An Age of Wolves [ Open - Attn: Gholgoth ]

[Automagfreek]

OOC: Continued from this thread.
_________________________________________________________________

BREAKING: BLOOD PACT WITHDRAWS FROM THE GHOLGOTH REGIONAL ALLIANCE
Via: Freekish News Network

Markets in full panic as founding members of Gholgoth sever ties

ULE CITY, Automagfreek (FNN) - At 7:30 am local time, a joint statement was issued by Lord Damien Dreadfire II of the Freekish Empire and Lord Reaver Valerin Vayne of Pantera stating their intentions to withdraw their respective nations from the Gholgoth Regional Alliance.

Details are still emerging, as the full text of the declaration has not yet been made public. Anonymous sources have indicated that the split is the result of "irreconcilable differences concerning the current management of the regional alliance and a lack of faith in its future".

Markets reacted to the news with panic. Minutes after the opening bell, the regional GothEX index dropped more than 6% on the news that Automagfreek, Gholgoth's largest weapons manufacturer via state-run Freekish Industries, would be immediately ceasing all sales and suspending all contracts with Gothic nations. The news that Automagfreek would seek to further defense contracts with Pantera did nothing to stop the sell-off. Plunge protection teams were immediately put into action.

On Bredon Street, all three of the major Freekish indexes plummeted shortly after the opening bell. The Thomas Kaye Industrial Average fell 8% before trading was suspended. There is no word on when trading will resume, and it is widely anticipated that the market will tumble even lower when it does. Rumors persist of a potential bank holiday, though the Great Hall had denied such a measure will be taken.

The Seastone Palace had ordered a news blackout across Pantera.
__________________

"Are you sure we've done the right thing, Valerin?"

There was a slight uncertainty in Damien's voice as he shared a strong drink with the Lord Reaver in the gardens of the Great Hall. The young Warlord had not the stomach to watch the news or be briefed about how their declaration was received. All that mattered now was the Blood Pact, and making sure that their people did not suffer needlessly.

"Aye. If you didn't have the balls to tell them to fuck off, then I wouldn't be standing here. There's a reason our forefathers swore an oath to one another. The Empire and the Reaver nation are rare breeds, likely the last of our kind. And Gholgoth has grown fat and soft. They say the Alliance has moved past us, but not all progress leads to pleasant results."

There was little disagreement from Damien, who sipped slowly and deliberately on a strong Freekish whiskey. His mind was running wild with thoughts and fears of what might come of this fateful decision, but not for the Alliance. For his people, and the people of Pantera who had never wavered in their brotherhood with the Empire.

"I would see to it that we look to strengthen our markets and secure new trade ties. This financial carnage could be the undoing of us if we cannot get a lid on it quickly enough."

Valerin Vayne spat. "Money comes, money goes. Let the moneychangers and pencil-pushers shit themselves. At the end of the day, our armies are strong. We could set out and conquer new lands, like the old days. Or perhaps show these so-called Goths what real reaving and raping looks like?"

The Lord Reaver had assaulted his drink as if it were water, and demanded a nearby servant refresh him.

"Indeed. We still have Lords here that have chosen to stay. Would you be opposed to another meeting?" Damien asked.

"Aye, I would. Piss on meetings, I've already made my position clear. If you want to trade words with them, you're welcome to it. I'll be returning to Toke, I'm sure the Reaver nation will be wanting an explanation."

"Are you with me, brother? To whatever end?" Damien extended his hand towards the Lord Reaver.

"That's about the dumbest question you've ever asked." Valerin clasped hands with Damien, a determined grin on his face. He departed the Great Hall shortly afterward via helicopter and began his journey back to Pantera.

The day had been long and tiresome, and as a dark sky drew closer the Warlord desired nothing more than a good night's rest. He retired to his private chamber in the Great Hall and quickly slipped into a refreshing slumber. As the midnight hour approached, Garegel and a half dozen of his fellow cultists made their way silently through the corridors, several of them carrying cases in their hands.

Vlad Shadowclaw had been hesitant to allow them entry into the Hall, but Garegel had been very convincing and seemed credible enough when recalling what he had seen in Damien's eyes at the Council Chambers. How badly Vlad wanted to believe it to be true, and he had taken a great risk by recalling the Sentinel guards from the residential wing.

"The witching hour is nearly upon us. Are you ready for this, Vlad? You're not having second thoughts, are you?" Garegel asked as they approached Damien's door.

Vlad indeed was having second thoughts, but the appropriate medical equipment on hand in case the cult master failed in his duties.

"Let's get on with it." Vlad uttered apprehensively.

Quietly they crept into the bedchamber, careful not to rouse the young Warlord from his sleep. The six cultists surrounded the bed while Garegel moved towards Dreadfire's head. Carefully he picked up one of the pillows from the bed, then looked at his accomplices and gave a nod. Together they took hold of Damien's limbs, and Garegel then pressed the pillow hard against Damien's face. He kicked and struggled violently as the pillow slowly choked the air from his lungs, and after what felt like an eternity, the Warlord twitched his last.

"There, it is done! Get that defibrillator ready just in case." Garegel instructed while checking for a pulse, of which there was none.

He checked the time on the nearby clock and watched it with extreme focus. Mere minutes before the stroke of midnight, Garegel closed his eyes and began to recite and incantation in ancient Freekish. Upon speaking the final words, he nodded to another cult member who retrieved a large syringe from one of the cases and handed it to the cult leader.

"Into this world, you are born anew!" Garegel drove the thick needle into the Warlord's chest and pressed his thumb down hard on the plunger.

Adrenaline coursed into the heart of the corpse, and anxiously the cultists looked on to see if it would be enough to revive him. Seconds passed, and then Damien Dreadfire sat up violently and roared like a wild beast. His eyes had turned a deep blood red, and as he continued to scream he thrashed about the bed uncontrollably. Vlad could not believe what he was seeing and immediately fled for the door, while the cultists fell to their knees and kowtowed to their master.

"Easy my Lord, easy. You're safe." Garegel said while placing his hand upon Damien's shoulder.

"Where am I?!?" Dreadfire barked as he clawed at his eyes. They burned and pained him as if they had not been opened for decades.

"You're back in the Great Hall where you belong. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember?" The cult leader could not hide his excitement.

"I... I was on a beach..." Damien said, though there was a great deal of confusion in his mind. "They shot me, and..."

"And you died." Garegel replied as gently as he could. "But the Gods have spared you, and your spirit has been reborn in this new body. The transition should be easy, the host was an exact clone from your original source. You should rest, my Lord, until the weariness from your merger has diminished."

With an exhausted yet determined look, Damien slid his legs over the side of the bed. He felt strange, as if stuck in a lucid dream from which he could not wake. Though his body was young and strong, he felt weak and drained of energy.

"No, I've slept long enough. Now tell me, necromancer, what has transpired in my absence?"

[Anagonia]

(OOC DISCLAIMER: I am in no way a professor of economic business, so please forgive me for what follows. I just hope I somehow make sense of what I know. )

The Sovereign Republic of Liberty
Sovereign member-state of the Confederate States of Anagonia
Continental Stock Exchange, Liberty City

Just mere hours following the events that had transpired in Automagfreek, the subsequent withdrawal of the Ancient Empire from various trade and economic pacts had forced a hit on markets across the entire region. The Confederate States of Anagonia would be one of the worst hit, yet quickest to recover; the events transpiring so quickly that not even the Media was sure it had surely happened. The withdrawal of AMF from those pacts had transpired sometime after mid-day, just after the markets had reached over the metaphorical mountain for that trading day. The majority of the transactions being done, both in terms of selling and buying, were no longer concentrated on the then-and-now of the market but rather on futures for the next trading day, or even the next few days. With the markets closing in a scant five hours from then, trillions upon trillions of denars being switched and moved about still, one could say that the transpiring events both happened at the worst of times and best of times.

Chief Secretary Hillary Kim was head of the Council of Confederate Commerce, a department within the Confederal government directly responsible for maintaining and operating the national economy; ensuring fair trade between sovereign member-states, adjusting inflation and national bonds as necessary, ensuring a fair trading field and overseeing the majority of commerce interactions including land-based tractor trailer traffic, rail freight traffic, and ocean-based freight commerce, and ensuring a fair balance between the economic numbers and the value of the standard gold reserves that the Confederacy kept on hand to back up their investments. Unlike the majority of countries that operated under the assumption of promises based on the value of a currency, the Confederacy had taken a split-approach to this issue, backing much of their currency with hard value assets and leaving the rest as promises for future returns, ensuring basically that any sell off that would take place wouldn't drastically reduce the value of the economy when placed on international markets.

It was a unique struggle for the 53-year old woman to equalize the concerns of member-state economies with that of the national economy, rectifying any mistakes that transpired where the value of one transaction on the state-level would somehow not equal that of the national value. The majority of her department was responsible for fixing these most common of mistakes, a product listed on one exchange being of lesser value than another and risking a false profit or return from that transaction which equated to some form of missing money that had to be accounted for. In effect, the Council of Confederate Commerce was like the nations National Banking System, keeping the value of the currency consistent and ensuring the states played fair as they played that value against their own products. It was still in this modern era a work in progress. An example of this was that to play fair representation to the member-states, the department itself was made up of properly educated and degreed individuals from each of the seven member-states and a few from the countries of Nodea Rudav and Drekamythia; the national economy of Anagonia continuing to serve and provide for the sovereign nations of Nodea Rudav and Drekamythia as well, an integral part reinforced by the United Continental Confederation and the primary reason the major stock exchange in Anagonia was called the "Continental Stock Exchange".

