Never the twain shall meet [Complete]

[Drakonian Imperium]

Augustus Drake was late to arrive to the feast, due to his planned briefing over the nuclear incident near Mille Mortifere. However, the meeting had not gone as Augustus had intended. He had allowed the briefing to be derailed with news and speculation over the Kraven Reich’s offer of support in the Shen Almaru conflict and it had soured his mood. Augustus was growing tired of playing chess with the Reichsmarshal.

And so, the Drakonian Praetor was not just late, but also in a foul mood. He had, however, largely managed to conceal his mood and to change into more appropriate attire. Augustus had exchanged his full dress uniform for a more appropriate mess dress uniform, which consisted of black mess jacket, black waistcoat, white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black suit pants with a gold stripe running down the leg. The jacket bore gold buttons and anguillettes, with miniaturized medals and other accoutrements on the left breast. Augustus had foregone donning his rapier for the feast, leaving his sword in his room. Though, he did wear the purple sash of the Praetorship under his jacket.

"NOW PRESENTING! His Imperial and Royal Majesty, Augustus Valens Drake, Praetor of the Drakonian Imperium by the Grace of God, Representative of the People before the Senate by their Will, Monarch of the Realms of Drakonia, and of her Protectorates and Territories, Lord of Gholgoth."

Lilliana too had changed, but instead of a uniform she had swapped to a more civilian appearance. The Drakonian Princess now wore a long violet dress, which showed far more of her back than her father would have deemed modest. But Augustus was distracted and so had not shown his concern or even noticed. Her military training had left her of a slim, but athletic build. Lilliana's skin was darker than her father’s, a trait inherited from her mother, and she wore her straight shoulder-length raven hair long and free flowing. Thus her attire showed off the youthful beauty of the Drakonian Heiress more so than did her military uniform.

Lilliana was also late to the feast and was pleased to find her father delayed. She followed her father in entering the hall.

"NOW PRESENTING! Her Imperial and Royal Highness, Liliana Alexis Glorianna Bellona Drake, Princess of Drakonia by the Grace of God, Princess of Mons Regalus, and of Trinitia, Lieutenant of the Imperial Drakonian Army."

The pair made their way through the gauntlet of camera with regal bearing and each moved to their own tables.

* * *

"Marcus?!"

Marcus Sutherland’s hurried pace ground to an abrupt halt.

The Drakonian had the quintessential appearance of prince, tall with a military physique and dressed in the same mess dress uniform as the praetor sans the sash, for a prince he was. The dark-skinned man was the Crown Prince of Trinitia, one of the city-state Realms that made up the core of the Imperium. Marcus was also the brother to the Queen of Drakonia, Jolené Sutherland.

Marcus Sutherland turned to the voice, his neutral face softening at the sight of the caller. "Gaia."

Gaia Calpurnia was not an average Drakonian. Her skin was lighter and her hair a bright blond. She wore a sleek black dress that accented her figure and would give many a male pause, Marcus included. His voice held the familiar warmness of the surprise greeting of old friends...or former lovers.

"When did you arrive?" She smiled. "I thought Augustus was not going to bring you out here."

Marcus shrugged. "Changed his mind, I guess. Caught a couple of Aerospace Force flights out of Mille Mortifere."

Gaia frowned. "Mille Mortifere? What were you doing out there?"

"I was attached to General Sergius’ staff until Augustus ordered me out here." Marcus ignored the sudden confusion on her face. "This has something to do with the Council of Lords, I assume."

The confusion grew. "You don’t know? You are be one of the Drakonian candidates for agents, Praetors they are being called, of the Council."

"And that Territorial Navy Commander, who joined me on the flight from Colona, he is to be the other candidate?"

It was largely a rhetorical question,--Gaia could see Marcus processing the information--but she nodded regardless.

"This is just like old times," Marcus said. "You bringing me up to speed on some diplomatic plot."

"Yes, it is," Gaia agreed, memories flooding back. Their work had brought them together, but it had just as easily pulled them apart. She could see in Marcus face that much the same thoughts were passing through his own mind.

"Your niece will certainly be glad to see you," she interjected hastily, not wanting to dwell on past tragedies.

"Lilliana is here?" It was Marcus’ turn to be surprised. "This is quite the event." He smiled. "I’ll have to say, ‘hello’."

Gaia nodded and a brief awkward silence ensued as the pair searched each others faces. Finally, Marcus smiled again.

"Would you care to join me," the Crown Prince asked.

Marcus offered his arm. His left arm, Gaia noted. Surprised filling her face at his gesture. His prosthetic left arm. It had been an uncomfortable reminder of his past combat injuries even before they had dated. Marcus had suffered from phantom lift pain, Gaia knew. To make so sensitive a gesture might indicate that he had worked through one of the impediments to their last relationship.

"Certainly," she said smiling and accepting the offered arm.

[Dephire]

Ironwing was in a jolly mood as, best to his knowledge, the day had gone well. He hadn’t been told about the incident with the Fenric as of yet having arrived early to the feast to greet people.

Caesar and Lord Hyperion were already sat at the table and had been talking with Anax Adon and Archpriestess Hatóság of Telros. Silvier noticed Ironwing’s approach in the corner of her eye and, gleaming a huge smile, stood to greet him with open arms. Hyperion also stood, and bowed his head in respect.

“Lucas, I’m glad you’re joining us this evening.” Silvier spoke warmly as she embraced him, a moment that caused the flashes of the cameras to increase ten-fold for a brief moment. “Needless to say I am once again incredibly impressed with all the work your people have put into this summit, and I meant every word of what I said to the press.”

“Please allow me to introduce you to Anax Adon Baldassare and Archpriestess Isteni Hatóság of the Compact of Telros.”

Ironwing smiled extending his arms in a greeting, “Thank you Caesar, I know that everyone here appreciates that. Anax Adon and Arch Priestess, I am glad to meet you both! Welcome to Havensky!”

Gesturing for him to sit next to her, she sat back down and broke some bread for him, before signalling for a waiter who came over promptly. “Now come, let us break bread and drink! Waiter, please could you bring me a glass of Sky Marshall, and a pint of Buster Rifle for His Majesty.” Silvier smiled at him - she had developed a close relationship with both Lucas and Jessica, one that was genuinely personal. “Oh, and some Goat Lord for Lord Hyperion, in the largest pitcher you have. Thank you.”

If it were possible to see him smile, Hyperion would’ve. The waiter took one look at him and his brain scrambled as to what would be large enough. The waiter gestured to another server and a pitcher with a large stein was placed in front of Hyperion. The Dux Imperator took it with one hand and toasted his servers and everyone at the table, before drinking deeply.

“Adon, Isteni?” Caesar glanced over to her Telrosian friends, asking if they would like to partake in the drinking.

Adon and Isteni had been late arrivals to the table, a call from the homeland having required the Anax's presence and Isteni had dutifully followed after, offering her advice on the matter. As such when they arrived and the Caesar offered them drinks, they were both more than willing to partake. Adon's eyes lit up at the cups full of alcohol.

“Oh yes, please. I'm quite thirsty.” Her hands took the beverage gratefully and began to drink it; at first in great gulps until she met the Arch-Priestess' raised eyebrow and then meekly began drinking at a slower pace. As for the priestess herself, she waved it off with a demure smile.

“The offer is appreciated but I do not partake in alcohol. I'm sure one of these fine people at this table would enjoy it, however.”

Tristan was the next to arrive to the tables still escorting Hagane. Ironwing rose to greet the pair embracing Tristan and stretching out a hand to Hagane.

“Tristan, I was so very sorry to hear about Tynsei. I will be attending the service personally alongside Lady Raven whose being named your new ambassador. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you, Lucas. It has been very difficult to process. The funeral will be in the coming days. She should be already on her way back, along with my Generals.”

Silvier rose again to greet Tristan, whom she’d departed from earlier after their brief excursion to talk to Skaro. Not saying a word she simply smiled and planted him with a gentle kiss on the cheek and a similarly warm embrace to the one she gave Ironwing before returning to her seat.

Tristan blushed slightly with a smile before moving to his seat, bowing and kissing Hagane’s hand before sitting. “Thank you, Hagane, for allowing me to have a moment’s fun.

Adon getting some food and drink in her before focusing on the conversation at hand and Isteni nursing a water as she listened. There was mention of a funeral for Tynsei, and both leaders glanced at each other. There had been mention from the minister that an attack by a rogue group resulted in the death of the wife of Tristan. The ensuing reprisal had been quite...final and hopefully the last that would be heard of that group. Rumors abound about being a separatist movement, to a democratic extremist group like the Duskflowers or even a possible link to Kraven but Intelligence hadn't quite gotten enough info to throw weight behind any of the theories yet. When Skaro arrived, their gazes went towards him and once it was made obvious he was the Kravenite delegate, a hardening of their gazes could be see, hands tensing around their utensils before the storm cloud passed and their faces were schooled back into diplomatic smiles.

Ironwing turned towards the entrance of the room as more guests arrived.

“Man, that Bebe is something,” remarked Ironwing under his breath as he peered across the room.

Lady Lara Jarasa entered the scene at an awkward time, able to overhear some choice words about her Emperor’s eldest son and heir as she found her way to her seat. Rather than interrupt, she merely sat down, and listened while she made herself comfortable and got her silverware in order.

“Lucas.” Caesar shot a disapproving glance at the Skyan King. “Last I checked grown men do not pick on little boys, or are you telling me I’m wrong?”

“Children follow by example and seek the approval of their elders. Considering your general dismissal of him, I’m not surprised he acts the way he does.” Silvier retorted. Lara, who had been quiet up to that point, nodded in approval at the Caesar’s words. “Furthermore, we can’t change the fact that he will one day be Emperor of Ghant. He will be one of us one day, so we should not cause him to have any resentment against us when that time comes. He’s young, and can still change. Yes, he should be corrected when he does wrong, but we should not continue to hold those grievances against him while he’s still learning to be a man.”

“You forget, I teach for a living and I call’em like I see them and that boy is trouble. I hope for all of our sakes he gets his head on straight before too long.”

“Alright, sir.” Silvier answered back playfully, trying to now move the conversation on while also not killing the mood of the table. “If I’m proved right does that mean I get a gold star for good work?”

“Wait, are they serving urchin?!”, exclaimed Tristian excitedly as he saw the servers setting out plates. One such plate featured a slew of sea urchins popped open revealing an orange foam like substance. The sight quickly changed the subject. Silvier was grateful that it did as she clapped her hands in approval of the servers as they brought out more delicious treats.

“That looks...unappealing.” Caius looked at the orange substance with aversion. The Prime Minister of Mille Mortifere had made his way quietly and without fanfare to the table. He was not one for fuss as so much of his life was taken up with ceremony and circumstance.

“UNI IS DELICIOUS!”, shouted and laughed Ironwing as he dug in taking in large spoonfuls gleefully. Silvier laughed heartily as she joined him in the feasting. “If you like this, you must try some Kylarnatian kabkabou.” She waved over one of the servers and had them retrieve some for Ironwing.

Hagane, who had just been distracted for just a moment, turned to Ironwing to ask what the joke was.

Tristan took the moment to try and explain, “If I remember correctly, I think it referenced an earlier joke where we were picturing a future Gothic Lord Bebe wearing something less… Military fashioned and more free spirited. Something about urchins came up and then we got to talking about uni… Though, Lucas, universities aren’t delicious… You can’t even eat them.” Tristan blinked while blankly staring at the urchin, having not made the connection yet. “Say, did you get the um… Correspondence sent to you last month? You know, the one explaining how I’m actually a near perfect clone of the original Tristan and he’s actually been healing in a tube somewhere at the bottom of the Gothic Sea?” He continued to blankly stare, this time into the distance. “If not, this may be a very awkward conversation…”

Seems as good a time as any to intercede, Lara thought. Not for the Crown Prince’s sake, but for his mother. “The Empress of Ghant is the one that, to my knowledge, approves her children’s attire. With all due respect, your Majesty.” I think I’ll leave it at that. Tristan’s last comment threw her for a loop. “...Wait, what?” Is he a replicant?

“I believe what Lady Lara is trying to say is that we should leave the children out of the discussion, and I concur with her, so perhaps we should--” Silvier added in quickly, almost missing Tristan’s comment completely before turning to look at him in astonishment. “...I’m sorry?”


Caius’ eye widened and the Drakonian carefully took a sip of his wine to conceal his own surprise.

Hyperion, who up until this point had been minding his own business and enjoying his beverage, stopped to look at the Godsend Emperor. Staring into his eyes for a few moments, he then seemingly shrugged and went back to drinking. “Why should I even be surprised.”

Volgus, having found himself seated at this table as opposed to the one his Lord was at, decided the best way to make an introduce to a group of very homicidal people he’d never met would be a flippant comment. “I noticed. You’re far more handsome.” He gave a sly smile and wink.

Tristan blushed, “Why thank you! I do like to stay in shape and keep the skin moisturized.”

Ironwing looked very confused for a moment and turned serious.

Silvier said nothing, and instead chose to down the rest of her Sky Marshall before summoning the waiter over to get another glass. “Unbelievable.” She muttered, not knowing whether to be intrigued or deeply disturbed. Tristan was a close friend who meant a lot to her, so this was a lot to process at once. It also conflicted deeply with her faith, but she was able to hold that down; after all, these sorts of things were par for the course in Gholgoth.

There was some talk of the children of the Gothic Lords, especially about Bebe; it was quickly obvious many did not care for him and his attitude. It clicked in Isteni's mind that this was the eldest child of one of the Gothic Lords and it was filed away for future reference as a possible problem. A nod from Adon indicated she realized the same thing; but currently they were not in charge and therefore not an issue. Their attention was drawn quickly from this topic when Tristan made a passing reference to that fact that he was a clone of the original, who was healing in a facility at the bottom of the Gothic Ocean. The silence that followed was punctuated by the fork falling from Adon's fingers, her face a Pollock paint of conflicting emotions; the Arch-Priestess was a picture of cold study, staring at Tristan as if trying to pick him apart with her eyes and put him back together.

Ironwing sat silent for a moment while he processed the information. He took a drink from his lager before setting it down with a hard thud. One could see Ironwing deciding between being angry, shocked, and the need to keep the Summit moving.

“Tristan… Prime… How long have you been standing in? Since the start of the Summit? I really wish you had told us. We might have understood, but now we have to have… some sort of legal document that says you’re allowed to represent Dephire. And… not to be indelicate... But how much have you been communicating back to Tristan?”


“Well, let’s see. I was formally activated roughly three months after his ascension to the throne and stood in each time he went on vacation… So, roughly four to eight years? I tend to go on long trips of self-discovery when I am not working. I also go under the knife to update my appearance to reflect his. The eye was quite the change. The eye has an encrypted link to our satellite communications network managed by the AI Triumvirate. Whatever I see, hear, and say is transferred to him with less than 2 seconds latency. I then receive his thoughts. Though, upon activation my mind was imprinted with his memories and so we have a roughly ninety-eight percent identical match. This is why I received the designation Prime. I was considered the most complete and identical clone.” He noticed everyone’s expressions, “This should have also been included in the documents… Did you seriously not get them? We would have sent them via email but figured a paper document bearing his royal seal would have been better... “

“Ah.. now that makes sense. Well, in that case.. I suppose everything is alright.”, remarked Ironwing. “You do drink like the real thing that’s for sure..might also explain the singing.”

Adon nodded. Finally someone with some sense. We don't really know the man but cloning? I knew the Dephirans were technologically advanced but this....And the concerns about Replicants make this a dicey subject as it is. Not to mention, I'm fairly sure something like this would be condemned by the Arch-Priestess and the Church as stepping on the province of the gods, a corrupting influence.

“Oh trust me, it was definitely not something you want to wake up to find out about yourself! Tristan himself was furious. Do you remember that movie with the angry space wizard that loses his shit and destroys a bunch of equipment with his lazer sword? Yeah, Tristan went full angry space wizard to the entire facility… However, he was finally calmed down enough to understand the reasoning behind it. The only good that could come of it is that the nation would not tear itself apart if it were found out he was hospitalized or dead. At least that’s the only grain of humanity I try to use to help me sleep at night.” Prime took another generous swig of the alcohol.

Having received a new glass of Sky Marshall, Silvier looked up. “So how many clones of you are there, Tristan...Prime? Knowing Dephirian scientists, I highly doubt you stopped at one.”

“Roughly five to ten clones. The exact number of my brothers and sisters was one of the few details left hidden to me, though I suspect not even Tristan knows. Of the activated clones, I know of myself, Wrath, Alpha, Beta, and George. There have been signs that other activated clones exist, but they may be running independent.” He took a huge swig from the bottle of liquor, “The Dephirian scientists do have a knack for overdoing it. They wanted the perfect specimen and I was as close as they got before Tristan found out and shut down everything. There are some clones that are merely children!”

Caius took another small, but drawn out sip from his wine glass. His face a carefully manicured neutral, his posture tightly controlled and rigid, but his eyes widening and darting around the table like a squirrel on cocaine.

Silvier had to compose herself so that her jaw did not hit the floor. “‘A knack for overdoing it’? My if that isn’t the understatement of the century.” She drank some more of her Sky Marshall. “...Wait, did you just say one of them is called George?”

“George? Seriously?”, remarked Ironwing wistfully.

Tristan chuckled, “Yeah, he’s one with some… Shortcomings. On account he’s the single clone that is only four foot six.”

...I don’t even know how to respond to that. Lara Jarasa was usually a woman quick to think on her feet, but not this time. “Wow” was all that she could manage to say.

The awkward silence was broken by the soft clinking of glasses; a serving tray swooped suddenly into view over their shoulders and two dozen filled-to-the-brim shot glasses rattled to a stop on the table before the party. Lucius Salvias Otho stood beaming above the collection, "So what'd I miss?" he lifted one of the glasses, "and before all you Kings and Emperors get too worried, let me admit, these are poison! Effects will include a slight dizziness, a cheerful loss of inhibition and a gradual reddening of the face! Drink at your own risk." Otho winked at no-one in particular and downed his shot. “Let's liven things up, and leave the business for tomorrow. We've had quite enough today for my tastes.” Otho raised another shot, this time looking for someone to join him.

In desperate need of a distraction, Lara joined Otho in raising a shot. “Not the kind of business I was expecting to learn about. Cheers to unexpected business.”

Silvier took two shot glasses from the tray and passed one to Hyperion - who just stared at the tiny glass puzzlingly - before raising hers in the toast and downing it. “To unexpected business indeed.” Feeling the buzz, the Caesar regained her smile, and for a moment at least was able to put the confused emotions from Tristan Prime’s confession behind her.

“But no, Prime, I saw no such document.” Silvier confirmed. “Though admittedly had we received it, it might have taken some time to believe it.”

Lara shrugged, and responded with “for all we knew, such a document could have been a clever forgery.”

“I mean…I’m willing to go on a little faith here. Prime could have kept it a secret and we would have never known. Let’s just enjoy our dinner for the moment.”, Ironwing said, prompting Lara to nod in agreement.

Caius accepted one of Otho’s glasses, but took no more than a curious taste of the intoxicating and dangerous beverage.

Isteni had gone back to sipping her drink and moving her gaze to the various people discussing the matter, but Adon could feel the colder aura around the woman. The news was not welcome with this woman of the Goddess, but she was letting Ironwing handle the situation. As they were sitting next to Silvier, she may have noticed one hand of the Arch-Priestess curling in on itself and growing tighter and tighter with gripped energy as Tristan Prime's explanation continued. She hadn't reached for water in the past minute and her eyes were again fixed on the clone, her mouth a straight line now. The Anax had reached over and touched her other hand, but her gaze remained unbroken. At the mention of the number of clones, her body went ramrod straight and Adon moved over, whispering into the other woman's ear. Isteni looked back at the Anax, whose eyes narrowed, the command clear. Bowing her head, she quietly excused herself and left, heading in the direction of the bathrooms. The awkward silence following the confirmation of even there being clone children was saved by the server arriving with more drinks.

Silvier had tried to calm the Archpriestess before she left, subtly taking hold of her clenched fist. She noticed Adon whisper into her ear and then she departed, and while she turned her attention immediately back to the table, one sidewards glance at Hyperion gave him the signal to follow. The Dux Imperator sighed, finished his drink, and then set off in pursuit of the Archpriestess. The Caesar understood Isteni’s complex feelings on the matter; the Sacerdotium was not usually opposed to the advancement of technology, except when it crossed over into what was deemed to be “god-like”. Cloning could be interpreted as such.

When Otho grabbed one and raised a glass, a tight grin could be seen and she raised her own. “If this is poison, than by this point I would be considered immune! I outdrank all of my battalion guys every single time!” She downed hers and smacked her lips a bit, eyes fluttering close to enjoy the burn before opening them again.


Not sure of what documents everyone was so concerned with, Otho, still armed with half a tray of brown liquor and a healthy rapport with the serving staff, decided it was time to put his plan into action. "Say, friends, now that we're all arrived and settled in," he looked from drink to drink, again assured everyone had secured their libation of choice, "I propose we play a little game." Otho then straightened up and waved to one of the Skyan attendants at the edge of the room. The young man disappeared for a moment and re-entered carrying a moderately sized ceramic vase, out of which protruded a number of thin stem-like handles. "Who should like to go first?" Otho asked enthusiastically as the server placed the inexplicable container before the party. "Just draw a spoon from the vase and read what it says out loud."

Silvier grinned at her fellow table members as she stood and was the first to grab a spoon. Looking closely, she read the label. “It says...Most likely to make an inappropriate joke whilst negotiating?” The Caesar could not help but let out a little laughter. She tapped the spoon on her nose playfully as she looked around at everyone on the table, trying to decide who to pick. Biting her lower lip to hold in more laughter, she pointed the spoon directly at Otho.

“Spectacular,” Otho replied gleefully, poised with a shot in hand, “Now typically we need a second, or else the player who makes the pronouncement has to drink themselves,” Otho looked to Silvier, “but I think I'll second this one myself!” he downed his shot. “My turn.” he half-spoke, half-wheezed through the liquor. With a flourish, Otho then drew the next spoon. “Aha!” he called out, upon reading it, “Most likely to drink too much at a diplomatic function!”

Otho scanned the table before him, spoon twirling absentmindedly in hand. The Skyan King looked like he had already had a few drinks, and Tristan had been drinking for quite awhile now, but Otho kept thinking. Perhaps, “I nominate the good Captain Skaro!” he declared loudly, “Do I have a second?”

“Second!” Silvier shouted gleefully, looking at the Captain with a bemused grin.

When Otho proposed the game, the Anax exclaimed her support for the idea and watched the two rounds with amusement, the previous unpleasantness leaving her mind as she watched Skaro to see what he would do.

The mention of his name seemed to snap Skaro out of his trance and coming too he blinked for a moment looking around at the people around the table, all looking at him expectantly, he paused for a moment and realised they had mentioned his name…

“My goodness, drunk already?” Otho chided, “It's a game, you're up. Take a shot!”

“I’m sorry” He paused for a moment, “I must have zoned out” He looked around at the others on the table and rubbed his beard as he tended to do when unsure or thinking about what to say next, “What on earth is happening?”

“That’s a pass from the commodore,” Otho gave a flamboyant tip of his imaginary cap before turning back to the rest of the table. He looked between the jolly Skyan king and the enthusiastic Dephirian emperor (for all he knew) and met their eyes in turn. “Sorry, ‘too much‘ is a relative term I'm afraid, you're up, Your Majesty,” Otho bowed his head, and presented the accusatory spoon, to Ironwing.

“I know exactly what I’m doing”, remarked Ironwing as he downed a shot of the vile liquid.

Next, he snatched a new spoon from the vase, read the text to himself, and looked up satisfied, “Alright Prime...most likely to get knocked to his feet during training. Mostly by me.”, Ironwing boasted.

“Hmm. I would most certainly like a rematch, Lucas.” Prime smiled and gave Ironwing a wink. “This time it would be me and not him if you know what I mean.” He looks at the spoon, “Hmm. Most likely to skip the group photo?” He quickly looks to Skaro, “Winner, Winner! Chicken Dinner!”

“Chicken Dinner?” Skaro looked confused “I’ve never played this game before, do I win a chicken dinner, is it roast chicken? The Reich tends to boil its chicken which makes it taste watery” Skaro had perked up a little now, watching the game and finding it quite funny, still considering the Reich didn’t have such games, he wasn’t sure how it worked.

“Unfortunately, it is only a mere expression I'm afraid, but we can arrange to have the roasted chicken brought in sooner!” Prime smiled politely.

