Great Nortan Railway Tour: IC [OPEN]

[Great Nortend]

Day One: Wednesday, 5th of September, 2018—Early Autumn

Dear X,

I am pleased to welcome you to Great Nortend as a guest on the Great Nortan Railway Tour on behalf of the Board of Touring, the Board of Trade, His Majesty's Government and the people of Great Nortend. You will find enclosed herewith your ticket, a full itinerary for this tour, as well as a short booklet on important things to know whilst in Great Nortend. It is important that you read through this letter and the booklet before you arrive. You must not lose your ticket, and if you do, you must inform your tour steward immediately.

Upon arrival at Royal St. Christopher's Airport you will find yourself in the luggage hall where you must queue up in the correct queue for your flight. You will receive your luggage from the clerk and may wish to engage a porter to carry it for you upon clearance through His Majesty's Customs, if it is particularly great or heavy. You may be required to prove ownership of your luggage. Exiting the arrivals hall, follow the fingerboard sign to the tram shuttle stop, which runs every five minutes. Shew the ticket enclosed herewith to the driver and take the tram to the terminus, St. Christopher and Nevvings railway station.

By enquiry to the booking office clerk or inspection of the time-table you should ensure you take the express train to Lendert Saint-le-Cross railway station. The ticket enclosed permits your travel in a first-class compartment. Your luggage will be stowed in the dedicated luggage vans by the station porters, and a tip of one penny per item of luggage is expected. Upon arrival at Saint-le-Cross, you should collect your luggage from in front of the luggage van in which it was stowed, or engage a porter to do so, and make your way to the adjacent Saint-le-Cross Eastern Railway Hotel. You will meet Mr Andrew Wainwright in the main lobby, who will be your steward, otherwise known as a tourist guide, for this tour.

If at any time you are lost or unsure, please do not hesitate to ring the Touring Assistance Office on 0 8 820, free of charge on any GPO-connected telephone. I hope that you will enjoy the Great Nortan Railway Tour.

Yours sincerely,

Sir William Hight, KStE
Chairman of the Board of Touring

---

The morning had opened to a fine drizzle with overcast skies and a certain bracing coolness to the air. Autumn had truly arrived by this time this year and it was indeed one of the nicest times to visit Great Nortend. The fields were still a bright, golden colour from the corn-stubble still left in them, whilst the heather and gorse hills were all ablaze in developing shades of orange, purple and brown in the north.

Andrew Wainwright was a common-looking sort of man, 5' 10", well-built and in his late 20s with thinning brown hair, and was the steward, or tourist guide, engaged by the Board of Touring for the Great Nortan Railway Tour. He sat in the main lobby of Saint-le-Cross Eastern Railway Hotel, a marvellous foyer, large, airy and exquisitely panelled in exotic woods and furnished with fine brocades and mahogany. Dressed in the traditional uniform of a tour steward: green woollen jacket, green leather gloves, pale yellow trousers and polished black boots, his pale yellow hat was held in his lap as he waited not for a train but rather for the arrival of the young ladies and gentlemen whom he was charged with guiding.

The first of them should be arriving by now, he thought to himself as he read the morning paper. Hmmm... New sixpence design to be released. I don't think I've seen the previous new design yet.

[Kuronami]

A beautiful woman with little responsibilities and a ton of money. Sirin an aristocratic double heiress from Kuronami, a real rags-to-riches stories. Born and raised in poverty, gave birth out of wedlock at 16, lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment near the docks of Port Pleasant only for her grandfather whom she never knew anything about died naming her the heiress to a highly lucrative textile mill. But that wasn't the end of it she remarried as one does when they have money only for the old coot to also die off and leave everything to her! A few murmurs and gossip about her being a black widow aside life was pretty good. She didn't let the little things tie her down which is why she spontaneously changed her travel plans while already out of the country and came to Great Nortend to embark on a multi-day railway tour.

She lived in a large villa in the countryside, well when she was there, most of the time it was occupied by house staff and her daughter. Admittedly, Sirin probably wouldn't make mother of the year but at least she gave her daughter everything she never had as a child. Nice clothes, a good bed, lots of food, good education, even if it was something of a Podunk school in a one horse town. But really Sirin never had an exceptional motherly role model in her life either.

Things here in Great Nortan seemed very similar to Kuronami, a sort of quaint old time feel to everything, feelings lost in much of the larger modern industrial world. Well that's just a general first impression anyway. It was autumn here which meant it was spring back home. Really Sirin liked cold brisk weather, it was a far cry from the rough humid streets where she grew up. She pulled out her pocket watch, another gift of her late husband, she was right on time. "Thank heavens, all the pushing and shoving to get off that plane. Honestly, no manners." She mumbled to herself. Her voice was the sultry Southern Belle type, it was true to her name, Sirin, which was inspired by the mythological Siren. Apparently the women in the family have that allure of attracting unsuspecting men to their doom, but it seemed it was harder on them, walk-outs, divorce, widowing.

Well she was just hear to enjoy a pleasant train ride. "Good morning." She greeted Mr. Andrew Wainwright. "Might this be where the train is arriving?"

[Great Nortend]

Mr Wainwright rose to he feet and bowed slightly when a lady approached him. Having received pass-port photographs of each guest, he recognised her to be Miss Sirin Allen.

'Good morning Mademoiselle. I assume that you are Miss Allen? Welcome to Great Nortend. You are quite right, we will be boarding our train at Saint-le-Cross tomorrow, but first let me assist you in checking into your room.'

He guided Miss Allen to the front desk, set into the wood panelling of the walls and ornately carved with the coat of arms of the Eastern Railway. A uniformed clerk in livery stood behind the desk looked up as they came, and received the documents Mr Wainwright passed to him. After taking her name and the entry of her signature in the hotel ledger, he turned around and picked out a heavy warded key from the hundreds hanging on the wall on little hooks behind him.

