Ajax Character Intrigue [Closed; Ajax Only]

by **Lacus Magni** » Sat Apr 11, 2020 11:28 am

This thread is for members of Ajax to describe the lives of people within one's nation. This includes ongoing storylines, or one-shot posts. This thread will demonstrate the intrigues and lives of individuals in nations of Ajax outside the realm of a larger RP. The archived intrigue thread can be found here.

by **Communist Xomaniax** » Mon May 25, 2020 9:18 am

I.
The Buildings They Are Sleeping Now

22nd Kapotakanadapuri People’s Commune
Kapotakanadapuri, Divyasamudratsang District
SPR Jhengtsang, Union of Socialist People’s Republics

Shekhar gazed longingly out the window, eyes languidly rolling over the trains coming in and out of the station across the street. He watched the people come in and out of the trains, desperate to pay attention to anything but the teacher drone on about dialectical materialism. He tapped his heel against the chair leg and nodded, satisfied at the sound of leather striking metal. He glanced over to his friend Manjeep a few rows back. He was even more restless than Shekhar, though it would figure why. Suddenly it was like every holiday came early, as Majeep began frantically motioning for Shekhar to look outside.

Back when they were little kids, Manjeep had had an older brother named Arijit. He was so cool to them back then. Arijit had had a mullet he’d dyed bright blonde and a tattoo of a naked lady on his arm whose breasts jiggled when he flexed his bicep. He remembered the all nighters at Manjeep’s house playing the bootleg copy of Super Ghantboy Arijit had gotten him for his birthday. “It’s something you can’t get in stores”, he’d bragged, “but I know a guy.” What a badass Arijit had seemed like.

The guy Manjeep was pointing at, the one sitting quietly on a bench in the courtyard by the train station, that couldn’t be him. No, thought Shekhar, not him. The man was gaunt and haggard looking, with a buzzed head and the kind of properness to his appearance that seemed comparatively shocking. But that was him. As soon as the man took his dress shirt off to reveal his tanktop, Shekhar saw the naked woman on his arm. The rest of his appearance began to trickle in too, his high cheekbones and a nose crooked from who knows how many breakings. When was the last time he’d seen Arijit? Must have been almost ten years. Wow, Shekhar thought. In a way he thought he’d never see him again.

Arijit was arrested a little bit before Manjeep’s sixth birthday. He’d been sleeping over when it happened. A loud banging on their apartment door had woken them up, then they’d put their ears to the door to listen to the conversation between some men and Manjeep’s parents. Then there was a bang, like a heavy weight distantly thumping into something. He and his friend rushed to the window to see. Arijit had tried to jump out of his window onto the roof of the building next to it but had missed. Shekhar still remembered how the bad angle his leg was bent turned his stomach. Still remembered the ambulance taking him away under police escort. He never saw Arijit again after that

Didn’t snitch, Shekhar thought, not one fucking time all those years. He felt pride for his friend’s brother, but deep down he wondered if he would’ve been that strong.

The bell’s chime broke Shekhar out of his thoughts. The classroom began to rumble with a dozen conversations as the students began to get out of their seats, but the loud thwack of a measuring stick striking the teacher’s desk silenced the crowd. The teacher vigorously wagged her finger at the students, frowning mightily at their attempt to leave before they sang their ending patriotic song. The students let out a collective sigh but stood ramrod straight next to their desks, hands at their sides as they began the national anthem. The tune began to play over the classroom loudspeaker and soon enough the students followed with the words.

“Arise, slaves afflicted by hunger and cold. . .” they began to sing.

The students flowed like a storm from the classroom at the moment of dismissal, eager to make the most of their weekend. The afternoon sunlight almost blinded Shekhar, stopping his stride for a few moments. He had to run to catch up with Manjeep, who was making a beeline for his brother. When he caught up the two were tightly embraced in a hug. When they released, Shekhar got a good look at Arijit. He barely resembled his old self. Guess I wouldn’t neither if I’d done a piece like that. He thought.

“You’re big,” Arijit said to his little brother, messing his hair and getting a playful punch in the arm for it.

“Yeah, and you got smaller.” Manjeep teased. “When’d you get out?”

Arijit laughed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, guess I did. He checked the time on his phone. “About two hours ago, they released me and I hopped on the first train on the way here. Let’s go home man, mom’s been blowing me up.” He turned to face Shekhar.