Caius followed the game with limited interest. Drinking games were not his pleasure. In fact, the Prime Minister of Mille Mortifere had already abandoned his wine and Otho’s beverage some time ago for water. Caius preferred to keep his faculties intact, and now explored the assembled dishes, content to remain on the periphery of the game watching. He might learn something instructive on his counterparts after all.

‘So this must be the fun table?’ Lorkahn’s arrival was greeted with a very short, but noticeable, lull in the the activities going on. It was understandable, he didn’t know any of them at a personal level and at least half of them would dislike him just on moral principles. It also didn’t bother him. Diplomacy with the Lords of Gholgoth had proven simplistic compared to dealing with his fellow Archons back home. He took a seat, Kaiden and Aliyah doing the same.

Lorkahn immediately got tucked into the nearest meat dish, some hunk of unknown animal that was nicely crisped on the outside. Aliyah, a bit hesitant and awkward at first, followed suit and began to nibble at nearby dishes. Kaiden ignored the food and summoned a nearby server.

‘I’ll have whatever that is, thanks,’ demanded the Yallakian, indicating the pint that Ironwing was drinking. ‘If it’s good enough for the King, it’ll do me. Make it three. Anyone else?’

"Yes!" Otho leaned back to address the server Kaiden had the attentions of, "One drink for the captain here, whatever his pleasure. He owes us one." he gestured at Skaro, "And, I suppose, a roast chicken?" Otho cocked his head to one side and looked at the submariner quizzically.

“Sky Marshall whiskey, I’ve got a taste for it, and double time young sir!” Skaro laughed and looked at the group around the table, “Is it my turn to draw, or someone else's? this game does confuse me, seems like the rules are made up as we go along!”

“You have to down a shot first, Captain. It’s not right for the sailor to be lagging behind the rest.” Silvier pulled him a grin. “Once you’ve done that, then you draw. You then nominate a person for what’s written on the spoon, and if someone seconds it, the nominee drinks.”

“Ah ha!, now, you see, there is still some class around this table” Skaro roared out laughing as he did, “Finally! Someone who explains the game properly to me!” the Sky Marshall whiskey was placed in front of him and in one swift motion he knocked it back without a thought, then with a sly grin, reached for his spoon, he drew it carefully, then read it to himself, he decided it was boring and with all the drink he had consumed decided to make his own up on the spot…

“Hrmmm, let me see now, ‘Most likely to date a Kravenite’ “ Skaro started to laugh and a grin spread across his face, “I nominate Silvier, because she’s fiery and likes a bit of danger” Skaro started to laugh looking at Silvier with that rugged charm he had won so many over with…

“Who seconds me? Anyone?”

“Now Catherina, keep in mind, you can't second your own nomination!” Otho gave her a wink.

The Caesar, not one to be caught off-guard but also someone who had definitely loosened up after a bit of drinking, downed the rest of her glass of brandy in one and then proceeded to lean across the table at the Captain, her face close to his. “You’re right, Captain, a girl sometimes hungers for danger...”

Leaning in just slightly closer, she teased a kiss, until she quickly snatched the spoon from his hand and tapped him on the nose. “That’s why I ask my wife to use three fingers instead of two.”

Not missing a beat, she scraped some icing off the nearest dessert with three fingers and licked it off. It was then, when she cleaned off the remnants with her napkin, that she overheard some commotion coming from the Lordspawn Table. Her motherly instincts kicking in, she decided to go and investigate, but not before giving one last brush of her mouth with the napkin and throwing it in Skaro’s lap.

“Something to compensate all those disappointed ‘seamen’, I’m sure it’ll make those long days on the U-Boat fly by.” Not waiting to see how long it’d be for him to figure out what she meant, she excused herself, but not before giving the table a wink as she left.

Skaro took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a long breath that by the sounds of it, he was holding in when Silvier approached him…

“They certainly don’t have women like that in Norska” Skaro turned to a waiter “Bucket of ice water please, I need to… cool off, I think..”

"Well, I think you got what you deserved there, Captain. Shall I select our next victim?" Otho offered, still grinning from the exchange.

Skaro looked up from the napkin on his lap, red lipstick smudged slightly on one edge

“Be my guest Otho..” before letting out another long breath...

Otho stood up from his chair enough to lean forward and draw a new spoon from the vase. "Aha!" he cried out, "This one I suspect will be perfect for our new companions." and as an aside to the Lamehkian delegation he added, "A drinking game, I'm sure you've caught on," he then read out loud what was written on the spoon, "Most likely to be hiding a weapon on their person. I'd hate to presume, but your land does have something of a reputation," he turned, "Lord Lorkhan." Otho returned to his seat with a flourish.


‘That probably would be presumptuous, if not a tad racist,’ stated Kaiden, breaking out a large grin, ‘if it wasn't almost certainly true. I’ll second that one.’

Lorkahn shrugged nonchalantly as Kaiden ordered him a shot.

‘Guilty as charged,’ he confessed unabashedly, before materialising what would appear to the others as an exotic throwing knife from seemingly nowhere. With one deft motion he proceeded to stab the blade into another chunk of the meat dish he’d taken a liking too and then casually plopped the morsel into his mouth. A blink of the eye later and the blade had vanished again and Lorkahn was accepting the freshly arrived drink from the Skyan server.

‘And here I thought you didn’t normally start the party tricks until at least the third shot,’ commented Kaiden with a laugh.

Lorkahn didn’t respond, instead he raised his glass in salute to the table and then downed the shot.

[Drakonian Imperium]

“So,” the Hammer spoke between sips from his vodka and spoonfuls from his bowl of gumbo, “Are we going to give the Dienstadi elephant at the table a warm welcome from us Gothic Lords?”

“Let me be the first.” Executor Nathan raised a glass of straight vodka to Feodor.

After scanning the expressions of his tablemates, Dalikharl shot a simpering glare at Fedor that remained locked onto the Macabéan until someone else began to speak.

Queen Jessica rested her hand on the Hammer’s shoulder for a moment before speaking.

“My apologies, I wanted to make sure everyone was seated and served before getting on with introductions. Everyone, I’d like to give a warm welcome to Emperor Fedor of The Golden Throne whose been so kind as to join us this evening.”

The Queen then introduced everyone at the table and the waitstaff ensured everyone had something to drink.

“So, before we get too deep into shop talk. I’d like to propose a toast. To new friends!”

Dalikharl raised his glass with a contemptuous expression towards Fedor prevailing over the notion of friendship being celebrated.

Augustus still preoccupied with his meeting earlier in the day looked up as if noticing for the first time that he wasn’t alone. “To new friends,” he agreed.

"Hear! Hear!" Dengmu lifted his voice, and his glass, with vigor. Although the Pudite Emperor was still wearing his dark blue military dress uniform he had made some alterations to the medal and ribbon display over his left breast; now in place of the crowded hodgepodge of honors and awards an Emperor is wont to accumulate was stitched a single oversized ribbon. It was white, with a broad blue stripe in the center featuring a golden Macabean imperial eagle, and it was the first of it's design in the Pudite Army. Soon, it would be worn by millions. There would be no mistaking the position of Dengmu this evening.

Renuae, despite her lack of reputation at the table, rose her glass, “To the Golden Throne.”

She noted absently how the drink in her hand was a red wine, probably Skyan stock, but that she’d originally ordered water. She eyed Nalur with suspicion but if he switched her bland drink to something more mature his face didn’t let on.

Having already drank his first glass, Nathan poured a second, and raised it with Dengmu and Renuae. “To the Golden Throne.”

As they raised their glasses, Fedor quickly looked around the table. He liked Dengmu, who he had the chance of speaking to during the earlier parade through Citadel City. The man had an air of purpose to him, as if nothing else mattered but the reunification of his people, and he manifested this through a focused humility. Dengmu was a man to look up to, thought Fedor. A standard for himself. To Dalikharl and Augustus he nodded, although otherwise paid them little attention. The latter seemed lost in thought. To Jessica he gave the kindest nod and, finally, he recognized Renaue’s gesture. He raised his glass with them, and said, “To Gholgoth. To Shen Almaru. To His Imperial Majesty Nathan the Fourth of Ghant, first executor of many.” In the back of his mind, he wondered where Fenric was. Fedor had been looking forward to speaking to the enemy emperor, to know the man who led the country he was at war against.

The Emperor of Ghant raised his glass in response to the Golden Emperor’s praise, and flashed a wide, though reserved grin. After the toasts had been made, Jessica started the evening off with more lighter conversation. “So Emperor Fedor, what do you think of our quiet little city?”

“Quiet?” asked Fedor, almost as if surprised. “Admittedly, my own Fedala is a sprawling city and one with deep roots, one that I will always be biased toward as is natural, but Citadel City is one of the most impressive I have seen. Built into the stone. The earth, its rock, despite everything man has done to it, it remains. We may deface it, but out efforts are but an inch to a mile. To build a city from it, intelligent. And an engineering marvel, at that. Fortune has blessed me with this visit, one that every man must make at least once in his life. I may one day hope to see all capitals of Gholgoth.”

“Ah, that’s right. I believe our Governor Burnham made a trip to Fedala when she was researching the Citadel. She didn’t end up going that direction, but I recall her speaking very highly of the city. She’ll also be very flattered at your comments. If I’m not mistaken, there are quite a few Gothic cities that are in the earth.”

Augustus listen to the conversation, his mind only partly listening. With the Macabean Emperor’s mention of visiting the other Gholgothic Capitals, Augustus’ frustration with his own preoccupation overflowed. He sat forward, straightened up, took a long drink from his glass of wine. “That is a worthy hope,” he sat finally focusing on Fedor and the present. “One, I can wholeheartedly second, for yourself, myself, and everyone here. Peace would be far easier to maintain were that to happen.

“Except, perhaps for Norska,” the Drakonian Monarch added as an afterthought. “I can’t imagine a visit there being terribly pleasant or peaceful.”

Dengmu shifted in his seat registering a barely noticeable discomfort at the mention of 'cities in the earth'. Of course one of his major reforms, part of what he called his Five Points for National Advancement, was ending the system that had decades ago forced billions into a life of subterranean servitude. He recovered his composure quickly, though, and rejoined the conversation, "The Imperial City in Hollarum would welcome any of you, I'm certain my Chamberlain can find one or two palaces I'm not using to put up some honored guests!"

"Mazaraan, on the other hand," continued Dengmu, now referring to the provincial capital of Shen Almaru, "Might not be so accessible." Although he smiled to indicate his good humor it was nevertheless a clear reminder of what was on the Pudite Emperor's mind as he and his companions dined.

As Dengmu spoke he was busy serving himself from one of the large cauldrons of slow-cooked Ash Boar provided by the Dephirian delegation. He spooned a generous helping of the tender meat, green chilis and salsa over a large bowl of rice he had assembled and as he finished speaking he picked up his chopsticks and began to tuck in to the savory dish, noting hints of spice in the ash boar meat he couldn't readily identify.

“Mazaraan will be accessible, soon enough,” Augustus assured, a smile showing he got the joke, but couldn't help himself.

__________________

OOC: This post was co-written with Aldarminia, Ghant, Havensky, The Macabees, The Emperor Pudu, and Jagada.

[Zneyvind Outpost]

Citadel City

The grey VTOL dropship didn't bother for a smooth landing. As soon as it had reached the landing platform and gotten landing permission it and two of its fighter escort touched down in a hard and uncomfortable fashion. The doors to the cabin slid open and out stepped a two men, along with a few ceremonial guards. The two were about the same age, in their early 80s. To a normal human they looked like they were in their mid fourties, but the Peninsularian aging cycle was much different. Jonir Glenfell and Pavl doMenn stepped onto the landing pad.

Jonir represented the civilian branch of the outpost leadership. He had a somewhat fit stature, given he was diagnosed with SMA - Specific Metabolism Abnormality - and he had to work out regularly. He had kempt his blond hair back and given it a left parting. He had light green eyes, which were steadily watching his surroundings. Pavl represented the military on the outpost. While the official administration was civilian, the military still had a major say in matters. He was in top shape due to military training, with pitch black hair and equally dark eyes, that were calmly observing the landing pad and the building that they were about to enter.

As for their clothing, Jonir wore a sort-of navy blue attire consisting of slim fit trousers, a white shirt and what could be described as a crossover of a vest and a jacket. Pavl, being a military man, sported the light khaki dress uniform of the Peninsularian ground forces, with traditionally iron-tipped shoes, as well as a navy blue beret. His rank markings identified him as Colonel. In total, both men's outfits were largely unadorned, expect for a small metal pin displaying the outpost's official flag. Pavl also carried a Peninsularian long-knife on his dark brown belt, as was tradition among the Ground Forces; he carried it similar to how someone would don a rapier or a saber.

As they stepped out of the dropship, they took two noble-looking, engraved metal boxes with them. The boxes contained part of the formal apology for them arriving an entire day late to the meeting; one was a bottle of the national (alcoholic) drink Kerit, the best year they had been able to get their hands on; the other contained a bottle of Peninsularian liquor, although it had been toned down in flavor intensity to enable non-Peninsularians to drink it as well. The trip to the Citadel City from Zneyvind Station had led them straight through a heavy blizzard, and the entire squadron had had to slow down significantly, leading to a huge delay. This was also why the two men were hurrying towards the feasting room as soon as they stepped off the platform. Not that it would've mattered much in terms of time, but for good measure they did it anyway.

Arriving outside of the feasting hall, they were greeted by two guards that requested their names. A butler also took the two boxes, to be put onto the table after they had entered and sat down. Adjusting their attires and looks, the two took a deep breath each, before the door to the room swung open and they stepped inside.

"NOW PRESENTING! Vice-Governor Jonir Glenfell and Colonel of First Rate Pavl doMenn, representatives of Zneyvind Station, of the Consitutional Federation of the Peninsular!"

For a short moment, both of them felt as the people at the table guests looked up from their food to get a look at the two newcomers. After the moment had passed and everyone had turned back to their food and drink again, Jonir and Pavl made their way towards their seats, which had apparently been arranged just prior to their arrival, as they had not expected to make it to the city before the next morning, originally. Sitting down, they felt strangely out of place.

Their briefing by the Aumanii of course had put emphasis on the fact that several head-of-states would be there. However, as it turned out, that had been an understatement. From what they could understand and see, basically everyone at the table seemed to belong to a royal family. Two Peninsularian representatives sitting among the emperors and political elite of an entire planetary region.

Attempting to focus on something else, they decided to take some food and drink and get into conversations with their table neighbors. Much to the amazement of their direct neighbors, both Jonir and Pavl filled their bowls and plates almost exclusively with foodstuffs that they knew was considered very spicy, and weren't sparing with spices either. Due to their inconsistent timing, there were no Peninsularian foodstuffs, so they tried to add as much flavor as possible into their food, to varying degrees of success. Some food still tasted like almost nothing. The majority of the food started tasting mild after adding certain spices to them, although the original food's taste was overlaid by the spice. After some experimenting, the two had also found some meat that, actually without flavoring, tasted well. Upon asking what it was, one of their neighbors told them it were special pieces of an "Ash Boar". Considering they could taste it very well probably explained why noone had touched the plate with it yet.

[Ghant]

The Lordspawn Table
Citadel City
(co-written with Aldarminia, Drakonia, Havensky and Kylarnatia)

Tori and Zeke Ironwing had arrived early to the feast and had been sitting down for a bit when their guest started to arrive. Although legally not quite able to drink on their own dime yet, the servers served them anyway.

The twins both rose and shook hands with each guest that arrived to their table and Tori gave introductions as people arrived. For this evening, Tori had worn a simple sky blue dress and Zeke had donned a black suit and skinny red tie. The two had bright red hair like their mother although Zeke had hints of black streaks running through his mohawk.

After shaking hands with the twins, Ryslander had pushed back a loose bang back across his scalp, the black hairs parting with a slight shimmer of product. After the parting of the Council, the adopted prince had relinquished his cherkeska to a helpful Skyan staff member that brought the clothing to Rys’s room. Sitting down, he wiped curious flakes of some sort of green substance off his burgundy satin tunic and sable sharovary pants. Remembering the actions of the minutes before, he hurriedly administered eye-drops to his velvet orbs before anyone really took notice of the red hue.

Blinking his eyes through the liquid haze, he realized he was looking at Tori, and shot her a wry smile to play off his foolishness--probably to little avail. Toying with a gold chain draped across his chest, Ryslander greeted his tablemates and asked the other twin, “Well, it’s nice to see most of you all again. So, Zeke, tell us what does an Ironwing do for sport?”

Zeke shot Rys a curious glance when he put drops in his eye at the dinner table. Tori had simply smiled back politely.

“Well, if you’re my father you practice swordplay. I’m more of a boxer, but I play sweeper in football too. Tori plays forward and runs track.”

Starting to assemble what vaguely appeared to be a taco from a cocktail of herbs, variety of meats, and assortment of cheeses, Ryslander nodded, glancing back and forth between the twins. After mentally assessing what was surely a confused mixture of dishes for flavor--and being satisfied--the prince said, “Ah, I see, so both of you are athletes. This is really good by the way,” lifting his strange creation slightly from the plate, but making sure not spill over it to make a childish mess, “Well, your father’s handling of the young ones’ mischiefs earlier was excellent.”

The Imperial Ghantish children arrived in a pack, overseen by the Knight of Ducks. The Crown Prince, John and Victor sat together in one cluster, while Sara, Valerie, Blanche and Valentina sat in yet another. For the most part they kept to themselves, and observed all the appropriate table manners and dining etiquette expected of them. Of them, Bebe, John and Sara were by far the most refined in their manners, while the younger children watched their elder siblings in order to pickup cues.

Ryslander was glancing sidelong at Bebe with barely a hint of a smile, “I, myself, enjoy a good duel every now and then, but I think I’m more of a grappler, like you are a boxer. Also by the way,” tilting his glance to Tori, “Beautiful dress, m’lady.”

Tori smiled exactly two degrees past polite, “Why thank you Prince Ryslander. Yes, my father is and always will be a bit of a coach. He’s been teaching for.. almost 18 years now. When they found out mom was pregnant with us he resigned his commission and took the teaching position. He’s been training LTs in swordsmanship for the last 15 or so. He claims it helps cadets master their power armor, but I think he just enjoys it. I’m not sure I’d call myself an athlete though. I’m not nearly as competitive as Zeke or my father.”

“What she’s trying to say is that she’s much more of a bookworm than I am.”, Zeke remarked almost teasingly.

“My habits are my business and certainly more quiet than those drums of yours.”, retorted Tori.

As though he were about to gag, Bebe shook his head and stared incredulously at Tori. “Wait...your father resigned his commission to become a teacher? What sort of nonsense is that? That would be like my father abdicating the throne to become a street-sweeper.”

“As if father doesn’t already sweep streets,” Valerie teased just before Sara gave her a sideways stare.

“Sweeping streets for whores, maybe,” laughed Bebe, eliciting sniggers from only John and Valerie, as no one else among the Ghantish imperial children found that funny. Looking to Ryslander, Bebe added, “you’d like my father, since he’s good at grappling too. I’ll let you guess what he’s fond of grappling. Maybe he will show you a thing or two…”

Red-faced, Valentina slammed a clenched fist on the table. “That’s enough.”

Tori, sensing things going sour rather quickly, attempted to interject. Tori ignored the remark about her father’s decision to resign the commission and shot a glance at Zeke meant to ensure he kept his temper in check as well.

“Sara, what are you studying in school?”

“...I’m not in school” was all Sara had time to say before Bebe interrupted her.

Turning his head sharply to stare down his young half-sister, Bebe snorted and replied, “what did you say to me?”

“You heard me just fine.” Bebe and Valentina could only stare each other down for a few seconds before Sara intervened.

“Both of you knock it off, we’re in front of guests. Don’t think I won’t tell mother about this conduct.” Sighing, Sara shrank back down into her seat and resumed sipping on her beverage.

Ryslander grimaced at the interactions of the Ghantish children. His expression shifted to a small smile of gratitude towards Sara before his visage once again returned to face Bebe. The smile had widened into ridges of contempt, “I’m sure your father is more a lover than a fighter. Is that how the expression goes?”

“Yes, I would agree with that assessment,” answered John thoughtfully. “Father only fights when it’s necessary, but when he does, he has proven himself most formidable.”

The Aldarminian prince’s rhetorical question had been punctuated by a dashing glance to Tori. Sipping from a glass of wine, he shook his head, refusing a thought its voice. “Either way, no one at this table wants to be regaled with the escapades of the elder, for better or for worse. So, young Nathan,” all the condescension seethed through Ryslander’s lips, “What do you do? Besides playing swordsman? Judging by your demeanor, I wager you feel there is something you would much rather be doing right now, correct?”

“Yes,” replied Bebe with a devilish smirk. “I’d prefer to be sitting at my father’s table so I could conduct proper diplomacy, instead of sitting here babysitting and listening to the droll conversations of children.”

Ryslander emptied the glass of wine. The smile was gone, replaced an upward curling of the top lip on one side, as he replied to Bebe, “Listen, child,” the Aldarminian’s tone was that of a dagger, “The sum of your diplomacy today has been mischief with my younger brothers, complaining about your father’s activities in bed, and insulting the very people who you will and should be conducting diplomacy with right now.”

Beckoning for another glass, Ryslander continued, “Young Nathan, you need to grow up and recognize that your time to rule has not come yet. Luckily for you, our elders and superiors deemed us worthy to be at this table with the very people we will be working with in the future. Julianus, Liliana,” the Aldarminian prince smiled at the latter but only briefly to grimace back again at Bebe, “And the Ironwings here. You see, you are mistaken, boy, for you are at precisely the right table. The one seated with your fellow Gothic Lords-to-be.”

“How dare you insult me!” Bebe snorted in anger. “If we were not in proper company I would challenge you. Rest assured, your inappropriate behavior shall be duly reported!”

“You do speak to my brother the Crown Prince most inappropriately,” Prince John seconded Bebe reluctantly. “Though I may not agree with everything he says, I’m afraid insults of this magnitude cannot go unanswered. Would your mother the Empress approve of such conduct on your behalf?”

Ryslander’s voice softened to respond to John, “Your brother insulted everyone at this table. To pretend otherwise is foolish. What I have done, though, is laid bare the faults of the Crown Prince’s beliefs of superiority. My words were harsh because the truth was and is harsh. Her Majesty the Grand Empress would understand the difference, and you two would do well to learn it.”

Tori had just about had enough. There was no way that this line of rhetoric would end well. As the music in the hall picked up, she said something very quickly to Zeke in Spanish despite knowing full well that nobody else in the table spoke the language.

“¿Que?”, shot back Zeke a little confused.

“Prince Ryslander?”, Tori began sweetly and loud enough to draw everyone’s attention as she lifted her hand to the Aldar. “Ask me to dance.”

“Gladly,” said Rys after emptying his glass of wine again. “Tori, m’lady, may I have this dance?”

The Aldarminian prince arose from his slouched position to stand proudly over the table. A smirk of sincere pleasure washed the moments-before grimace away as his hand extended outward to Tori.

Tori Ironwing rose with a smile, took the princes hand and walked towards the dance floor.

Zeke looked at his twin and then breathed out a short sigh knowing that his sister was both correct and that he’d have to play along.

“Princess Sara?”, he asked turning to the young Ghantish princess with a smile. “Would you like to dance?”

“If I may, Zeke, I would rather like to have the Princess’ first dance this evening.” Arriving just on time, Haeres Julianus - still in his full suit of ceremonial armour, decorations and all - approached the table with a warm smile. Shaking the young Ironwing’s hand firmly by clasping his forearm, he then offered the same courtesy to Bebe, who he could see looked rather unamused. Then, he turned his attention to Sara.

“Forgive me, your highness, but may I?”

Valerie huffed and put her hands on her sides. “Where’s my fucking invitation?” she asked incredulously, causing her sisters to look at her wide-eyed.

Shooting a glance at her younger sister, Sara told her that “conduct yourself like a proper lady, and you shall be treated as such.” Turning back to Julianus and Zeke, Sara smiled, and exhaled. “Forgive me your Highness, but Zeke asked me first, and thus the proper thing to do would be to accept it, unless he would rather dance with my sister Valerie here instead, in which case I shall accept your own invitation.”

Julianus was cool enough to maintain his smile. “Of course, it would be an honour to dance with either of you.” He looked towards Valerie, choosing not to acknowledge her previous protest.

Zeke, having been roped into this at the behest of his sister, was starting to feel more and more like a babysitter. He managed not to the smile on his face slip as he extended to his hand out to Valerie. He would have been happy to just stay seated. Instead, he walked the young princess to the dance floor as Julianus offered his hand to Sara. This left Bebe alone at the table as the others had decided to leave for the dance floor as well.