Hillary Kim was presently at the Continental Stock Exchange, one of her primary offices constructed in the several story building that fit snugly in the city-scape of the Capital city of Anagonia, Liberty. The building for the Council of Confederate Commerce was only a few blocks down the road - close enough for someone to run to send word but far enough not to seem totalitarian or imposing. She played with her graying hair, a side-effect of her position in the government, carefully sorting the frazzled appearance as she adjusted her glasses on her face. She had visible crows feet, an aged expression, years taken from her by mere months at a time in her position, yet she had concluded long ago that this was where she wanted to be. Truth be told, the majority of her job dealt with numbers, and Hillary loved numbers. She had been the primary proponent for a vast educational overhaul years back, stating bluntly that should the education system of her nation fail, future people like her that were needed to run the department she was running would be non-existent. Thankfully the words had struck a cord and she managed to get a few new schools named after her, including three new business colleges. It was the small victories that made the career.

Within the past ten years, computerization of the stock markets had taken an unusual ascension. AI's of various degrees had been allowed to assist with those of their human counterparts; AI personhood being a recent recognition for the nation and steps already being taken to adjust the workforce accordingly. It had not been as rough a transition as Hillary had anticipated, or as much of a fraud as she had presumed, because one of the oldest AI intelligences in the nation was hired to assist her at the Council of Confederate Commerce. That AI was presently going over with her the statistics for the day; suspicious trading activities, fraudulent returns, anything out of the ordinary. While it would appear as her fingers scrolled the tablet screen that there were a lot of these instances, comparatively to the size of the stock market versus the instances displayed, it was a relatively honest trading session this day. That was when an alert came up.

Hillary's office was a quaint affair in the Continental Stock Exchange. It resided on the fourth floor, taking up only a small portion of the four acre building that served not only as a stock exchange proper, but also a miniature mall of sorts. The building itself was well over thirty stories tall, with the majority of it taken up by dedicated levels of specific exchanges for portions of the country and their continental neighbors. The primary trading floors that operated the Continental Stock Exchange were on floors five and six. Everything else from that point was either dedicated to state to state trade, or consisted of unique and dedicated markets based on their values such as a Standard and Poor floor that served the public itself. It all came together, every floor, on floors five and six. Below the fourth floor resided some shopping areas for the public on three and two, with a miniature food court on two and one. Floor one was the primary reception area and had in it its own infirmary and daycare center. Any private offices were littered across the appropriate floors, with the primary offices being on the fourth where Hillary's was.

In her office she had a reception area with her private desk, two chairs, and two couches - the area she presently resided - and a private bathroom for her use that included a shower. There was also a visible kitchenette area with miniature fridge and microwave just close to the entrance to the bathroom, the entire office designed to provide a comfort for an overstaying occupant much as herself; Hillary most of the time would sleep out on the fold-out couch which was located in an area of her office with space enough for the bed. Building security was pretty tight here so she was very comfortable with staying over, and some of the restaurants at the food court operated for twenty-four hours. This evening would, unbeknownst to her at that present moment, be one of those nights she stayed over.

The warning screen had been from her AI assistant, sent to her to alert of a predictive event that it had deduced would occur. It had been known that even though the AI's in the nation had citizen rights - those that proved personhood status, at the very least - there was still the very real possibility of bugs and errors. As one of the AI professors had put it in relation to the human condition, these events were akin to a human being sick or infected with a virus, and at extreme circumstances mental illness. This AI, however, was not one that had displayed any of those characteristics during their hiring process; a lengthy one due to Hillary's reservations, which could easily borderline on some form of discrimination somewhere but thankfully the AI understood those reservations. It was a red screen, a box about as half as big as the tablets screen, transparent so as to allow the background to continue fluid movement but apparent enough to warrant attention. It was an alert in bold letters, stating bluntly, "Market Crash Imminent".

Her finger played over the screen, then Hillary pressed the box. It opened another screen, with charts and data-sheets that - to her - coincided with a predictive crash of the market due to....

"Are you trying to tell me we're about to lose trillions of dollars of investments?" Hillary inquired, much to herself than anything. She was still getting used to the fact that the AI could talk back. In this AI's case, it popped up its response in a small chat window. There was a brief "loading" icon, followed by a box to ask for Hillary's permission for the AI to use the microphone - which she accepted. The text box then popped up with the active microphone icon and the text response, "Yes Ma'am. I predict with 96.2% certainty that recent events in the Gothic region shall culminate in a total collapse of the Anagonian economy."

She blinked, reading over the text, and before she could even ask a chart was displayed that showed the future projection of the economy based on a line-graph of equally represented Gothic economies, one of which was Automagfreek. The displayed played in increments of half-hours, the date format was - to her shock - within the next hour. The line representing AMF began to lower, moving down below the economic representations of the Anagonian Continental Economy and that of her neighboring Gothic nations, until the Freekian line totally zeroed out which immediately plummeted the Anagonian line to zero. If this AI was right, she had less than 45 minutes to avert total disaster. Her pulse quickened slightly, mildly due to the excitement of the event, but tampered by uncertainty.

"Provide relevant sources to provide this event, please," she requested. The text box replied with, "Yes ma'am," before the screen changed to that of the Freekian economy. There was a live sell-off happening of foreign investments, which was strange. the Freekian economy was practical integral to that of the Gothic one, playing a major role in not only supporting the Arms Manufacturing industries across the region, but also that of Anagonia due to the amount of trade traffic. If what the AI said was true, and thus far the evidence pointed to some kind of event, the amount of investments held within the current trade to Automagfreek was about to become absolutely worthless and that alone was about to create a practical void that would never be filled. This was what the AI was warning about, and it knew for a fact that Hillary had the authority to offset the losses. It wouldn't be much, and there wasn't much time to make the appropriate calls, so she had to act at this point or not at all and risk destroying the country entirely.

If she did do what was needed, however, the influx of backed currency into the markets would oversaturate it and drastically increase inflation to unpresented levels, basically devaluing the economy within mere moments. In either case, she had to choose between causing a recession, or being responsible for the Great Depression.

She set the tablet down, focusing on her computer now. Five flat-screen monitors, aligned on supports and lined in rows of three and two, was active in displaying the present trading day and the most interesting facets that Hillary had previously concentrate don. She pulled her keyboard closer, typing a few commands in swift succession as she played with her mouse, changing the screens to focus on the relevant market data concerning the Freekians and the sell-off that was happening at this very moment; light but increasing with dramatic speed. The markets were already responding in some way, a one-percent dip in the Confederate Standards and Poor from assets being sold off too quickly. She had to act.

"Apoll4424," she said speaking the AI's name informally, "can you please get me a line to the national reserve?"

---

Anagonian News Network
8th floor, Anagonian Business News Center
Central Headquarters, City of Liberty

"That fucking bitch is crazy!" yelled Simon as he ran with the papers to the editors desk. "She's going to crash the economy! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

The word had gone out that the Council of Confederate Commerce had authorized the release of 10 trillion dollars worth of gold reserves to flood the national economy, under the guise of protecting domestic investments from what it stated was an imminent collapse of foreign investments. The second it hit the markets, the value of the denar plummeted to nearly half of its worth as the paper currencies traditional hard backing was offset and moved somewhere else, backing instead domestic investments to foreign markets that was stated to cease to exist within the next 30 minutes. Every news network in the nation was already on this, but none more intensely than those dedicated journalists at the Anagonian Business News Center. The piece of news that Simon held was only another part of the story, and while potentially vindicating, it felt all the world to Simon like his nation was crumbling around him.

He slammed the paper on the Editors desk, much to the ire of the Editor who glared at him. Before Simon turned to run back to his office, he said, "We're all fucked!"

Watching the man run off, the Editor picked up the paper. It was a hardline communique from a contact within the Military. His face turned pale as he read the words on the page.

"Automagfreek withdrawn from markets, market depression likely, collapse imminent, all forces to highest readiness for anarchy patrol."

---

CSS Jupiter
Lexington-class Anagonian Battlecarrier
Anagonia Ocean; 200 Nautical Miles North of the Anagonian Mainland; escorting Civilian Cruise Liner Timpathia to International Waters

Franklin Johnson sat in the VIP suite as the face of his Vice President was present on the large flatscreen against the far wall. He sat comfortably in his chair, Captain Alexander Juth opposite on the other couch. The Captain was present as a mere formality, but acting as military advisor for the President due to the lack of more senior staff - as was protocol in these situations. He kept silent as the two Heads of State continued their meeting.

"...and Chief Secretary Hillary Kim was quick to react. She credits Apoll4424, the new Head AI of the Market Exchange there for the early warning. Had she not redirected those hard assets to the market we would have had a total collapse, or at least that's the running theory."