'Your key Miss Allen; you are on the first floor, up this flight of stairs.' The clerk gestured towards a grand, sweeping staircase. 'Alternatively, we do have an ascending chamber lift, located directly opposite from here. A porter will take your luggage up to your room. On behalf of the Eastern Railway I do hope that you enjoy your stay in the Saint-le-Cross Eastern Railway Hotel. If you require any service, please do ring the concierge by dialling nought on your room telephone.'

'Well Miss Allen, I pray that you enjoy your visit to Great Nortend. Please do get settled into your rooms. I believe another lady will be sharing it with you; a Miss Sengoku.'

[Moscareinas]

Akira Sengoku.

Iron-jawed, iron-blooded, iron-bosomed Akira Sengoku.

A name that may inspire nothing of significance in Great Nortend, but one that earns its own share of slack-jawed awe, pale admiration, and sideways glances -- all aside tons and tons of money, of course -- in her homeland. And this at the ripe old age of twenty-three.

Observe: the love child of a Japanese immigrant's teenage son and his slightly older (if far more rooted, her family having lived in Moscareinas for 4 generations) girlfriend of Anglo-Indian antecedents -- who would herself be prone, earlier in life than her mother, to unwieldy flings and bearing kids out of wedlock (she had two by this time, the elder one she gave birth to at 15) -- Akira was marked out for great things early on.

As indeed she would prove in time: by 13, through a small legacy her Japanese immigrant grandfather had left her, she had become the founder of Sengoku Sweets, bean-to-bar dark chocolate manufacturer, importing cocoa beans from Tanzania, with factories at Saint Paul, Mauritius, and headquarters at Le Creuset; by 16, dissatisfied by certain aspects of the importation and end product distribution processes, she had acquired controlling stakes in a major Moscan cargo shipping firm and a small Kenyan advertising company; by 19, after cajoling several financial firms at home and abroad and reaching out to the Komori royal family for funds, she masterminded the further acquisition of 26 small-time Moscan confectionery companies, two African dairy firms, and a Moscan cargo airline company, subsuming them all into Sengoku Foods & Sweets International, the largest confectionery, food, and beverage company in the insular Indian Ocean, headquarters near her five-million-dollar home at Hopeshead, with herself as founder and chairwoman. By her twentieth birthday she had become awarded and celebrated as a rising young entrepreneur, the likes of which had not been seen since the halcyon days of the industrialists Wellekind, Seleemi, and Abramurthy, at the closing decades of the 19th century. (That she had bought the very land in Hopeshead where Dob Wellekind's mizon used to stand was not missed by the perceptive.)

So what is such a capable business leader and shining light of the tricontinental scene doing, sitting within an express train to the Saint-le-Cross station, the very picture of composure, in a place so far removed from her own life and experience?

Shall we find out?

***

Morning.
September 5, 20xx.
Saint-le-Cross Eastern Railway Hotel, Lendert-upon-Cadell-upon-Nort.

As Akira Sengoku, bedecked in the recommended Nortan winter wear and her black hair nipped to a fashionable bob, stepped out of the express train, she braced herself against the unwelcome cold -- as someone born and raised in a tropical country just north of the equator, she always had a quite untropical but well-concealed dislike of cold weather -- even as the kindly porter (who was inclined to be real friendly to her, especially as she had earlier tipped him with a full pound, something that did not fail to elicit the surprise she liked to see from people) brought out her luggage. There wasn't much beyond a week's worth of Nortan-appropriate winter wear, various toiletries, reading-glasses, documents, a few books, and two cameras. Real old-school stuff, with film, tripod, the works, all secure in her handbag and Samsonite, as needed.

After sending the porter on his way (to the tune of one more surprised pound) she entered the hotel and saw... first a fireplace (much to her satisfaction) and secondly a front desk manned by a clerk in livery (which she thought old-fashioned but agreeable given the rustic appearance of the lobby) attending to a blond-haired woman, obviously a fellow lodger, maybe for the same tour. Way off to the side was a man in green dress and shiny black boots, his features concealed by the newspaper he was reading.

Mar Wainwright, I suppose, thought Akira. But seeing as she was there a short distance away from the front desk and the clerk had already looked up and noticed her presence, she thought it best to process the whole transaction on her own and leave the steward to his daily, as she would've done were she in Moscareinas.

Having made her decision, she bade her time waiting for the woman to leave the front desk before taking the opportunity to walk briskly towards it; on arriving, she rifled through her handbag, fished out a white folder with the needed papers on it, put it on the desk, and spoke gently but with an air accustomed to command (and the slightest hint of an accent), "Moorning, sir: the name's Akira Sengoku. Mind if you check these?"

[Great Nortend]

'Certainly, Mademoiselle.' He perused the documents and noticed that Miss Sengoku was another member of the railway tour.

'Miss Sengoku, what a coincidence! I have just checked in a Miss Allen, who is staying in the same room as you. I trust you are expecting this? Please sign here your name,' he said, proferring the hotel ledger. Mr Wainwright heard the name 'Sengoku' and rose to meet her at the front desk.

'Good morning Miss Sengoku; I hope your journey was enjoyable. I am the steward, or tourist guide if you like, for the Great Nortan Railway Tour, Andrew Wainwright. I see that you have already checked in, I believe in the same room as Miss Allen whom you might have seen here a few moments ago. Please do remember to keep all of your documents safe and to read though the hand book we posted to you.'

'Here is your key, Mademoiselle. Your room, which you will be sharing with Miss Allen, is on the first floor, up this staircase.' He gestured as before. 'Alternatively, we do have an ascending chamber lift...' The clerk finished his spiel, and the luggage was taken by another porter.

Wainwright checked his watch. 'Miss Sengoku, I hope that you will be comfortable in your rooms. Luncheon is served at noon in the restaurant. Please do join us there, it is through this archway.'

[Kowani]

Marta Laurez had always been a bit odd, within Kowani society. Unlike most of her countrymen, she had always wondered about the world outside. What lay beyond the borders of her country, what the world had to offer. The government provided information on the outside world, but only the basics. So, when she received one of the few slots to travel outside of Kowani in the “Foreign Engagement Program”, she was estatic. But that was weeks ago. Now, she stood in a Nortan train station, freezing. Nortan was far colder than Kowani, and she was a northerner!