Caesar Silvier approached the table gently, seeing that her son and the other children had all gone off to dance. All except Bebe. Clasping her hands gently in front of herself, she came by the Crown Prince’s side and down to his level. “Your Highness, you seem to not be enjoying yourself. May I ask what is wrong?”

Bebe took a deep breath while his arms were folded across his chest. “Ever since I’ve arrived in this city I’ve constantly suffered insults and offenses against my character. I have had to exercise a great deal of restraint as well, for would a good and proper Prince bear steel against his peers? I say no, that would be quite inappropriate. Even Ryslander here, who mocks me openly to my face, in front of my brothers and sisters no less!”

The Caesar listened to the young prince’s complaints and pulled a sad expression, gently using her fingers to tidy his hair. “I have noticed that you’ve not been in the best of moods during your time here so far. I will not lie to you, child, these things do not get any easier with age: insults and offences will be thrown at you even more so once you are Emperor. But you must rise above such pettiness.”

“Yeah, and what do you do when people do it to your face?” Bebe looked for Hyperion, and added that “Lord Hyperion would make them sorry. I don’t want a Hyperion. I want to be able to do what he can do myself. Then people would treat me with respect.”

Silvier paused for a moment. “Tell me: How often do you see Hyperion speak?”

“Not often,” Bebe answered emphatically. “Because he doesn’t have to. His mere presence alone says all that is needed.”

“Exactly.” the Caesar smiled broadly as she gently poked the boy’s chest, right where his heart would be. “Presence. Presence does not require words, for they are only it’s tools. It demands temperance: Lord Hyperion has it, and you will have it, you have just yet to find it. When you do, your only need for words will be for when it’s most important, and that is when the words of lesser men will mean nothing to you, for you will only spend your breath on those who do mean something. Then, my dear, you will have the respect you deserve.”

Silvier took a moment to glance over at the dancefloor, noticing Julianus and Sara about to start their dance. Standing, she stretched her arm down to the young Crown Prince. “Would you do me the honour of a dance, your Highness?”

Bebe’s face lit up with a smile. “It would be my honor, your Majesty.” Practically shooting up out of his chair, Bebe wasted no time in offering the Caesar his arm in order to escort her to the floor, his face beaming with glee.

Lilliana arrived at the tables with most of her age cohort off dance. She greeted those still at the table and ordered a glass of local Skyan Peach-Limeade. She was seated and enjoying her juice when a voice declared from behind her.

"Hey, there, Flygirl!"

The Drakonian Princess recognized the voice immediately.

"Uncle Marcus!"

She turned giving Marcus Sutherland a hug.

"Has your father seen this dress,” her uncle chided, a smirk on his face, but Lilliana was momentarily distracted by Gaia Calpurnia’s presence. She returned a playful frown.

The Drakonian Prince looked to the dancers. “Those boys had better be on their best behavior," he mockingly warned the table before returning his attention to his niece.

"Knock them dead, Flygirl," Marcus added, and then he and Gaia were off to the Praetor Candidates’ table.

[Havensky]

As Ryslander and Tori began their dance, the Prince’s eyes could not help but spy that Silvier was speaking to Bebe. Though the dancing pair were out of ear’s reach of the conversation at the table, Rys could confidently guess from Bebe’s mannerisms and sour expression that he was pouting to Aunt Catherina like the spoiled child that he very well seemed to be. The Aldarminian prince could only hope that his younger, Ghantish peer would outgrow the chip on his shoulder and thus mature with time.

As he cast aside his frown for a gentle smile, Ryslander pulled Tori ever-so-slightly-and-politely closer as they continued to sway, “So tell me, prynzesha, what shall it be? The politics of the evening, or something more to your liking?”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m no princess.”, retorted Tori as she stepped slightly back to her preferred distance of friendly.

She did smile back speaking a bit softer, “So, my brother tells me you fly helicopters. Why don’t you tell me about that flyboy?”

“Well, there may be none for me, but I might disappoint you. I am no flyboy,” Rys chuckled.

The Aldarminian began moving his feet with more flourish, taking care to make sure Tori was keeping up. “I believe you have me mistaken for someone else, but I am a soldier,” said Ryslander as he led Tori into a graceful spin.

The spin completed, the Aldarminian prince pulled Tori to her comfortable distance before dipping her. The smirk preceded his correction as he raised her back up, “I am a tank commander.”

“Oh yes, boys and their toys.”

“What do you know of my toys?”

“My dad teaches at the academy - don’t think I’ve met my fair share of tankers?”

Ryslander teased, “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

His light laugh carried over to his next inquiry, “So, tell me, Tori, how are you not a princess? You are the daughter of a king and queen, yes?”

“Ah yes, but those are elected positions. My mom is the only true royal as she won the election. Dad gets a courtesy title as a matter of course. The only way I’ll be Queen is if I run for it.”

Teeth pierced the veil of his lips as a giggle bounced glazed eyes, “Or marry a prince.”

“Are you high?”, Tori remarked smartly.

“And mighty,” Rys laughed.

“Of course, you’re the son of a Gothic Lord … how else would you feel all the time? It drive you crazy to someday hold all that power...but right now… nothing.”, said Tori almost teasingly.

“You know what would drive a certain prince really crazy?”, remarked Rsylander. “If you run your fingers through my hair.”

“Really? And that line worked for you at some point?”, asked Tori incredulously. She stared at him for a moment before continuing. “Nice try though.”

Tori playfully tossed his hair only to see the very ugly scar underneath and was taken aback a bit. Rys’s heart stopped. He had forgotten, and Tori had reminded him.

“Oh… what happened there?”

Ryslander’s jaw tightened. His face hardened, turning a slight shade more pale as if his brain desperately was desperately pulling blood from the vessels there to perform an overwhelming burden of tasks. Somewhere between memory and repression, among trauma and recollection, there was a fire, a gunshot, blood, and then nothing but black. His eyes had drifted from Tori. The smile gone, bent somber.

Soundwaves certainly emanated from the prince’s mouth as his vocal cords still functioned, but when he said the words, all meaning in them for him seemed at once lost yet always there. The voice, of which there now seemed so little in him, spoke of what Ryslander wish he knew more and less about, “An assassin’s bullet grazed my head.”

“Oh no.. I’m sorry.”

Ryslander forced his lips to curl upward, “Don’t apologize,” a careful shrug breaking his speech but not impeding the dance, “It’s not anyone’s fault besides the man who did it.”

OCC:

[Co-Written by Aldarminia]

[Kylarnatia]

The Grand Ballroom, The Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky
[OOC: This post was co-authored with Ghant]

Princess Imperial Sara of Ghant accepted Prince Julianus’s invitation to dance, pleased that Zeke decided to extend an offer to her younger sister Valerie. Sara rose gracefully from her chair and offered her arm to Julianus, and while doing so, observed that “my sister is prone to jealousy, please forgive her. Anything that I do, she must do, and any honor visited upon me, must also be visited upon her. Such is the way of younger siblings, I have observed.”

Julianus smiled warmly as he took Sara’s arm and led her slowly towards the dancefloor, remarking as he did. “An observation I have never been able to make myself, though by the sounds of it I’m not missing out of much. Worry not, for there is no need to forgive.” He chuckled as the two reached the floor and, taking his position, began to lead as he synced up to the tempo of the music. While tense at first, he quickly relaxed; this wasn’t his first time dancing, which was evident by how well practiced he was, but this dance was different. He too was glad that Zeke had changed his mind, though he tried not to show it so evidently.

As the two danced, the Haeres briefly observed the various tables around the Ballroom, with the Lords and representatives spread out and deep in many different conversations. He turned his attention back to Sara, “Tell me, has all of this lived up to what you expected?”

A well-trained and gracious dancer like her mother, the Princess Imperial shook her head. “No, not quite your Highness...I had it on good advice that the Skyans are prone to quaintness and brisk humility. Therefore, I expected a more...brusque approach to these Gothic proceedings. The pleasantries therefore, while unexpected are most welcome,” she answered with a smile.

Julianus nodded. “Indeed, it looks like they’re pulling a lot of tricks out of the bag for this one. Can’t say I blame them, given the circumstances, and I certainly think they have a talent for it. They are also a fine and noble people by all accounts, and I might just have to take King Ironwing’s offer to come and study here at his academy, should mother allow it.”

He paused for a brief moment. “I do half-wonder what these proceedings will be like thirty or so years from now, when it is likely a lot of us will be the ones in charge.”

Considering what Julianus said to her carefully, Sara responded, “The proceedings themselves were conducted with the best of intentions, though it shall fall upon those who took part in them to honor them in good faith. That is a matter of immediate concern, for if the Gothic Lords do not in unison make their best effort to adhere to these arrangements, would it really matter what happens thirty years from now?” she asked Julianus with a raised eyebrow.

The Haeres was pleasantly taken aback by her remarks. “Very well put, your Highness. These next few days, let alone the next few years, will certainly decide not only our futures but those of billions of others.” Looking over to the table where her father Emperor Nathan sat, the Haeres pondered. “I suppose it has been left up to your father to make sure the Lords adhere to the arrangements made here today. I do not envy him.”

Sighing, Sara briefly frowned and explained that “my brother the Crown Prince believes that father is doomed to failure, if not due to circumstance, than due to his own ineptitude. He will succeed, I believe, in achieving peace with Dienstad, as he has the clout with both the leaders of Dienstad and many of the belligerent parties in Gholgoth. He is likely to seek rapprochement with Fenric in some fashion, which may or not succeed, for I have been told that Fenric is a fickle man, prone to mood swings. Kraven shall be the greatest challenge, and even if my father approaches them and deals with them in good faith, I personally wouldn’t trust the word of the Reich as far as I can throw it...which isn’t very far.”

“The Reich is a swarm whose hunger is never sated. It’s a devil with which this region has made too many deals, which has allowed it to spread its tendrils ever further out across the region, taking countless lives along with it.” Realising that he was perhaps making the tone too serious, Julianus quickly tried to move on. “Mother has been working hard to get the region to start registering this fact, and it has definitely been easier with some than others.”

Just as he had mentioned his mother, the Haeres noticed in the corner of his eye that his mother had approached the Crown Prince Bebe and was now dancing with him, giving the young prince the chance to lead the dance despite being much smaller than her. “In some ways I can honestly feel for your brother - the weight of expectation, mostly - but I do not share his eagerness for the responsibility of power. Not because I feel I would be unable, but…” He paused a moment, looking at his mother. “I would not want to take it any sooner than I have to.”

Looking back at Sara, he smiled sheepishly. “I apologise, this talk is probably boring you. There has already been enough discussion about these things.”

“No, it’s quite alright,” she answered with a reserved smile. “What bores me is talk about clothes and dolls and tea and crumpets. Politik is a welcome and refreshing change. As to the matter of my brother, well...he believes that father is neglectful of a great many things, and my brother is eager to rectify that neglect…to say the least. Though I don’t think he gives father enough credit. Good men don’t make great kings, the old saying goes, and he’d rather be a good man and accept the consequences of his shortcomings as Emperor.”

“How interesting. Such a saying doesn’t exist in my homeland. The office of Caesar is an immortal one, and the holder must be of pure and incorruptible form, for they are the one who brings balance to us. In short, the idea that Caesar could in any way be flawed is non-existant, or at least unspoken. I can only hope that when my time comes I’m able to be as true to that belief as my mother has been.”

Sara arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “Immortal you say? Surely it had to have begun at some point. Not even the King Under the Stars claims an immortal office, for kings are but men, and men came after the stars were born,” she explained thoughtfully. “And so too it is said that men shall leave the world before the stars go dark. At least that’s what they say up north in Zahaghant. If I were you I wouldn’t worry all that much, if what I’ve seen from you so far serves as any indication.”

Julianus was caught off-guard by the Princess’ compliment, shooting a rather sheepish smile and trying not to blush. “You flatter me, your grace. That is also a rather poetic saying, and it intrigues me to learn more about Zahaghant.” He paused for a moment, regaining his calmer expression before continuing.

“As for Caesar, that is merely the name we give, and true while the office itself had a beginning - the sixteenth century, after the death of Gaius Caesar - it’s the idea which is immortal. While it’s easy to see my mother and those who’ve held the title of Caesar as just another monarch, because the trappings are very much the same, those chosen to hold it are considered the Aspect of Balance, which has existed within all things since the beginning and was given new form when the Grand Mother became the first before our time even began, in the lost time where humanity in their infancy were but thralls to corrupt gods and their spirits bound in chains for eternal servitude. In setting them free and overthrowing the gods, she restored that balance and granted humanity a world cleansed of their influence and began time anew. Ever since then, there has been a mortal vessel for the Aspect of Balance to help guide us: first they were the salvatores, then the genetrix and vir sanctus, and now Caesar. While they may come from different blood, by spirit they are an unbroken line. The Seers believe I am chosen to succeed my mother, and so I shall.”

“And it’s those ideas, in their everlasting presence, which have kept my people so united for so long.” Julianus paused again, before looking gently at Sara. “But that’s a story for another day. One of many more I hope we get to share.”

Appearing bashful, Sara exhaled deeply. “I don’t envy you then, because that’s a lot to put on just one person. We Ghantish are far more...should I say, secular in how we approach the nature of kings. My line for instance, they began as petty kings, and only because they were considered the least worst option by the other lords of Baxughant. When they were elevated to emperors in 1800, it was only because by that time they held vassalage over the other kings, and nobody knew what else to call them. There were far too many kings already, and some high kings...but no emperors.” Laughing then, Sara added that “the funny thing about it was that they called him “Emperor” but didn’t proclaim Ghant an “Empire.” It was always just “Ghant.”

Julianus chuckled. “How funny indeed, but a testament I think to how your people seem to adjust well to different circumstances. While we’re quite open-minded on most things, Kylarnatians are very...rigid when it comes to protocol.” He listened with interest to the story of Sara’s lineage. “From what I know, my family were prominent amongst the military, and so when the time came that the previous dynasty that held the office of Caesar died, the Seers decreed that our family had been chosen as the new Aspect. The Senate agreed, and my great grandfather - who was already quite old, so my mother tells me - ascended to the throne.”

While she was surely the most capable dancer of her siblings, Sara was also the most susceptible to getting swept up in conversations concerning politics and statecraft, and not wanting to stumble or lose her footing, she refocused herself upon her movements and the music to which it was being coordinated. “How did the Seers come to that conclusion? If you don’t mind me saying, in various parts of Ghant the Seers lick the blood of princes and virgins, cast bones into the dirt and meditate in the wilderness while smoking ‘herbs.’ Some of them I’ve been told are quite prophetic.”

Julianus noticed that Sara took a moment to adjust her footing, and when she did so he slowed down just a little, giving her the chance to refocus. “If I’m honest, I’m not exactly sure. The work of the Seers is a very private matter: very few witness their rituals in person, and even fewer have ever actually seen them in the flesh, presumably because neither you or they can make direct eye contact. What I do know is that they work within the Sacerdotium, but they’re separate from the clergy and their rules: there are male Seers, for instance, whereas there are no male priests. Mother has told me that what’s most important to them is something called ‘divine potency’: if you are deemed to be especially spiritually gifted, you are taken into what they call the Covenant. Each major Basilica in Kylarnatia houses them, but it’s at the Magna Mater Basilica that the most potent Seers do their work, while protecting the sacred earth and flame: so the story goes, earth from the place the Grand Mother first struck ground when she fell from Avaris, and the first flames that she gave to men to help them in their war against the Gods.”

“If you’re curious, you could probably ask either mother or even Lord Hyperion, they could probably tell you a lot more. Don’t worry about Hyperion: He can come across as cold and abrasive, but he cares for everyone really.” The Haeres laughed. “Once when I was younger, mother had him accompany me to preschool for a ‘Father and Son’ sort of show and tell. The look on everyone's faces when he walked into this preschool classroom with me was priceless, I’ll never forget it.” He then proceeded to mimic a shocked expression on his face, before laughing even more.

Sara thought the manner of preschool ‘Father and Son’ show was unusual, given that he went with Lord Hyperion instead of his father. She should have known better than to ask, but Sara’s curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn’t help but inquire. “Why didn’t you go with your father?” she asked him politely, before realizing that the likely answer was something that would put a damper on their conversation.

In that instant, Sara would have noticed the laughter come to a steady halt and the smile briefly fall from Julianus’ face. He looked again to his mother for a moment, before regaining composure and smiling at Sara, albeit more solemnly, to try and avert her getting too worried about what her question had done.

“My father died, not long before I was born. That’s all I know. Neither mother nor Hyperion will say much, other than that he was a good man. I don’t even know his name, only his face from a picture on my mother’s desk.” He paused for a long while, looking off into the distance. “Sometimes it upsets me, but I’m sure they have their reasons. I choose to trust that I will learn more when mother thinks it is the right time.”

He doesn’t even know his own father’s name, Sara thought to herself, finding the notion rather uncomfortable. He should at least know the man’s name. “I’m sorry for your loss, and that you didn’t get the chance to know him. I consider myself fortunate, for my father lost his father at a young age, and mine’s still around.” Much to my brother’s chagrin. “Your mother seems to have done right by you as well as she could have...at least. She is wise, I do not doubt that her intentions are well founded.”

Julianus noticed the slight pause in Sara’s words. He was very protective of his mother, and now worried he had painted her in a bad light. Still, he kept his cool. “She is wise, and is as great as a mother can be given the demands of her station. Despite everything she has had to do, she still insisted on making my food for me as a younger child, of making time in her schedule to play with me and do all the things mothers do with their children. Even though I’m older now, she still makes time, to help me study and to listen to me about my interests. It helps now that my mother is married to Calixte, who has been equally good to me.” He referred to Imperatrix Calixte, consort to his mother.

“Hyperion has been a father figure to me, in his own way. Like I said, he comes across as cold and abrasive, but when you’re so close to him you notice how good he can be. He has taught me a lot of things.” A slight smirk came across the Haeres lips, clearly thinking back upon some memory involving the Dux Imperator that gave him a sense of joy. Whether it was prideful or mischievous or both, who knew.

“As for mother’s intention, like I said, I trust her--no, love her, and in that she has my complete trust.” He paused for just a moment, before perhaps realising the conversation they had just had. “Please, do not speak of this to anyone else, especially not mother. I also ask that you not judge her too harshly.”

“...Your secret is safe with me,” Sara reassured Julianus in a manner most sincere. “I have the same relationship with my mother, so I can relate. Perhaps that’s why your mother and mine are friends, for they seem very much of a similar mind.” Though of course, Silvier was born into her role, though Sophia acquired it by marriage, so it wasn’t entirely the same set of circumstances, though perhaps close enough.

Cognizant of the time and the duration of the dance, Sara prepared herself for its inevitable conclusion. “It was both an honor and a pleasure to talk and share this dance with you. I hope you didn’t mind my conversationalism...sometimes I can get carried away. I fear as though I did...just this once,” she teased, in an effort to lighten the mood. “I should warn you, if you do dance with Valerie, you should keep the conversation limited to clothes and shoes.”

Julianus allowed the dance to come to it’s conclusion, although he held her for a few moments longer before letting go. He laughed at her quip about her sister, before bowing his head. “Please, the honour and pleasure was also mine. I very much appreciated our conversation and enjoyed our dance. May it be the first of many more.”

Once the number had concluded and the break between it and the next one began, Sara released herself and curtsied properly, dignified and deep. “Thank you, Your Highness...the first of many more indeed.” Flashing a straight and bright smile, Sara inclined her head before excusing herself from the Prince’s presence and off the floor, having gotten to know him much better than she had before.

Julianus watched her go with a smile, and then once she was gone let out a breath.

[Drakonian Imperium]

Amos Caritius was captain and owner of the Accipiter, a small freighter out of the island of Oceana in western Mille Mortifere. On her latest voyage, the Accipiter had been hired by a man by the name of Johnus Farrerius.

When Amos had bought the ship, the long time sailor had modified the already fast container ship for increased speed. Captain Caritius had bought new engines and made other changes to boost the ship's performance. She had served the Captain and his crew well as they were able to transport expensive time sensitive cargos.

The strange man, Farrerius, too had modifications for the ship. Alongside, a number of men, some of whom appeared to be well-armed mercenaries, he had brought all kinds of antennas and sensitive electronics. Amos had been concerned at first as he watched the men setting up the equipment and disguising the antennas and other devices, but then he had realized Farrerius had to be an information broker. They were common enough if you knew where to look in Mille Mortifere, and had the money to pay for their services. This one must be seeking new signals intelligence to sell.

Their course had been innocuous enough, starting from Thera at the western fringe of Mille Mortifere to Novaporta, Disia in Varathron and back again. Though, Farrerius had required a course far closer to the Fortress Continent than Amos had liked. Must have been in a hurry, the Captain decided. People often were and that was his speciality.

They were now on the return leg. The trip to Novaporta had been uneventful and boring, and Amos had been able to run a cargo of commercial electronics and industrial equipment. He had loaded up with refined ores and some lumber. The cargos themselves were nothing special, but brought in a little extra income in addition to the mysterious charter.

Amos liked the boring days at sea. Nothing to do, but sail. However, the morning had a crimson hew and that general meant rough seas later. Or so the sailor had heard as an the adage when he was a child. Amos had found the ancient rhyme to be mostly true and the clouds were now attempting to overtake the ship. Accipiter, Amos hoped, could outrun the storm moving in upon them from the west.

"Cap?"

Amos pulled his attention from the eastern skyline, drawing his eyes from the windows of the Accipiter's bridge. It was one of his men, who had entered from the starboard hatchway.

"Sandy, spotted a little boat ahead off to starboard."

Sandy, was one of Farrerius' mercenaries, so named for his sand-colored blonde hair. The nickname had come aboard with the mercenaries and Amos' crew had readily picked it up, being keen on the shorthand of nicknames themselves.

Oddly enough to Amos, the mercenaries did not refer to Farrerius by name, but rather they called him 'Scipio'. The Captain did not think it a standard nickname, nor could he adequately explain its usage.

Amos found a pair of binoculars on his way to the starboard side of the bridge to get a better view. The captain began scanning the seas.

If one of Farrerius' men had spotted the craft, Farrerius would already know. They all had handheld radios. It occured to Amos he would have to spring for radios for his crew when they were back in port. With the money from this job the ship's operating budget could easily afford it.

No sooner had the Captain decided, then Farrerius himself burst in upon the bridge from port. He approached the Captain at speed. "We need to stop," the man said without a pause for breath.

"You can't be serious," Amos said, putting the binoculars down in shock and looking at the other man. "Do you know where we are?"

"I do," replied Farrerius.

"Just a few miles that way is the Kraven Reich." The Captain pointed off to starboard. "Ships that stop here don't make it back to their home ports," he explained.

"I am aware of the risks." Something in the way the other man's voice left no doubt to the Captain that he was.

"We have to stop," Amos' employer repeated.

The Captain sighed. So, this was why they were getting hazard rates.

"Cap." His crewman gestured, pointing off to starboard.

Amos followed his gaze and his finger. He thought he saw something. Bringing the binoculars back up to his eyes, he finally saw the small boat and its single occupant. The Captain's unease grew.

"Fifty Thousand Sovereigns," Farrerius prompted.

"Fine," Amos replied finally. "But your men had better be ready for anything."

Farrerius did not reply. Apparently, they already were.

"Simeon, bring us to a course of fifty degrees," Amos ordered turning to his helmsman in the center of the ship's bridge. "Cut us to one quarter."

"Aye, Cap," came the reply.

"We'll need to stop as quickly as possible," the Captain said to no one in particular. "And then start back up and leave as quickly as possible." He looked nervously off to starboard, southward, toward the Kraven Reich. "No waiting around in these waters."

The storm had been completely forgotten. It was no longer the worst threat to the ship and her crew.

[Havensky]

In collaboration with Ghant, Kylarnatia, and others

“Presenting! First Governor of CITADEL CITY - Edalynn Burnham!”

Edalynn Burnham walked into the hall wearing a steel colored ball gown escorted by her husband James Owlwing on her arm. Edalynn was much shorter than her husband, but had a voice that could carry oceans away. Her dark locks were done up and her pearl necklace gleamed in the lowlights of the feast hall.

Her term as governor was coming to an end and she was glad of it. Citadel City had been the joy of her career, but it was a project that had come to need another hand to guide it. She thought about going into teaching or writing a book about what she’d learned from the experience.

The Prime Minister had other ideas. A new city to build.

She sat down at the table and ordered drinks while she waited for the other guests to arrive.