Franklin considered the words of Edmond Goff, the man himself seeming to have endured some sort of hellish nightmare due to his frazzled hair - normally stylish - and a face littered with perspiration. There was even a hint that his outfit had been disheveled, at least what could be seen from the view of the screen. The event in question had transpired sometime around 1300 in the afternoon, lasting nearly three hours as the markets initially entered panic mode and a massive sell-off began that couldn't be afforded. The Continental Market then entered a lockdown mode, preventing further withdraws and purchases for a period of thirty minutes as investors were assured that currently redirected gold assets were being placed in lieu of the lost transactions. There would be losses, they had reported, but it would be necessary losses and losses that would be officially backed and supported by the Council of Confederate Commerce. The trading resumed afterward, with an initial sell-off that then flatlined - investments injected into the economy now doing their job and replacing lost investments, which accounted for a major loss for the Government itself but staved off a complete collapse.

"We'll need to find new trading partners," Franklin mused, "and fast. Automagfreek accounted easily for well over 15 trillion in trade. We only have ten trillion in hard assets that now count as a loss, and if we till can't account for 5 trillion which we've promised to repay through bonds and certificates."

"I agree," Edmond stated, a sigh escaping. "The USSNR was polite in the two trillion loan they gave, and the Imperial Empire of Drekamythia has promised another 4 trillion in loans over the next week. Our national debt has over the span of a few hours skyrocketed to levels previously unseen. We've promised a very hefty payback, but we've survived - barely."

Franklin briefly wondered about the economies of Nodea Rudav and Drekamythia, how they had staved off their own recession, or if they had been relative in to what Anagonia had endured. In either case, without their loans being given, the Confederacy would have defaulted on promised backings. Five trillion in losses was not something to shrug a shoulder at. There was another thought playing in his mind, that of the potential after effects of this. This action by the Ancient Empire was tantamount to an act of war, though admittedly on an economic scale. It had nearly entered virtually every other imaginable scale of warfare had not the quick thinking of Hillary and her AI prevented that possibility. Franklin was now seriously reconsidering his prior commitment to the Ancient Empire.

"They tried to destroy us," Edmond opined, as if sensing where Franklin's thoughts were. "You sent them a promise, sir. They tried to destroy us. They almost did."

The President glanced to his Vice President, then to the Captain. What had the Captain thought of all this? Alexander had been relatively quiet through this affair, his eyes merely glancing back and forth as the conversation shifted. Sensing the eyes of his President on him, Alexander returned the look, sitting up straighter.

"What do you think of this situation, Captain?" asked Franklin, speaking before an uncomfortable stare down erupted.

The Captain relaxed a bit, "I think they reacted rationally, from a defensive perspective."

"Explain," Edmond demanded, eyes trained on the Captain.

"Well," Alexander began, turning his attention to the Vice President, "if you had invited guests to your home and they suddenly threatened to kill you, wouldn't you ban them from ever coming back? I know I would, sir. I'd grab my gun and usher them out post haste. No one fucks with my family, with all due respect."

This new insight caused a long silence between the trio. Something along the lines of eight minutes passed before the Captain spoke up again.

"I'm not saying that what they did was justified," the Captain said breaking the silence, "what I am saying is I understand why. What they did was rational in the sense of their home, but I'm not neglecting the fact that what they did also constituted an act of war. They had to know their investments were integral to the region. They basically used their economy to send a message, maybe even cause damage. I believe it was intentional and well played. They basically almost killed the regional economy without even lifting a finger or firing a bullet. It's a message, sir. And I believe the message has been well heard."

"Message?" asked Franklin, the two Heads of State trained on the Captain now.

"Yes sirs," the Captain briskly responded, noting both sets of eyes on him. "I believe they intended to send the message of how important and powerful they are. I believe this situation showed it. I can't imagine the economic repercussions they're enduring - it has to be equal or greater to the region - but if I know anything of Freekish history, they intentionally weakened their opposition. There are going to be countries who cannot recover from this and won't be able to effectively deploy some sort of defense if they decide to invade. This was as much a rational decision as a military one. That's my take on this, sirs."

Edmond and Franklin shared a glance, the two nodding briefly. "Thank you, Captain," Edmond said as he turned his attention to Franklin. "Do you wish to give any response, Mister President?"

It was a formal title and question, not lost to Franklin. He shook his head, "Not yet. Let's see how hard this hits the region. I also want to allow time for us to recover. Order additional trade protection patrols for the region, I want to ensure that every single ship passing through our waters is checked and defended. This will be an optimal time for piracy and I want to make sure we deliver an appropriate response that we will not tolerate it. Other than that, we remain quiet."

"Of course, Mister President. I will ensure that your orders are carried out," Edmond replied, now serious. "If you'd permit, I believe we can conclude the meeting."

Franklin nodded, "Stay safe, Edmond. Get some rest too, okay?"

"I will," Edmond replied. "I promise you I will. I need to hug my wife and kids tonight too. Stay safe, Franklin."

The feed cut, leaving the Captain and President to sit alone in the suite. A conversation took place. Thanks to Edmond, family was the topic. It helped stave off the unrest and fear in both the men present.

[Elcric Kcalb]

The Corporatocracy of Elcric Kcalb
Federal Reserve Campus, Gratenburg
Office of the Chairman

Chairman Wilhelm Adenauer was asleep at the helm of the Corporatocracy.

Why wouldn't he be? His office chair was quite large and quite comfortable. His office was quiet and cozy, modern and sleek. While it was not ideal for any relaxing slumber, it made the process of sleeping on the job a great deal easier. More to the point, though, was that no one had any need of Adenauer's executive guidance these days. And since he had little need for them, sleeping now occupied the bulk of his office hours. Occasionally he would rouse himself from this state to access social media, where he would then leave positive comments, in all capital letters, pertaining to photos his astute and handsome grandchildren were posting.

Sometimes, if the humors were right, he would manage to actually post them on the photos themselves.

The serenity of this scene was all at once disrupted by the entrance of Chairman Adenauer's assistant, Ludolf Meyer, who flung open the door with incredible force and hastily cried, "Mister Chairman?"

Wilhelm snorted awake and spasmed severely in his chair. For a moment, he became little more than a tangle of flailing limbs. His feet came back to the ground from where they had been propped up on the desk, and he struggled to resume a correct posture. "What, what? I'm - Yes, I'm awake."

Ludolf shut the door behind him and crossed the room with urgent strides. Ludolf was unreasonably tall, but otherwise well put together. His hair was kept short, neatly parted. Despite Ludolf's best efforts, his facial hair refused to manifest as anything other than a mustache and goatee so thin it may as well have been penciled on. This contributed, however unwillingly, to his sharp presentation. He offered Wilhelm an electronic tablet, whose browser was presently open to the webpage of the Tyrrhenian News Broadcasting Authority.

"Guess who's back," muttered Ludolf.

The Chairman blinked at the tablet, eyes straining. "Back again?" A frail hand groped at his breast pocket and withdrew his eyeglasses, unfolding them delicately and sliding them over his nose.

Ludolf nodded solemnly. "Gholgoth's back."

So they were. That is, back in the headlines of Tyrrhenia. Which meant Wilhelm would not have to bother telling his friends.

He scanned the article and sucked in the information, as he had done with so many similar articles over his long - and frankly boring - career. The Freeks were pulling out of the Gholgothic market. Economic catastrophe were sure to follow. And as usual, everything that happened in Gholgoth had to happen everywhere else. Sometimes twice as hard, if you were particularly unlucky in your dealings with them. Gholgoth had always been a dicey market. Any region that played host to the lunatics from the Kraven Reich could only ever be dicey. And that wasn't even accounting for the peculiarities, he superstitions, and the atrocious backwardness of Gholgoth's poster-child - Automagfreek.

There were other culturally and socially undeveloped nations in-between those two, to be sure, but they were the headliners. Wilhelm had often reckoned they made Tyrrhenia's own problem child, Ralkovia, look like an absolute delight.

"Why," Wilhelm wiped dust from one lens of his glasses, "Are you showing this to me?"

Ludolf pulled the tablet back, already hurt by his charge's indifference. "As you know, the Hertzfeldt-Gallagher Bankengruppe were quite invested in the trade of Gholgothic goods through several intermediaries, and whatever fallout this causes there will surely impact their fortunes here, which could cause some downturn... Well, we are still running projections, but it may be safe to..."

Yes, yes. Twice has hard. Wilhelm rubbed his chin and frowned. He knew where this was going. It was the same place it always went whenever someone actually came to talk to him about anything, really. Money, money, money. Oh, please, Mister Chairman, please shoulder the impending burden of my misguided financial enterprising. Such hogwash.

"Another bailout? Oh no, I don't think so. How many commercial advisories did we issue pertaining to those primitives? I keep telling them, maybe a government that still has 'Warchief' as an official title isn't sufficiently developed to be bartering with. And do they listen? Of course not. No one ever listens. We'll let the Bankengruppe fall for this. They've earned it."

Hertzfeldt-Gallagher would doubtlessly petition the Board itself for financial aid once they realized Wilhelm would not send it of his own accord. So be it. If his colleagues wanted to cushion falls owing to foolishness, that was their business, but Wilhelm Adenauer, in all his own good sense, would never do so of his own accord. Ludolf pursed his lips, no doubt thinking of his own lost investments.