Looking around at the station, she nodded. Everything here was so...antique. What she had seen of the countryside on her way in however, it seemed to be pristine, with people living in harmony with nature. Picking up her bag (No porter necessary, it was light enough!) she walked towards a man in formal wear who seemed to be watching the station platform. “Perm̌, are you Andrew Wainwright?” “I’m Marta Laurez.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her documentation.

[Camelone]

Nuallan O'Devlin, second son of King Brian O'Devlin, was known among the noble and military circles for his excellent martial abilities and straight laced social life, and infamously for his love for the thrill of the fight, some would say a lust for it but that is a tad excessive. Like a drunkard drawn to alcohol Nuallan was drawn to the intoxicating feeling of the fight, being the first to jump into any scuffle and the last to submit, this was probably one of the reason why his father and mother had organized his admittance to this tour that he would hopefully mellow out a bit. Honorable and quarrelsome were the two seemingly contradictory attributes in his personality that were used to describe him often, Nuallan knew of this of course and he never really listened until his fathers court chaplain voiced his concerns. A pious young man Nuallan understood that he may have to mellow out, especially if he had any chance of claiming the throne at the tanistry election, but more importantly for the sake of his immortal soul so begrudgingly he consented to this tour.

The trip over to Nortend was of no more importance to Nuallan, the two states were rather close to each other all things considered, and he flew in a chartered flight so that a presence of a prince would not stir the commoners. Oh how he hated flying but it was over now and he was here in Great Nortend, one of the few countries in the world that Cameloneans do not mind, to his mind, and the mind of his countrymen, they are a wise people knowing how to keep a people strong and united in the face of the oppression of the modern world. This is what made Nuallan so happy to breath in the Norten air, it was air that was foreign to him but yet so familiar, perhaps this would not be so bad after all. Tipping the porter a reasonable 5 shillings for his good work.

The jacket he wore was emblazoned with the standard of House O'Devlin and heavy enough for the winter though with this weather he could wear it more like a loose fitting cloak than a jacket, which is exactly what he was doing. A prussian blue officer jacket was underneath with grey trousers, he was a boy of formality after all, and he took his cap off once crossing the threshold of the building placing his gloves into the cap as he walked with measured strides, his saber swaying slightly as he walked. Of all the things on his person his hair stood out not because of its color but because of its lack of order, it was messy and all over the place unlike the rest of the young prince.

"The best of mornings to fine sir." Nuallan said to the man with a polite smile as he held the necessary papers in his other hand. "I am Nuallan O'Devlin of the High Kingdom of Camelone. Could you please check if everything is in order? Of course after you help the good lady." Nuallan's smile grew into a grin as he bowed his head slightly towards the woman who was named Marta Laurez.

[Great Nortend]

Mr Wainwright rose again and bowed. 'Good morning to you, Mademoiselle.' He then turned to the gentleman with the conspicuously ruffled hair. He recognised the name as belonging to in fact the Prince Nuallan O'Devlin. Bowing more deeply, 'Your Highness'. He took the documents from the pair and guided them to the front desk.

'After you have settled in your rooms, please join us in the restaurant for luncheon. It is through that archway. You should be seated by noon.'

The sun had since come out behind the grey clouds and the blue sky was brilliantly beaming into the hotel lobby's glazed arch ceiling, the decorative stained glass borders filtering the light into rich, vibrant hues of red, green and gold. Mr Wainwright settled back down into his armchair, setting the paper aside, and waiting for the other seven to arrive. It was truly a glorious day.

--------------------------

Peter Smith, born and bred in Haverham, a few miles out from Limmes, stood on the platform with his luggage at Saint-le-Cross piled next to him. The air was thick with the tantalising smell of coal-smoke as the glass ceiling shone brilliantly. How often must they clean that glass for it to sparkle like this! It was his only second time outside of Larkshire and he was brimming with excitement. Finally, he would be able to see the famous sights of his own mother country, at the age of nineteen. Truly it was tragic that he, and so many other young Nortan boys, had never been able to see the scenes of distinction of Great Nortend with his own eyes, and it was thus with eagerness that he had grasped the opportunity when it was presented to him by the Master of St Ambrose, his university college.

He stepped into the main lobby of the hotel, in awe of its opulence and glamour. It was quite a few steps up from his college rooms and an even greater number of steps up from his family home, the Rectory, in Haverham, for his was a parish whose benefice that had not passed into the hands of a monastery. Dressed in the latest fashionably cut navy jacket, tight yellow breeches in fine leather and tan boots, the current trend amongst those in the boating set at Limmes, six-foot high with deep brown eyes and pale brown hair, he cut a fine figure and was eager to begin the tour. The lobby was mostly empty, except for two guests checking in and a man who was evidently a tour steward in green and cream lounging in an armchair in front of the roaring fire.

'Mr Wainwright, I presume. Peter Smith; I am on the Railway Tour. Good morning.'
'Good morning Sir, do have your documents ready.' He gestured towards the front desk. 'Please check in and then at noon, join us for luncheon in the restaurant through the archway. We shall then thereafter visit the Second Tower of Lendert where we shall have an excellent view of the city.'

[Adab]

Shalmaneser knew that one day he would assume the mantle of his forefathers, but the prospect of one day ruling a dominion spanning from the Suez to the Zagros seemed so hopelessly fantastical and idealistic that he dared not dream of it right now. And it was a distant prospect too, for before this 17-year-old boy there were his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father all waiting in line to ascend the throne of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Tizqar III. With many years hopefully ahead of him before he was to be burdened with the Emperor's duties, Shalmaneser sought to use this time to enjoy the life that God had given him, to do the things that he wanted to do, to visit the places that he wanted to visit, and to learn the things that he wanted to learn.