A fairly recent arrival to the Citadel, Prince Sigismund of Ghant walked slowly to the table and found himself a seat. An older man in his mid-fifties, he had short, but wavy grey hair, beady brown eyes and a face that seemed naturally suited towards a frown. He was dressed in modest old Imperial court dress as befits a man of his rank and station, though the lack of insignias indicated that he was far removed from the throne.

The man introduced himself brusquely upon sitting down. “Greetings. I am Prince Sigismund of Ghant, Ambassador to Kylarnatia. I have been appointed by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor to oversee these matters of discussing Pax Gothica and presenting the pertinent details to His Imperial Majesty’s government.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sigismund refrained from eating, or drinking, and merely waiting to see what was said in response to him, like a lizard basking in the heat.

Burnham smiled and extended her hand.

“Prince Sigismund, Governor Burnham. Wonderful to meet you and welcome to the Citadel! Please, have something to eat! We have several small plates of Ghantish fare. We’re looking forward to the creation of Pax Gothica! It’s an exciting project wouldn’t you say?”

Sigismund inclined his head, but grimaced at Burnham’s extended hand. Shaking of hands was not considered a proper greeting gesture in Ghant, but alas, he was not in Ghant. He accepted the handshake, though his was rather weak. “Thank you, Governor. Exciting is one way of putting it. I would say that the project is a monumental undertaking, one that will require careful planning and delicate execution.”

Just as Burnham and Sigismund were making their introductions, Maior Legatus Kyle Lucius Jordanus approached the table. The Imperium’s vetted choice to represent Kylarnatia in Pax Gothica - preparations had already begun to be made, due to the Caesar’s correct assumption that the reform would pass - Jordanus was a senior and well-respected diplomat in the service of the Department for Foreign and Imperial Affairs. Though wheelchair-bound, it hadn’t prevented him from serving his Caesar and his country with distinction. Now middle-aged, Kyle’s brown hair was starting to show wisps of grey, a neatly kept stubble on his square jaw. A lean and broad upper frame, he wore a simple but well pressed grey suit, his tie showing patterns from an ancient Chelarii papyri, something which had been his keen interest in younger years.

“Hello there.” Kyle smiled, extending his arm out for a handshake. “Governor Burnham I presume? I’ve heard many good things about you. I must say I’m quite impressed by the design of the Citadel.”

Burnham smiled taking his and giving a firm handshake, “It’s an honor to meet you too. We had a lot of good workers who helped build it up from scratch and we’re all very proud of them. And now, it looks like we’re going to get another chance to build a brand new city - together as a region this time.”

“Indeed! I know that my Caesar is keen to work closely with your urban planners and architects to provide whatever is necessary for the construction of Pax Gothica, hence why I am here!” He chuckled.

Looking next to Sigismund, the Legatus bowed his head in respect. “Your Highness, it is good to see you again. I trust the journey wasn’t took difficult?” The two had known each other ever since Sigismund had first arrived in Krytopia over twenty years ago; back then Kyle was just a fresh-faced member of the prospective legatii, and the Caesar had only just come of age and began to serve as co-regent with her father. The Legatus fondly noticed the medallion of the late Caesar Kain pinned to Sigismund’s chest.

At the time Sigismund became ambassador, Silvier had only recently become co-regent with her father Kain, so the medallion Sigismund had was quite a rare and special one, due to the limited period of time in which the medallion had been issued (the time between when Silvier was co-regent and when she became Caesar in her own right upon the death of her father). On the recto side it featured the Imperial Seal of the Silvanus Family, and on the verso side it had the images of both Kain as Elder and Silvier as Younger. Around the circumference of the medallion was inscribed the motto of the Silvanus family: “Aut vincere, aut mori. Aut concilio, aut ense.”: Either conquer or die. By counsel, or by the sword.

“Legatus Jordanus,” Sigismund bowed his head. “I can think of no man better suited in the Imperium to represent the Caesar at these deliberations than yourself. Once again Her Majesty proves herself wise, her father’s daughter.”

“You are too kind, Your Highness, at least to me. My Caesar has indeed shown herself to be her father’s daughter, and more. She was more than glad to hear that you’d be at these deliberations, she thinks very highly of you.”

Sigismund nodded cooly, and replied, “everything that I have, I’ve earned. Started from a low place and worked my way up. That is how Pax Gothica should be built too. I was chosen for this project because few in Ghant know their way around embassies and embassy districts more than I, and if we are to succeed in this endeavor, I think that we should approach this project like we would an embassy district, writ large. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sorosa Daemond entered the feasting hall with a sweeping, long stride which exuded an aura of confidence in a room already full of it. Her golden halter neck sequin dress sparkled in the light of the hall and contrasted her bright, natural red hair and emerald green eyes. Her recent appointment to High Lord had been late in arriving and her so-called peers on the council had told her she would need to arrange meetings with the other Gothic representatives to Pax Gothica after the meeting in Citadel City. She had chosen to ignore them and go to the meeting regardless of how late her arrival. She was a high lord after all, who was going to stop her?

It wasn’t hard to determine who was the meat. The Gothic Lords were natural magnets of personality and authority and she spotted her own Lord, Renuae, sitting around a table with a group of very serious faces. ‘Poor girl,’ she whispered after noticing Nalur seated next to her. She noted the Lordspawn table in passing as she swept by it before seeing three gentlemen enjoying a conversation around one of the less extravagant tables. She converged on them with all haste.

Making herself known immediately, she stepped right into their conversation.

“I would agree,” she stated with a winning smile, “Pardon my interruption my lords. I am High Lord Sorosa Daemond of House Daemond, Gharsashi representative to Pax Gothica. I insist, however, that you call me Sorosa. We will all be working together for quite awhile and it’s best if we became more … personal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Here here!” Legatus Jordan smiled as he rolled his wheelchair into place at the table and began to pour drinks for everyone. “We shall make grand plans for Pax Gothica together, I’m sure. But tonight is also for feasting, drinking and talking; there is plenty room for both!”

Sigismund nodded curtly and replied, “yes, I suppose that’s true. This Txuleton is quite good.” The Ghantish Prince was referring to the Ghantish rib steak before him, cut from former dairy cows that were finished and fattened up for slaughter.

“We’re going to need spires. Lots of spires”, thought Berham out loud. “The whole capitol district should look like one giant cathedral. Visitors should look at upon it with awe as if were some sacred place, holy or otherwise.”

“...That sounds,” Sigismund replied with quivering lips. “Terribly expensive. I believe it will be important to...not bite off more than can be chewed, at least in the beginning. The idea would be to commit ourselves to sustainable urban growth, with the goal then to reach a point where the city can pay for itself, in the fashion of a city anywhere else. In Ghant anyway.” Pausing to take a drink, he added that “we Ghantish try to do the most we can with limited financial resources. If only it grew on trees, but alas, it does not.”

[Drakonian Imperium]

Edwidge kicked off the conversation by complimenting Serana’s dress.

“Serana, that dress is absolutely gorgeous. The artisanship is stunning. Who is it by? I would love to meet the maker.”

Edwidge, having her own fashion line, knew perfectly well that it was mostly likely a custom job. She also realized at a glance that the dress must have been handmade and that it would have taken hours of work. Presuming that it was made in Lamehk, there was a very high chance that it was made by slaves. Thus, Edwidge’s carefully worded comment about meeting the ‘maker’ and not the designer.

“What?” Serana scowled, looking toward the direction her name had come from.

The question caught Serana unusually off guard and it took her a moment to register what she had been asked. She had arrived at the table in rather a bad mood and her thoughts had been elsewhere. There had been little expectation that anyone would be overly keen to become acquainted, and Serana had certainly not intended on jumping headlong into conversation herself.

“Oh, the dress? Well, yes, it is rather ravishing isn’t it?” Even as she answered, Serana tried to recall the the Xirniumite woman’s name but came up blank, unsure whether she had forgotten or simply not paid any attention in the first place.

“I designed it myself. As for the maker, that’s a detail I don't need to know unless it’s not made properly. I’m sure I could arrange a meeting though.” The nuanced intent of the phrase was delivered with a slight, smug smirk and was not overly hard to decipher. “And yours? It’s quite...quaint.”

“I’ve made it a simple design yes, but…it has pockets,” remarked Edwidge before turning to the server who was approaching the table. The server came around and took everyone’s drink orders. Edwidge had a local white wine while Squall asked for green tea.

Marat raised his hand slightly and promptly requested a glass of wine. Unlike his Grand Emperor, Suvorov had no intention on torturing his palate to satiate some sorrowful lust for escape. He was determined to make the best of this trip. It was, after all, quite the honor, and as such, the Aldarminian Praetor-to-be proclaimed to the table with his fulfilled drink order in hand, “It truly is a pleasure to meet and eat with all of you here. I say this alone is worthy of a toast. To all of you, to all of us, to Gholgoth!”

“Cheers!!,” replied Edwidge and Squall together as they raised their glasses.

Artur Favonius made his way to the Praetor Candidates Table. The Territorial Navy Commander was dressed in his mess dress uniform, consisting of a bottle green jacket with black lapels and epaulets, a black waistcoat, a white dress shirt, a black tie, and black dress pants with a gold stripe up the leg. Besides his military dress attire, the Commander himself had the characteristic Drakonian height, standing just over six feet tall. He bore an athletic build, had a bronze skin, a chiselled face, and dirty blond hair.

Commander Favonius was only one of the two Drakonian Praetor Candidates. The other had been on the same military flight that had brought him out to Citadel City. The Millian had only slightly recognized the Imperial Army Colonel; he was someone big from Drakonia proper. Though, he had seemed friendly enough.

Artur greeted the others at the table with a polite nod, sat down, and ordered a whiskey.

“Marat...,” began Squall as he remembered that he was supposed to be getting to know his potential partners.

“What unit were you with before the assignment?”

Squall and the others had begun to refer to the Praetor position as ‘the assignment’ since none of them were official yet. It had added an extra layer of nervousness to the festivities despite assurances from Atticus that he didn't expect anyone to be voted down.

Marat almost choked. For all the confidence of his start, being addressed by the war hero Squall was still off-putting to the Aldarminia. Khonsu, who had so far remained silent behind her fox mask, chuckled a little.

“Uhhh,” trying to cobble the words together. “Well, if I become Praetor, I will have to hand over my position as Imperial Oversight Officer for the Greaterland Trading and Development Company. Before that, I was briefly in the Cosmocratic Armed Forces during the Civil War, but then my unit defected to His Majesty’s forces.”

He sipped from his wine to let the memories of fighting on the wrong side of the war glaze over his thoughts. “I believe the unit is officially known as the two twenty-three five. Second kurin of sotnia twenty-three in the fifth lehion. Artilleryman, but I mostly drove the trucks and filed the paperwork. Nothing as illustrious as your service.”

“I’ve got a good team and besides I’m sure the press has embellished the tales,” replied Squall as he looked to Edwidge for help. He hadn’t meant to embarrass Marat by comparing records.

“Do you get to travel much for your work,” asked Edwidge taking the cue from Squall.

“Oh yes,” replied Suvorov. “Quite a lot, actually. I was just on the other side of the world as it were twenty hours ago, but when I’m in Gholgoth, I bounce around the northwest a lot, and I’m in Kylarnatia just about every other week. The Company’s been looking to expand their business there for quite some time now.”

He sipped from his glass and took a couple of bites to glance over the table. “But, I think that’s about enough about me,” nervously chuckling. “Half this table will be asleep if I ramble on much longer. I am interested, though, in hearing what the rest of you think of today’s events. This is, after all, the region’s most sweeping change in quite some time.”

Commander Favonius shrugged. “Above my pay grade.”

Nobody knew who the Emperor of Ghant was going to appoint as the Ghantish Praetor. People had their ideas, their theories as to who he would choose, but only when the name left his lips would anyone truly know for sure. In the meantime, various knights and soldiers of renown gathered at the so-called Praetor table, and exchanged cool gazes with each other. They all wanted the honor of being the first Praetor, and so they eyed each other with suspicion and contempt, chief among them Ser Artur Ordosa, a member of the Emperor’s elite Zinpalak personal guard.

“It’s going to be the Knight of Ducks,” Ordosa lamented as he found something to eat and drink. The knight was a man in his mid-thirties, strapping with dirty blonde hair and dull green eyes. He was clad in ceremonial armor, maybe more ceremonial than practical, but alas, such was the Ghantish way.

“Y’all don’t know,” asked Squall without realizing what a delicate situation he might be stepping into. He instantly realized his mistake and tried to backtrack.

“Well, regardless…I’d be honored to serve with any of you...and....And, I hope that the Executor doesn’t keep you hanging for very long. I...can imagine it must be nerve wrecking.”

“Then, I imagine, he’s looking to see which one of them holds their nerve,” Khonsu added. She wasn’t one for social situations, quite unlike most Kylarnatians. She always had her mind on the task at hand, and so did not see the need to waste her time with idle talk. Still, she knew that a lot of the people at this table would soon become her counterparts, and both the Caesar and Hyperion had impressed on her why that meant her attendance at the dinner was necessary.

“What about you Khonsu,” asked Squall. “Where were you stationed before the assignment?”

“I had no station. I am an agent of Caesar, of my Lord Hyperion and his children.” By ‘his children’, she referred to the Black Cobra, the Imperium’s special forces branch. “I have seen almost every corner of this region and other parts of the world; I have gone where I am needed and have stayed for as long as is necessary.”

Realising that what she said could be seen as blunt, she quickly followed up, showing a smile from beneath her mask. “And what of yourself?”

“Well, I’m currently the military attaché for the Office of Secretary of State responsible for coordination between the State Department and allied militaries. Before that, I was Captain of Heartbreak Company in the 501st Legion.”

Another Ghantish knight by the name of Jonas Yondu pointed at a disgruntled looking soldier with violet eyes and scraggly dark brown hair. “Him...that’s who it’s going to be. He was at Hab Centre 06.” That got the attention of the various other Ghantish knights and soldiers at the table, who almost in unison cast their eyes upon the grizzled looking Ghantish officer. “Captain Asentzio Osinalde.”

Captain Osinalde laughed, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s not going to be me...I’m a soldier, an officer at that, and the Emperor doesn’t think too highly of either. It won’t be a knight either, because even the Emperor can see that you lot are a bunch of self-entitled braggadocious, strutting around like peacocks. All feathers and no talons, and talons are what he’s going to want.”

“You were at Six,” remarked Squall suddenly taking much more of an interest. “Which area were you in? Heartbreak went up from the airport to the city center through main street. Cappers laid out all kinds of nasty traps for us...and then...THEN...the god forsaken Briskans let one of their generals go rogue with the craziest suit of armor on the planet...and the son of a bitch had me...he had me dead to rights. Course, the dumb capper wannabe was so focused on me he forgot about the sniper. One of my groomsman as it happens. ”

“...I was at the airport, overseeing the Ghantish Lamb Brigade,” Osinalde answered reluctantly. “One after another they dropped like flies, one man’s death more grisly than the next. They took out a Flak Cannon, if you can believe that. The last few men managed to pull that off and get out in time for extraction. I don’t talk to those men anymore...one’s institutionalized and another is on a farm somewhere in Luzuriaga. Off the top of my head, anyway.”

A burly man, standing seven foot eight, walked up to the table wearing traditional Hell Knight armor and sat down at the table. His looks were strikingly similar to those of Tristan, save he appeared older and even more battlescarred than his Emperor. The man also had a magnificent beard, and his head was buzzed on the sides, but the top was grown out and braided into a warrior’s ponytail of sorts. His hair was golden, but much of it had faded to silver and gray over the many winters. He looked over the others at the table and listened to the stories. “Ah yes, Hab Centre Six. That whole shit was a nightmare. I have seen the reports and even saw part of the feed from your skirmish with Siegfried, Squall. You showed some great skill in that fight!” He picked up the large mug of beer and gulped it down. “I was in the area, but was not able to participate.”

Commander Favonius eyes widened some at the stories. He thought landing a helicopter on a storm tossed frigate was harrowing.

Marcus Sutherland arrived soon after the Dephirian's reply.

“Greetings to you all,” he said. “My companion is Gaia Calpurnia, special assistant to the Director of the Drakonian Diplomatic Corps.”

The pair took a seat and Marcus ordered a glass of the “very best” wine for them.

“Well met, good friend! Tell us your story!” The Hell Knight waved his brew around, “We are all sharing war stories here!”

Marcus was introspective for a moment. “In August of 2003, a desert nation by the name of Raem mysteriously went silent. I was attached to the staff of a General Patricio Santiago. He was given command of a couple of Legions and we were sent in to investigate what had happened.

“After traversing the desert, we set up a forward operating base outside the city of Hide. We were soon attacked by strange creatures. They were taller than a man and had elf-like features; wore conical helms and almost no armor. They were violent and vicious and were in our base and through the defensive line before we realized what was happening.

“I was in the HQ when one burst in. It was massive, scantily clad, and held a long blade. I raise my pistol to fire, but before I could it cut my arm off at the elbow.” Marcus raised his left arm, removing his white glove to reveal his prosthetic. It was advanced and clearly much work had gone into making it appear cosmetically like real flesh and bone, but there was still a lifeless quality to the plastic cybernetics.

Marcus paused. “I had to bury my gladius in its face just to kill it.”

Gaia was transfixed by the story, she knew some of it from reports she had seen, but, even when they were dating, Marcus had never told her the story.

“I'm not even sure how I drew my sword,” Marcus added as an afterthought.

And, the candidates spent the rest of the evening swapping war stories.

__________________

OOC: This post was co-written with Aldarminia, Dephire, Ghant, Havensky, Kylarnatia, and Lamehk.

[The Scandinvans]

Drana, The Scandinvan Homeland
Imperial News Network
Recorded Speech from Crown Prince Fenric ap Erid ao Erid

"It has now been over a century since the terror of Director Niv came to an end at the hands of the rightful Emperor. In the name of foreign enemies and domestic traitors seeking to destroy our society he seized power. Under his leadership a tenth of the dres'Erid were butchered through the programs he enacted. This evil was meant to shatter our collective spirit so that we might come to forget what we were made to be. A task which he was never able to achieve as he could not break us for we know we are on the side of the righteousness.

Due to Director Niv's profligacy was our nation subjected to the degeneracy of the dres'nalar and learned a valuable lesson: never again can we trust this presence in our home. Now instead of using covert actions against our Empire they now wage war against us openly. They seek to steal from us our legacy, our lands, our homes, and our very way of life. We cannot abide this. Just as Bronze Wall did millennium ago we must now lock our shields together against this threat.

The Havenites have chosen to be the heralds and puppet masters of the invasion of our homeland. They are the ones who have murdered my brother, inspired revolts in our nation, brought the Golden Throne into our region, and rallied many in Gholgoth against our efforts to establish a protectorate over Shen Alamru. Many of your have already seen your husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers against the enemies arrayed against us. As always though our faith keeps us united in the face of such trials. These conflicts only serve to further refine the strength of the Glorious Empire. Our adversaries will not overcome the sovereign will oft he Scandin!

Merely look to the overwhelming forces we face. Our foes command resources which exceed us ten times over. Yet, even now we are beginning to push back against the invasion of Drana and once that is done shall the full might of the dres'Erid smite those who attack our exposed northern oceanic holdings. None shall be able to overcome us so long as the Almighty gives us the strength of spirit to endure these tribulations.

Once we have secured victory we will have won a brighter future for our children. We will have shown the world the might of our nation. We will have proven that so long as we are one we cannot be overcome. So rally my people. Commit yourselves utterly to victory and we shall have it in the end. Christus invictus!"

[Jagada]

(This post is co-authored with Kylarnatia & Telros)

Fostoria,
Imperial Union
Two weeks ago …

‘So, it’s settled then,’ inquired Volgus Montauk. The thin man walked around the stone table that had been painstaking carved to look like two angels holding it aloft. The High Lord of Engardya extended a glass of dark bourbon to his guest.

‘It is. The region has moved on without us,’ replied Nalur al’Maw taking the glass with a nod of thanks. He sipped at the dark liquor.

Volgus made his way back across the table to the wooden throne that served as his chair – another luxury afforded to him by rank and wealth. He straightened his dark suit before sitting back down. His own glass had already been filled but he ignored it for the time being.

‘Is Her Majesty ready to deal with the other Lords?’ he inquired cautiously, ‘Or will you assume the position of Lord?’

Nalur scoffed with a wave of his hand, ‘Only the official head of state can be recognized as a Lord and that is my daughter. I’ll be there to guide her and hopefully the other Lords can be shown whom they really need to speak to.’

‘I’d be surprised,’ replied the host quickly, ‘They seem like an incredibly erratic bunch. Prone to bouts of fancy and hysteria.’

The Secretary Supreme nodded solemnly, ‘Yes … it will be quite the experience. With any luck they will ignore us for the most part and continue sucker punching each other.’

‘Maybe and maybe not,’ said Volgus, only now reaching out to his glass but stopping just before reaching it, ‘No matter how it plays out dealing with them will be a full job by itself. That may leave the Union neglected, wouldn’t it?’

‘It … may,’ said Nalur, his mercury eyes now burrowing into Volgus’ bright silvery ones, ‘That is why I made the High Lords, to deal with internal issues before they become my problem.’

‘You made a pact of wolves only bound together by mutual respect and interest,’ replied Volgus holding the gaze of the de facto ruler of the Imperial Union, ‘Once the alpha is gone how long do you think it’ll be before there is …’

Nalur took another swallow of bourbon but his eyes never broke from Volgus’, ‘Then it is fortunate that I have appointed such good men and women to the positions. I am certain that if anything … less than ethnical was taking place I could count on people with good character such as you to keep me informed?’

There was a tense pause for several heartbeats as unspoken words were exchanged in the continuous staring match before Volgus broke it by cracking a smile, ‘If there is anything you can be assured of, Secretary Supreme, it is my loyalty to the true master of the Union.’

Nalur refused to give up his stare for a few beats more before nodding solemnly, ‘I never doubted it Lord Montauk.’


Basilica of the Sacerdotium
Citadel City, Havensky
Present Time

The capital of Havensky was unlike anything he had ever seen before. In his early days in Intelligence he had flown covert missions over this very spot back when it was a defunct nation-state belonging to the former Federation of Allied Governments. It had been a hellhole back then. Now … now it was a gleaming testament to both the technological genius and compassion of the Skybound Republic. Vast, complex skyscrapers towered over everything and above them flew the majestic airships that the people here valued so dearly. What had been slums decades prior was now gleaming white-washed buildings crafted with beautiful architecture and modern highway systems intermeshed with advanced public transportation.

Yet his true destination was none of those and nor was it the imposing Citadel where the Gothic Lords even now stood in attendance, but rather the large stone structure that peaked out from between two larger modern buildings. Similar structures dotted his technical fiefdom of Engardya and so the presence of one here was something of an amusement to him. His driver navigated the car down the broad and narrow roads around the Basilica of the Sacerdotium. It pulled to a stop just outside of the main door. Volgus Montauk stepped out of the vehicle and looked around, two of his aides along with his small bodyguard of two more started to get out but he waved them back into the car.

‘Circle the block,’ said Volgus distractedly while looking up at the Basilica, now getting a better look at some of the stained-glass windows and the pictures they held. No one protested and quietly got back into the car and slowly drove away. This was Citadel City after all – if there was anywhere in Gholgoth where someone would be safe, it’d be here.

Volgus walked up to the large wooden doors that looked older than he knew they could be and idly wondered if this Basilica hadn’t been taken apart overseas, maybe in the Ancient Empire, and brought here. He grabbed the door handle and entered.

The interior was lit well enough relying mostly upon natural lighting with only some minor help from artificial ones tactfully hidden away. He realized his entrance had been silent and no one was aware of him yet. This gave him a chance to review his attire and make sure he was presentable. He wore a formal court uniform and had chosen to have it dyed in deep naval blue with his own house insignia a reaching talon sewn onto the breast. Confident his appearance was in order he made his way into the basilica proper, stopping only to observe the fine crafting of the many statues of Seraphim, saints and locally nominated ‘heroes’ which decorated the shrines around the inner sanctum of the Basilica. If one wished to find opulence they need only go to holy places.

He eventually took stock of the alter at the front and saw the stained-glass windows, large and eloquent, showing the Grand Mother in her splendor. He mused about how many of these windows had been busted out by the competing sides of the Sacerdotium Faith in Engardya. His gaze was gradually drawn down to the altar itself where he noticed a woman kneeling down at the altar in deep prayer. He knew his eyes lingered longer than they should but he also knew it wasn’t because of sexual attraction. Instead it was her garments that held his attention until it finally dawned on him.

