulder. Their relationship was, at best, glacial and so the normal warmth of a caring embrace or a gentle touch of reassurance was out of the question. The Secretary Supreme instead looked directly into his daughter’s silvery eyes just as he would anyone else.

‘You will speak to them as an equal. You may not yet have the reputation of a butcher like Tristan Skragg, or a zealot like Fenric, but gods dammit YOU are ONE of them. Our people didn’t sacrifice their lives and souls for you to be intimidated by psychopaths and monsters.’

He stood upright suddenly and cast his mercury eyes down upon his daughter, who stood easily a foot shorter than him, ‘Speak to them like you would speak to me.’

Her face slowly twisted into despair and then anger, but she never cast her eyes to the floor. A small victory, he though. He saw her spine straighten, a dull rage smouldering just behind her eyes, and her jaw set firm. The two legionnaires at the door respectfully beckoned them forward, it was the Basilissa’s turn to enter. Nalur looked to the Sacred Watch on either side of him and his daughter. They wore the power armor of the Janissaries, complete with a face mask designed in the likeness of his daughter, and neither spoke nor wavered in their constant vigilance, and though they did not openly carry their rifles (holstered beneath their large great coats he knew their hands rested on their sidearms.

It would have to do, he thought. The gilded doors swung open once more and as he heard the Sergeant at Arms begin his proclamation he knew that the die had been cast. The Union could stay isolated no longer and this was the first step outwards.

‘NOW PRESENTING! BASILISSA of the Imperial Union of GHARSASH … EMPRESS of JAGADA … PRINCESS of JARRARS … Renuae al’Maw!’

The group of four walked into the feasting chamber and knew that all eyes, however brief, would be on the lithe figure of the Gothic Lord from Jagada. Before them was a girl standing barley over five feet, pale with silver hair and platinum eyes, and a body that may not have fully expressed itself yet, but still bearing the distinct form and structure of one of patrician upbringing wearing a regal gown of deep purple and crimson red. Over her left breast was a brooch crafted into that a golden lion with a crown set upon its head.

‘…accompanied by Nalur al’Maw, Secretary Supreme to the High Lords of the Imperial Union!’

And with that, the Jagites actually fucking arrived on-time for once…

[Lamehk]

OOC: This post was co-written with Havensky.

Earlier during the Executor nominations
Farmer’s Market, The Nest District
Citadel City, Havensky

It took a bit for Aliyah to get from the Citadel to the Nest District. The train station in the Citadel was busy and crowded as staff members boarded trains to head home for the day. It was technically a holiday in Havensky in recognition of the Gothic Summit, but the Citadel was full of essential employees who didn’t get the time off. There were so many undertrain lines that ran through the city that she had to ask an attendant for the quickest way to the Central Nest. The attendant was very friendly about it and told her not to worry, that visitors asked for directions all the time.

She boarded the Legion-Hacienda Line and it pulled out of the station and slipped underground. The trains were quick and clean with a line of seats along each side of the car. A map above the door showed the trains progress as it headed south in the city. As she looked around, she could spot all types of people wearing a variety of bright colors. It was hotter than she had thought Citadel City would be and so it was no surprise that most people were wearing light, airy clothing.

Aliyah, in her delicate and lightweight red dress, blended into the crowd fairly easily. Her two Corsair escorts were another matter however. Rhy'tan and Kairos, who had thankfully, albeit, begrudgingly, agreed earlier to follow her at a reasonable distance and attempt to be “not creepy”, stood apart quite obviously. Despite having changed into casual wear themselves, they received numerous glances and a few stares from other passengers. Aliyah even noticed one woman briefly glaring at the pair and figured she may have known, or suspected, who they were, after all a change of clothes couldn’t hide their obviously Lamehken physical traits. To her own amusement, the pair seemed entirely uncomfortable as the train sped onward. Not due to the attention, nor even the weather, which was significantly warmer than Lamehk, but simply because of the close proximity of the other passengers on the crowded train. Please don’t let anyone make any sudden moves near them…

Averting her gaze away from the Corsairs, so as not to be caught smirking at their discomfort, Aliyah turned her attention to the locals on the carriage. Her initial excitement at the train ride had quickly turned to disappointment when she realised that the whole trip was underground, denying her a view of the city, and she quickly decided that observing the people traveling with her proved no less so. These proudly free Skyans, returning home from their day at work, were no more stimulating than watching the menial slaves back home being returned to their pens. There were a few murmured conversations but the majority sat quietly or were sleeping or staring at portable devices. The only distinct difference here though was that the palpable sense of fear was missing from the air. Aliyah found herself unsure whether this made it better or worse.