His father was the one who suggested that he travel to the country of Great Nortend and embark on a railway tour that was soon to begin there. It would serve to expand his horizons, his father suggested, and Shalmaneser agreed with him. Apparently it also didn't cost much, with accommodation, dining, admission fees, and more covered for the grand sum of eight pounds ten shillings (this, however, didn't include any purchases that Shalmaneser might decide to make during his time in the country). So he went off to that country in one of the Imperial Palace's private jets - his plane taking off after midnight so as not to attract paparazzi - and despite being caught in a storm mid-flight made it safely to Royal St. Christopher's Airport in Great Nortend.

Shalmaneser didn't carry too many things with him; his luggage consisted of nothing more than clothes, soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, and two books that he brought over from the Imperial Palace as reading material during the trip, thus he decided not to use a porter. From there he took the train to Lendert Saint-le-Cross station; his ticket allowed him to travel in the first-class compartment. The journey was quite comfortable, and indeed he had nearly fallen asleep by the time the train reached Saint-le-Cross. After generously distributing a few pennies to the porters who stowed his luggage, Shalmaneser made his way to the nearby Eastern Railway Hotel, where, he was informed, a certain Mr. Andrew Wainwright was waiting for him and the other participants of the tour in the main lobby.

"Good day," said Shalmaneser as he stepped into the main lobby and approached the nearest man. "Mr. Andrew Wainwright, I presume? I am Lord Shalmaneser Ashurbanipal of the Empire of Adab."

[Moscareinas]

'Certainly, Mademoiselle.' He perused the documents and noticed that Miss Sengoku was another member of the railway tour.

'Miss Sengoku, what a coincidence! I have just checked in a Miss Allen, who is staying in the same room as you. I trust you are expecting this? Please sign here your name,' he said, proferring the hotel ledger. Mr Wainwright heard the name 'Sengoku' and rose to meet her at the front desk.

'Good morning Miss Sengoku; I hope your journey was enjoyable. I am the steward, or tourist guide if you like, for the Great Nortan Railway Tour, Andrew Wainwright. I see that you have already checked in, I believe in the same room as Miss Allen whom you might have seen here a few moments ago. Please do remember to keep all of your documents safe and to read though the hand book we posted to you.'

'Here is your key, Mademoiselle. Your room, which you will be sharing with Miss Allen, is on the first floor, up this staircase.' He gestured as before. 'Alternatively, we do have an ascending chamber lift...' The clerk finished his spiel, and the luggage was taken by another porter.

Wainwright checked his watch. 'Miss Sengoku, I hope that you will be comfortable in your rooms. Luncheon is served at noon in the restaurant. Please do join us there, it is through this archway.'

Akira did as the man asked, even as she replied without a change of tone but with accent much in show, "Noo, I don't think I quite expetted... my roommate, Mar I mean Miss Allen, I thought yoo said her name was? Fancy blonde lady? I didn't expett someone woo' be soo eerly a bird, if yoo folloo me ri'ly."

Hearing footsteps behind her, Akira finished signing her name on the ledger, turned, and beheld the green-colored man reading the newspaper earlier, who now introduced himself as Andrew Wainwright, tour guide. She listened with attention as Wainwright and the clerk now delivered their spiels, took note of the locations they mentioned, and said her thanks after the clerk gave her the key to her room -- an old-fashioned and rather heavy key, Akira reflected, but then in technologically genteel Moscareinas keys of this sort were definitely out of fashion.

Those done, she now walked... not towards the lift, as might be expected, but towards the stairs to the first floor (she did direct the porter to take the lift). Aesthetic considerations did not enter into it, though the stairway was indeed beautiful in its rustic way; she simply wanted to give this Mar Allen time to do whatever she needed to do alone, given that they arrived within minutes of each other, and evidently thought taking the stairs would give her the breather of privacy she needed.

Behind her she heard more noises -- more guests coming in from out of the cold. She shivered.

[Kuronami]

Mr Wainwright rose to he feet and bowed slightly when a lady approached him. Having received pass-port photographs of each guest, he recognised her to be Miss Sirin Allen.

'Good morning Mademoiselle. I assume that you are Miss Allen? Welcome to Great Nortend. You are quite right, we will be boarding our train at Saint-le-Cross tomorrow, but first let me assist you in checking into your room.'

He guided Miss Allen to the front desk, set into the wood panelling of the walls and ornately carved with the coat of arms of the Eastern Railway. A uniformed clerk in livery stood behind the desk looked up as they came, and received the documents Mr Wainwright passed to him. After taking her name and the entry of her signature in the hotel ledger, he turned around and picked out a heavy warded key from the hundreds hanging on the wall on little hooks behind him.

'Your key Miss Allen; you are on the first floor, up this flight of stairs.' The clerk gestured towards a grand, sweeping staircase. 'Alternatively, we do have an ascending chamber lift, located directly opposite from here. A porter will take your luggage up to your room. On behalf of the Eastern Railway I do hope that you enjoy your stay in the Saint-le-Cross Eastern Railway Hotel. If you require any service, please do ring the concierge by dialling nought on your room telephone.'

'Well Miss Allen, I pray that you enjoy your visit to Great Nortend. Please do get settled into your rooms. I believe another lady will be sharing it with you; a Miss Sengoku.'

"Yes, Sir, that's surely me all right. Oh yes I nearly forgot we were going to stay overnight, though I was a bit concerned I might have been running late and would only have time to catch the train. Glad to know I'm here right on scheduled, a nice stay in a hotel over night will be just divine after all the traveling I've done over these past couple weeks. I'll be looking forward to settling in and meeting Miss Sengoku." Unusual, she wasn't expecting to share a room but she wouldn't complain, it'd be nice to meet someone and get acquainted while traveling. "I'll be sure to ring if I need anything. Thank you kindly." She thanked the gentleman and the porter for taking her things.

Once in the room, Sirin took a little time to freshen up, tidy up her makeup job a bit change into something a little less formal for lunch. She did hope to meet her new roomate really soon. It'd be nice to have someone to go to lunch and chat with. A lady from the east no doubt, not terribly unlike home which housed West and East as one big melting pot.