‘A Vestal,’ he said softly. They no longer existed in Engardya but depictions of the attire had been slightly different and more in line with the culture there. He had never met one of the vaunted Vestals and decided now would be as good a time as any.

Deciding upon this course of action he approached the altar but remained a respectful distance away to allow the sister to continue undisturbed.

As Volgus walked closer to the Vestal, he would be able to hear the fast-paced whispering going on as the kneeling woman had her head down, clasped hands in front of her face as she prayed. Even through the clothing, vestments and veils, her posture rang out tension like a bell, and her hands shook from the effort. Whether it was the sheer effort of holding them too tightly or her hands shaking on their own was a bit hard to say. Occasionally, there would be a pause or a stumble as she lost her way, but quickly brought herself back up to speed. When one prayer would end, she would pause, gather herself and then start another. It was part of a set, it appeared, and she was still working her way through it.

Anya Sorrend kept berating herself in her head, even striking her combined hands into the pew in front of her a couple times. She had been trained for this situation, by the handlers the Church had placed them with, the special school she had attended and even the personal attention of the Arch-Priestess who had guided each and every one of them in the final parts of the schooling. And yet, she had fallen to pieces when they had arrived, to the point the Arch-Priestess had seen fit to send her away, a polite rebuke for her to try and put herself back together to attend to the Anax. She was sure if she could not, she could see a fast dismissal in her future, which is what led to her panicking in the first place. And this was the biggest meeting of the Lords and rulers of the Gothic region, it was one thing to know in your mind what was coming, it was another to see it in person, and just...feel their auras, their very presence in that room. She didn’t know how the others were able to handle it.

The words flowed from her lips without requiring any thought of her, the repetition having bored their way into their brain many weeks ago. Still, the familiarity of the words, the cadence, the meaning, helped her calm down, bring her back down to a reasonable heartbeat and breathing. As she finished, he uttered a final “Fiat” and wiped her eyes before sitting back. She gathered herself and her robes before moving to stand up, planning to exit and return to her Vestal sisters when a shape in the corner of her eye drew her attention that she was being watched.

An undignified squawk left her mouth before a hand clapped over her mouth.

Get your shit together Anya!

Straightening herself, her expression melted into one of polite control and calm as she curtseyed to the man. “My...apologies, sir. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and came here to bathe in the light of the Mother to collect myself. I did not expect anyone else yet; please excuse my rudeness. I was just leaving so I can leave you to your worship.”

Volgus held up both hands in apology, ‘No m’lady, the fault is clearly mine. I had thought I’d given you enough room; I clearly had not.’

As Anya began to make her way past him, he giving a respectful amount of room, she heard him say, “If I may be so bold ma’am? Are you a Vestal by chance?”

As she was about to leave the room, she heard his question and paused, a hundred thoughts running through her mind. Why would he want to know? It could just be an innocent question, a conversation starter, but her outfit and manner, as well as her presence her, indicated that she was a Vestal Virgin. In that case, this question would be pointless for anyone but those not familiar with other nations, and the Sacerdotium in particular. This is a conference of the best and brightest in Gothic politics, to solve the crisis of the now to grasp the what could be of the future. So anyone that was here would not ask such a question without a point or agenda they were leading to.

With this in mind, she turned around, her eyes gazing at Volgus’s own, taking in his face, seemingly weighing it up. Thoughtfulness and wariness warred in her expression, with the former eventually winning out.

“Boldness is a virtue in of itself, as long as it is matched by wisdom. I am a Vestal, yes, part of a group attending to Anax Adon Baldassare of the Telrosian Compact for any rituals or religious needs she may have while she is here. Why do you ask, Mr….?”

The High Lord of Engardya bowed formally and low, “Volgus Montauk, High Lord of Engardya. Pardon my lack of manners m’lady.’

Her weighing eyes had not been missed and he knew political savvy was an unspoken virtue within the Sacerdotium. How else could such an institution survive for so many centuries? She was unlikely to willingly reveal anything she felt was sensitive, especially to someone from a Gothic power that had seldomly taken part in regional affairs.

“I have not yet had the pleasure to meet Anax Baldassare, though I am very familiar with your faith, the Sacerdotium. We have several of these shrines across Engardya; but sadly we do not have the benefit of the vaunted Vestals.”

She gave a curtsey, and a bow of her head, after he introduced himself, her manners automatically coming into play as she was taught.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Montauk of Engardya. And there is nothing to forgive, sir. My lack of attentiveness is to blame, not any sort of impropriety.”

She paused to think over his words, carefully watching him with her face attempting to compose herself. His mention of having the Sacerdotium in his nation warmed her heart, it was always good to see those who welcomed the Grand Mother into their hearts and understood what she had done for mankind. The fact that they didn’t have the Virgins confused her, which showed itself on her face.

“Beg your pardon for my ignorance, but how is that possible, milord? The Virgins are there as hands of the Mother herself, to bring her light and wisdom to the aid of the leaders and people they work with. We conduct the rituals to bless, to bring Her favor and to make sure all things go in accordance to her will. It is...hard to imagine a Sacerdotium church without this part. It’s like..trying to open a jar with one hand in my mind.

Oh and as for the Anax, if you wish, I could bring it to her attention that you’d like to meet with her. I’m sure she could spare some time to speak with milord; she was quite eager to meet other national leaders and members to get to know her fellows in the Gothic area.”

Volgus’ face mimed pain, “I would be lying if I said I knew exactly. You will forgive me I hope? Their grace has not blessed Engardya for as long as I can remember. It had something to do with internal politics in the church some decades back.”

He spread his hands in a placating manner. The Vestals were a pivotal part of the Sacerdotium outside Engardya, that much he knew. He did not understand the extent of their importance or authority within the faith. How much else could be different? The followers of the Sacerdotium in his fief had been in a simmering religious conflict for years. Perhaps this Vestal could answer some of his questions.

“Yes milady, I would greatly appreciate an introduction to the Anax. I do not directly represent the Imperial Union but I am my lord’s right hand here.”

“Milady, this may not be the correct place, but perhaps you can assist me? There is a doctrinal dispute within the Sacerdotium within my lands. Is the Grand Mother a deity in the traditional sense of the word? Does the Sacerdotium in your homeland worship her as a living god?”

The question may have been a step too far but it was a calculated risk. He had come to Citadel City to do more than watch the Lords play their games. He, too, had a game to play.

Anya let out a light laugh at the apologetic manner of Lord Volgus as he explained why they did not know of the Vestals. “That is quite alright, milord. I will forgive you if you forgive my impertinence in assuming all knew of the Vestals. That was quite arrogant of me and unbecoming of a Vestal.” She found it interesting that due to internal politics, the Vestals did not exist in Engardya. What sort of politics could have resulted in that she wondered. His acceptance of her offer for the Anax drew her attention back.

“That is within my power to do for you. I am certain the Anax will be happy to meet with you.”

She became contemplative as he spoke again, inquiring after a question central to their, and her, belief: Did they believe that the Grand Mother was a living god? Her head turned to gaze at one of the stained glass windows of the chapel, letting her thoughts gather themselves.

“That is a...difficult question, but not for the reasons you might think. Collectively, my people, the Telrosians, do not view her as a deity or a god. The reasons for this differ on a personal level as well as doctrinally. As a doctrine, we believe the example of the Old Gods, the Corrupted Ones, shows that godhood is not something to seek nor wish to attain, or to be trusted. The Gods were created from the sheer power and destruction of the forces battling each other in the primal days of the universe; they grew fat on our worship and become gluttonous, evil, and wrong. While devotion was given by humanity, their children, first, they came to require it and demand more and more, the inevitable fall from grace into corruption of all self-styled 'gods'. And when they were thrown into Tartarus by the Grand Mother, their evil burst out from within and consumed their forms, twisting them to reveal what they truly were. So this is why the Telrosian Sacerdotium branch officially condemns gods/deities and their worship, and is generally not kind to other religions. Branches of the Grand Mother are protected and supported, but outside of the Sacerdotium, our doctrine is not kind.

On a personal level, or that of individual churches, there's more leeway. The central conceit and conflict is around what makes a 'god'. Do they have to call themselves such, or does it have to be something their worshippers put on them? Do they have to have a certain level of power or ability innately or can it be earned/granted? If they do not ask, or actively discourage worship, are they still on the path of corruption if a god? These are questions people struggle with it, as humans like to put veneration and devotion onto things. People, such as respected leaders, family members or important people in their lives, places, events, even concepts. Honor. Truth. Justice. We all venerate something in the end, so do we just go around, creating a host of 'little gods' every time we put our faith in something? Even the Arch-Priestess on down to the common man struggle with this idea, but”

Anya came close and met his eyes directly, continuing to speak. “To take my ramblings and try to make them an answer to your question: If you believe the Grand Mother is a god because of your worship and veneration in her, doctrinally, we do not share the same view, but many individuals in the Compact do venerate her, if not worship privately. If you believe she is inherently a goddess and has the power of one, able to intervene in our affairs as many gods tend to do, instead of being one with the universe, then both doctrinally and individually, we do not share your views.

But I wouldn't take this to heart, if your implication is what I think. We are very different from the Kylarnatians, one might say 'founders' of the Sacerdotium religion; we prefer the term 'discoverers'. They were the first to find out the truth, in our view. We do not view their Caesar as divine or the only Aspect of Balance. I could spout on for days about this, being in my position, so....Did this help answer your question?”

“They are not united in belief,” thought Volgus as the Vestal finished her lecture. His mind began to churn with the possibilities that this presented. He had always imagined the Sacerdotium to be unified, much in the same manner of the Eridian Church.

“I remain neutral in religious affairs Vestal, as befits my station,” replied Volgus neutrally, “The sect I speak about does, in fact, believe the Grand Mother is a living goddess. Would that constitute … heresy from the orthodoxy?”

At that moment the sound of the large wooden doors swinging open echoed throughout the inner sanctum, followed closely by the sound of two sets of footsteps: one set sounded light and fast-paced, while the other was much more heavy and took slightly larger strides, with the sound of a metal shaft tapping against the stone floor. The two figures who entered did so first in shadow, but as they got closer to Volgus and the Vestal their forms became just visible in the light of the candles: Archpriestess Isteni Hartóság dressed in all the finery of her station, her dress embroidered with the signs of all the Sons of the Grand Mother, and next to her the towering form of Lord Hyperion, dwarfing all others present in the room both in height and size, the candlelight dancing over the curves of his heavy armour, a cape of deep purple and pelt of unidentifiable prey hanging from his broad shoulders. In his hand he carried the great axe Nightbane.

Completely ignoring Volgus at first, Hyperion looked over at the Vestal. “There you are, child. The Archpriestess has been worried about you.” His burning eyes then glared over at the Jagite, observing him for a moment before questioning.

“And who might you be?”

Their entrance did not go unnoticed. At first Volgus dismissed the creaking wooden door as another faithful entering the chapel, but the thumping sounds of metal on stone were unmistakable. He turned, his attention drawn away from the Vestal, and looked into the gloomy darkness as two large shadows towering within. One of slight build and another of monstrous proportions. Arch Priestess Isteni was the first to become visible, being two steps ahead of the giant. Though to call her short would be a mistake. The Telrosian stood at least six foot tall, and although her slight frame was accentuated by this it did little to counter her imposing stature. Her flowing robes were ostentatious and sported iconography that the High Lord didn’t recognize.

Of course she was nothing compared to Hyperion. The Aspect of Night emerged just behind the Arch Priestess and Volgus’ heart began hammering in his chest. There was something primeval about the man -- thing -- that gracefully strode towards him. Standing easily a foot taller than the woman he seemed to tower over everything in the chapel and for a moment Volgus wondered if he was the reason why they put vaulted ceilings in the chapels. Could there be more like him?

The two giants ignored him at first and focused on the small Telrosian girl. Lord Montauk barley heard Hyperion’s comment to the girl, so consumed by the booming sound of his voice. In anyone lesser than Hyperion he would have wondered how they could have such a voice; but for him it seemed to make sense without any need for logical argument.

When the giant turned his gaze upon Volgus … he flinched. It was no minor flinch either, he literally took a step back. The giant’s face was hidden behind a helmet, but Volgus could feel his eyes burning into him. Something deep within the lord of Engardya began to churn. A feeling that had not stirred in so many years. Challenge.

Before he realized it, one knee hit the stone floor unceremoniously. What the fuck is going on, he thought. He felt fear, literal fear, welling up inside of him. Fear of this thing, of what it represented.

A small voice cooed from the darkest parts of mind, “Do not poke this one Volgus.”

With effort he banished the voice. He began to mentally panic, he had to do something. He was clearly losing control of the situation. With great effort he pulled himself together mentally and salvaged what he could.

“I am Volgus Montauk,” he said, at first pitifully but then growing in confidence, using the words to grant him strength, “High Lord of Engardya, confidant to the Secretary Supreme …”

A thought came to him suddenly …

“And protector of the Sacerdotium in Jagada.”

Anya’s face twitched when he mentioned, as off-handed as one would about the weather, that the sect he spoke of in his homeland did worship the Mother as a living goddess. As she gathered herself to speak, breathing being drawn in and opening, the doors swung up, which drew her attention. In came in the Arch Priestess and Lord Hyperion, and the open face of the Vestal closed once more, the mantle of Virgin assuming itself over the woman within. She bowed to Isteni and curtseyed to Hyperion as they finished coming to a halt in front of them. Upon his statement, she nodded, posture apologetic. “I apologize for worrying you, Arch Priestess. I was overcome by the matters of state and the sheer auras of the Lords and Ladies attending this conference. I have basked in the light of the Mother and recited her words to us and my will is solid once more. I am eager to attend to my sisters and our duties once more.”

Movement to her side drew her attention, and that of the Arch Priestess, and both turned to see Lord Volgus taking a step back, emotions battling over his face, after being addressed by Hyperion. Then, out of nowhere, one knee hit the floor, less a bending to acknowledge one’s authority or station but a total collapse brought on by some weakness. Concern showed on her face before Volgus’ face rose up again and for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow behind his eyes, but she blinked and it was gone again. He began to speak, introducing himself and with a concentrated push, she cleared it from her mind. It was merely a figment of her imagination, nothing more. Isteni’s eyes had been watching the Virgin the entire time and they narrowed just enough at seeing a reaction on her face and turning to face the man herself. Then her face composed itself again and her own mantle assuming itself.

“Well met, High Lord Volgus of Engardya and protector of the Sacerdotium. I have many titles and many names, as one in my station gains upon reaching this position, and I am sure you know all of them. For now, you may known me as Arch Priestess Isteni Hartóság of the Telrosian Sacerdotium, it’s protector and shepard in this world. I see you have met one of the Anax’s Vestal Virgins, the personal choir for them and myself for handling of ritual and song. I came here, knowing of the plight that drove her to see solace in a place of the Mother, but it is a surprise to see yourself here when considering what is going on all around us. What wound has driven you here to seek Her warmth and support?”

His emotions were still in turmoil but total collapse had been avoided for the moment. He waited until the Arch Priestess finished speaking, and gave a respectful bow of his head in difference to her, before rising from the stone floor. It took far more effort than he would’ve liked; despite adrenaline coursing through him. Although he looked directly at Isteni, he kept Hyperion in his periphery, a part of his mind still calculating.

“Ignorance, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice laced with artificial melancholy, “And through my conversation with the honorable Vestal, I fear schism. My fief, Engardya, is the center of the Faith in Jagada. It has been plagued by warring sects for some time and I find myself torn between them. I came to this chapel to ask for the Mother’s wisdom and to meditate upon her teachings so that I may gain clarity.”

Hyperion watched the man, Volgus Montauk, closely as he conversed with the Archpriestess. High Lord of Engardya, the Dux Imperator recalled the name as being the place where Kylarnatians from years past had ventured and eventually settled within the Imperial Union, their belief in the Sacerdotium the one thing that still tied them to their homeland, leading to the Imperium Antiquum establishing an enclave on the coastline of a neighbouring province in order to interact with them. The conflict that raged there was something that had been on the Imperium’s radar, but they had been unable to find a way to intervene due to the lack of verifiable information coming out of the region. Perhaps this man presented an opportunity, but Hyperion’s gaze could also see that the man in question was hiding something. As for what he could not see yet, but he had noted how the supposed Protector of the Sacerdotium in Jagada lacked any real symbol of the faith on his person.

Looking past the man towards the altar, where a representation of the Mother stood, Hyperion made his way over to it. Looking for a moment, as if thinking back to a distant memory, the giant then turned on his heel and beckoned the others to come forward. “Perhaps it was the Mother’s wisdom that led to our paths crossing, Lord Montauk. The forces of the Balance lay many tracks ahead of us, but it is our choice that decides which we take. So tell us of these warring sects, and perhaps the Mother will see it fit to provide you with further clarity.”

Volgus stepped towards Hyperion, the trembling he felt inside was fading. The colder reptilian part of his mind slowly coming to the fore, subsuming the warm passionate side. That wasn’t correct. Not subsuming, but coaxing it to it’s will. His stride was faltering. He wanted Hyperion to still think him awed. Lord Montauk stopped at the representation of the Mother and gazed at it. Eyes alight with the possibilities that crept through his mind now.

“There are two, my lord,” said Volgus, his eyes remaining on the Mother, “One group calls themselves Traditionalists, the other Purists. Unoriginal I’m afraid.”

He turned his silver eyes to Hyperion now, “The traditionalists believe that the Grand Mother is a god that is worthy of our praise. They preach that when she cast down the corrupted gods into Tartarus that she assumed the mantle of godhood for herself. For who other than the Grand Mother could ensure godhood was not corrupted again? Who else is capable of resisting the temptations of worship? Who else-”

He stopped himself. He had begun to raise his voice, his words taking on a sharper edge; his voice more feverish. He smoothed his court uniform and recomposed himself.

“My apologies,” he murmured in contrition, “The purists believe that the Grand Mother is not a god and does not wish to be worshipped as such. They say she did not cast down the gods only to repeat the same mistake. This belief, amongst the religious, in the Union is … unusual. It would be the only one of its kind that I’m aware of. A faith whose head deity does not claim godhood.”

He lowered his head for a moment in shame, “Forgive me Lord Hyperion. My position requires that I protect the native faith of Engardya and to remain neutral affairs of faith … and yet I cannot. I do believe in the Grand Mother, and I must confess I lean towards the Traditionalist. I tell you now only because I believe I know what you are … a son of the Mother. Rumors had spread that you existed amongst the Engardyans but I never put stock in them. I know that you will keep this … discretion between us? Secretary al’Maw would not be pleased to know I’ve adopted the faith.”

Hyperion at first showed no signs of a reaction as he listened to the Jagite lord, yet when he confessed that he leaned more towards what he had described as the ‘Traditionalist’ sect, the venerable titan started to slowly approach him and lean into his personal space, casting a shadow as if to impress upon him a grave sense of danger. “If you think you know who I am, then you know my Mother is no god. She has ascended far beyond their petty manifestations and need for power. You would do well to cast those impure thoughts from your mind. As for this…discretion: I care little for your internal politik, but if what you say is true, then there is a splinter in the faith that must be addressed before it is allowed to fester.”

Isteni shifted, her pose shifting to one of contemplation as she listened to the man pour out his concern and what had driven him here; how ignorance and schism tore at his nation and people, especially their Sacerdotium. Anya attempted to make it look like she was not listening, but her pose was too lax and leaning towards the two of them to not hide she was interested in the conversation. Hyperion gently prodded the man to provide more clarity on these warring sects, mirrored by Isteni's supporting nod, which seemed to give Volgus enough to continue.

Two sects: Traditionalist and Purist. Hm, he did say they were unoriginal.

Isteni hummed lightly to herself as she played it over in her head. Apparently, the former believed the Grand Mother to be a god, that her casting down the Old Gods gave her the mantle of Godhood itself. As he continued to expand on the nature of their belief, his tone shifted, almost reverent and Isteni's face, already darkening at the thought of the Mother being considered a god, began to resemble a thundercloud. When he apologized, she eased up but kept a sharper gaze on him, while Anya looked mostly thoughtful, keeping her face looking to the ground to hide it, as she considered the words.

Who but the Grand Mother would be able to redeem the mantle that is Godhood, to take a different path than that of the Eternal War? It was preached she became one of the forces, but it...was possible she merely became a higher level of goddess than previously seen.

His description of the Purists brought a softening to Isteni's face, her support clearly for those who considered her not a god, or to be worshiped as such, but the revelation that it was unusual to have that belief clearly troubled her. When he admitted he was favoring the Traditionalists, Isteni's face was stony, blocking her emotions but her position had already been set by the first reaction. Hyperion laid the groundwork of her response, clearing her throat to speak when he was done.

“It is...admirable to see a people driven to such faith to raise the Mother up to Godhood. They wish to venerate her, glorify her for what she has done, did and continues to do for Humanity, and this is understandable. It is not evil that drives them, merely faith. However, from such misunderstandings, chaos and corruption seethe. The stories show us that the Old Gods started with noble intentions; born from the violence of the forces relentless conflict, they sought peace, but they fell to the sin of pride and the weakness of loneliness. They committed the First Sundering of creating Terra and Humanity, and allowed us to worship them.

For despite their power, their glory, knowledge and divinity, they were flawed creations, much like us, not really different in its flaws than a human. And we saw this in the events that follow; the imprisoning of the forces in the Second Sundering, their burgeoning selfishness and greed, the violation of the Mother herself and their fall to corruption once deprive of their divine source, Avaris and the Vessel. To be human is a wonderful thing, creation and destruction being both part of our nature, giving us good and evil, but we have limits, we understand there are things we cannot do, that we cannot fight. The mantle of Godhood creates the sense that nothing is impossible, that there is no reason to not cross that line of morality, good will, or even decency. Why does it matter? I'm a god, I can do anything! Right any wrong! Fight any evil! I have to, it would be immoral to not use my power for this!”

She raised her hand at the end, her voice getting louder and more zealous as she spoke the words aloud, evoking the feelings behind the words in her tone, before letting it fall silent with her dropping arms.

“But that is the first, insidious road to Corruption, whether it be whispered by the Old Gods from their cells in Tartarus or be our own evil natures trying to gain control once more. So while I understand your views on the Mother, it is a step on a road that should not be taken, and it diminishes the effort of the Mother to free Humanity, overthrow our tyrannical creators by sealing herself in the Vessel as the new force of Balance, and the sacrifice both she, her fellow Seraphim, and even the Sons,” gesturing at Hyperion.

“, made in closing off the realms through the Duat to keep us safe from the influence of Tartarus and Avaris alike in the Third and Final Sundering. To choose to worship a god, be it a vision of Her, or any other, is the willful relinquishment of the greatest power of Humanity; stronger than any force, god, or being in all of Creation: The power to choose our path, no matter what.”

She took a breath, seeming to center herself from the outpouring they had born witness to; Anya stared with awed eyes; she was still intrigued by Lord Volgus' views on the Mother but she had never seen the Arch Priestess so emotional about anything before, even in her lessons with the other Vestals.

“I….apologize if I come off as harsh, Lord Volgus. I just see in all the worship of gods, demons, spirits, all such beings the same errors, the same sins, the same loss of what makes us truly Human. We can see if a peaceful resolution can be had for this, but I would find myself backing the Purists in this matter.”

Lord Volgus Montauk maintained his inner fortitude even if his exterior appeared to crack under the stern gaze of the imposing son of the Grand Mother. He leaned back, giving space to Hyperion, until finally he was forced to a take a step back. He took the lecture by the Arch Priestess as an moment of reprieve to craft a suitable response. This had to be done delicately.

“I … I have …’ he stammered for a heartbeat, his eyes flickering between the maternal gaze of the priestess and the imposing Aspect of Night. It would have to be done perfectly.

His shoulders slumped and he lowered his head, staring at the stone floor, “I have erred against the Grand Mother … I can see that now. She is not a god. She cast down the gods to save Humanity from their depredations.’

He lifted his head and looked Hyperion directly in the eyes, “There can be do doctrinal debate with an Aspect. My lord, you word is law. You say your mother does not desire worship, then I shall not worship her. Instead I shall venerate her and the sacrifice she made for our people.’

The Arch Priestess was not necessary to what came next but obviously ignoring her preaching wasn’t wise, and so the Lord of Engardya turned and bowed his head again, “Your words are wise and truly you speak with the wisdom of the Mother.”

He noticed that Hyperion had not moved or even acknowledged his submission, and then he remembered the warning of the son. The Traditionalists were heretical and clearly Hyperion was implying that they must be dealt with.