"Fair enough, Mister Chairman. Fair enough."

[Dephire]

Prime, the most complete clone of Tristan Skragg, was sitting in a chair on the balcony from the royal suite. He was nursing a glass of whiskey while reading a book. Snow steadily fell from the sky like small pieces of cotton. The silence was broken by a sharp rapping upon his chamber door.

“Yes?” Prime looked up from his book.

“Prime!” More knocking on the door, this time a more frantic pounding. “You better take a look at this! Prime!”

“Jenieve, the damn door is unlocked. Just come in before you make a dent in the mahogany!” He chuckled.

“Oh,” she sighed then opened the door, blushing from embarrassment.

“Now, what’s all this excitement about?” Prime still chuckled while Jenieve handed him a tablet. His smile suddenly diminished. “When was this?”

“It’s happening live, sir. Fury…” Her concerned expression was very obvious.

“I can’t leave this office now that the world believes Tristan Skragg is in Automagfreek. No sane person would believe us to have teleportation technology. Find me a way to get in contact with him. That man will destroy everything!” Prime sighed in frustration.

---

Fury sat on his mattress flicking through the TV channels. Every channel was replaying the same news story over and over.

Fury… The voice sounded from the closet.

Fury sat up in surprise and got up to investigate. After opening the closet he noticed a small glow emanating from his armor. He reached over and pulled out a small communicator. He brought it to his lips and spoke, ”What do you want, Prime?

”You need to return home, Fury. You are causing us too much trouble.”

Fury smiled and chuckled to himself, ”Whatever do you mean, Prime? I am only doing as Father wished. You are the one causing trouble. Joining those other traitors… They showed now respect to the legacy! Damien Dreadfire is the Gothic Lord of Lords. He is Emperor of Emperors. We owe him respect!”

”God, listen to yourself. You sound like a damn cultist and he’s your lord and savior. You have no right to speak for Dephire. I was the one left in charge!” Prime had been walking around the chambers during his talk with his brother. Now he found himself on the balcony once more. ”I signed those reforms to make us stronger! The old ways are over! They could have never provided us with a modern solution to any threat. We needed an alliance that was active.”

[i]”Yes, and that was a mistake. You see, when I was woken up, I knew the prime directive was for you to lead and everyone to follow behind masks. Well, see… That’s going to be a problem for me.” At that particular moment, Jenieve turned towards Prime. Prime had his back to her. ”Damien Dreadfire founded the only legitimate alliance the Gothic Lords were to follow. Your abomination of an alliance… You bring shame to us all.”

”Enough, Fury! Return to Hell’s Gate this instance! There is no telling the amount of effort repairing your fuckup will take!”

”Oh, I believe you won’t have to bother yourself with that. Good bye, Prime.”

”Good bye? Wait! Don’t you hang up on me!” Prime turned around just as Jenieve thrusted a dagger deep into his stomach and twisted. “J-Jenieve..?”

“Long live Emperor Skragg. May his Fury help cleanse this world.” Jenieve spoke coldly as Prime felt the darkness envelope him.

”Is it done, Alpha?” Fury spoke softly.

Jenieve looked down to the corpse of Prime, ”He’s been eliminated, my lordship. There is nothing else stopping you from assuming control.”

Fury smiled and looked out his window, Good bye, brother.

[Havensky]

HRA Solace of Reckoning
Over Gothic waters en route to Krytopia

Atticus was in a mood. The Skyan Prime Minister hadn’t even taken a seat and stormed right onto the CiC of the Skyan Legionary Airship as it was taken off with the Queen right at his heels.

“Major Squall, this is your ship. Where’s the secure comms room?”

Squall made a gesture into a conference room in the back of the CiC with dark tinted windows. Atticus and Queen Heart took a seat as Major Squall closed the door. Squall made a motion on the table and the glass on the walls lit up and asked for a command. Atticus punched in a few commands and an access code and the lights on the table went from red to green to show a secure connection. Shortly after, the heads of several High Council members started to appear on the screen. First was the head of Stars and Signals Command Mathias Willow, who looked to be neck deep in various reports coming in from ULE City.

Atticus waited patiently for the Secretary of Defense, Commerce, and other departments to come online as soon as they were on board Atticus started the meeting.

“Everyone, I presume everyone has had a chance to see the news? Does anyone need to be briefed on what a shit show that was?”

“Atticus”, said Queen Heart softly.

“Anyone?”, he asked again ignoring Heart and drawing her concern and surprise.

“Alright… Willow! What do we know so far?”

A tall slender man coughed for a moment before speaking, “Prime Minister, we have reports that the Cult of Dreadfire is mobilizing in the town square and-”

“Mr. Willow, I’m well aware of that. We had to evacuate the meeting. What I’m more interested to know is how the hell did we not see this coming? From the get-go it was obvious to everyone that this meeting wasn’t going to go well. Somebody has set young Dreadfire’s mind that the whole region has somehow turned against him. Now, what Caesar did wasn’t the nicest thing in the world but it sure as hell didn’t earn that kind of response. One doesn’t mobilize a crowd that large at the spur of the moment. Do we really think he just turned on that phone to live broadcast it on a whim?”

“Sir, in our defense nobody could have forseen-

Atticus cut him off again, “Mr. Willow, you’re entire job consists of foreseeing problems. When your command fails to do so it creates bigger problems. That’s why we call it an intelligence failure and let me be clear this is an intelligence failure. What assets do we have in the Freekish Empire?”

“We have one agent in ULE city on standby.”

“I want the following. I want every report he’s written in the past year with an executive summary on my terminal by the time I get back to the Citadel. I want eyes and ears inside the Cult of Dreadfire as soon as possible. I will expect daily updates on progress. Additionally, in case there’s any misunderstanding… I expect to have human intelligence assets in every damn country in the region doing good work to prevent these sorts of surprises. Nobody is to be sitting on the sidelines? Understood?”

“Yes sir.”, remarked Willow looking rejected.

“Hagane, who did we have tapped for Ambassador to the Freeks?”

“High Admiral Erik Vorma. He's half-Freek on his father's side - still keeps the old ways - retired from the Skyan Armada after 20 years of service - mostly running the home defense fleet before taking over the safe passage routes. A bit salty - but because he had to work with the other Gothic nations near Havensky to set up the Safe Passage Route he's become a fairly good diplomat.”

“Very good, send a message to Lord Dreadfire proposing the appointment. Let his government know that he still has space reserved in the Heart District for his embassy. Also, let him know our interest in establishing a more formalized trade agreement. Only the gods know what he’s planning to do about all their pre-existing agreements and none of it can be good.

Speaking of which, how would we be impacted by a possible trade stoppage by the Freekish empire?”

“We don’t have any direct trade with the Freekish since we never established proper relations, but if they cut everything off to everyone who isn’t a Blood Pact member then the rest of the region will get hit hard - which would then hit us. I’m running numbers and I’m not sure there’s all that much we can do except to batten down the hatches or get the trade back on ASAP.”

“Very well, meet with the Senate Committee on Commerce and get something going.”

“Defense, if worse comes to-”

Atticus was interrupted by a small siren.

“Squall to the CiC, what’s happening?”

“Sir! The Pudite aircraft the Emperor was on just dropped off the radar. We were tracking it when their altitude dropped suddenly. We’re still trying to figure out what happened.”

Atticus rose up from the table.

“Let’s end this meeting. I think Squall needs this room more than we do”

* * * *

Gunner Otra had a good steady job as a dockworker in ULE City. He was good at his job, but not so good that he was ever put in for a promotion. He clocked in, did his work, and clocked out.

He was a strong man with dark hair, broad shoulders, and strong arms that were tatted up in a way that was common among the Freekish. His hairstyle was pretty common as well as his dress. He looked and sounded just like any other dockworker.

He held dual citizenship in both Havensky and the Empire on account of his parents migrating to Havensky when he was all but two. He didn’t talk about that part. When people asked where he was from he would name the Freek city of his birth. If anyone did find out he grew up in Havensky, he had simply told him that he wanted to live in a place that wasn’t so… soft and mushy.

The truth was more complicated. In reality, Gunner was an intelligence officer for the the Skybound Republic who had been living in the ULE City for years. He was coming to the end of his term when things started to get...well interesting.

After returning to his small apartment after his shift, Gunnar ripped up the plywood of the battered floorboard and took out the small satellite modem and terminal hidden away. He checked it for messages and breathed a sigh of relief and frustration.

They were finally listening to him. He had been saying for months that something was happening here and they had ignored his call. Of course, now that everything had gone to hell somebody finally was listening and they had an assignment.

Infiltrate the Cult of Dreadfire and Report

[The Macabees]

FEDALA, IMPERIAL PROVINCE

Rumors abounded on the conflagration in the old Council Chambers of the Golgothic Alliance. The implications were many, although for the Golden Throne perhaps the most vital of all was the return of an old nemesis, and at the same time partner, Automagfreek. Many years have passed since the old NATO-RWC conflict, one that was shortlived but fiery, and the world has changed greatly. For one, a new emperor reigned in the Golden Throne. It was Jonak I who warred against NATO once, but now his grandson Fedor I ruled instead.