[Great Nortend]

Shalmaneser knew that one day he would assume the mantle of his forefathers, but the prospect of one day ruling a dominion spanning from the Suez to the Zagros seemed so hopelessly fantastical and idealistic that he dared not dream of it right now. And it was a distant prospect too, for before this 17-year-old boy there were his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father all waiting in line to ascend the throne of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Tizqar III. With many years hopefully ahead of him before he was to be burdened with the Emperor's duties, Shalmaneser sought to use this time to enjoy the life that God had given him, to do the things that he wanted to do, to visit the places that he wanted to visit, and to learn the things that he wanted to learn.

His father was the one who suggested that he travel to the country of Great Nortend and embark on a railway tour that was soon to begin there. It would serve to expand his horizons, his father suggested, and Shalmaneser agreed with him. Apparently it also didn't cost much, with accommodation, dining, admission fees, and more covered for the grand sum of eight pounds ten shillings (this, however, didn't include any purchases that Shalmaneser might decide to make during his time in the country). So he went off to that country in one of the Imperial Palace's private jets - his plane taking off after midnight so as not to attract paparazzi - and despite being caught in a storm mid-flight made it safely to Royal St. Christopher's Airport in Great Nortend.

Shalmaneser didn't carry too many things with him; his luggage consisted of nothing more than clothes, soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, and two books that he brought over from the Imperial Palace as reading material during the trip, thus he decided not to use a porter. From there he took the train to Lendert Saint-le-Cross station; his ticket allowed him to travel in the first-class compartment. The journey was quite comfortable, and indeed he had nearly fallen asleep by the time the train reached Saint-le-Cross. After generously distributing a few pennies to the porters who stowed his luggage, Shalmaneser made his way to the nearby Eastern Railway Hotel, where, he was informed, a certain Mr. Andrew Wainwright was waiting for him and the other participants of the tour in the main lobby.

"Good day," said Shalmaneser as he stepped into the main lobby and approached the nearest man. "Mr. Andrew Wainwright, I presume? I am Lord Shalmaneser Ashurbanipal of the Empire of Adab."

'Good morning, My Lord. You are correct. I do believe you are on my tour, the Great Nortan Railway Tour. Welcome to Great Nortend'.

After checking that he had all of his luggage and belongings with him, Mr Wainwright guided Lord Shalmaneser towards the front desk where the clerk took his details, viewed his documents and indicated to him to sign the hotel ledger. Once completed, he was given his key to his room on the second floor.

'Lord Shalmeneser, luncheon will be served at noon precisely in the restaurant through that archway there. Please do join us after you settle into your room—it is currently five past eleven.'

[Moscareinas]

Akari made it to the top of those majestic stairs slightly winded -- she couldn't remember the last time she walked through a flight, thought she felt pretty sure it wouldn't have been past a decade ago, when she was still a sulky teenager just starting up her business. After a pause -- not exactly for breath, it would've alarmed her if she were that tired -- she turned her head to see the porter lining up her luggage to room 102, which she was to share with Mar Allen. After sending yet another amazed porter on his way -- two crisp pounds on his pockets -- and some hesitation at whatever she was about to come upon (not having had to share a room with anyone other than her flings and her kids before), she opened the door and entered the room, luggage and all.

It was an elegantly furnished room, no doubt, with great arched windows overlooking a great clearing, but Akari paid little heed to such filigree. More important to her were the beds -- to all appearances they, for there were two of them, were neat and tidy, scrupulously kept free of grime and lice and other offensive scrum as at a Moscan five-star hotel -- the fireplace -- the warmth radiating from that corner of the room could not but warm her as well -- and her roommate, whose own luggage was stashed within view but not within easy reach, but whose person was nowhere to be seen.

Still, she heard the sound of tinkling water and surmised that Mar Allen must be freshening herself up. Rolling up her right sleeve, she looked down at her wristwatch -- 11:17 am, forty-three minutes before the luncheon.

Wheeling her luggage bag down to the bed she thought to be unused, Akari spoke up as she sat down, the better to open up her bag, "Miss Allen? The name's Sengoku, Akari Sengoku. Pardoon my rudeness, but it's ei'een munutes pas' eleven, soo I'll ask yoo to warm it up a bit."

[Kuronami]

Akari made it to the top of those majestic stairs slightly winded -- she couldn't remember the last time she walked through a flight, thought she felt pretty sure it wouldn't have been past a decade ago, when she was still a sulky teenager just starting up her business. After a pause -- not exactly for breath, it would've alarmed her if she were that tired -- she turned her head to see the porter lining up her luggage to room 102, which she was to share with Mar Allen. After sending yet another amazed porter on his way -- two crisp pounds on his pockets -- and some hesitation at whatever she was about to come upon (not having had to share a room with anyone other than her flings and her kids before), she opened the door and entered the room, luggage and all.

It was an elegantly furnished room, no doubt, with great arched windows overlooking a great clearing, but Akari paid little heed to such filigree. More important to her were the beds -- to all appearances they, for there were two of them, were neat and tidy, scrupulously kept free of grime and lice and other offensive scrum as at a Moscan five-star hotel -- the fireplace -- the warmth radiating from that corner of the room could not but warm her as well -- and her roommate, whose own luggage was stashed within view but not within easy reach, but whose person was nowhere to be seen.

Still, she heard the sound of tinkling water and surmised that Mar Allen must be freshening herself up. Rolling up her right sleeve, she looked down at her wristwatch -- 11:17 am, forty-three minutes before the luncheon.

Wheeling her luggage bag down to the bed she thought to be unused, Akari spoke up as she sat down, the better to open up her bag, "Miss Allen? The name's Sengoku, Akari Sengoku. Pardoon my rudeness, but it's ei'een munutes pas' eleven, soo I'll ask yoo to warm it up a bit."

As Sirin continued up she heard the voice of another woman, it sounded like her roommate. It was a bit hard to understand through the door, maybe it was the accent maybe it was just the acoustics but she was pretty much done and she emerged from the bathroom. "Oh, good morning to you, Miss Sengoku. It sounds like you were told I am Allen, Sirin Allen. If you need the facilities I'm finished in there. I did try not to make much of a mess in there." She proceeded over to the still unclaimed bed and grabbed her bag. "I know we're probably only going to be together for a night but I'm much looking forward to spending it with you, Miss Sengoku. We have lunch in just under an hour now, you'll be joining me won't you?"