“Oh … of course my lord, the … the heretics,” he said meekly, not even really sure heretic was a proper word in this context, “You are the Aspect of Night and close to your Mother. What can we do about these heretics? I am at your service on this matter.”

Hyperion finally gave Montauk some reprieve as he stepped back, albeit slowly, keeping his eyes on him for some time before turning his attention back to the statue of the Mother. “I shall meditate on the matter. For now we must focus on our task here in Citadel City; I will contact you, Lord Montauk, when it is time to act. Until then I expect you to share with me everything you know.”

[Havensky]

Writing credits: Aldarminia, Dephire, Drakonia, Ghant, Havensky, Kylarnatia, Lamehk and the Kraven Reich


The next morning the Skyans had laid out a buffet of breakfast tacos, casseroles, baked goods, meats, fish, and fruits. Baristas stood at stations armed with espresso machines to properly caffeinate the Lords and their staff. There was even a small basket of headache medicine for those that had imbued too much at the feast.

With breakfast having been concluded, all that remained now was business. Perhaps everyone in the Ghantish delegation knew that the Praetor nomination was going to be a circus besides the Emperor of Ghant. The Emperor who was now also Executor had no notes, no papers, no prepared speech or any sort of dossier, indicating to his countrymen that his mind had already been made up, and all that remained was speaking the name of his nominee, whoever that might have been.

Once everyone was ready to begin the business, Nathan cut his teeth on his newly minted position by initiating the process. “The time has come to begin nominating the Praetors, now that everyone has had the chance to eat...the food was excellent, by the way. Whatever might be said about the quality of the Skyans, let nothing but the best be said about their cooks.” Nathan joked with a grin in the hope of keeping the mood light.

“The process shall be conducted as follows. All those who are deemed candidates are to be escorted into the chamber, so that they might stand behind their lords. If they are nominated by their lords, they will have the opportunity to step forward, so that all of us may see and know them. Then we shall conduct our votes, and should those votes succeed, they shall be chosen as Praetors, and will receive their badge of office.” It was at that point that Nathan looked to the Skyans.

Turning his hand, the Executor added, “would you be so kind as to escort the Praetor candidates into the Chamber? Once they are all present, we shall begin the nomination process. I shall go last.”

Outside the Chamber, the nominees were cooling their heels waiting to be asked in. Major Squall of Havensky stood pacing as he waited. He stopped as he saw the Ghantish nominees walk up. There were a dozen, ranging from knights to soldiers. Though it should be noted that there technically were no “Ghantish nominees” because the Emperor never actually nominated anyone. These men were all members of the Emperor’s personal entourage, and would have come anyway in spite of the Praetor nomination process.

Joining their fellow candidates, Marat and the Aldarminian Prince checked each other’s attire for flaws and stray scraps of food from breakfast. Finding none on Suvorov’s modest military dress uniform, with all three of his medals to adorn it, Ryslander opened his arms wide and spun around with a subtle crook in his posture. As the turn rounded into completion, the Prince asked, “Anything wrong, Marat?”

Certainly, in the nobleman’s mind, something was wrong, but nothing struck him as mistaken with the Prince’s black kaftan, sharovaries, or cherkesska. In Marat’s terse head-jerks, Ryslander could sense something troubled the man. “Marat, is there anything wrong?”

“No, Your Highness,” faintly grinning lips replied, “Shall we mingle with our peers?”

The Prince’s eyes rolled and his shoulders shrugged, “They are your peers, sir. Not mine. You will be Praetor, and I will be soldier. However, I suppose I should get a better lay of the land considering my focus last night is unlikely to be ruling when Zloba ascends.”

The two spied the conversations of the Praetor candidates, and moved to join them.

“Gentlemen,” Artur greeted those assembled. “Your Ladyships,” he added looking to Serana and Khonsu, with a slight bow of head (a traditional Drakonian show of respect). The Millian Commander now wore the dress uniform of the Territorial Navy consisting of a bottle green jacket with black piping, black trousers with a gold stripe up the leg. Khonsu acknowledged him with a solid nod, though said nothing.

Serana raised an eyebrow slightly at the honorific. Her inferiors normally used “Mistress”, if they weren't too terrified to even speak. She considered “Lady” a title best reserved for weak and obedient types. The Drakonian was just charming enough though, that she refrained from comment and returned a faint nod of her own, with a bonus flirtatious look just for fun.

His voice deep and soothing, “I apologize, but I forgot to introduce myself.” The tall mountain of muscle found probably the most random point to butt in. “I am Boris. Pleased to meet all of you.” He gestured as if tipping an imaginary hat.

“Welcome to the Citadel.” said Squall with an arms wide open gesture.

Ryslander grinned at the oddly jovial Hell Knight, and mimicked the gesture with a touch of authenticity via the removal and return of his astrakhan. The Prince and Marat introduced themselves in kind, and added, “An honor to meet you, sir.”

Marcus Sutherland was a bit late to arrive outside the chamber. For whatever reason the Drakonian Royal had for being late, he gave no indication. In fact, he acted more somber and reserved as he approached the group of candidate; back held straight. He did let slip a smile to those assembled and too offered his own greetings with the nod of his head.

“I’m sure that we’ll all be confirmed. Atticus has been doing this kind of work a long time and he’d never bring something to the floor unless he was certain.” remarked Squall.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ contradicted Serana, flashing a roguish, half-smile and speaking in a sweet tone that made her words sound like a compliment despite the content. ‘I’ve got my doubts about you, Tincan.’

Squall furrowed his brow at the tincan remark biting his tongue about what he really thought of the Slaver Princess.

“Oh ho! Watch yourself, Squall!” Boris ho-ho’d and patted Squall on his back, “She’s quite the jester.”

Marat tilted his head and gesticulated passively, “Her Highness’s jest touches on an interesting subject. Why bring us all here when the fates of our candidacies are still uncertain?”

“Well, our State Department did send out the reforms to everyone ahead of time… though even he seemed a bit nervous that it would all pass. I think he felt better after so many Lords arrived in Citadel City.”

As the other Praetor candidates spoke amongst themselves, Khonsu waited patiently by the doors, leaning against the wall. She was of equal height to Caesar at 6’5”, but much more plainly dressed, from head-to-toe in a black tactical bodysuit, concealed further by a long dark hooded cape. As there were going to be cameras in the room, she concealed her face with a venetian mask in the style of a fox, due to the nature of her work. What made her stand out more than that were her long locks of red hair, which were incredibly rare for a Kylarnatian to have.

Having listened to all the conversations closely, she took the time to observe each and every candidate as they arrived. She had been there since the beginning along with Squall, and had measured him to be a quite earnest and dedicated soldier, one who Lord Hyperion had made particular note of, which meant he also had to be quite formidable if he had the respect of the legendary Dux Imperator. “Yet he seems to be concerned with the tiniest of things. A gentle soul at heart.” She thought to herself as she had watched him pace and express his assurances to the other candidates: The slaver candidate in particular was someone she had marked as dangerous from the moment she saw her, the look in her eyes foreboding her evil and twisted nature.

The two Legionaries suddenly stood at attention and did an about face. They each took hold of the large copper handles of the oak doors and opened them wide. Awaiting them was Secretary Atticus who Squall could see was trying to keep a grin in check. Major Squall looked up as he saw the Praetor candidates as they walked up to the large door of the Gothic Chambers. Two Legionnaires in white armor stood guard preventing anyone not authorized from entering the chamber.

“The Lords invite the Candidates of the Office of Praetor to stand before them,” the Executor called out.

Major Squall and the other candidates walked into the Gothic Chamber. The Lords were lined up in a row with Executor Nathan at the podium in the center flanked by newly named Castellan Burnham. The galleries were full of staff from various Gothic embassies and the press cameras had been allowed to be turned on.

The Executor spoke. “Each of you has been nominated to serve as your nation’s first Praetors… Praetors are not trained. Each of you have been selected because your actions have lifted you above the rank and file. Your role will be to be both peacemaker and our first and last line of defense.”

Casting his eyes upon the Skyan Lord, Nathan asked, “Lord Jessica Heart of the Skybound Republic of Havensky: Whom do you nominate as your Praetor?”

Jessica’s voice rose through the chamber as she spoke. “The Skybound Republic of Havensky nominates Heartknight Guardian Major Gavin Squall of the Skyan Legion.”

“Do you accept this nomination? If so, step forward,” asked Executor Nathan with an open hand.

Squall took one step forward, and then the Executor asked, “Are there any objections to this candidate?”

A few positions down the line, Serana cleared her throat as if about to speak, softly but with just enough volume for the Executor to hear. Squall pretended not to notice. Nathan leaned over and strained to hear, before shifting his eyes to her.

Serana held the Executor’s gaze for a few seconds before adopting a bored expression and turning her attention away to nothing in particular, as if completely unaware of the expectant gazes coming in her direction.

Boris tried to chuckle softly to himself, seeing Serana only as teasing Squall, but his chuckle came off as a small cluster of booms. “Ah, pardon me.”

With no other objections or interruptions, Nathan announced, “Then the Council of Gothic Lords name you Praetor of the Gothic Council!”

Edwidge, who wore a long Heartbreak red dress and a brooch replicating Squall’s own personal crest, stepped toward Squall opening the box taking out an iron badge. She handed the box off to an aide as the cameras rolled. The badge itself had the Gothic Tree inlaid in copper leaves with a black cobra coiled around the trunk. It’s fangs laid bare in warning.

Edwidge said a few quiet loving words to Squall in her in her native Middle Närvärynese. Edwidge placed the badge on Squall’s left breast where the magnetic badge snapped to his armor with a metallic click and kissed him on the cheek.

Next, Nathan addressed the Drakonian Monarch. “Lord Augustus Drake of the Grand Dominion of Drakonian Imperium. Whom do you nominate?”

Augustus Drake's eyes scanned across the candidates while he held his head facing forward. The two uniformed men standing in front of him, Artur and Marcus, tensed. Now, was when their immediate future responsibilities would be decided. By their Monarch and by themselves.

“The Imperium nominates Prince Marcus Sutherland of Trinitia.”

“If you accept, step forward!” Nathan called out.

The fingers on Marcus’ prosthetic left hand twitched as though the hand were about to close into a fist, but he held the cybernetic hand open and at his side. He stepped forward, his posture, military (or royal) straight.

“Are there any objections?” The Executor waited for the room to respond. There was nothing and after a few seconds of silence, Nathan addressed the room. “The Council of Gothic Lords names you, its Praetor!”

Augustus’ lips slipped upward into a veiled smile of pride as his daughter stepped forward bearing a small box. The young uniformed princess was not so practiced in betraying her emotions. Her smile was unmistakable as she approached her uncle. She opened the box and drew out another broach, the same as the one that now adorned the chest of the Skyan Praetor. She affixed the serpent and tree broach to Marcus’ chest and stepped back, straightening and saluting, her fist slapping her chest over her heart in the Drakonian-style. The Drakonian Praetor returned the salute and Lilliana did a crisp about face returning to her place behind her father.

Moving on, Nathan next addressed the Lamehken Primarch “Lord Lorkahn Malus of the Protectorate of Lamehk, whom do you nominate?”

‘The Protectorate calls Serana Malus to serve as Praetor,’ announced Lorkahn, using the same formality that the other Lords proceeding him had, hiding how truely disinterested he was in the ceremony of the proceedings.

The Executor once again asked if there were any objections, and then, after a brief pause of silence, addressed the room once more. “The Council of Gothic Lords names you, its Praetor!”

Handing over the box to his kaltor, Lorkahn stepped up to Serana with the Praetor badge. He was surprised she had once again chosen to wear a dress instead of a more combat oriented outfit like her typical form fitting bodysuits. He wondered if she was trying to mislead the other candidates as to her abilities even as he pinned the badge to one of the large shoulder straps. The task done, he stepped back and dismissed the thought, giving Serana a curt nod, which to her was as good as high praise. She smiled warmly and returned the nod.

Next, it was the Imperium Antiquum’s turn. When called upon, Caesar - who was now dressed once again in the fine ceremonial armour she had worn during the first day of proceedings, angel wings and all - stood forward once again and, quietly clearing her throat, loudly proclaimed, “The Imperium Antiquum nominates the woman known as Khonsu to serve as Praetor.”

As her name was called, Khonsu also stepped forward. She bowed gracefully before the Lords and the Executor, “I am prepared and willing to serve in the interest of the Gothic Alliance, as my Caesar has commanded.”

Nathan seemed unsurprised by the nomination. “Are there any objections to the nomination of the woman named Khonsu?” After a pause featuring no objections, Nathan raised his hand. “Then step forward, Praetor.”

With her Praetor status confirmed, Khonsu stepped forward towards her Caesar. Lord Hyperion held the box which carried the Mark of the Praetor, which for her had been fashioned as a brooch for her cloak. At the same time, the Haeres Julianus also stood forward, carrying another box which had been opened, revealing a newly fashioned cloak in the shade of obsidian, somehow even darker than the black she was already wearing. Removing her old cloak, Silvier took the new one and placed it round her, before fastening it in place with her Praetor brooch. Once finished, Khonsu went down on one knee, bowed her head and took Caesar’s hand, openly reciting a few words.

“Mother, I go forth as one with the shadows and the night. I shall bring justice to those who plan to commit injustice. I shall bring order to those who seek to cause chaos. I shall bring truth to those who spread lies. I am a child of the Night and have within me all the strength and righteousness which you gave to him. I see all that is true and I cannot be persuaded by evil. I feel the warmth of your love and feel that warmth for the innocent, and wrath for the guilty. Fiat.”

“And I shall have no problems boring all of you senseless with my ritualistic rambling,” mumbled Serana under her breath, imitating Khonsu's voice. Since the Lamehken delegation was close to the Kylarnatians, Hyperion heard this, and since they were in the back out of view of most of the television cameras, he took the opportunity to say something to the slaver since she had continually insulted everyone

“Silence, girl. You should learn to respect your new peers.”

Serana smirked wryly. ‘Says the eavesdropper. Respect is earned, Muscles, it’s not a privilege. But if you’d like to try and make me, then your going to have to take that power armour off, else it just wouldn’t be fair with little me only wearing a dress.’

“If that is the case, then you’ve yet to earn mine.” Hyperion quipped when she spoke about respect. Then she challenged him to remove his armour. “That would be very painful…”

‘Oh, come now, Lord Muscles, you’re a big guy.’ Serana looked toward Hyperion for the first time in the conversation. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’

“...for you.” Hyperion finished his sentence, turning his head to glare at her, his burning red stare looking down directly into her eyes.

Many would have been intimidated, and Hyperion certainly was intimidating, but his threat only served to elicit a laugh from Serana. As faint as it was, this drew the attention of her father who with a single subtle sound told her to shut up. Serana looked away, seemingly unphased but obedient nonetheless. ‘We’ll see soon enough, Muscles,’ see whispered.

Hyperion maintained his stare a while longer. He could tell that she was blinded by arrogance, but he could also see that it wasn’t without credence. She was strong, and even if foolish, her willingness to challenge him meant that the ancient Dux Imperator was prepared to take her seriously. Though she wouldn’t know it, she had gained her first little shred of respect. “As you wish, girl.”

Once Khonsu had finished, Silvier retrieved her hand and beckoned her to rise, which she did so before promptly returning behind her and beside Lord Hyperion, now almost becoming completely hidden in the shadows. There he whispered a few words to her, though only those in the back would have seen, and none would have heard.

“Very good, very good then,” Nathan said as he did his utmost to suppress a yawn. “They who are next, please present your nomination.”

Time came for the Aldarminian nomination to be called upon, and so Dalikharl stood. He locked his eyes on Marat’s nervous frame wedged within the line of nominees. The Emperor nodded a silent commendation before proclaiming, “The Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of Aldarminia nominates Marat the Fifth of the Veil Suvorov.”

Nathan cast his eyes upon the nominee and asked, “Do you accept?”

Marat was pale, and his body remained still spare the words, “Regretfully, I must decline the nomination.”

Before the din of hush or whisper could overwhelm the proceedings, the Hammer controlled the damage as well as he could, “So be it. The Grand Imperial Cosmocratium of Aldarminia nominates Ryslander the First of the Blood Azcheyko.”

Silvier, who had remained unmoved and continued to focus on other things in front of her even as Marat turned down his nomination, quickly yet quietly adjusted her focus to look for the young Ryslander in the room, reading his reaction before then gazing over at Dalikharl with a slightly concerned glare in her eye, one that only he would possibly register. She had also taken note of the other reactions in the room. Hyperion and Khonsu traded a quick glance with one another, but had otherwise not registered much of a reaction.

Gazing upon the young man, Nathan asked him, “do you accept?”

Ryslander rallied his jaw into a dignified closure as he stepped forward.

Squall’s face balked visibly before resuming his calm stature. Ryslander appeared to be a capable young man and would make a fine officer someday. He could see him serving as a second lieutenant or ensign without question. However, Squall felt that the young prince was too green for an assignment like this. That the Aldars were setting him up for failure. He was sure Ironwing would agree too, but he wasn’t here and Squall was in no position to object. He looked to Queen Heart to see if she would say anything, but to his dismay she had that calm happy look on her face.

“If I may,” Silvier began, standing forward from the line just slightly, hands held in front of her. She looked towards the pale face of Marat. “It is a shame that the honourable gentlemen feels he cannot serve the Praetor programme, though having studied his credentials beforehand I, along with many of us here, know that he is more than qualified.”

“I must therefore ask you, my friend,” The Caesar turned her gaze over to the Hammer “and I do so with the utmost regard for your decision-making and ask only for the clarity of our brethren: what do you feel qualifies the young Ryslander, who knows I hold him fondly in my heart as I do all your children, for the role of Praetor?”

Dalikharl retreated into his seat as he spoke, “If he is qualified to serve my people, he is qualified to serve Gholgoth, and if my word on this matter is not enough, then solicit his.”

Knowing that Silvier would only be the first and not the last, the Hammer scanned the faces present in the room. By his own sovereign’s doing, the Prince was now left to defend himself.

Queen Jessica looked down at the room and noticed her former Captain of the Guard quite agitated as the Caesar spoke. She had known Squall long enough to understand that "I don't like this, but I'm going to suck it up and drive on."

"Major Squall, you have the look of somebody who wants to say something. Speak."

Squall frowned having not wanted to be put on the spot. However, he hadn’t been given the option. He thought for a moment before raising his voice.

"My Queen… my Lords… Prince Ryslander appears to be a fine young man and I have no doubt he'd make a fine junior officer in any military. I’d even consider him a boon to have as a platoon leader in Heartbreak Company. However, the position of Praetor is an important and particularly dangerous role. He is, as of yet, untested.”

Serana gave a barely audible snort of derision, frustrated by how timidly the others were approaching the situation. Aware that this was not occuring behind the closed doors of the council chamber, she glanced back to her father. He remained calm and apparently unconcerned, as was usual, but with the briefest of eye contact he gave accent for her to speak.

‘If the others will all tiptoe around this, then allow me,’ she addressed the Executor, ‘I absolutely do object to this appointment. As Major Squall has noted, the boy is untested and without any legitimate experience to backup his appointment. More than that, he is a child. A Praetor is meant to be the presence and authority of all Gholgoth, sent on the most important missions this council has, but what authority does a child without experience carry? What leader would back down from war on his advise? Which enemy of the region would cower at the mention of his deployment? None of them. Why would they, when we wouldn’t.’

As the two Praetor’s objected, Lord Hyperion had listened and then approached his Caesar, leaning down and whispering something in her ear. She looked at him for a moment before glancing back at the conversation unfolding, then at Dalikharl and Ryslander, before giving the Dux Imperator a firm nod. Once the Lamehken Praetor had said her piece, Silvier stood forward once more.

“My Lords, Praetors and Nominees, if I may I would like to grant the floor to the venerable Lord Hyperion, who has put forward to me what he believes could be a solution to the current predicament we find ourselves in over the confirmation of the young Ryslander. Hyperion, if you would.”

The titan figure of Hyperion shifted from the shadows, his eyes glaring as he towered over almost everyone. He paid particular attention to all the Praetor’s - both now confirmed and still nominees - present in the room and tried to get the measure of each of them as he easily projected his voice. “My Lords, I do not believe it is possible to settle this matter with words alone. I think it is clear through what has been said that the Hammer has good reason to see the young Ryslander as a viable candidate, but I believe Praetor Squall also said it best himself: ‘He is, as of yet, untested.’”

Taking long strides towards the prospective and confirmed Praetors, Hyperion continued to measure each of them in turn before focusing on Ryslander. “I propose that, in accordance with the Hammer’s wishes, he be confirmed as Praetor. However, in order to address the concerns of his newfound peers, he will partake in a number of trials to demonstrate his ability - both to them and us - to show that he is prepared for field deployment. If it pleases the Council, I will oversee and direct these tests, and I propose that Praetor’s Squall and Serana serve as his ‘opponents’ in simulated operation environments so that they may address their concerns directly. That way, if he is not already prepared, he will be by the time we’re done.”

The Lord took a moment to glare at all the Praetor’s one last time, giving a second longer for Serana, before turning his attention to the Council and awaiting their verdict, a look of approval on the face of the Caesar. If one looked close enough, they would notice a smirk etched on the side of Khonsu’s face. Queen Heart looked at Squall for approval and Squall gave a nod.

“The Skybound Republic has no objection to this proposal nor to Prince Ryslander being named Praetor.”

His face resting behind the clasped ball of his hands, the Hammer had paid delicate attention to his son’s demeanor as his fellow Goths voiced their concerns. Ever since Serana had spoken though, the Prince’s eyes had been locked on her. Dalikharl set his arms down and leaned back into his chair. Lightly tapping his fingers before he spoke, the Emperor’s words captured the Prince’s attention earnestly, “Do you have anything to say? If you have doubts now, do not bother stepping back into the line. Leave this Chamber, and take the Suvorov with you.”

Ryslander’s lips curled into a twisted grin, “No, Your Majesty. I will serve Gholgoth as I have served you. If that means proving myself worthy of the honor Your Majesties would grant me in light of no confidence, then so I shall. If it means learning from my fellow Praetors, so I shall. If it means teaching some to fear a child,” his eyes dashed towards Serana again, “Then fear a child, they will.”

Serana found Ryslander’s glare to be laughable at best, but accepted that he had a fighting spirit and that was something she could appreciate. A thin, dangerous smile split her lips. If he wasn’t worthy then she would delight in breaking that spirit. ‘Lord Hyperion’s proposal satisfies for now. I withdraw the objection.’

“Good,” the Hammer beat his fist on the table, “Aldarminia has no objection to the trials, and truly, it will endorse them and whatever Praetors Squall and Serana decide for Praetor Ryslander. Darysha, badge the boy, so we can get on with this. Hopefully, without further issues, for which I give my fellow Lords my humblest and sincerest apologies.”

Appearing exasperated, Nathan nodded and cried out, “Seeing as there are no objections, the Council of Gothic Lords names you, its Praetor!”

As Darysha placed the Praetor’s Badge on the Prince, he could not be happier though his face refrained from revealing as much. On the other hand, Marat’s spirit quivered behind the cold shoulder of his Emperor.

Hyperion watched the ceremony and observed the young man for a moment, before shooting glances at both Squall and Serana, then returning to his place by Caesar’s side, a pleased expression on her face though internally she still thought over what this could lead to. For Hyperion’s part he was more than satisfied: he knew that his other duties prevented him from doing so, but he was keen to be more involved with the Praetors.

Tristan Prime, appearing immune to the effects of the morning after hangover, “I, the Godsend Emperor Tristan Skragg of Dephire nominate the Aspect of Wrath himself, Boris Yarost! Why is he called that? No clue!”

“He who is nominated, step forward, and proclaim if you accept this nomination,” Nathan said as he looked for the man in question.

Thump! Thump!

Boris Yarost stepped forward, having donned his Hell Knight armor he appeared even larger than he normally would. “I, Boris Yarost, accept the nomination for Praetor. I shall serve this council to the best of my ability. Thank you, and I look forward to serving amongst my fellow praetors.” He sat down with a loud thunk.

“You did good,” Tristan whispered.

Boris glanced to the imposter to his side before slowly returning his gaze towards the center of the room. Whispering, “I have restrained myself from destroying you and everyone in this room. Do not try to push your luck with such words. My master, my true master only agreed to this appointment as he thought it would help him forget your transgressions against his people. Death will come for you.”

“Yes, Wrath, I know Sammy is not too pleased with Dephire. Let’s hope this Praetor title helps persuade him not to be irrational.” Tristan replied with hushed tone.