Eventually, the train pulled into the Central Nest station and she stepped off the carriage and ventured up towards the surface level. As she did, the greenery of the area was almost overwhelming. The trees overhead had their branches cultivated so that they overlapped over the walkways overhead. The walkway was flanked by small flower bushes on both sides and the sides of the buildings had hanging ivy creeping up their walls. Public art displays were scattered about amid banners celebrating the Gothic Summit. Aliyah could see why they called the neighborhood “The Nest.” Gorgeous. Now that is more like it!

The farmer’s market was set up outside the District Hall with tents and booths set up across the courtyard in front of the building. The market was crowded with people picking up fresh produce and goods after work which made it perfect for a discreet conversation. Resisting the urge to run off exploring, Aliyah headed to a tent with a banner that depicted seven large red wine glasses. Rhy'tan and Kairos made for nearby stalls, attempting to blend into the crowd while still keeping Aliyah in sight. They were not particularly subtle about it.

At the inside table was a young journalist with strawberry blonde hair with two glasses and a bottle of “House Tytonidae” Chardonnay. As Aliyah approached, the woman stood up and smiled.

“Hello, you must be Aliyah. I’m Kat Susa from the Argyz Advocate, we spoke on the phone earlier. Here, have a seat and I’ll pour you some chard.”

‘Yes, it’s nice to meet you,’ responded Aliyah, with a faint, cautious smile in return. She felt strangely nervous, but did not know why.

As Kat made to pour the drinks, Aliyah noticed a slight hesitation in the action and saw the woman's gaze going out into the crowd behind her.

‘Apologies,’ offered Aliyah, somewhat awkwardly, assuming that the journalists keen observational skill had detected her tail, ‘they are here with me and won’t cause any problems.’ I think.

Seemingly satisfied, Kat nodded and resumed pouring the drinks while Aliyah took the previously offered chair and placed the folder she had been carrying onto the table.

‘As we discussed, this contains the official proposals and documents from the ongoing summit. Additionally there are also a few internal memos from the Lamehken Primarch and some recordings of the proceedings from within the early sessions of the summit.’

“Thank you for this. We’ll get this published straight away. We don’t have distribution in Lamehk, but once it gets on the wire I’m sure it’ll make headlines there. I’ll call up some friends to make sure.”

‘Oh, of course. Not unexpected. There are contact details within the folder as well. If you can ensure the publication is delivered to those recipients then that will be adequate to uphold your end of our agreement.’

Kat returned the chardonnay bottle to the table and passed a glass to Aliyah, who took it, had a small sip, and then placed it aside.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, silently wondering what it actually was, but not finding the courage to ask, given how odd she thought the question would seem to the journalist. ‘I promised to answer any questions, but I am due back to the summit shortly, so I would appreciate if we can be brief.”

‘Sure,’ answered Kat, even as she flicked through the folder with interest. ‘Let’s get right to it then.’

The Gothic Chamber, The White Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky

The Lamehken delegation had been lingering behind in the council chamber after the Executors oath ceremony, when Fenric’s sudden impromptu speech had stirred up quite a scene. Though Lorkahn watched passively throughout the rhetoric and the following commotion, the barest hint of disgust revealed itself in his expression and betrayed his thoughts.

It did not go unnoticed, and generated a quizzical look from the Yallakian Governor-Consul.

‘It’s fools like that that give slavers a bad name,’ declared Lorkahn, answering the unspoken question without even glancing toward Kaiden.

‘Really?’ Kaiden spoke with mock disbelief, certain that the comment was a joke despite its completely serious delivery. After a moment of feigned consideration he continued in a more resigned tone. ‘Well, sure, I guess. I mean it’s not the violence, abuse, oppression and death that does it, am I right?’

A thin smirk crossed the Dread Lord lips and his expression returned to its unreadable default. They fell to silence and continued watching as the Skyan World Assembly Ambassador spewed down righteousness from the balcony above. Only when she had finished did Lorkahn speak again, ‘but the main point still stands, that man is a fool.’