It was natural for Fedor to call a meeting with his kríerlords, his circle of advisors who enforced and communicated His Will not only throughout the empire but abroad as well. They arrived from all over, some traveling from as far west as Barjaanistan and others from an even greater distance, including Rikjaard Johansen. The once jogornos, or head of the diplomatic mission as part of what in the Golden Throne was known as the Gothic War, was soon elevated to the hallowed rank of kríerlord. He was, after all, the leading Macabéan man in Gholgoth after the emperor Himself. Johansen was one of the few to ever travel to Kravenite Norska, adding to that visits to the Skyan Republic and Golghant. He would, if the goddesses Will and Fortune allowed, soon travel to Automagfreek as well. It was a historic itinerary that most persons would be envious of.

"You have all heard the news, I imagine," said the emperor.

The persons around him nodded. Angiko Bas, a man who Fedor was beginning to like less and less for his failure to decisively quell the guerillas in Holy Panooly, answered first. "Aye, Your Imperial Majesty, I have heard. Gholgoth shakes at its very foundations. Although, I suppose Dreadfire's rage should be pleasant music to our ears."

Johansen peered at Bas eerily from the corner of his eye. But, he said nothing just yet, allowing others to speak up first. Next was Díeg Hahk-Lorán, like Johansen a "new man." He had been raised to the Kunsil for his deeds in Krasnova, where he led the diplomatic mission to Mokastana during the war efforts to liberate the island from Ordenite control. He said, "While it ought to be pleasant to us or not, Your Imperial Majesty, the fact is that the schism in Golgoth will only promote instability there. Their economies are already beginning to notice the impact of Dreadfire's ire, events that will surely ripple their way to us. Need I remind us all, although not you Your Imperial Majesty, that our trade with Gholgoth is significant if in most part due to the Skyan Republic's membership in GATA and our diplomatic ties with them. Surely, if their markets suffer, our trade with them will as well."

It took much effort on Johansen's part not to roll his eyes. Trade? Business? Who cared about that? Gholgoth was over thirty thousand kilometers away from the imperial mainland. GATA helped to bridge that gap, but all-in-all exchange with the Skyans represented only a miniscule portion of the empire's overall trade flows. Events in Gholgoth had much more far-reaching implications than mere trade. Still, he said nothing.

Roland Peskual, a man who had done nothing spectacular his entire career except write books on a moral man's duty — yet, influential to the emperor he must have been to sit in the Kunsil! —, stood to speak. "Your Imperial Majesty, if you permit me..." The emperor nodded for Peskual to go on. "...this split in the Gothic Alliance, between the new and the old, has political repercussions for us."

"How do you mean?" asked Fedor.

Peskual smiled. It was a good thing when He engaged with you, after all. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Our war with the Scandinvans communicated the message that we are more than willing and capable of defending our territorial sovereignty against foreign powers who seek to destabilize us, even if they are as far away and in imposing a region as Gholgoth. As it was meant to do. But, the war did little to further our diplomacy in the region, something which would carry with it far more important implications into the future. For war is fleeting, but diplomacy can benefit us eternally. I don't mean to say that the Gothic War had no far-reaching consequences at all, after all, we are now tied to the Scandinvans by blood(1) and I suppose we can still count the Skyans among our allies. Furthermore, it is because of our war, or at least in large part due to it, that the Gothic Alliance reformed at all. Still, since our withdrawal to Car'gun Diehlaht(2), our influence there has waned again."

"And what good will our influence do in Gholgoth?" questioned Daryl Novelle, the emperor's most trusted advisor at all. Novelle had also served His predecessor, the great Jonak I, reuniter of the magnificent empire. "The Gothic War was a distraction or, at best, a luxury not worth repeating for a very long time. While we campaigned far, far away, the Ordenites have gained power at home. Look where we are now! Our satrapy in Krasnova besieged!"

"Aye," replied Kríerlord Peskual, who turned to face his contestant, "I agree with you. 'Tis why I recommend diplomacy and not war."

It was then that Johansen rose. All eyes went to him, including the emperor's. "Your Majesty, it must come as no surprise that I agree with Kríerlord Peskual. Events in Gholgoth present us with a diplomatic opportunity without rival. After all, although it was under your grandfather's rule, it was not long ago when Automagfreek was counted among our enemies. We have before us, by the grace of Fortune Herself, a chance to rectify past injustices and turn our relationship with the most preeminent of Gothic powers around. And I know of an open door through which we can walk."

Peskual, who eyed Johansen carefully — he must not have liked the loss of attention —, asked, "Enlighten us on what door that is, new man."

Johansen wondered if the sudden curl in the emperor's lips signified a hidden smile. He was amused! The former jogornos answered, "With pleasure. As you all know, the Freekish have ceased their arms exports to the offending states in the region. While we have our own factories and export in great magnitudes ourselves, there is always a little room for competition if it comes with great enough rewards. I assume you would all agree with that. And what reward would be greater than an alliance with Automagfreek? I can think of none."

"An alliance with the Freekish!?" guffawed Bas. "The Goths bite at each other over 'allowing' us into their region and you propose to bring one to our side? 'Allowed!' As if we did not simply sail in on our choosing! Even if we imported all the surplus arms that they are no longer selling to their regional neighbors, I doubt that that would be enough to sway them into an alliance with us. So, educate me, new man. How will we make this alliance come about?"

Johansen directed his reply not to Angiko Bas, but to the emperor. "Send me, a man who Gholgoth knows very well already, to Automagfreek. I will offer him more than arms contracts. Kríerlord Bas is correct in that an alliance with us may be more of a weakness than a strength in the current climate, unless..."

"Unless what?" the emperor inquired.

"Unless our alliance is built on exactly the problem that catalyzed this internal war in the alliance. That is, who more powerful in the two most powerful regions in the world, Greater Díenstad and Gholgoth, than the Golden Throne and Automagfreek. What relationship would be more influential in these regions and elsewhere than that one? And which relationship would be more likely to avoid the sort of cross-regional warring that began this crisis than ours? The Freekish would be the doorkeepers of Gholgoth and we the doorkeepers to Greater Díenstad. What greater glory is there than that?"

Peskual stamped his foot and cried out, "No, Your Imperial Majesty, send me! Surely, I have more experience than this new man!"

Johansen did not dignify that man with even a look, but ultimately it did not matter. Fedor waved his hand at Peskual, and decreed, "Rikjaard, you shall travel to Ule City to speak to Dreadfire, or the people of his choosing. I expect you to return with the news you promised and nothing less. Do you understand?"

"It would be my honor, Your Imperial Majesty," answered Johansen, kneeling then and bowing before Him.

"Have the Palace of Nipotas(3) prepare for your arrival at the Freekish capital. Ensure that they are even willing to speak with us. I trust you will see to this all," He said, His blue eyes piercing into Johansen's with godly intensity. "You are dismissed now. The rest of you, let us continue our discussion."

Another kríerlord rose to speak and his voice trailed away and was lost to Johansen as the 'new man,' as they all called him, made his way out to prepare for his return to Gholgoth.



The discussion on Gholgoth continued well after the 'new man' Johansen left. His proposal for an alliance with Automagfreek was all well and good, but it was not enough. Strange, thought Fedor, that he forgets about one of the most important aspects of our existing diplomacy in that region, our existing allies.

In fact, Peskual, who was obviously unhappy that the mission to Automagfreek was not awarded to him, brought those exact concerns up to the Kunsil. "How, I wonder, will our allies in the Skyan Republic and Golghant take our efforts to align ourselves with Automagfreek? Dreadfire's actions, must I remind you all, go directly against the new alliance, leadered by Emperor Nathan, Queen Heart, and Caesar Silvier. Surely, justice calls for honoring our agreements with them over seeking new arrangements with their enemies. Or, no? Do I err?"

Migalo Kor, traveling from New Empire — where most of the soldiers who had fought on Drana had passed through at some point in time —, replied, "Nathan? You mean Golghant. Even I cannot wrap my head around the organization of their so-called empire. It seems more a feudal coalition of separate interests, more often at odds than in agreement. Or, should we discuss our issues with Díenghant now, as well? But why speak of them, when we know where Ghant's true allegiances lie? They turned their back on us in favor of Gholgoth not soon after the start of hostilities with the Scandinvans, so what exactly do we owe them now? Nothing, say I. The Skyans? They are honorable people, but we would be fools to count them among our friends. They thought it possible that a Gothic Alliance could deal with a problem of Macabéan pride, such was Scandinvan dealings with the Theohuanacan pirates. Besides, an alliance with Automagfreek need not necessarily interpose with our commitments to them. We are, after all, not seeking to help the Freekish with anything other than centralizing diplomacy between the two great powers of the two great regions, if I understood Johansen's arguments. And all of this speaks not to our blood ties with the Scandinvans, already a precedent for our shift in priorities in Gholgoth. Why err for superfluous caution now when it was not important enough to dissuade us then?"

Novelle spoke then, shaking his head. "I do not understand what our fixation with that region is. Our priorities ought to be here, at home! We are producing a future migraine for ourselves, and for what? What do we gain from this? Gholgoth is too far away for us to benefit in a tangible way. If we go there, it's only for pride and all wise men know that pride should be no cause for action at all."