Boris’s eyes looked to Tristan without his head moving too much, “For now this title will hold our truce. Now, stop being rude and listen for the others.”

While out of earshot of the exchange, Hyperion had taken a subtle interest in Boris, so-called ‘Aspect of Wrath’. He saw the tense glares exchanged between both him and the Godsend Emperor, and he started to get the feeling that there was more to the man than met the eye. He certainly wasn’t just a Hellknight, the ancient Dux Imperator wagered. Now wasn’t the appropriate time to wonder, however, and Hyperion quickly returned his focus to the rest of the room.

The Executor scanned the room. “Seeing as there are no objections, I name thee Praetor.”

“Who would you nominate to represent the Kraven Reich?”, Nathan asked of Skaro.

“We nominate no one.” said Skaro gruffly. Silvier’s head turned just slightly to look at the Captain, though she was careful to give no outward expression other than a look of curiosity.

“Not even yourself?”, questioned Queen Heart with an inquisitive look. “Atticus has spoken highly of your cooperation in these diplomatic matters and your combat skills are sea are undeniable. Will you not take up the mantel?”

“The next nomination may now proceed.” Unfortunately, there was no one left besides himself, and once the Executor realized this, he recomposed himself. He sat up straight, stiffened his back, and narrowed his eyes until he assumed a piercing visage. Looking out he could see the anxious faces of the men in his company who were the presumed candidates for the position. There was Captain Asentzio Osinalde, commander of the Ghantish Lamb Brigade that fought against the Kraven Reich Wolf Brigade at Hab Centre 06 in Vetalia, there was Sir Artur Ordosa of his own Zinpalak knights, there was the Knight of Ducks and so many more worthy men.

Yet, it wasn’t a worthy man that would be nominated. It would be the right one. “Ghant nominates Tarna Bo.”

“So, I guess that answers the question of who the Ghantish Praetor will be,” remarked Ironwing.

At first there was silence from the Ghantish candidates, as though they were stunned to hear a name that was neither theirs or one that they recognized. Even the Imperial children, who had been speaking quietly amongst themselves, merely sat there in a state of bewilderment. Lara Jarasa, the worldly Gholghantish noblewoman seemingly always in the know, leaned over to one of her advisors and asked, “who the fuck is Tarna Bo?”

“Seeing as how Tarna Bo is not present to accept this nomination, I will summon them to the Castle of Gaztelua to accept this nomination and receive the mark of office. When that has been done, I shall inform you all of that occurrence to the appropriate effect.”

It was a Ghantish knight by the name of Harold Iznaga who broke the Ghantish candidates silence, and asked the Executor, “pray tell, your Majesty, who is this Tarna Bo, and why would you see fit, in all of your wisdom, to name them Praetor, over men who have so faithfully and so ably served your Majesty for so many years? Who have given everything to serve you, only for you now to spurn us for someone that until this moment, we had no idea even existed?”

Nathan looked around, locking gazes with men who felt spurned, rejected and insulted. Then he leaned forward and said sternly, “because not a one of you are fit for this office. Tarna Bo is.”

The Gothic Chamber went mad. The Ghantish candidates began to shout at once. They leapt to their feet, shaking fists, calling out things like “we demand this” and “we demand that.” It was such that the Executor shot up from his perch and slammed his fists into the table so hard he thought he might have broken both his hands. “Silence! The lot of you! Hear me when I say not a knight, nor a soldier, nor a prince, nor a faithful servant of the crown shall ever have been my Praetor.”

“And you would deny us the glory!” A soldier roared. “You would deny us the honor!”

“That is because there is no glory, no honor, you fool,” Nathan shouted back at them. “This is a thankless job, one where recognition and praise are neither sought nor gained. This is a job that requires someone who seeks, and expects neither, someone who is used to doing dirty work. Someone who is used to a existence in the shadows.”

Nathan looked around the room then, at the Praetors and their masters. “For Ghant’s Praetor, I looked for someone who has grown accustomed to a life spent in darkness, among shadows. Someone with no family that could ever be used against them, or a family that would mourn them. I sought a person that isn’t afraid of death, because to the world they are already dead. I looked for someone that nobody knew, because if the time comes where I needed my Praetor, I don’t want any one, especially any of you, to know what they’re capable of. In all of the world, there is only one person who calls themselves a Ghantar that to me seemed suited for this task. Tarna Bo.”

The Caesar shot a sidewards glance at Nathan as he announced his pick. Initially she was surprised, but as Nathan explained his reasoning and the reaction amongst the Ghantish candidates intensified in it's anger, she understood his reasoning. Even if she wasn't a fan of being kept in the dark herself.

While the arguing continued, she took the opportunity to whisper to one of her diplomatic attachés, "Contact Lady Palafox at the Ghantish Consulate in Caesaropolis. I want to know if either she or the Empress know anything of this Tarna Bo." As the attaché bowed and went to work, Caesar turned her attention back to the commotion.

Skyan Secretary Atticus raised his eyebrows now understanding why the Ghantish had kept their pick a secret. It was an internal political matter and a very clever way of keeping Nathan’s position strong internally.

The Executor cast a long gave upon his underlings, and then looked around the room at the other Gothic Lords. “Are there any objections to this?” Nathan was surprised to see that there were none, and once he realized there wouldn’t be any, he smacked the podium with his gavel. “It is done,” he proclaimed. “The Praetors have been decided.”

[The Macabees]

Co-written with Havensky.


It was after the break when the Council Chambers suddenly shifted. It wasn’t a physical shift, but something in the air had changed. The White Guard began to file out in an organized fashion and were quickly replaced by Legionaries in bright red crimson armor. With so many diplomats and Queen Jessica’s own Red Guard had been assigned security for extra-regional VIPs.

Atticus rose from the Skyan throne and stepped just to the right of it. Squall started to stand more at attention. There was an energy amongst the Skyan staff.

The doors opened and into the room walked Queen Jessica Heart alongside Emperor Fedor of the Golden Throne. She passed the Skyan throne and briefly touched Atticus shoulder whispering a word of encouragement before moving up the stone steps. She took the podium on the center-right of the stage with a nod to Executor Ghant who sat in the Gothic Throne at the center of the stage.

As Fedor wasn’t a member of the Gothic Lords he was not afforded a seat at the round table. However, the Skyans had created a chair for the Emperor in the same style as the Gothic Thrones at the table seated on the far left of the stage. The Golden Throne wasn’t golden in Gholgoth, but made of beechwood. The Imperial Eagle was engraved in the back of the chair. The seat was a dark blue matching the navy stripes on Fedor’s flag.

As the Queen stepped up to the podium and prepared to speak the Red Guard snapped to attention. The Summit might have been Atticus’ show, but it was evident that this was the House of Iron Heart.

“My Lords…

I would first like to formally express my gratitude for you all coming to Citadel City and for the hard work of you and your staffs on the Gothic Reforms. These are challenging times we face, but the fact that you are all here shows that these difficulties are not insurmountable.

Which brings us to our current unpleasantness. That we are a region at war. From your staterooms, some of you might even be able to see the path of destruction that a Scandinvan bomber laid down not that long ago. To make nothing of the impending invasion in the southeast by extra regional forces. I won’t make light of the situation; these are volatile times that require cool heads and clear thinking.

Thus, it is to my great satisfaction that Emperor Fedor of the Golden Throne is here to speak with us on the matter. I ask that the Lords give him your full attention and welcome him to the podium at this time.”

Fedor took a seat only for as long as the Queen spoke. When she finished her introduction she subtly signaled to the Macabéan emperor before returning to the Skyan Throne. He rose, walking toward the center of the stage where all in the chamber could see him. “I remember Gholgoth when I was yet a boy,” he said. “I remember when her legacy was defined by the presence of Automagfreek and Damien Dreadfire. How the world has changed. Automagfreek is still here, of course, but Gholgoth today is so much more. And thanks to the efforts of Queen Heart and all of you, she enters a new age, one that allows all those who care deeply for this land to look forward to an exciting future.”

He paused. Then, “Gholgoth’s future is your own and, in your endeavors, I wish you the best of luck. My presence here is almost coincidental, although I am glad that I was able to witness the beginnings of Gholgoth’s new history. Regardless, I would be dishonest if I said that I am concerned with anything other than the Scandinvan Empire, our allies in the region, and Greater Dienstad. I mean that in the most honest sense that what happens in Gholgoth is not the business of the empire. Indeed, even the Scandinvans matter to me only insofar that they have dared to destabilize imperial authority in one of its own territories, far, far away from Gholgoth, all for the purpose of expanding its control over an unwelcomed slave trade in a region whose states have long stood against it. That is not something that I, emperor and leader of my people, and I dare say the region of Greater Dienstad, could simply allow to happen or leave unpunished. It is not something that I, emperor and leader of my people, could leave to others to solve for me. The Scandinvans have to pay a price that is set by the one they aggressed against, the only one who knows the cost of what they have suffered.”

“All the same, to say that the Scandinvans must pay a price does not mean that the methods of extracting this price should be stripped of all limits and bounds. Gholgoth is much more than the Scandinvans and has interests beyond those of the Scandinvans. In fact,” he looked around, “it seems as if the Scandinvans do not share many of the same interests as you. I, the Golden Throne, want to align my interest with yours. My goals in Gholgoth are transient and temporal. When the Scandinvans have compensated us for the damages they’ve caused, not a single imperial serviceman, ship, or aircraft will remain in Gholgoth. How could they? The Golden Throne’s only duty lies with Greater Dienstad. So that I guarantee, our presence here starts and ends with the Scandinvans.”

He did not mention that he sought to scale down the empire’s commitments to Golghant, a sentiment that went both ways perhaps. The benefit of the alliance was, truthfully, marginal and Golghant’s leadership had already proven itself fickle when up against Gothic uneasiness over the existence of imperial bases. In fact, many of these bases would go empty, as their inhabitants would never arrive. Those that did would be gone in a year or two, shifting to the expanding Car’gún Díelaht which was more than capable of taking on the role of the supply nexus of the invasion.

“How can the limits to my objectives be guaranteed to you? I propose a treaty between the Golden Throne and the Gothic Council, a delimitation of the conflict zone to the waters immediately surrounding the Scandinvan mainland island of Drana and those south of them. These limits would be marked by the latitude that runs directly south of the island of Kregaia, serving the double function of explicitly differentiating and separating combat efforts in Drana from those of the Gothic coalition forming to liberate Shen Almaru. Longitudinally, I propose confining the warzone relevant to imperial operations to the space between the eastern coastline of the landmass holding Tiami and Lamehk, among others, and the longitudinal line directly west of Tersanctus. In this fashion, the war will be contained to a corner of Gholgoth, one that leaves most nations free of the turmoil that the conflict may cause.” Embassy staff passed out documents including a map of the region, with the conflict area highlighted.

“All the more, I would like to reiterate my commitments to our allies, Havensky and Ghant. I know that with the Gothic alliance given new life, an alliance that has chosen His Imperial Majesty Nathan as its first leader, my commitments may not mean much in comparison. Even so, I keep them,” he said.

“Whatever help we can provide in your endeavors in Pudu, we will give it,” continued Fedor. This includes the provision of any and all Scandinvan intelligence gathered by our military and agencies. Your armies are mighty enough to do the deed alone, no doubt. But how many of your men’s’ lives could you save with the power of information? And how many soldiers less have to die when the bulk of the Scandinvan army and navy is tied down?”

“The Council and its Lords will want to review the minutiae of the treaty’s text, surely. I trust that your staffs will be in communication with my own in the coming weeks. With all of this said, it is an exciting time for Gholgoth and I truly wish the Council the best of fortune in its future endeavors,” he finished.

[Havensky]

Co-written by Dephire, Kylarnatia, Ghant, Pudu

Tristan Prime was first to his feet, applauding the man with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Emperor Fedor! I, Tristan Skragg of Dephire welcome your assistance and agree to your terms. Dephire is pushing towards Shen Almaru as we speak with one of the largest navies we have ever mustered. I welcome the coordination of a seclusion zone to help keep the war in that corner of Gholgoth. Your people shall have their reparations. Gholgoth shall also have its own justice against the slavers.” He looked around the room and recollected himself. “Their unprovoked attack upon this very city has caused a great rift. It is my aim to seal this rift with my fury.”

Queen Heart and Atticus both raised their eyebrows at the same time and looked towards Prime. They shot a quick glance at each other and the Queen Heart even shot a small smile. The Skyans had been expecting some pushback and this singing endorsement was a good sign.

Quick to his feet after the Dephirian was the Pudite Emperor Dengmu, who clapped loudly and gave a hearty "Hear, hear!" as Tristan began his response to Fedor. Dengmu was unreservedly in support of the proposed treaty and if his enthusiastic response combined with the oversized white and blue ribbon featuring a golden eagle that he still wore on his chest weren't enough indication then he would see to it his staff would make it more than clear in the negotiations to come. With hundreds of Pudite warships already operating around the Almaran archipelago and north of Drana the delineations would be operationally important but they would not be quibbled over.

Caesar for her part listened while looking at the material that the Golden Throne’s people had distributed. She could see that a lot of thought had gone into the presentation, and she had no doubt both the Skyans and Ghantish had given plenty of guidance. Nothing jumped out at her as being egregious, and she was well aware that this was perhaps the best outcome they could hope for. Confrontation between Gothic powers and the Golden Throne was highly undesirable, especially as it would only likely serve to benefit both the Scandinvans and the Reich. As Fedor concluded his speech, Silvier joined in Tristan’s applause.

“Thank you, your grace, for coming here today to address us all personally. I concur with my Dephirian friend; the Scandinvans - by not only provoking your just retribution through their actions in Greater Dienstad but also in forsaking our creed by attacking this great city and supporting the rebels of Shen Almaru - have forfeited their right to our shared defence, until such a time that their errors have been corrected and reparations properly paid. The Imperium Antiquum thanks you for your willingness to cooperate and believes your proposal to be more than acceptable. Speaking as an ally in the coalition to liberate Shen Almaru, any intelligence you have would be greatly appreciated, and we in kind would be happy to share our own.”

As she finished, members of her delegation began to converse with the the Macabéan emperor’s, passing along information with contacts in the Imperium’s Supreme Command and intelligence community. At the same time, the opportunity was taken to extend an invitation to Krytopia.

The atmosphere was one that wore down on both of the Anax’s of the Compact; Eshmun irritably adjusting his clothing and shifting in his seat and Adon remaining proper and calm in her stance, albeit with her hands almost white with the strength they were clasped on each other. Both were regretting, for the hundredth time that night, their nation’s past policy of isolation and head in sand program for foreign relations. It had been rectified in past decades but really only for contact with the Kylarnatian state and economic and trade ties with others, beyond that there was little precedent or understanding of the nations and their rulers. Tonight was a crash course and while exhilarating, was also terrifying for the both of them. Isteni had come with him but was in her own position away from the Gothic Lords, and it was felt by both of them. Stern as she was, she had become a key fixture in all of their meetings and statecraft and both missed her ability to help remove themselves from their fear.

Thankfully, they had something to focus on, being the speech and documentation provided by the Golden Throne and his staff. Eshmun was quickly given copies by one of their aides and he was pursuing them, while Adon watched the Emperor and his reactions to the immediate post speech atmosphere and the responses from Tristan and Silvier. Once they had finished, and Eshmun had whispered enough in her ear, she leaned forward and began talking, drawing all of their gazes, but she forged ahead, focusing her line of sight to Fedor’s eyes only.

“It is probably tiring to hear at this point, but your words are well-said, Emperor Fedor. This conflict has laid bare the weaknesses and conflicts of the old Gothic system, for those big and small, in their roles and the purpose of this brotherhood. The idea of mutual defense against all comers is a laudable one, and I can see why the Scandinavians cling to the principle as they have; however, all things have their limits, and blind devotion to such a concept is how certain practices and...groups have been allowed to flourish when they should have been stamped out long ago.”

Her words, carefully chosen, were meant to evict whatever personal bias and image to match, but those who knew her and the Compact’s recent meetings would be well aware the practice/force in question was Kraven, with only a passing attention to the Scandinavians. That was a problem for the Golden Throne, as long as they followed the guidelines to be established. Kraven was the real threat in her mind, but Skaro had apparently been key in this meeting happening and it would not due to have the Reich come crashing in because of a hot temper.

“They have sought to harm your people, your nation and your ability to govern, and a price must be paid. One cannot intentionally seek out such conflict and then come back demanding the help of its fellows for a mistake it made. Their search for enlightenment would indicate they seek wisdom and knowledge that would be key to understanding such things, but blind zeal and material greed seem to have overcome their good sense. In the end, the one who trades in flesh, and demeans one fellows in the brotherhood that is Humanity, cannot truly seek to believe in any other covenant, religious or national, and any statement to the contrary is dripping with hypocrisy.”

She unfolded her hands and moved them to arms of her chair, to draw attention away from her face for a moment and give her a pause to breathe.

“As long as the guidelines set down by this Council and the Golden Throne are obeyed and your conduct follows your intent as you have laid out, the Compact will support it. We are doing our part in the Shen Almaru operation, with a fleet being sent for the overall effort. We match the call from the Caesar for the Kylarnatian Imperium in offering an exchange of information and intelligence for the benefit of our mutual operations. The Compact is young and not as established or reputed in these matters of most on this council, so all we can offer is our help and our fervor in following this to the end. The Mother willing, this will be resolved as quickly and painlessly as possible and cease to be such a burden on both of us.” With a nod, she indicated the end of her part and leaned her head back, eyes closing as she sought to recover, Eshmun reaching a hand over to her shoulder in open support and private concern.

The Emperor of Ghant, now also the Executor of the Gothic Alliance, sat in silence and listened to what Feodor had to say, followed by the rest. Once Adon had concluded his speech, Nathan rose to his feet, slowly and methodically, until he stood tall upon stiff legs. “The Golden Emperor has spoken of commitments to allies, of which my people are but one. It is as His Majesty says. When the war began, the Alliance was in disarray, and predators were lurking about the region in search of easy prey. It is no secret that we Ghantish were vulnerable. Those ancient nations surrounding us are no strangers to war and conquest, and my people were scared. I would not sit idly by while my nation and its people were fallen upon by war machines, slavers and bombs, like what ill fate had befallen the Vetalians, the Skyans and the Briskans.”

“The Golden Throne broke bread with me, it is true. We made common cause, but this cause was not war, it was not subversion and it was not treachery. Our cause was saving lives, and protecting innocents. That’s my commitment to my people as Emperor of Ghant, and now that I am Executor of the Gothic Alliance, that’s my commitment to all the Gothic nations. To use whatever means available to me to save and protect lives, and nations, and so that everyone from Gothic Lords to children can sleep comfortably at night knowing that they will wake up the next morning in their beds, without fear of dying in the night or waking up in chains,” explained the Emperor thoughtfully.

“I’d like to think that we are all on the same page about that. The Scandinvans have a rare opportunity to listen to reason. I spoke personally with Crown Prince Fenric not that long ago. He is a man with his back against a wall, and like an animal in such a position lashes out in fear. I told him that his nation stands at the precipice between peace and devastation, and it is the people of his nation that will the pay the price. The Scandinvans love their children too, and in the end I hope they put them first, and seek to end this nonsense once and for all for their benefit.”

Mulling over the offer that Feodor made, Nathan added that “It is not my place to speak unilaterally for this alliance in regards to the Golden Throne’s offer, though I personally consider it sage. I leave that matter to the Gothic Lords, and should they in their collective wisdom deem this offer acceptable, than so it shall be accepted and made so. I thank the Golden Emperor for coming here and speaking with us, and I encourage the other Gothic Lords to consider his words and respond as they shall.” With that said, the Executor carefully sat back down and waited for whoever was next.

[Ghant]

“It is Done”
(Co-written with Dephire, Drakonia and Kylarnatia)

The Executor looked around the room, waiting to see if there would be anymore responses to the Golden Emperor, as Nathan called Feodor. After it became evident that there would be nothing else said at that particular time, the Executor inclined his head to Feodor, and raised his hand to him. “Thank you, your Majesty, for your time. In the spirit of diplomacy, let us all consider what has been said here on the matter, and weigh it carefully.”

Subsequent to that, the Executor reviewed his notes, and there was one last, but very important item remaining to be addressed. “I bring this next and final item of business to a head, now that everything else has been concluded. For the defense of Gholgoth, a coordinated effort must be made between the Lords of the Council. To this end, I present the Wardens of the Gothic Council.”

This next part had to be explained thoughtfully and deliberately, the Emperor realized, lest it potentially be misunderstood. “The Wardens shall act as supreme military leaders responsible for the defense of Gholgoth in the event of foreign invasion, presiding over different regions of the realm in which their homelands lay. In times of peace, this title is purely honorary, though in times of turmoil and war, these titles shall carry great responsibility. The title shall be hereditarily given to the Gothic Lord of a certain family, but the Council retains the right to award it to another of their choosing if needs be.”

Having said that, the Executor cast his gaze upon Silvier. “Your Majesty, Caesar Silvier, I call upon thee to rise.”

Caesar looked towards Nathan and gave an assured nod, before stepping forth in full view of the cameras and her fellow Lords, her face bearing an expression of calm. Hyperion, Khonsu and Julianus watched on from the sidelines, her son’s face beaming with pride, as the beatific sovereign of the Imperium Antiquum answered the Executor’s call.

“Your Majesty, I would name you Warden of the North, should you accept,” the Executor spoke firmly.

To those paying close attention, they’d notice a change of expression on Silvier’s face. It was one of quiet yet thoughtful determination, and her eyes lit up like the sparks of ignition as she took in the sight of her Lordly peers and the many cameras focused on her in that moment. Standing firm with head held high, a small smile appeared at the edge of her face as she answered with a simple authoritative utterance. “I, Caesar Silvier Catherina Silvanus, do accept the charge of Warden of the North.”

At that moment, Hyperion struck the stone floor with the shaft of Nightbane three successive times, the sound echoing throughout the chamber. Khonsu and Julianus, along with the rest of the Imperium’s delegation, bowed their heads deeply in reverence.

The Executor inclined his head. “Then it is done. Let any among this Council state their objections, if indeed there are any.” Nathan watched and waited to see if there would be any, while at the same time Hyperion looked on, his stare foreboding. After a few seconds of silence, the Executor smacked his gavel upon his throne. “Very good. I would now call upon Emperor Tristan Skragg of Dephire to rise.”

The man going by that name stood up from his seat, rising deliberately. In Nathan’s mind, Tristan wouldn’t need to be asked twice. The Briskans were to have a Gothic Fortress at their disposal, and if that weren’t enough to put their minds at ease, perhaps their Lord possessing the mantle of Warden of the West would further assuage their concerns. And irritate the Kravenites, Nathan thought, though ultimately, it would serve as a true test of Kravenite loyalty to the Gothic Alliance, which as it stood seemed dubious at best.

“Your Majesty,” the Executor called out to Tristan, “I would name you Warden of the West, should you accept.”

As Nathan predicted, Tristan didn’t need to be asked twice, nor did he hesitate in giving his answer. “I, Emperor Tristan Skragg of Dephire, accept the honor, Executor.”

Nathan nodded. “Then it is done. Let those with objections speak them now.” When none did after a few moments, the Executor went to his next nomination, that being for Warden of the East. Nathan didn’t want to leave the second place vote getter for Executor empty-handed, and as he did with Silvier, wanted to demonstrate that he was generous towards his rivals, wanting to honor them by elevating them to Wardens. “Praetor Augustus Drake of Drakonia, please rise.”

When Augustus did so, the Executor called out to him. “Your Majesty, I would name you Warden of the East, should you accept.”

Augustus’ face stayed a carely maintained neutral. He stepped forward, back straight, head held high, eyes looking forward. There was a slight jingle from the sword hanging at his hip. “On behalf of the people of Drakonia and Gholgoth,--” He slapped his fist to his heart in a Drakonian salute, or to show the severity with which he took the oath. “--I, Augustus Valens Drake, Praetor of the Drakonian Imperium, do accept the responsibility and title of Warden of the East.”

“Then it is done,” Nathan said with a rise of his hand and then a swing of his gavel upon the arm of his throne. “Are there any objections?” Again, there were none, and with a slight inclination of his head to the Executor, a sign of respect in Drakonia, Augustus stepped back to his previous position.

“As for Warden of the South,” Nathan began, “I would name the High Steward of Gholghant, Lord Henoor Zaldua, who is absent from this Council. He will serve until such a time as I am no longer Executor, at which time I shall assume the role of Warden of the South myself.” In Nathan’s opinion, no country was better situated to host the Warden of the South than Gholghant. It was the nation furthest to the south in Gholgoth, centrally located in that part of the region and it was to house a Gothic Fortress. It only seemed natural, though he’d leave it in the hands of the High Steward until Nathan could exercise it himself. “Are there any objections?”