“They gave a little bit of labor credits as a parting gift. We’re gonna take a cab home, you coming?” Shekhar asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” He said. Arijit started tapping away on his phone and after a few minutes of waiting they were piling into the backseat of a taxi.

“Hey man, take me to the 22. The residential part.” The driver grunted in acknowledgement. The drive home was mostly uneventful, through sheer luck they’d avoided the worst of afternoon traffic. They parted ways at the communal courtyard. Manjeep and Arijit lived in the building across from Shekhar.

“Don’t leave yet.” Manjeep called after him as Shekhar walked towards his building’s door. “We’re having a thing later, come by.”

Shekhar lit a cigarette while he waited for the elevator doors to close. He stifled a cough from the harshness of the cannabis smoke. A man saw the doors closing and called for him to hit the button. He obliged and made room as the stranger entered.

“Think I can get one off you?” The stranger asked. Shekhar looked him over. The guy was older and dressed like a janitor, though he wasn’t one of the ones he recognized. Maybe a new hire, he figured. He took his pack out of his jeans and gave the stranger one. The janitor pulled a lighter from his own pocket and lit it, taking a long drag.

“Appreciate it. You live here?” The janitor said.

“Yeah.” Shekhar answered, not really wanting to talk. The elevator dinged when it reached his floor. He darted through them as soon as the doors opened, casting a momentary glance over his shoulder at the janitor. The guy stood there staring back and smiling as the doors closed shut. Fuckin’ creep. He thought.

He slid his card through his door’s electronic lock, opening it wide at the click. The lights were off and it was hot in the apartment. No one’s home. Shekhar dug through his refrigerator and grabbed a package of steamed dumplings. He didn’t bother heating them up, eating cold handfuls as he got into bed. He turned his television on to the pitz match but was fast asleep before they could even get to the score.

The walk from Shekhar’s apartment to Manjeep’s took about ten minutes normally. Theirs’ was the largest of the buildings in the 22, the bottom floor containing a communal recreation center and a surprisingly decent cafeteria. He saw a familiar sight as he waited for the elevator, his eyes locking on that same weirdo janitor from before. Maybe this is the building he lives in. He thought. This time he seemed to be chatting with somebody, but this one wasn’t a janitor. He was also an older guy, maybe he lived here too. The doors opened up before he could think any more about it.

The moment he reached the right floor, he could tell the party was already well under way. The hallway smelled strongly like weed and muffled trap music bled through the walls. He had to pound on the door before somebody opened it would open, revealing a grinning Manjeep.

“Glad you made it. You want a drink?” He asked.

“Sure dude.” Shekhar responded. Before long he had a plastic cup of vodka and a light buzz going on, the beat of the music loosening him up.

“Chundak and some of the other guys are here, we’re all parked out on the balcony. Big Raja’s gonna be here in a bit, man, he’s running late ‘cause he’s getting some of that stuff.” Manjeep explained. His parents both worked on the oil rigs in Lake Divyasamudra, which was why they usually partied there. He followed him to the balcony. A chorus of “Hey!” followed when Shekhar and Manjeep crossed the threshold. There his friends had gathered, passing blunts and lounging around. Norzin embraced him and poured him another drink. The others greeted him with cheers. They’d all been friends since they were kids, growing up in the same commune.

“Hey, where’s your brother?” Shekhar asked, turning to Manjeep. He took a deep hit once it was passed to him and struggled to suppress a sputtering cough. His friends laughed.

“I dunno.” Manjeet shrugged. “He said he was too tired. Went to bed I guess.”

“Went to bed during his own welcome back party?” Shekhar asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah I know. Dude’s changed, we’ll talk about it later.”

The next hour passed by in a blur as he partied with his friends. Eventually he went to the bathroom, scrolling through his Pramana feed on his phone while he did so. His thoughts drifted again to Arijit. What did his brother mean when he said he’d changed? Back when they were kids, Arijit was in Lions United. It was one of the pitz clubs their commune had, back then he’d been part of the rougher core of it. He and his another guy, Yudron, had it pretty good with some sports official who was supplying the club with gear. They were making a killing using the connection to sell it all over the city. Yudron and Arijit ended up getting caught in a different scheme, and because Arijit never snitched, Yudron avoided a death sentence, but they sent Arijit to a prison on the other side of the country for his trouble.

He got a group text from Big Raja.