[Moscareinas]

As it turned out Akira's delayed arrival helped matters along; her blonde roommate (who introduced herself as Sirin Allen) emerged from the privacy of the bathroom, evidently freshened up and ready for the luncheon.

Seeing as she had no reason to refuse Sirin's invitation nor that she really wanted to do so -- if nothing else, she had learned in her decade in the food business that good fortune often knocked at places where one least expected it -- Akira replied, while still bringing out from her luggage bag the clothes, undergarments, and toiletries she needed, "Yoo can address me as 'Akira', Miss Allen." Letting a beat linger, the better to let the implication of that latest statement sink in, she continued as she drew out of the bag a particularly long yellow dress, carefully wrapped, and laid it to her side along with the other things she had brought out, "Thank yoo for takin' the trouble, and oof coorse I'll joun yoo for lunch. But first things first."

Briskly, she now closed, zipped up, and locked her bag, forced it upright then wheeled it to the side of the bed, scooped everything she had brought out with both hands, and dashed to the bathroom, where she would remain for the next twenty minutes.

It was 11:21 am when she entered the bathroom.

[Dahon]

A helicopter ride from Yumiko to Tiruchirappalli in India. Two connecting flights, from Tiruchirappalli to Heathrow, then Heathrow to St. Christopher's. Trove ride (or as the locals called it, a "tram ride", "trove" being a Moscan English innovation of uncertain derivation) from there to the station, before finally embarking on the trip by train to the Saint-le-Cross station and adjacent hotel.

Thirty hours, more or less, with eight discontinuous (if not quite fitful) hours of sleep.

All in all an immensely gratifying if just as exhausting an adventure for Hakase Satomi, not that she was prone to showing that flip side of her footloose coin: all throughout, she excitably narrated everything she saw and experienced into her wind-up recorder (a rather bulky Freeplay Energy product, but then the thing was hailed as a landmark in the miniaturization of hand-powered technology, and she had bought, disassembled, and reassembled it some time before this trip) in addition to writing her impressions into a notebook she bought for the journey. She had reread every scrap of information she could gather about Great Nortend and its peoples, as well as the documents protected by the Board of Touring and other involved entities. She had also thought of sampling the local cuisine upon arriving in Nortend, but decided against it by the time she boarded the trove, reasoning that as she would be due to arrive at the hotel thirty to thirty-five minutes than she had anticipated, preparations for lunch would presently be underway.

As such, by the time the train (a huffy, puffy steaming demon of old, Satomi thought, though she used even more picturesque language in recording her impressions to posterity) pulled up at Saint-le-Cross, she was not only rather tired but also quite famished. Not having much in the way of luggage -- in her bag were the recorder, notebook, pencils, documents and makeup items; in her luggage were four days' change of clothes, excepting bras (being flat-chested had its advantages) -- she easily freed them from storage herself (thereby saving herself a penny), disembarked without ceremony, and strolled into the hotel.

The lobby itself reminded her of the interiors of Gothic buildings she had seen in previous trips to western Europe, though even for so attentive a traveler as she was she was hard-pressed to describe those similarities. She immediately bespied a man reading a newspaper, whom she took to be Mr. Wainwright, their tour guide, or "steward" as one of her papers described him (would be weird to have someone so absorbed in his daily were he not tour guide, Satomi surmised, unless...). Torn momentarily between proceeding to the front desk, which was bare at that moment (though she could hear voices further out), and catching the attention of the man she took to be the tour guide, she rather weakly called out, "Mr. Wainwright, sir?"

[Russo-Austria]

The Duchess arrived later to the train station. Upon her head was a tiara of sapphires, and she wore a beautiful silk dress - its gold and pearl embroidery stunning. Giving the conductor a tip of $250, she walked back to her personal car. Her servents Andy maids behind her.

[Adab]

For a moment there Shalmaneser considered taking the elevator to room 218, which had been allocated to him, but as he stepped towards the doors it occurred to him that using the staircase would be good for his legs, and his health in general. After reminding the kind porter to deliver his luggage to said room, the young lord made his way up the staircase, admiring the view of the hotel every step of the way. Such was his admiration for the hotel that he slowed his steps and spent a while gazing on its features, thinking of how much it reminded him of the understated grandiosity of the Imperial Palace back home. He arrived outside room 218 to the sight of the porter waiting with his luggage, upon which he finally realized just how he had been taking his time while climbing up the stairs. Shalmaneser unlocked the door and let the porter in with his luggage; the young lord kindly gave him a few pennies before sending him on his way.

The room itself was quite beautiful. He had been inside the rooms of quite a few luxurious hotels in his life, but this one wasn't too bad, and whoever owned the hotel, Shalmaneser thought, had gone a great job in furnishing the room and ensuring that whoever stayed there would be comfortable for the duration of their stay. It certainly befitted the hotel's exalted status. He noticed an oil lamp sitting on a nearby table and a rotary-dial telephone. Those appliances sure did contribute to the antique feel that the room was giving away, and Shalmaneser liked it. He laid himself down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that he would get to have a quick nap before coming down to a restaurant.

The young lord reached for the pocket and pulled out his phone. The time was 11:25 a.m.; there would be another forty-five minutes to go before lunch. He estimated that he would able to get about twenty to twenty-five minutes of sleep, and set the phone alarm accordingly.

[Great Nortend]

A helicopter ride from Yumiko to Tiruchirappalli in India. Two connecting flights, from Tiruchirappalli to Heathrow, then Heathrow to St. Christopher's. Trove ride (or as the locals called it, a "tram ride", "trove" being a Moscan English innovation of uncertain derivation) from there to the station, before finally embarking on the trip by train to the Saint-le-Cross station and adjacent hotel.

Thirty hours, more or less, with eight discontinuous (if not quite fitful) hours of sleep.