"How can you propose," said Peskual, with heat in his voice, "that the preeminent power of Greater Díenstad not attempt to strengthen its influence in Gholgoth? The benefits we can reap aren't merely restricted to their geography, but ours as well. Friends are important no matter where we are or what we are dealing with."

Rolling his eyes, Novelle retorted, "Ah, but..." They continued to argue with each other for hours on end, the emperor listening all the while.

But none of it, in Fedor's mind, changed the unquestionable significance of Johansen's mission.



NOTES:

1. This hasn't been RPd yet in Titanomachy. It forms part of the eventual peace agreement between the two main warring powers.
2. A large floating base sitting halfway between the northeastern edge of Greater Díenstad and the southwestern corner of Gholgoth, meant to facilitate logistics for the war with the Scandinvan Empire and now permanent.
3. The nexus of imperial diplomacy in Fedala.

[The Peninsular]

Somewhere in the Arctic
Zneyvind Outpost
Kantine A-3

Colonel Plisker yawned as he stood in the line of the cafeteria. In front of him stood scientists and other soldiers, waiting to be the next to order food. The cafeteria A-3 was full this day, on the 13th Viert, the national day of the Constitutional Federation. For this purpose, a special shipment had recently arrived, loaded with fresh foods from back home - as fresh as Peninsularian foodstuffs could be, anyway. The cafeteria itself was decorated with flags and lights in the national colors, blue, white and orange. A number of speakers periodically played the national anthem and other popular and patriotic songs in the background.

Plisker himself was out of uniform. After the meeting with Dreadfire had gone south, he had requested a day off for the purpose of relaxing. At this moment, he concentrated on his food choices. The choices were diverse, unlike the usual cafeteria food which resembled glorified military rations (though according to Plisker and a few other soldiers it wasn't actually half bad).

He swayed back and forth between several menu choices, though he eventually settled on a large portion of Gewürztes Grünalgenpüree with a Kaninchenrobbenfilet, a - in his opinion - classic that established itself shortly after 2310, when he had just been promoted to Colonel.

Just as he was about to fill up his tankard with beer, he spotted them. 'Oh, you have got to be kidding me.', he thought, as he hurriedly filled up the tankard, took a glass of liquor and a portion of Braunpudding. He took his tray, and, with some care as to not spill his drinks, made his way to the table General Glemser and the other officer were sitting at.

He set down the tray at the table, instinctively saluting the Outpost's main military commander. "Easy, Colonel. You look like you saw a ghost.", the General joked. "Well, what can I say, sir. I did not expect you here."

The General sipped from a cup of Breu. "Well, I would be sitting in my apartment right now, reading a good book or playing a good game.", he said. "But the good General-Lieutenant who was supposed to be on duty today slipped and broke his pelvis while inspecting one of the submarine dry-docks a few hours ago. Fell from the sail of one of them, so he'll take another hour or so to get in shape again."

"Oof. How far did he fall, sir?" "Well, luckily the dry-dock wasn't fully dry, so only about 10 meters or so. He landed right on one of those cranes. Still, painful affair." "Yes, definitely. But I do assume you're here to talk to me about something else than General-Lieutenant Wehrhofen's broken pelvis?"

The General chuckled. "Indeed. I came to inform you about the veritable chaos that has transpired this morning." "Chaos, sir?", Plisker asked. "I assume you mean the Emperor of Pudu being shot down?" "No, not that one. I'll make it short: Dreadfire has left it." "It, sir?"

"The alliance. He and the Lord Reaver announced that today. The markets all around the region have tumbled and fallen, or are still falling." "A direct reaction to the conference, I assume?" Glemser nodded. "Definitely. According to what information we have, what simulations we've run, and what conversations we've listened in on, this could plunge everyone into a recession. Markets collapsing, economic downturn, possibly an entire banking crisis."

Plisker rubbed his chin. "That's... quite the impact. Extremely concerning if one factors in Dreadfire's rhetorics. We'll need to pay more attention to regional politics." Glemser nodded. "Exactly. I have sent the relevant documents and other data to your desktop. You should start familiarizing yourself with them tomorrow." Plisker blinked.

" 'Relevant documents', sir?", he asked a little sheepishly. "Why would I need a ton of data on regional politics..." He stopped dead, looking at Glemser. The General slowly nodded. Plisker leaned back in his chair. "Oh, for f-"

[Auman]

The rain was coming down in a drizzle upon the Mürderplatz, which General Lance Brightforce was not accustomed to, having been stationed in the great deserts of Zha'd Al-Dhjiyadi. It felt as though a cold sweat had broken upon his face as he turned toward the the sky. The moisture was in it's own way a welcome reprieve from the dry, furnace-like, heat that scorched the sands of his homeland. Edge City, he was told, was prone to dark, foreboding, clouds and ceaseless rain. Such a brooding environment lent itself well to the presence of the Battlespire, the towering black colossus that housed the General Command Headquarters of the Armed Forces of Remus. His eyes turned to it now, the gothic features, archways and pinnacles clustered with the shape of dragons, unicorns and gargoyles. These statues, while aesthetic, hid a dizzying array of weapons that would defend the Battlespire from attack. As he considered this, he noticed a basalt unicorn tracking his movement whilst he traipsed toward the lobby, his knee high jackboots, studded with silver and gold to form patterns in the mimic of gusting winds, splashed in the many puddles that collected in the cobbled footpaths of the Mürderplatz.

Brightforce mounted the hundred steps to the tall, rich, mahogany doors that were reinforced with Hyperiron latticework. He pulled a leather glove free of his hand, one finger at a time, and placed his palm upon the mahogany, uttering a brief prayer to his ancestors, then he rapped his knuckles upon the wood in a peculiar order.

A peephole snapped open, the armored visor of a guard peered through at him.

"Ah, Brother-General Brightforce, I presume? You have been expected. The others now await you at the Blade. Come, allow me the honor of escorting you to them immediately!" The guard's voice was at once flutey and joyful, whilst containing a certain level of barely contained fury as he hissed these words as if he were a viper.

An orc, surely, Brightforce thought, A fine gift, abandoned at the doorstep of man by the Dread Lord Melkor. A fine gift, indeed.

He could hear a series of ever more complicated locks and devices being unfurled just beyond the door. The process took some time, but once it had opened a grand lobby was revealed, bearing black and white checkered tile floors, tastefully cloaked by crimson red rugs which, as legend told, were dyed with the blood of slain Elfs that had fallen at the great battles of the Hellespont two score hundred years past hence. Brightforce took pleasure in knowing this history and that the enemies of the Aumanii people would be forever under his boot, if not in their personage than by spirit.

The hunched form of the guard, shambling on deformed, bowed, legs lead him to the elevator. Readjusting his R8 carbine, which previously hung loosely on his mailed shoulder, the guard fumbled for the correct key which hid itself in a jumble on a very large and verbose ring.

"Ah, here it is... Brother-General, you shalln't wait much longer to join your peers now." Screeched the guard as his hands shook, jamming a thick key made from glittering Mythril into the keyhole that permitted access to the Imperial Level of the Battlespire. The doors slid open immediately, the elevator was mirrored and Brightforce was shocked to see his hair messed. He quickly parted the short black and pepper high and tight to the left. Brightforce's dress uniform was, however, spot on... His charcoal grey cargo paints pressed and perfect, his leather riding jacket firm and creaking with every movement, buttons and zippers shining brightly under the elevator lights. Impeccable start.

"Brother-General..." croaked the orcish guard as he extended a single, blue, taloned finger inside. Brightforce nodded firmly and stepped forth, tapping the very top button. The guard saluted as crisply as he could manage despite his mutations and the stainless steel doors shut. The ride up was quite long, two kilometers to the very peak of this granite plinthe and at times Brightforce would find that the elevators course took them to the exterior of the building. Just now he could see from the windows that flanked the elevator the vast industrial landscape of Edge City, churning with rain and grey mud that was all pervasive here. A vast and illuminating fireball erupted from a relief tower at a nearby oil refinery, just one of many fires burning in the city, either controlled by professionals exerting their craft in the armaments industries that fueled the Reman warmachine, or uncontrolled infernos that raged, for example, at Slag Mountain just to the east of the Foundational Synod, which itself was a host to the Great Pyre where upon the dead and dying were thrown to appease the call of The Founder, to forever honor the flame which burn ed inside all mankind. Likewise, even in the light of day, though darkened by the billowing smoke, one could see a myriad of barrels alight which, no doubt, were surrounded by throngs of day laborers seeking a moment's respite from the oppressive rain to warm their calloused hands.

This city was much like any other in the great nation of Remus, though blessed with the prestige of the Battlespire.

The panel of the elevator dinged, Brightforce could feel the ascent drift to a stop as the force of gravity relented, heaving him upward. The doors opened, a raging fire burned in the manse, a suckling pig being roasted by a guard wearing a black scaled dragon-skin breastplate, turning the spit with one hand and hoisting a mug of meade to his parched lips. Brightforce stepped through the archway onto a rug that was once a bugbear. Another enemy bowing in humiliation forever to the Aumanii people. The others were present, so it seemed and Brightforce was the last to answer Admiral Bridges' call.