Help man bunch of Gold Winds chasing my ass I’m near the corner store on 26th

At once he heard a pounding on the bathroom door. Instinctively he knew it was Norzin.

“Hurry up, we gotta head out.” A moment later he was out, just as Manjeep was waking his brother up. He didn’t bother to pay attention to their conversation, but came in once he heard yelling.

“Prison made you a pussy then dude, fuck you. I don’t even wanna see your ass right now.” Manjeep snapped, storming out of the room and motioning Shekhar to follow.

“What’s up man?” Shekhar asked as the group began to head out.

“Ari doesn’t even wanna help Raja out. They must have took his balls or something man.” He seethed venomously. What the hell was wrong with Arijit? Being in the Lions was supposed to be for life, it was supposed to mean that you watched out for each other. They were family too, which made it almost a personal humiliation. What Arijit was doing was shocking, he didn’t blame his brother for being hurt.

“Here man, you’re gonna need this.” Manjeep said, handing him a pistol. “I’ve got one too. Me, Gupta, and Tseten are gonna drive the bikes and you, Au and Norzin are gonna ride on the back and pop off.” Manjeep explained as the group entered the elevator and headed down.

“We’re gonna roll up and blast on ‘em?” Shekhar asked, betraying no hint of the fear he felt over the idea.

“Yeah dude, we are. Please don’t pussy out on me, not you too man.” Manjeep half snarled, half begged. “I can’t handle both of you doing it in one night. C’mon man we’re ride or die.”

“Yeah man, we’re ride or die I know.” Shekhar said, trying to steel himself. “It’s just I don’t have nothing to cover my face with. What if a camera sees me?” That seemed to resonate with the enraged Manjeep, who nodded furiously to a conversation only he could hear.

“Just take your shirt off and wrap it around your face.” He responded. They were in the street in no more than a few minutes, though it felt like an eternity to Shekhar. He’d been in Lions United for a few years, sold drugs and even brawled with other clubs. He wasn’t a stranger to the violent side of things, but a gun just seemed so much more more serious. So much more severe. He put the little .22 pistol he’d been given and tucked it into his pocket, then wrapped his shirt into a crude mask around his face. A few moments later and they took off like rockets, the engines of their motorbikes screeching like demons.

The corner store Big Raja was at was about was only a few minutes ride from the apartments, but every second seemed an eternity. He held on for dear life as Manjeep weaved through traffic, blowing through red lights and taking hairpin turns wherever he could. Just as it seemed like his stomach could take the lurching no more, they began to slow to a crawl. They were just around from where the corner store was and could hear shouting. Immediately the group zipped around the corner, and under the sterile glow of a street lamp was Big Raja. He was crumpled up, three guys taking turns kicking and stomping on him.

“Shoot them!” Manjeep screamed, just as one of the Gold Wings leapt high into the air, crashing down with both feet on the back of Big Raja’s head. Norzin shot first, then Gupta. Shekhar held the gun in his trembling hands, aimed it, but struggled to fire. He breathed deep to calm himself and prepared to fire on one of them, just as Manjeep ripped the piece from him.

“I’ll fucking do it then!” He roared as he unloaded, hitting one of them and sending the rest scattering.

“Chase after them!” Manjeep ordered. The rest of them took off through a cluster of alleyways around the corner. They took off after the Gold Wings just as the sound of sirens began to fill the air. The cops were thirty seconds, maybe a minute away. Too late to go back for the bikes. Thought Shekhar. They chased the other group in a mad dash to a loading bay behind a warehouse. He looked around him, he’d lost most of the gang except Gupta. Their target, a young guy in slip ons and shorts, seemed to have lost his own group too. In his turn down that alley he’d misjudged, ending up in a dead end. The guy turned around, he knew he was cornered.

“Get on the fucking ground.” Gupta yelled, pointing his gun at the guy. He complied and tossed his gun, putting his hands on his head and getting on his knees. He didn’t look like a Gold Wings East member anymore. His face was screwed up in terror, the tears rolling down his cheeks making him look like a little kid.

“Don’t shoot me man, don’t shoot me! We was just trying to rob him, you win!” He babbled. Gupta opened fire anyway, though Shekhra turned away from it. He struggled to back his own tears. This was not how he expected his night to go. He didn’t know what was going to happen now, but he dreaded the worst. Then he heard the sirens again. The fucking sirens! No! He wasn’t going down over this dumb shit.