All in all an immensely gratifying if just as exhausting an adventure for Hakase Satomi, not that she was prone to showing that flip side of her footloose coin: all throughout, she excitably narrated everything she saw and experienced into her wind-up recorder (a rather bulky Freeplay Energy product, but then the thing was hailed as a landmark in the miniaturization of hand-powered technology, and she had bought, disassembled, and reassembled it some time before this trip) in addition to writing her impressions into a notebook she bought for the journey. She had reread every scrap of information she could gather about Great Nortend and its peoples, as well as the documents protected by the Board of Touring and other involved entities. She had also thought of sampling the local cuisine upon arriving in Nortend, but decided against it by the time she boarded the trove, reasoning that as she would be due to arrive at the hotel thirty to thirty-five minutes than she had anticipated, preparations for lunch would presently be underway.

As such, by the time the train (a huffy, puffy steaming demon of old, Satomi thought, though she used even more picturesque language in recording her impressions to posterity) pulled up at Saint-le-Cross, she was not only rather tired but also quite famished. Not having much in the way of luggage -- in her bag were the recorder, notebook, pencils, documents and makeup items; in her luggage were four days' change of clothes, excepting bras (being flat-chested had its advantages) -- she easily freed them from storage herself (thereby saving herself a penny), disembarked without ceremony, and strolled into the hotel.

The lobby itself reminded her of the interiors of Gothic buildings she had seen in previous trips to western Europe, though even for so attentive a traveler as she was she was hard-pressed to describe those similarities. She immediately bespied a man reading a newspaper, whom she took to be Mr. Wainwright, their tour guide, or "steward" as one of her papers described him (would be weird to have someone so absorbed in his daily were he not tour guide, Satomi surmised, unless...). Torn momentarily between proceeding to the front desk, which was bare at that moment (though she could hear voices further out), and catching the attention of the man she took to be the tour guide, she rather weakly called out, "Mr. Wainwright, sir?"

Mr Wainwright set down his newspaper again and rose on hearing his name, bowing slightly.

'Good day, Madam; yes, that is me. Are you for the Railway Tour? Quite so... I do remember now, Mistress Hakase, if I am not mistaken. Welcome to Great Nortend. Now, if you would like to check in at the front desk and then quickly settle into your rooms, we shall have luncheon in the restaurant through that arch in fifteen minutes, at noon precisely.'

After Mistress Hakase had left, Mr Wainwright checked through his list of guests. It seemed most of them had arrived but a few still were absent. He knew that a number had later flights and so would likely miss luncheon and visiting the Second Tower of Lendert.

-----------------

Peter Smith found that his room was quite spacious, although his room-mate had not yet arrived. A Mr Boleslaw apparently. What a curious name! He commandeered the far bed, which had an excellent view through the windows of the green outside. The autumn colouring of the leaves was beginning to show, and the entire common was peppered with rich oranges, yellows and red of fiery shades, which contrasted delightfully with the vivid green grass. There were many ladies and gentlemen thronging the common, strolling through the leaves.

He looked at the clock. It was only eleven o'clock but he intended on getting to dine at noon. A quick change of clothing for luncheon was necessary, and soon he was more respectably outfitted in a grey coat, grey trousers and neck-tie. He settled down in a nice, large arm-chair in front of the crackling fire, drawing out a book from his portmanteau. 'Tom Brown at Oxford' was his choice, and gave an interesting look at university life abroad in England nearly two centuries ago. Peter thought it to be quite like at least his own university at Limmes, though it seemed the Oxonians had a great deal more wine to drink than the Limaglians.

After he had read two chapters, he decided to go down to the main lobby. It was ten to twelve already, and he did not want to be late. As he walked down the magnificent staircase, he noticed a lady checking in at the front desk, as well as three other gentlemen behind her. The gentlemen didn't seem to be tourists, as they had the air and appearance of elderly Nortchmen, however the lady was somewhat strangely dressed which marked her immediately as being foreign. However, Peter left her to mind his own business, and walked back to where Mr Wainwright was sitting.

'Excellent day, Mr Wainwright, don't you think? How many of my fellow travellers have arrived?'

'Certainly, Mr Smith. I believe seven have, including you. If you don't mind my asking, you are a Nortchman like me, and the only one on the tour. Wherefore did you wish to join?'

'I grew up in a little village near Limmes, Haverham, as the son of the rector. I went to junior school in Haverham and then was sent to Ridling College. I have finished my first year at the University, and all in all, have left the county of Larkshire once before, to visit a cousin and attend my uncle's funeral, God bless his soul.'

'Amen.'

'Even going to the sea-side, we always went to Dibbpool, in Larkshire. So many young men and women in this country haven't had the opportunity to see her wondrous sights and my college master, who is a friend of my father's, knew my desire to leave my home county. He's great friends with the chairman of the Board of Touring, which as you know has organised this trip, and managed to get me a place here, and so here I am.'

'Indeed, yes, our country is so beautiful and full of astounding sights and things to do. I wish more people would have the chance to go on a proper tour of her.'

[Coutuza]

A tall, fair-skinned, and reserved man quietly stepped into the hotel with two suitcases in either hand. Upon entering the building he marveled at the sheer beauty of the building before taking a copy of the Coutuzan newspaper the New Moscva Sentinel, and turning his attention to Mr. Wainwright.

Somewhat confused about the situation, he hesitantly asked "Do you happen to know anything regarding the Nortan railway tour?"

[Danceria]

Day One: Wednesday, 5th of September, 2018—Early Autumn

Shaking the dew off of his coat, and triple-checking his luggage, the young journalist entered onto the traincar with his ticket-stub. Much of his luggage was dedicated to sketching paper, photography processors, and looked about for his registry. To be honest, he needed to see with the Trainmaster in order to find his room, but for now, the sights and sounds were reminiscent of Danceria, save for one thing.

Dwarf.