Since there were none, Nathan proclaimed “it is done,” and after smacking his gavel, moved on to the last nomination he had in mind. He didn’t forget about the Damien Dreadfire and their ilk, and worried that they might feel a loss of prestige that would leave them bitter and resentful. Time to throw the dog a bone. “Lastly I would declare Damien Dreadfire Warden of the Dreadfires, so that their privilege may never be gainsaid. Does anyone object?”

Once again, and for the last time, there were none. “It is done.” Nathan zealously smacked the gavel against his throne, and then announced “that concludes all of our business. Well done everyone.” The Executor thought that the beginning of his term showed promise, as he saw to the organization of the defense of Gholgoth in a more coherent fashion than had existed previously.

Whether that would be enough remained to be seen, however. Even as the Executor descended from his throne, questions lingered in his mind. The intrigues and quarrels of his children, the ongoing war between the Scandinvans and the Golden Throne, the truculence of Fenric and the recalcitrance of the Kraven Reich. Any number of things could still go wrong, Wardens, Praetors and Gothic Fortresses aside.

For now though, what was done would have to serve. For the time being...

[Kylarnatia]

[OOC: This post was co-authored with Havensky.]

The Gothic Floor

The Gothic Floor of the Citadel was named as such because the entire floor consisted of the auxiliary offices of the Embassies of the Gothic Lords. The Secretary of State’s office was strategically placed at the centre of the building so that any of the regional ambassadorial staff could come visit the office by walking down the hall. This had been useful in the run-up to the summit. The conference had concluded and this particular floor was emptying out as staff went home or to celebrate the successful conclusion of the summit. Secretary of State Lance Atticus walked down the hallway at a half-step slower pace than his usual as the Summit had really drained him.

His intention was to drop off his work tablet in the lock box and go home to The Open Hand and sleep for the entire weekend. However, as he walked inside the antechamber to his his office he noticed the large frame of Hyperion standing outside the door. His own secretary wasn’t at his usual spot because he had given him the next week off. A decision he might have regretted at the moment just slightly.

“I take it her majesty isn’t sitting inside my office to congratulate me?”

Hyperion glanced down at the Skyan Secretary of State, pausing for a moment to simply stare at him before answering. “The Caesar will see you now, Secretary Atticus.”

“Dux Imperator”, he said with a nod as he walked inside. He could never get a good read on Hyperion and sometimes felt that his lack of marital prowess made him somehow less in the eyes of the Aspect of Night. Atticus’ words were weapons and he was OK with that.

As Atticus walked into his office and threw his suit jacket in his usual spot. The office was not all that dissimilar than the in-port quarters of the Open Hand. The difference was that these walls were an unpainted red brick instead of the steel of his airship and the wood furniture throughout the suite was much nicer. The suite had a small dining room for entertaining, a rather roomy conference room, a private study, and a small bedroom tucked away in the back. The walls were nothing but bookshelves and large maps of different areas of the world. The largest of which stood directly behind his large mahogany desk. This particular map was hand painted and showed a geo-political map of the Gothic region.

Caesar was standing right by the door, having passed the time by looking through the large and well-chosen collection of books that sat on all his shelves. In her hands she held the smallest of them, a very well-worn paperback titled Scout. Taking great care to flick through the pages, her eyes met with Atticus’ as he walked through, a warm albeit measured smile appearing on her face. “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who keeps hold of old favourites. You should come visit the Fangthane sometime, I’ve got volumes stacked twice as high as this ceiling and then some which I’m sure you’d love to go through.”

Showing extra care in closing the tiny book and placing it back where she had found it, she turned to him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “I know you must be exhausted, so I will try not to keep you long. I just wanted to stop by and say that you should be proud of what you’ve achieved.”

Turning away, she looked to the large map of the region behind his desk, which she began to approach. “Not even in the days of Dreadfire would it have been conceivable that such reforms would have been adopted. We are truly entering into a new chapter of Gothic history, and those only come around once every few generations. Your name will forever be immortalised for your actions here these past few days, I can assure you of that.”

Atticus bowed ever so slightly, “That is high praise coming from you Caesar and I very much appreciate it. Can I offer you some refreshment? I have a very nice mezcal in sitting in my desk for just such an occasion.”

Caesar laughed ever so softly. “You do know what a lady likes to hear. If you’d be so kind.” She gestured poliently, though kept her back turned as she continued to look at the map.

Atticus popped open a side drawer and pulled out two glasses and a black bottle which he poured two very healthy pours. He held his own glass in his right hand and lifted the other glass towards the Caesar. Normally, he would have offered bourbon but he thought that the current situation called for something more smouldering.

“To the council, your grace.”

She took the glass and looking at him, raised the glass. “To the council…” She then waited for Atticus to take the first mouthful. “...and to the brave men and women of the Humanitarian Fleet.” She then took a mouthful herself, keeping her calm composure.

And there it is..., thought Atticus.

“Your Grace, I feel that you have some thoughts on Operation Resurrection that you are eager to communicate. Given the lateness of the hour, I would suggest we get right down to it.”

“Very well then.” Caesar respected the Skyan Secretary of State, so she had no intention of wasting his time. “I won’t lie, when I first learnt about the fact that you had made some sort of deal with the Reich, I was furious. I wanted to tear you a new one; don’t even ask me what Hyperion wanted to do. Then when I learnt what it was for from Captain Skaro and...I once again found myself completely enamoured with the spirit of your people. You are truly, as I said to the students of Citadel University this morning, the better angels of our nature.”

Atticus raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his drink as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

She smiled at him for a moment, her warmth genuine, but quickly it faded as she returned to the serious intentions of the conversation. “It can’t happen again, Atticus.” She allowed for a moment of silence so that her words hit home. “I will not allow it.”

“Your Grace, with all due respect, I am not your open hand. I serve my Queen and the High Council of Havensky. Additionally, it is unreasonable for you to say that when you know perfectly well that you would have made the same deal if Skaro had approached you.” Atticus was, despite his tired state of mind, able to maintain his calm demeanour.

“After all, Skaro himself had convinced the Reich Marshal of the benefits of agreeing to the reforms, but he also knew that the region would never have agreed to come if they knew that the idea had originated from them. It was Skaro who asked for secrecy. I’m also sure that if you had been given a chance to recover thousands of lost Jagites you would have done as I did and not told one more soul than absolutely necessary in order to keep the plan secure. It’s regrettable that we weren't able to fully inform you, but my government stands by this decision. The more people who know about the activities of the Redemption and her support ships, the more dangerous the situation becomes.”

She allowed him to finish, nodding respectfully as he did so. She did not fault either his or the Skyan’s logic, but her next words highlighted the real issue. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve wanted to give the order to tear the ground of Fortress Norska asunder so that I can put an end to the suffering of those millions of women who are used like nothing more than cattle to spawn their bastard Battalions. It’s an affront to everything my people believe; a crime against the Mother’s very being.” She stopped for a moment, visibly disturbed by just having to think about it, her eyes flickering with a desire to enact justice.

“But that wasn’t my point. Although I sure as hell don’t want to be learning about these things from a skipper next time.” She gave the lightest of chuckles. “I meant what I said at the university today: these reforms are going to change the fate of this region and shape the lives of generations to come in ways we can’t even imagine. There’s no going back now, and what comes next is going to be a much more fierce battle than anything we’ve ever faced before. One that will claim millions of lives, with brutality and destruction far beyond what was witnessed in places like Hab Centre 06. Which means, from now on, none of us can afford to go alone. I refuse to see another Skyan go bravely into the frey without them having one of my Legionnaires at their back. That is what I won’t allow. Sacrifices will need to be made, and your people have bled for long enough.”

Atticus bowed ever so slightly.

“I very much appreciate that your Grace. I will admit that the conclusion of the Vetalia Crisis left a bitter taste in the mouths of my people and the Legion. Major Squall will never admit this publicly, but he felt very angry that he lost so many people without a victory of consequence. He understands and accepts that he’s personally saved hundreds of lives and the treaty saves thousands, but it’s still hard for him to swallow.”

“I share his anger about Vetalia. We were too late to respond, and while we still have our foothold, the peace was made before we could make any real difference. I don’t intend to make the same mistake: as soon as the first shot is fired, Fortress Arcadia will fall, and it will be the first of many.” Caesar stared intently at the map of Gholgoth, marking with her eyes the Kravenite satellite that sat close to her borders; something which could not be allowed to continue. “My top commanders and I are developing a Stratagem; using all of our first-hand experience and knowledge of the Reich to formulate a common plan to use against them. We’ll only know if it works for sure in practice, which is why going forward I intend to exponentially increase the operations of my Armed Forces across Gholgoth and Varathron, particularly in theatres where the Reich is active. We’re going to push their buttons and see how they respond.”

“An excellent plan, your Grace.”

Caesar let some time go by, allowing the two of them to just enjoy the silence and their drinks. Then she spoke rather candidly, in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I’ve never done well with being kept in the dark, or with not being somewhere when I feel I should be: my father would do it with me sometimes, even if he knew he shouldn’t. He wanted to protect me, and his unborn grandchild at the time...he was a noble man, like you. He didn’t let me go with him to fight when the Great War happened, despite the fact that it was my duty to serve with him. Serve my Caesar. Then he died on the beaches of Norska, along with…”

Stopping herself abruptly and immediately rebuilding her strong composure, she looked at Atticus directly before breathing heavily through her nose and moving forward. “I hope you can understand my feelings on the matter, and will take what I’ve told you forward in the days to come.”

Atticus nodded, understanding that the Caesar had shared something very personal with him.

“I think your request is a fair one and will carry that advise to my government. If it’s any consolation; just between us. I had argued with the Sky Marshal Gonzales over the secrecy of the operation. As he’s in charge of that sort of thing; I could not overrule him. I will, however, continue to advocate for keeping our allies informed. I can promise you that.”

Caesar was grateful to him, perhaps more than he realised. “Make sure it’s what you do in your government.” She shot him a sly smile. “You’re a good man, Atticus. Your people will need you, and Gholgoth will need you. So I expect you to win.”

Atticus allowed himself a small smile. The conventional wisdom had held that if Atticus had a successful summit that he’d win election to be the next Prime Minister and by his accounting the summit had gone very well. It would still be a very close race. There were large swaths of the population still upset about Fortress Arcadia, but time had proved Atticus right. Little Vetalia was now a thriving neighbourhood within the safety of Citadel City. A win here did go a long way towards proving his point against the Militant Party.

“Well, if I am afforded the opportunity by my people I will certainly heed that advice your Grace. The election hasn’t quite begun yet and I don’t want to presume anything.” Atticus said humbly.

“I have a good feeling. I’ll be the first to call to congratulate you.” She gave him another smile before finishing her drink. “Unfortunately for you however winning does mean having to see more of me and the rest of the brood.” Pointing again to the map.

“Sure you still want it?”

[Havensky]

Glass Restaurant

The restaurant was situated at the very top of the Olympus Tower in the Grand Crossing district in the heart of the city. The dining room boasted large floor to ceiling windows and lights throughout the roof that lit up in neon colors depending on the direction and speed of the winds outside.

The Glass Restaurant had been a particular favorite of the new Castellan Edalynn Burnham when she and her husband had the money to spend. She played host to the Executor and the Wardens as they left the summit after their business had concluded. Burnham had imagined that everyone would want to get out of the Citadel and stretch their legs for a bit. The cool summer’s night air making for a short pleasant walk from the train station at Grand Crossing to the Olympus Tower. The city was in a festive mood and waiting on the fireworks show that would come later that evening. The Red Guard prevented them from getting too too close to the average resident, but even from a safe distance the party could see the street festivals. They passed the Xiaochi night market just past the train station before heading into the skyscraper.

While the food at the Summit had been good, nothing could compare to the Glass where celebrity chef Ariana Caro had taken particular pride in serving the wardens. The appetizers had been decadent blue cheese stuffed figs. The salad course was loaded with vegetables freshly picked from the skyfarm across town. The main course consisted of steak served smothered with chimichurri and with a side of prawns.

The conversation was lively as the Wardens discussed the future and there was no lack of topics. There was the obvious war, the passage of the reforms, the future of Pax Gothica and all that the new regional capitol would bring to the region. When there was a break in the conversation, Burnham would point of the window to one area of the city lights in the window and talk a bit about the neighborhood.

The party was served with a dizzying selections of wine from all across region. A server would continue to bring wine flights to the table throughout the evening so the party could sample as much as they wanted.

And that was before desert plate had been brought out. It was served family style with a smorgasbord of black cherry cheesecake, mocha ice cream, and sweet fruits. As if by magic, or maybe some clever timing on Caro’s part, desert was served mere moments before the fireworks started with diners delighting at the view. Sparks of red, blue, and gold dazzled across the sky reflecting in the waters of Rico Bay below.

Caesar Silvier - who was wearing a long red velvet evening gown sporting a deep v neckline, high halter collar, and peplum waist, complimented by a necklace of sapphires inlaid in smaller cuts of diamonds - pulled a very satisfied grin as the dessert arrived. It was not too dissimilar to the kinds of dessert you would find in the Imperium Antiquum. She saw the face of Tristan - Warden of the West - light up like a kid in the candy store as he took a giant bite into his ice cream as he spoke with Augustus Drake. The Gothic Warden of the North used her dessert fork to take a conservative bite of her own slice of cheesecake. After all the pressure and responsibility of the past two days, it was nice to have this moment - however brief and fleeting it was - to relax and unwind. She didn’t get these moments often, so for tonight she would wine and dine, laugh and make small talk with her Gothic counterparts.

Yet deep down she felt the weight of the days, weeks, months and even years to come grow in the pit of her stomach. She looked out onto the beauty of Citadel City, and the warmth of admiration she felt for it was equalled by the terror of imagining it all turned to dust, those beautiful skyscrapers of light ablaze with the terrible destruction that comes in wartime. However, in her mind she was determined to prevent this nightmarish reality, and in fact already knew that the first steps had been taken back home in the Imperium Antiquum’s heartland to avert a possible defeat, and turn it into a probable victory.

That would begin for her first thing in the morning when she would set off for Krytopia. For now, she would allow herself this night.



Bruderschaft Pub
The entrance to the pub was a single door on the corner that was next door to another shop. It was easy to miss as there was just a small sign indicating its location.

The door led to a wooden spiral staircase that led straight down to the basement and barely fit Hyperion’s huge frame. Once down the stairs the space opened up to a small cozy brick area with wooden tables and lit by candles. The bar was built into a small space framed by a brick arch. The back of the bar was packed to the brim with liquor bottles. Two waitresses maneuvered around one another slinging drinks to the patrons. The pub was crowded and even though the other patrons were not yelling their voices reverberated across the small dark space.

Around the corner was another small area with a large bench that hugged all three walls. In the center was Gavin Squall. It was the first time Hyperion had seen him outside his power armor. Instead, he wore a black Heartbreak Company sweatshirt. He rose and waved Hyperion down telling the youngest Praetor to move over and make some room. As Ryslander scooted over he bumped into Boris who merely grunted as he took another swig of his beer. On the small tables, Squall had several pitchers of Imperial Goat Lord along with some glasses for the taking.

It was rare for the Dux Imperator to find himself in such a setting, especially without the Caesar present. Yet she told him to accept Squall’s invitation to go drink with the newly appointed Praetor’s, and she did so because she knew how much of an interest he took in them. His size made him stand out practically everywhere, but it was even more pronounced here, where he had maybe less than a half-inch of clearance between his head and the ceiling. Seeing Squall wave him over, Hyperion made his way over to him, seemingly unphased by the busy crowd of people between the two of them, who felt the giant’s presence immediately and were quick to get out of the way.

“Squall.” Hyperion’s voice had little difficulty making itself heard, even over all the noise made by the Pub’s Legion patrons.

“Dux Imperator! Please have a seat. I’m glad you could join us.”, Squall remarked a bit surprised.

Hyperion looked down at the seating, and tried his best to sit on the bench, having to stretch out his legs in front of him. There was a faint creaking as the seating took his weight. “The Caesar said I should join you. I’m glad to do so.” He took one of the glasses and a pitcher of Imperial Goat Lord, the former of which was dwarfed in his hand.

Squall noticed how small the pint glass looked in Hyperion’s hand and waved to the bartender. She came over and leaned down to hear Squall say a few words. She came back with a litre of Goat Lord in an oversized stein that seemed to fit better.

“Thank you Alicja.”, said Squall as she walked away.

“Thank you.” Hyperion took the stein and inspected it. Upon closer inspection, Hyperion could see the shield of a Skyan military unit. The exact unit insignia eluded him and he was quite sure that it wasn’t Heartbreak Company. The shield depicted a black cobra coiled around a blood red Legionary style sword.

“Tell me, Squall, what is this insignia?”

“Hmm, let’s see… That’s Cobra Company, 1st Gothic Legion… based out of Citadel Base across the bridge. Air Assault unit on board the … what is it.. The Ferocity of Freedom.”

“Hmmmm, how fitting.” The Dux Imperator mused, thinking it was no coincidence he had been given this particular stein due to his role as the man in charge of the Black Cobra, the Imperium Antiquum’s Special Forces. It was rumoured that the Cobra themselves referred to him by an ancient High Seraphic word, which nobody unversed in the tongue could say or understand but apparently the closest Common translation for which was “Night-Father”, though the Caesar’s Imperial Armed Forces never took any question about it seriously. Some conspiracy theorists on the dark web speculated that calling him their “Father” was not just ceremonial, but who could say?

The door opened, drawing attention through the action itself, and in walked someone clearly not fully comfortable in being there. A head of messy brown hair was seen poking out from under a simple military cap, dark blue, much like the rest of the military uniform. The symbol of the Compact was clearly displayed on both shoulders, an eagle with outspread wings, a sword above a haloed head; he took off his cap and folded it so it could be stashed away in a back pocket. His eyes were immediately everywhere, scanning with a speed and skill of someone who does this wherever they go. They found exits, points of interest, pausing only when they saw the booze and a smile creased his face. They eventually settled on the forms of Squall, Hyperion and Ryslander, and he seemed to nod and made his way over.

He moved with the careful motions of a military man; outwardly relaxed and calm but with poised power ready to be called upon at a moment’s notice. Scars would be evident to those who bothered to observe him as he came close, with one dark one in particular on the side of his neck and a line of hairless skin on his skull with soft skin-white tissue. Upon reaching the area, he inclined his head in respect to each of them, a full bow to Hyperion in turn, before speaking in a soft tone.

“My apologies for disturbing you. I have just come from being sworn in as the Compact’s Praetor; my plane was delayed, keeping me from the ceremony. I trust it would not be too much to ask to join my soon to be fellows in arms?”

He quieted after speaking, waiting for a response, still occasionally glancing around, aborted curious looks at Ryslander but keeping his attention focused on Squall and Hyperion for now.

“Not at all, come sit… have some ale. I’m sorry, I don’t know if I caught your name?”

Once acknowledged, he moved and took seat, with enough space to not infringe on anyone’s territory, so to speak. At the question, he blinked and then briefly smiled.

“Oh, where are my manners? My apologies, I am Alázatos Szellem, Sergeant 1st Class, Compact Armed Forces. I know of you, but it’s mostly titles and news reports. Can I get introductions as well?”

“Of course, my name is Major Gavin Squall, Skyan Legion.. This is Hyperion, the Caesar’s personal bodyguard...and over here is..”, Squall voice trailed off as he moved around to point out all the different Praetors now present in the small pub.

“Dux Imperator Hyperion. Though I’m sure the Sergeant knew that already.” Hyperion calmly added, raising his stein in greeting to the young soldier in a rare casual display. Despite being a guy with a lot of responsibility and power, on top of being so unlike everyone else, Hyperion had a natural ability to blend in. “I go by many names and titles, so go with whichever one you’ve heard.”

Squall leaned back on the wooden bench listening to the most feared people in the region banter back and forth. There would be a lot of work ahead that would begin for him first thing in the morning when he’d be due to report on his new airship. For now, he would allow himself this night.

[Havensky]

Mija,

You’ll have to forgive me…but this is to prove that your Uncle Aguila *did* write to you even when I knew the letters wouldn’t send. I’m sure by now you understand why.

They call this mission Task Force Resurrection. The task is simple. Take custody of Jagite prisoner of war and their families and provide medical care until we can return them to Jagada.

Of course, the complicated part of this errand is that we’re doing this in the middle of Neo-Cydonia. Also, we aren't allowed to leave with the prisoners until the end of the war. We’re hostages. Kraven doesn’t want to fight at the moment and we’re here to make sure that our allies play nice. In return, we will save the lives of thousands upon thousands of people who for all we knew died long ago.

They send us to do these things not because they are easy, we do things because they are hard. Someday, you will understand this.

I was the advance guard. So, I was on the ground when the rest of the task force arrived. The air here is so thick with smoke… the only light to hit this land comes from when one of our airships breaks through the clouds just for a moment. We also have the HRS Redemption here with us too. We needed a good hospital ship and we got the flagship.

The superdreadnought had barely pulled up and docked before Doc Eizariya started to run down the ramp to see her patients. I had warned her not to do that. She made it five feet off the ramp before she doubled over in a coughing fit. The smoke that comes from the foundries here is so thick that you can choke on it. It’s little wonder the cappers wear rebreathers all the time. I ran over to her as fast as I could and gave her my own helmet.

Well, gave is one way to put it. In reality, I.. kinda shoved it on her head. The helmet then sealed itself around her head and pushed all the smoke out. She took a deep breath and then looked at me like I was loco.

“Ma’am, what did I tell you? Don’t go outside without a breather on. I know you’re eager to see the patients, but”

I didn’t finish as I started coughing myself.

Since then, she’s been in the shelters that we’ve set up almost non-stop. The Jagites here were working in the mines and with the soot and the smoke Doc is worried they all have chronic asthma or worse. The Jagites here were in a wretched state. No, worse than that… what’s the English word...emaciated. She does this thing… when she’s listening to somebody’s lungs with a stethoscope...where she closes her eyes and it looks like she’s praying to some ancient healer spirit. Or maybe Bethany is the ancient healing spirit manifest in some tall feisty curly haired woman drawing from some magic that I’m not at all worthy to witness. Whatever she does, the people here seem to be doing better and she’s got their love. I think I hear them whisper Is'hala from time to time.

We can’t speak to the outside world. The more people that know we’re here the more danger we’re in and as I’m in charge of security here I have to enforce the ban. The good news is that we can get information in.

The first bit of news that happened first was that Lance Atticus was the new Prime Minister. I personally can’t stand him. I know you’re a fan, but you have to look at it from my point of view. I was in Hab Centre 06. After that fight, the Vetalian’s will to fight began to fade away. Our will never wavered… not one bit. We were ready to make that bloody fight worth it, but the Vetalians did not and Atticus helped them surrender. The cappers got the land and we got the people. Kraven got exactly what they wanted...again. I know the reforms are supposed to be a bigger check on them, but I have my doubts. The summit was supposed to get the slavers to cooperate, but what’s happening? They’re sending in the Legion to fix things. Again. Task Force Hell and all her allies. And it’s only a matter of time when we’ll be heading out west rather than east.

Why did I volunteer for this posting knowing all that? That’s… a longer story for when you’re older.

Of course, the celebrations for Atticus’ election ended when Chancellor Halsey blew up in his hospital room in Citadel City and took half the floor with it. The Federal Police Force called it an act of terror, but I suspect the White Guard screwed up somewhere. During the Milograd War, the Reich planted replicants with bodies that were loaded with bombs. I suspect that the real Halsey died long ago. The media glossed over it, but there's also the issue of the fact that a nuke went off up north hitting an allied ship. A god damn nuke. It's weird to be celebrating in light of that.

I’m sorry - I don’t mean to steal your hope. I know that there’s a lot of hope right now. It’s hard not to feel hopeful having just seen the world remade. I’ll admit, I didn’t think it was possible. A regional capital in Pax Gothica! The Praetor Program! The Gothic Lords actually starting to work together to liberate Shen Almaru! Preventing hostilities the Gholgoth and the Golden Throne! These are crazy times we live in.

And, I suppose, I should feel hopeful being here. If this works, we’ll be not only be saving thousands of lives… but bringing back that which was once thought lost. I promise I’ll do my best to remember that in the middle of all this dust and smoke.

In the meantime, we just sit here and wait for the solace of reckoning that will come as the fleets head towards Shen Almaru and a brand new war begins.

- A