Gupta and he turned around and took off back to where they came, peeping around the corner and seeing one of the riot trucks passing along a nearby street. More were coming the opposite way and it was only a matter of time before they were seen. Who knows if the rest of the gang had been caught. For all they knew, the riot cops already had their identities and were looking for them. Both of them decided to unwrap their shirts and put them back on, they’d be less conspicuous that way.

But it was too late. There were too many riot cops now, they swarmed the entrance to the loading bay where Gupta shot that guy and spotted the two immediately. There was nowhere left to run or hide. From the number of rifles pointed at both of them, that was clear. Now it was Shekhar’s turn to throw his hands up and drop to the ground, quickly putting his hands behind his head. Gupta screamed something and in an instant he crumpled under a storm of bullets. Shekhar kept his eyes pointed downwards, he refused to see what was done. In an instant the riot police were upon him, handcuffing him and dragging him to a riot truck. One opened the doors and another practically tossed him in. He landed roughly on the floor and tried to sit up, but as he did so the truck lurched into motion and threw him against the side.

If Manjeep’s driving had scared him, the back of the police wagon terrified him to his core. There were no handles or seatbelts, nothing to hold onto as the armored vehicle jackknifed one way or the other. Shekhar was thrown about like a ragdoll. He heaved as his ribs smacked on the bench corner, went fuzzy as a speed bump sent his face slamming into the floor. A sharp turn sent his head slapping into the side of the bench. White dots exploded into his vision as his body grew heavy. He slipped in and out of consciousness, aware only of the changing motion of the wagon. Finally he felt it stop. The doors were again thrown open and he was dragged out. With an officer holding each arm he was dragged into the police station, deep into its concrete bowels.

He blacked out for a moment, only to be awakened by the feeling of his body being tossed and slamming into a concrete floor. He looked around at his surroundings, dismayed at the jail cell he found himself in. At least I’m not dead. He thought, trying to comfort himself before an immense sense of guilt washed over him. Gupta. His friend. Shekhar laid there on the floor, the coldness of it soothing to his now numerous injuries. He was in pain all over his body, tasted blood and felt it caking in his nose. How much time had passed? The cell opened and the guards again grabbed him, practically dragging him across the hall into another room, this one marked “interrogation”. A cop handcuffed him to the table. More waiting. He began to shiver, he was wearing summer clothes and the room was brutally air conditioned.
It was an eternity before the door opened again, but this time a familiar face stepped through threshold. It was the older man from earlier, the one that he’d seen that creepy janitor had been talking to. The man shut the door and sat down at the table across the Shekhar. He removed a thermos from his briefcase and poured himself a cup of butter tea. Under the fluorescent lighting his badge shined like a mirror. After taking a deep drink of the tea, he then began setting up a video recorder. Once the man seemed sure it was rolling, he sat back down.

“Good evening, My name is Captain Mao Sros. Shekhar Wangchuk, we have a lot to talk about.”

by **Allamunnic States** » Fri Oct 30, 2020 12:31 pm

Town of Blumboro, Republic of Eona

Emmie

As the sun sank behind the mountains, Emmie finished one last page of the novel she had been working her way through for the past week before she replaced her bookmark, closed the book, and slipped it back into her shoulder bag. The blockyard was slowly filling up with people, including more and more children. In the center of the courtyard, Emmie’s sister Ellie and cousin Nomi were putting the finishing touches on trays of what looked like hundreds of sweets and baked goods, some of it small squares of caramel cream, some with the small frydkaags that were the hallmark of the holiday. All around, there were neighbors milling about and chattering, in varying degrees of costume; some not at all, some going all out.

When Emmie stood up, it was to approach the crowd of children and parents, straightening her skirts and picking up her walking stick. Appropriately, given that she would be leading children of the block’s Halloween Tour, she had chosen to dress as an “oskmayd”, a guide of the dead in Allamunnic mythology, in a brown robe with a black blouse and skirts, shoulder-length brown hair in a braid her sister Evey had helped her with, and a walking stick with a battery-operated lantern fixed to the top. The stick thumped on the brick-paved path through the courtyard, before Emmie stepped into the grass. As she approached, the parents turned to her and smiled; it was a gathering of friends, for all intents and purposes, since most of the families had been on the block that shared the yard for five years or (many) more.