‘I can’t believe no one has even hit him?’ bemoaned Serana, who had been watching expectantly since the confrontation had begun. She continued to do so as Lord Hyperion stepped forward to have his turn.

‘Aliyah is late,’ stated Kaiden, checking his watch a couple of minutes later, unable to suppress years of legion discipline from guiding his subconscious actions.

Lorkahn shrugged slightly, appearing unphased. ‘I think we can afford her a few extra minutes. It wouldn’t do to be on time to the feast anyway.’

Sudden laughter from Serana prevented any more conversation and both men turned their attention back to the standoff, catching the final moments of Lord Hyperion crushing the slave collar before Fenric.

‘A little over dramatic,’ observed Kaiden.

‘Oh my,’ Serana exclaimed, between last few sighs of laughter, ‘I do like that one. Can I take him home, father?’

‘No!’ The answer was immediate and came from both Lorkahn and Kaiden simultaneously.

‘Hmph… Fine.’ Serana scowled briefly but then an instant later took on a tired, unimpressed aspect and turned away from the confrontation. ‘I grow tired of this. They are all so pathetically passive. He couldn't have insulted them more and still they bend and posture. Lord Muscles should have crushed his face instead of his collar.’

‘Shall we dine then, my dear?’ queried Lorkahn, sweeping his cloak back from his right shoulder and proffering an arm to his daughter.

Serana looped her arm into her fathers and smiled back sweetly, ‘I think so, I am a bit peckish.’

The trio had just exited the chamber when they came across Aliyah and the two Corsairs returning. Serana’s scowl re-appeared instantly. Lorkahn dismissed his men immediately and as they cheerfully departed he knew they would be at a bar within two minutes. When he untangled his arm from Serana’s and turned to speak to her, her scowl became an angry glare.

‘Let me guess,’ she hissed, “We’re seated at different tables anyway, so you go ahead and I will tell you all later!”

Ignoring her fury, Lorkahn smiled pleasantly. ‘I couldn't ask for a more understanding daughter.’

‘Well, don’t linger in the corridor with your whore for too long, father,’ said Serana with acid, ‘wouldn’t want to degrade that slaver reputation any further.’

‘Careful, Serana.’ The words were calm and cold. Alone they delivered more threat than any publicly crushed object could, but the fact that Lorkahn had called her by name was the all the worse, only doing so when he was very pleased or very angry, and Serana realised that she had overstepped. With one final, defiant glare, she spun away and stormed off, brushing past Aliyah, who stood rigidly still with gaze cast down in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact, making the slave flinch away.

‘A bit over dramatic,’ observed Kaiden, amused by his own cleverness only momentarily before a sharp look from Lorkahn replaced that feeling with regret.

‘Your return was delayed, were there complications?’ Lorkahn queried abruptly, his focus moving to his kaltor.

The question had been delivered in a harsher tone than intended, and Aliyah shrank in upon herself just a fraction more, stammering her response out as an apology, still looking to the floor. ‘N..No, I’m sorry, my Lord, it… it took longer to find…’

Lorkahn’s hand lifting her face up to look at him silenced her mid sentence. ‘The apologies are mine, that was not an accusation. It has been done?’

Her face turned a pale red in embarrassment even as she answered, unfailing in her role. ‘Exactly as instructed, my Lord.’

‘Excellent.’ Lorkahn withdrew his hand, Aliyah’s head dropped slightly but she maintained eye contact and looked more at ease. Her own hand rose to idly fiddle with the emerald pendant hanging from her neck. ‘All the pieces are in place then.’

‘Dinner then?’ asked Kaiden, tentatively.

Aliyah frowned faintly and asked, in all but a whisper that carried a noticeable hint of concern, ‘Is it wise to remain here now, my Lord? When it begins, many Skyans may die and you will be vulnerable here.’

Ignoring Kaiden’s questioning looks, Lorkahn made a relaxed smile and answered Aliyah. ‘We have time, and this is where we need to be. Come, my Minister for Domestic Affairs, it is early, you still look lovely and I’m famished. Let’s join the feast.’

‘Director,’ she corrected him, with a soft chuckle.

‘Oh? Yes, well, whatever.’