Just now he noticed Brother-General Brick Anchor reading from the 'Tome of Perpetual Strength, an ode to the Overlord' and reclining on a plush, black, leather chair that was stitched with rustic sigils. Anchor, a man of the barbaric north was dressed in polar bear skins and loose fitting seal leathers. Brightforce knocked Anchor's feet from the coffee table, which had been assembled from the bones of the war dead, killed during the Christmas Blitz many years ago.

"I wasn't aware that a barbarous Northron could even read, let alone make heads or tales of the script of the Anciients. Surely, brother, you must be going through the motions as I know there are no pictures in this book."

Anchor roared with laughter and snapped shut the tome, wiggling it in Brightforce's face jauntily.

"Brother-General Brightforce, it has been many a moon since we had last met and I so missed your brevity. Come!" Anchor stood up quickly, with the agility of a mountain cat, and clapped his old friend on the shoulder, "We shall have a brew from mine own home, milk straight from the dragon's udder, fermented and chilled on ice. A man's drink, truly, that may bring some hair to your sandblasted chest."

"Odd that you offer me dragon's milk when there are no female dragons, old friend." The two sauntered towards the bar and Anchor poured themselves a drink. They slurped down the frothy white beverage and continued to catch up for quite some time until Admiral Lester S. Bridges called them to attention.

[Jagada]

In parts unknowable …

Screams echoes across the ruined cityscape as the flames of unrelenting conquest raged across dozens of ruined blocs. The place had a name, once, but that name was of no concern to Destinee “Red Gold” Saltfire, Warlady of the Silverbloods, who sat at the epicenter of the carnage and ruin, sprawled out on her silken palanquin and yawning while amusing herself with some target practice. She refused to adjust from her comfortable position as she aimed Dei Fratelli awkwardly, it was difficult to aim a gunblade even in an upright position, at the woman and her child who huddled some fifty-five yards away pleading with her in some savage, unknowable tongue. No doubt asking me to spare them, she thought sourly. Why did they always have to ask her to spare them? Clearly that wasn’t going to happen but still they persisted. Didn’t they know she was doing them a favor? If anything, they should be on their knees tilting their throats back for her shot, proud to die at the hands of one of the People. She pulled the trigger and the gunblade detonated intensely with a crack. The shot went wide striking the building behind the two huddled figures and blowing off a sizeable chunk of concrete.

“Better luck next time mistress,” said Furmanos Icetalon, “Shall I make the wretches stand?”

“No,” replied Saltfire irritated, “This is what I get for insisting on using Dei Fratelli. Bustersword gunblades are simply the worst. No accuracy.”

“Of course mistress. Shall I fetch you another gunblade or perhaps refreshments?”

She pondered it for a moment as she lazily forced herself to sit up. She heard the slightest of protests from the slaves which held her aloft, and she snorted in derision. She barley weighed a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, they were simply being lazy. It was of no matter that she was also bedecked in her powered armor; the slaves in Automailia never complained so why should these? Looking around the square where she’d set up shop it was a pleasing sight, the Silverbloods were a noble and intense band of mercenaries utterly loyal to her. That she slept with several of them, mostly the officers, from time to time played no little part. Why ever bother with finding partners on the internet or at dingy bars when she literally had thousands of them around her? Now that she thought about it, she was thirsty.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am rather parched.”

“What shall it be mistress?”

“Wine. You know how I like my wine Icetalon.”

With a bow her confidant turned and made for a nearby shop that had been converted into a tavern for the men. She watched him go and took note of how envious she was of his cloak. At a distance one would mistake it for being golden chainmail but upon closer inspection they would see the glitter of precious gems like diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. All of them attached to golden bands of various pedigrees and carefully linked together by the warband’s artificers, each was a wedding band taken from the corpses of those slain in their many determined conquests. It was a brilliant idea and she was annoyed she’d never thought of it.

By contrast she appeared altogether bland. Her armor was based with the color of salt white with teardrop blue highlights. As she walked about the cobblestone square her knee-high powered boots clacked on the ground giving her an unmistakably unique swagger. The boots were, of course, fashioned like stilettos with traditional thin heel being replaced by a metal spike which even now was covered in coagulated blood. Her attention was, for once, not on herself or her vanity but instead on the impaled chittering and moaning corpses that lined the square. Stripped naked and with their genitals removed they had been the high lords and ladies of this city … although they didn’t call themselves lords or ladies but some other more savage title. Regardless they had screamed for the first few hours before she grew bored of that and had their lower jaws removed, many died of course but other lingered on mewling like the crippled beasts they were.

“Your wine, mistress” came Icetalon’s gravelly voice from behind.

Turning, she took the offered crystal wine glass with a smile. Lightly swirling it she took a sniff of the contents … and to her surprise wasn’t displeased. The wine had been sourced locally, unfortunately, which usually meant it was shit.

She eyed Icetalon with a sly grin, “You devil … what did you put in here?”

“Freshly squeezed tears mistress,” he said matter of fact, “Just like you like.”

Her platinum silver eyes brightened, “You mean … we didn’t kill all of them? I thought the building took a direct hit.”

Icetalon nodded, “It did. Thank the gods for basements.” He gave a savage grin.

“Orphans,” she said with a pleased sigh before giving an actual prayer of thanks to the gods. She tipped the glass and took but a sip … she wasn’t some barbarian, this kind of privilege had to be savored. The red wine, despite its primitive origins, was acceptable but she was probably giving it extra credit since it had fresh tears added, which by themselves gave a slightly salty, slightly tangy taste. It had been quite some time since she’d had this treat and reveled in it more because of that. A lot of nations out there didn’t even bother with orphanages they either trained the children to be elite super soldiers, handed them a half-loaded gun, and marched them off to war or they let them die on the streets. Both were exceptionally cruel and shortsighted. She was a refined woman with refined tastes, and so had over the years donated generously to orphanages – mostly in locations she planned to raid in the next few months or years … but that was splitting hairs.

A cough brought her out of ecstasy, “Mistress. What shall we do with these two?”

Instantly annoyed she glared at Icetalon with smoldering intensity. He’d still get a piece of her tonight, the tears guaranteed that, but it wouldn’t be in the manner he preferred. For his part the man didn’t flinch or back down from the glare. Looking over where he nodded she noticed the woman and her child again, still huddled and babbling in their incoherent language. She pondered for a moment before an idea seized upon her.

“They live,” she said with a genuine smile, “The woman will join us tonight, if she proves herself entertaining perhaps we’ll give her a chance to join the Silverbloods as morale gear.”

Icetalon looked skeptical of the woman’s abilities but shrugged, “And the child?”

“Find the nearest orphanage, send her there with my standard donation. Best to get the fields planned for next harvest, eh?”

Her favored lieutenant gave another toothy grin before shouting orders to the guards near the prisoners. They screamed and thrashed as they tried to stay together but no mortal frame was powerful enough in the face of powered armor and they were dragged apart. The two watched gleefully at a scene they’d witnessed a hundred times before. Saltfire took note of the woman’s vigor and resilience as she kicked, slapped, and punched at the guards. Oh yes … she’d do just fine.

“Deepest apologies,” said Icetalon suddenly as he pulled out his tablet, “I’d almost forgotten, there is an update on the situation back home.”

Taking the tablet Destinee swiped up as she quickly read the contents. Economic collapse? Freeks leaving the alliance? A sudden, unfortunate, shortage of the arms industry? Why … that’d leave a whole lot of poor, impoverished trade cities and ports awfully downtrodden and exposed. She took another sip of her wine while reading, allowing its contents to heighten the natural high she was riding.

Smiling she handed the tablet back and a sinister grin spread across her face, “Just when I thought business was slowing down.”

“Shall we make ready to leave?”

The Warlady of the Silverbloods looked around at the ruined city, they’d only just arrived. What really was the rush to get back home so quickly? None really so they might as well enjoy themselves here; besides if they’d found that fine vintage in the basements then surely there were more people hiding.

“No … no we shall remain here and enjoy ourselves for a few more days,” she said absently, “Plenty of excess chattel to enjoy; no sense leaving them behind to spoil. Prepare them for inspection maybe we can think of something … creative?”

Icetalon nodded with blatant, intense satisfaction, before turning to do just that. Saltfire took another sip of her wine and swore it was better than the last. Now that she thought about it, it was a crime to enjoy this without a solid pairing. But what could she pair it with?

“Oh and Icetalon,” she called, “Bring me a fruit cup.”

[Yohannes]

-✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨-

Sansa began to feel apprehensive again as she entered the main hall of Parliament House to the debating chamber at sunrise.^[1] Soon after her envoy’s return from the Old Chancery there arrived at the Blue Water Commission the draft of telegrams which caused her grave concern.^[2][3] The black and crimson standard had once again been raised high above the vast and mysterious land known as Automagfreek.