“Oh, Nabo Emmie!” one, an androgynous blond named Sammie said happily, “I like tyn costume! Pretty and functional!” They stood next to their child, a nine-year-old brown-haired boy dressed in a one-piece designed to look like a skeleton, looking around at the decorations as dusk fell. “Dost tu needst help with the group tonight?” they asked, looking at the group of just under twenty children, ages ranging from 8 to 16.

Emmie shook her head with a reassuring smile. “No, but thank tu for tyn offer. Eddie and a couple of the other teens are going to help out before they go party with their friends.” Realizing that the refusal might have sounded rude, she quickly added “But of course, tu’rd welcome to join, if tu’d lik’st. Extra help is always good, and who am I to deny you the chance to get your own sweets and treats?” she added with a pleasant laugh.

Sammie shook their head. “Oh no, I think the hubby and I are going to stick around here if we’re not needed. Dan’s working on the second batch of stew so I’m sure he needs an extra set of hands, and so might tyn sisters with handing out treats. But thanks for the option.”

Emmie turned to the rest of the knot of children and parents, looking around, knowing that one or two of the other parents would be accompanying the group. Emmie could see a mix of costumes, skeletons, ghosts, fairies, and monsters represented in the costumes all around. “Alright, thanks for joining us, everyone. In a couple minutes we’re going to head out on our Tour. We’re going to go to Holt Park first, where the neighbors have set up a haunted maze. It’s about seventeen-fifty now, and we’ll probably leave Holt around eighteen-half. After that, the Baartun Co-op are doing a bonfire and story reading, and our last stop will be the Stoppard Row who are doing treats. I expect we’ll be back here around twenty-oh, but any of yokes who want to come along for any part of this is welcome to.”

With that, Emmie took the lead of the group and began to walk out of the co-op’s courtyard, onto the brick-paved mostly-pedestrian streets, donning a mask to go over the top of her face. The trolleys weren’t running right now, so it was purely filled with people walking around. Decorations were out in force all over, mixes of multicolored lights, old-fashioned lanterns (these days usually illuminated by battery-powered LED’s), and faux-agricultural decorations meant to invoke the harvest: scarecrows in particular were common. Costumes were the norm for those going around on the street, and almost all of them incorporated some kind of mask.

Emmie led the way, approaching the already-visible lights and signage for the Holt Park Haunt. The park had been rigged with cardboard, plywood, and two or three days of feverish work, into a maze illuminated by strobe lights and retro-styled lanterns. A sign in the front warned caution for those who entered.

Ellie

Ellie set down another tray of cooling caramel cream squares as the first wave of treat-hunters approached. Like the group her sister had just left with, the ages of the crowd ranged between 8 and sixteen years old. As the group approached, they stopped at the edge of the entrance to the courtyard, before calling out in unison.

“Cake for peace!”

Her grandfather, a short, portly, mustached man in overalls named Kaarl, was running the entrance to the courtyard, and swung it open. “Welcome, honored guests,” he said cheerfully. “Go to the table by the tree. Frydkaag is on the right, Caramel Creams are on the left. Nabos Ellie and Nomi will help yokes out.” As the gate opened, the children streamed into the yard. Ellie took up her position, at the table with the caramels, while her cousin Nomi, who unlike Ellie had actually dressed up (as a fairy, in a green jumpsuit with wings and an artificial flower crown), took up a position at the table with the frydkaags.

The kids started with Ellie’s caramels, each one receiving one, wrapped in a small bundle of wax paper to be eaten later, before taking a frydkaag from Nomi. The frydkaags the Bronns made in nearly-industrial quantities each year were two-inch by four-inch rectangular cakes, each meant for a single individual, little apple poundcakes that were sweet and buttery and very satisfying, and both Ellie and Nomi had snuck a couple out of the final batches once they were sure there would be enough for the Tourers.

Once each child (and more than a few of the adult chaperones) had gotten their treats, they lined up toward the street-side of the yard, turning to face the residents of the Torrus co-op block, and, on a count of three from the chaperones, yelled in unison.

“Thank you, friends, and a happy night to you!” With that, the group turned and filed out the gate, even as the sounds of another approaching group began to filter down the street.

by **Enyama** » Tue Jan 05, 2021 12:43 pm

11 on The Grove, Karsko, Prime Republic of Ostrozava
New Year’s Eve 2020
11:21 PM

The doors to the balcony swung open with a rickety yet endearing creak, and the rather unassuming figure of Benedict Král stepped forth to look down at the courtyard that would soon be his to peruse at closer angles. 11 on The Grove could barely be considered a modest abode, but for a world leader, it left a little to be desired, especially in the region.