Now, he wasn't exactly an expert on foreign relations, he was just a structural engineer and all, but everyone knew that Arda wasn't the only planet in the universe, and there were some very big names out there. Germany, France, Byzantium to name a few...however, there was a recently a big name that Danceria gradually came to admire, and even respect. Dwarf was a cruel, twisted parody of that. It was obvious he was fascist, in overtone, but it was also incrediably obvious he was paid opposition even a child could easily force him to define xenophobia other than "weird thing bad thing". True Danceria was arguably the most multiracial yet surprisingly antisemitic nation this side of the Dimensional Divide, yet this Dwarf, he's seen him once at the embassy and something about him just screamed "wrong".

Like an actor unwillingly cross-dressing, like a blatant denial of physics for the sake of aesthetics, like a gun that somehow shoots knives, this...entity for all of its bluster and bellowing couldn't be a more obvious proponent of globalism if he tried. Perhaps the horseshoe theory really was onto something. Perhaps he just needed a few swipes upside the head to realign his brain cells. He couldn't tell.

But he wasn't here to discuss politics, other than budgeting and union-work, he was here to tour the railway and see the sights. Or more officially, observe how Nortend ran its rails.

[Kowani]

Nodding to Mr. Wainwright, Laura picked up her bag and began to walk off, moving towards the front desk. She still considered the idea that a train required wheels and coal to be strange though. Honestly, had they never heard of magnetic levitation? Then again, she thought, considering all the pollution back in Kowani, perhaps it was because they wanted to preserve the environment. It was beautiful here, after all. Making a mental note to take some pictures of the countryside, she turned to the desk clerk. “Bom dya! I’m Marta Lauréz, here are my documents, and I’m late aren’t I?” The words spilled out in a hurried rush, Marta tripping over hr tongue in an attempt to get the words out.

[Great Nortend]

A tall, fair-skinned, and reserved man quietly stepped into the hotel with two suitcases in either hand. Upon entering the building he marveled at the sheer beauty of the building before taking a copy of the Coutuzan newspaper the New Moscva Sentinel, and turning his attention to Mr. Wainwright.

Somewhat confused about the situation, he hesitantly asked "Do you happen to know anything regarding the Nortan railway tour?"

'Good day Sir. Yes, I am the tour steward for this tour. I believe you are... Mr Boleslaw? I think I recognise your face. Welcome to Great Nortend. Please check in at the front desk. A porter will take your luggage up to your room, as luncheon is about to start in a few minutes.'

'Boleslaw! How nice to meet you finally. How do you do?' asked Peter. 'I believe we are in the same rooms. I've taken the far bed so you can have the inner bed. I hope you don't mind.'

Day One: Wednesday, 5th of September, 2018—Early Autumn

Shaking the dew off of his coat, and triple-checking his luggage, the young journalist entered onto the traincar with his ticket-stub. Much of his luggage was dedicated to sketching paper, photography processors, and looked about for his registry. To be honest, he needed to see with the Trainmaster in order to find his room, but for now, the sights and sounds were reminiscent of Danceria, save for one thing.

But he wasn't here to discuss politics, other than budgeting and union-work, he was here to tour the railway and see the sights. Or more officially, observe how Nortend ran its rails.

'And here is, I believe, Mr Cellion, isn't it? Good day Sir,' exclaimed Mr Wainwright. 'Please check in, and join us for luncheon in the restaurant through the archway over there. It starts in a few minutes, so pray do hurry.'

Nodding to Mr. Wainwright, Laura picked up her bag and began to walk off, moving towards the front desk. She still considered the idea that a train required wheels and coal to be strange though. Honestly, had they never heard of magnetic levitation? Then again, she thought, considering all the pollution back in Kowani, perhaps it was because they wanted to preserve the environment. It was beautiful here, after all. Making a mental note to take some pictures of the countryside, she turned to the desk clerk. “Bom dya! I’m Marta Lauréz, here are my documents, and I’m late aren’t I?” The words spilled out in a hurried rush, Marta tripping over hr tongue in an attempt to get the words out.

The clerk looked up and saw a number of people walking towards him. Probably the last few stragglers in that silly railway tour.

'Good day Mademoiselle. I am afraid I cannot say if you are late or not; you are part of the railway tour, aren't you? You shall have to ask Mr Wainwright over there to see if you're late. I shall, however, check you in now. Please sign here. Here is your key, and your room number is 214. It is on the second floor.'

[Coutuza]

Boleslaw replied to Peter, saying "I've been doing rather well, as it's been a fairly uneventful day. Regarding the situation with the room, you can take whichever bed you like, I'll make do regardless." After handing the baggage to the porter he turned his attention to Wainright and Peter and asked, "So, how has your day been so far?"

[Camelone]

"Thank you for your help sir. I will most certainly try my best to be as punctual as possible." Nuallan replied before he turned towards the front desk and addressed the clerk behind it. "Good day to you sir. I am Nuallan O'Devlin, I would like to check in and know my room to settle in before the luncheon." He certainly was eager to get everything situated sooner rather than later for it was much better to be a tad bit early over being even a second late, plus he was here to be with people and socialize and tardiness was certainly an off putting attribute for anyone to have, especially with first impressions. Receiving the key and room number he gave his thanks to the clerk and made his way to his room, he waved off the porter who came to grab his luggage as it was not all that much and it would be laziness on his part if he did not carry such little luggage himself.

When he arrived he claimed the bed closest to the door and began the quick process of getting ready for the luncheon, a rather trivial thing as all he did was place his luggage on the bed and hung his coat up. After he was settled in, meaning the bed claimed and his coat hung up, Nuallan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small medal of St. Christopher. Kneeling down he crossed himself and said a quick prayer of thanks for his safe arrival to God and thanked St. Christopher for his prayers. With that done he returned the medal of St. Christopher to his pocket and went into the bathroom to try and tame his unruly hair, and failed miserably despite using a comb and water. Sighing in defeat he merely returned the comb to his luggage and gave himself one more look over before he made his way back to the lobby, hand resting on his saber to prevent it from swaying. Back in the lobby he noticed the arrival of others, those he would be getting to know over the entirety of the tour but he decided not to bother them, they still needed to get situated so they would not be late for lunch.