She remembered walking through this hall with her father some five years or so ago. They had been back from the gathering of Prince-electors for that year’s election; he in his majestic attire and she in her beautiful princess dress. Ambassadors Extraordinary and Ministers Plenipotentiary made way for them as they walked into the Prince-electors’ chamber. On the way there she saw a big fat minister asking her father about his opinion on “the evil empire” Automagfreek. She remembered that name because the minister was so fat, and seeing him jumping in excitement almost made her laugh. The big fat minister was gone a year or so later, but “the evil empire” Automagfreek still lingered in her mind. In her father’s last year Sansa had found old articles in his bookcase: some were old written accounts, while others were yearly reports on trade, all related to Automagfreek. It had been her job to make sure she was prepared to confront unruly politicians over old political matters unknown to her: dirty laundry secrets that could be aired, old scandals involving her family bound to be exploited by the vile Archbishop Emeritus Thaddäus Neumayer and his followers. Her father was a socially conservative man, but he was a hardheaded economic pragmatist firmly rooted in the real world—he agreed with Parliament in its dealings with all sorts of countries, capitalist or communist, Christian or Muslim, Father Knows Best State or not.^[4] Sansa vowed to continue her father’s economic pragmatism in politics.

Every local politician supported her socially conservative father, and the Church in Burmecia had promised to support his government’s reform so long as he respected the position of the Church: the archbishop at the top of the food chain, his bishops, the lieutenants, archdeacons, and their priests at the bottom of the pyramid. Sansa wondered how many of those people would support her now. She openly supported the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender movement; and she had officially opposed their reactionary archbishop emeritus in a heated International Diplomacy and Advisory Committee hearing.^[5] Her worry was not heightened by the thought. The important thing was that she was no longer a gullible little princess. She was the head of state of the third largest constituent country in Yohannes, and her voice could be heard by the democratically elected members in the highest legislative body of the land.

She walked past the main hall. It was full of fawning reporters and many big fat ministers: but not the one she had seen in her distant memory. For a moment Sansa was tempted to ask one of them about Automagfreek. Is it true this distant empire was once one of our closest trade partners? she mused. But she could not, of course, and the idea of being laughed at for not knowing anything about a mighty empire beyond the International Incidents reminded her of the risk that her political opponents could use her lack of knowledge to portray her as an inexperienced young queen yet again. The memory of her embarrassing defeat at the hands of Thaddäus and his manipulative creature of law Robert Praeton made her squirm. Sansa walked on determinedly.

She found her seat and nudged her minders to follow behind. Two important-looking old men stood to greet her. They were to be seated to her left. It had not occurred to Sansa that the other Prince-electors were mostly older than even her late father. The only person younger than her that’d seat in this chamber this morning would be Garnet til Alexandros of the Kingdom of Alexandria, and she could not see the young Alexandrian Queen.

She acknowledged the two old gentlemen. She could tell immediately that they were Electors from the minor countries. Perhaps one of the small duchies? she thought. Perhaps they were. She vaguely remembered having seen one of them on television. Eventually Sansa broke into a smile and said, “I very much honour, appreciate and value highly the privilege of sitting among Honourable gentlemen of distinction such as this chamber holds.”

They both said toadily, “We express our warmest gratitude for the honour your Majesty has done to us by so openly acknowledging our presence as your Majesty’s brothers in this chamber …”

Her experienced eyes told them to stop talking and they did.

The parliamentary assistants came around to give the briefing papers for the day. They were all young: many were males, a few females, and fewer still were African-Yohannesian—who were, she thought, probably GOP supporters anyway—and they were the only ethnic minorities around. Every female staffer there was of the same shade as her; red hair and green eyes or blonde hair and blue eyes. Sansa could not see the diversity so much spoken of on paper, no doubt celebrated even more in Royal Alexandria.^[6][7] She began to wonder why.

The few other Prince-electors to attend the submission business this morning were now finally entering the large chamber. The more senior of them liked to come late: such as Regent Cid of Lindblum this morning, who came last and made his way extremely slowly across the chamber. It made their entry grander, as if to remind the rest of the importance of their lineages. Several of the more senile Electors looked up with pangs of jealousy, preoccupied no doubt with the importance of their princely status, but most other simply shook their heads. Sansa chuckled. She felt like she was watching a bad comedy show.

She looked around the chamber, and then she could finally see the old Majority Vice President of the Electoral College making his way to chair the meeting. Her minders told her that his name was Erik Holmström, and that he had been elected President of the Merchant Republic of Landburg for almost four terms. Sansa wished that she was a democratically elected Prince-elector too, for then she could show the reactionary Church in Burmecia that she was more than just a pretty young queen. She suppressed a smile at the ridiculous thought. If Burmecia was a republic then she’d probably not be sitting here right now. Some things were best left as they were.

The Clerk of the Electoral College came to the front and stood beside the seated presiding officer. They each rang a bell and said, “Winter is coming.”

Everyone paused for a moment. Sansa realised the meeting had started well.

“Winter is coming!” everyone repeated the motto of the Kingdom of Alexandria’s ruling dynasty to begin the session. Sansa did not say anything. She could see that Regent Cid of Lindblum had refused to say the motto too. Sansa realised something. They were both the Prince-electors of the two major constituent countries after Alexandria. They could do whatever they wanted, and nobody would say a thing.

“The Empire of Automagfreek has left the Gholgoth Regional Alliance,” Erik began.

“It was reported that the markets of Automagfreek’s traditional trading partners had reacted badly to the news.”

“How many days before the after-effects will reach some of our merchant shipping companies, and other trading enterprises involved with the ancient empire and its traditional trading partners?” Regent Cid of Lindblum interrupted.

“Many Yohannesian enterprises and investment body corporates have shifted their focus towards new world nations since 2014, and especially since 2017. That said, we still very much respect our traditional partners, and for that reason, realistically, I suspect that we will still feel the impact of this international incident—‘an age of wolves,’ they say.”

This time, Sansa decided to make her presence known. “Mr Chairman, in essence, this unwanted development in the ancient regional alliance of Gholgoth would hurt our economic growth?”

“The Right Honourable Member is right. However, from seeing the Blue Water Commission’s conclusion before Parliament, I don’t believe there have been any new developments to suggest it would be catastrophic for our security or economic outlook.”

Regent Cid said, “Automagfreek was once one of our closest trade partners, alongside two other important countries in another ancient region by the name of Greater Dienstad.”

“And this was the reason why I had voted for the Christian Democratic Party’s diversification of trade and investment policy in 2017,” interrupted the senile old Prince-elector seated next to Sansa.

“Order! To the senior Member Phillip Neuhaus the President of Molander, the Right Honourable Member should know by now that he should wait for me to address the previous Member speaking first.”

“But sure … if Regent Cid of Lindblum is doing the same thing we won’t see the call to order coming,” Phillip mumbled next to Sansa. She smiled back at him, appreciating his honesty.

Regent Cid said, “Mr Chairman, this is a matter of urgent public importance. Has Parliament debated this developing international incident—again, ‘an age of wolves,’ as they say?”

“The Right Honourable Member will be pleased to know that Parliament will mention the topic heavily in its urgent debate tomorrow night, after oral questions time,” Erik replied testily.

“All in good time, of course? This is an interesting—though risky—development we’re seeing. We need to be more vigilant than this,” Regent Cid insisted.

Sansa could see that Regent Cid was just trying to throw his weight around. “Mr Chairman, what is the Bank of Yohannes’ forecast on the damage to business confidence in the constituent country of Burmecia that this unwanted development would bring?”

“To The Right Honourable Member, we don’t know yet,” Erik said bluntly.

Sansa caught her senior minder’s eye and saw that he was trying not to laugh, as if he knew the answer would be the same old working group meetings: expensive, slow-moving, and paid exclusively by taxpayers’ contributions.

“If there are no more interruptions, I believe that we can continue today’s discussion after our morning teatime.” The chairman looked around at the seated Prince-electors and their minders. Sansa was shocked to see that some had even made their way to the exit door without waiting for the meeting to be adjourned.

After a long pause, Erik Holmström said dismissively, “The assembly adjourned at 6.49 a.m.”


Out of Character information

1. Sansa Lovebright is the young Queen of Burmecia. See “Character Repository of Yohannes on NationStates” at viewtopic.php?p=35989152#p35989152.
2. The Old Chancery is the old Embassy of Automagfreek in Yohannes. See the Realm of Yohannes’ participation in “Satori” at viewtopic.php?p=35410978#p35410978.
3. The Blue Water Commission is the working group tasked with releasing their annual report on Naval Reserve Recent Activity and to make recommendations to Parliament. See the Realm of Yohannes’ recent activity in “Allanean Defense Exports” at viewtopic.php?p=36243594#p36243594.
4. One example of the late King Freya’s economic pragmatism was when he believed it’d be best for his country to ignore Inyursta’s shoddy LGBT rights record in favour of trade. See the Realm of Yohannes’ participation in “Supreme Court Rules Against LGBTQ” at viewtopic.php?p=34856395#p34856395.
5. See “Money for Christ” at viewtopic.php?p=35429894#p35429894.
6. The African-Yohannesian community heavily supported Marion Maréchal-Le Men in 2018. See “Election Yohannes 2018: Special Coverage” at viewtopic.php?p=34165522#p34165522.
7. Parliament House is located in Royal Alexandria, the Kingdom of Alexandria’s liberal capital city. It has been the de facto capital of the Nineteen Countries as well since 1871. See viewtopic.php?p=35852529#p35852529.

The Realm of Yohannes • An Age of Wolves