Not that he minded, not really. He’d always been a dreamer, but he’d never imagined himself ending up here. The sensation of impending responsibility gave BMK an old whirl through his veins, a burning sensation in his chest dulled by the champagne of the party just beyond the door. Here, however, he’d discovered a nook and cranny far away from prying eyes, over the estate’s interior courtyard.

“I see you’ve found my smoking balcony,” said someone to his behind, to which Král shook slightly, caught off-guard in a moment of solitude. In through the baroque and narrow double doors to the whole balcony came the current Primar, Dominik Moravec, who with his lumbering frame had to duck slightly so as to not hit his head. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand, and soon, with a rather snappy politician’s demeanor, offered it straight to Král before the man could utter a word of rebuttal.

Moravec had ruled for fifteen years, re-elected time and time again despite his blunders, but his luck had finally ran out. It shocked Král to see the man offering a cigarette so cordially after such a hard-fought campaign, one filled to the brim with hysterical utterances of constitutional crisis and ideology so thick as to spawn bureaucrats and pundits through mitosis.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke,” muttered Král to his rival. With a shrug, Moravec’s lanky yet imposing frame reached into his pocket for a chrome lighter, with which he lit his vice. For a moment, the two men stood watching what little could be seen of the Karsko skyline from their vantage point in silence, before Moravec finally spoke up again, “There’s a good set of wines in the cellar. Merovian. Perhaps you’ll find a better use for them than I - I found the stuff always makes me a little too drowsy.”

Král’s curiosity peaked, but not towards the mention of wine. “What is this?” he asked with a gesture towards Moravec, “I mean, this small talk. I’d have thought you’d come here to debate something, to prove something to me. Warn me.”

“Oh,” Moravec chuckled as he looked down into the courtyard for a bit and took a drag, “To tell the truth...I’m quite exhausted. It’s going to be good to finally relax after fifteen years of back-and-forth.

“Well, do you have a confession to make, Moravec?” queried Král, prodding his opponent for any useful information regarding the cavalcade of controversial policy decisions and scandals that had plagued Moravec’s administration since the end of the Polnitsan War, all those years back when everything seemed far more innocent. He wondered if Moravec felt the same way. He seemed genuine, but appearances could be quite deceiving in a world of cutthroat politics and machinations.

“No,” Moravec ashed his cigarette and looked at Král. “I’ve no wish for confessions or warnings. In…” he paused and looked at his watch, “Thirty-seven minutes, you officially have my job, Král.”

“Why even talk to me like this? Want to be friends, all of the sudden?” Král continued to prod, wondering where the ulterior motive he had grown a thick skin towards would show its head. Or was there truly none? Had Moravec come out here for a smoke, and found Král? No, it was something else...the man had something to say, carried with him the sort of attitude a student eager to raise their hand would.

“Slow down, Král.” said Moravec, before pausing, “But if you demand that I say something substantive to you, regardless of policy, than so be it. This job will tear at you, Král. If you do claim in your heart-of-hearts to be an idealist, as so many in your party do…well...this is a different level of pressure. It helps to know when to…” he stopped, and removed another cigarette from his pack, some cheap brand off of the street, before lighting it and taking another drag. “...disconnect.”

“You’re a real Beran,” chuckled Král with a hint of a wry tone. “Old age tends to make men like us sentimental.”

“Beran, in his old age, thought the entire enterprise he had begun to set up was devolving again away from civility, from enlightenment. Whatever he may have meant by that.” mused Moravec, for a moment looking again at Král, “Now, as I depart, I think he was more correct with each day. This PRCO thing...never even reached my desk. They kept me in the dark, too.” noted Moravec, to which Král smirked.

Finally, the warning, the confession he had been expecting had wormed its way out into the conversation. “That's your confession, then? Expect me to believe that?” replied Král, his demeanor changing to reflect an almost-giddiness as to the whole revelation of advice.

“‘Degenerated worker’s bureaucracy’ is the term I believe you invented for the press to use?” interjected Moravec, taking another drag. “Socialists. So many of your types love your theories of this and that. I just wanted to tell you about some wine in the cellar, Král. You’re the one still desperate for a philosophical debate, for a revelation, for a great answer. I can offer you none. I can only say I tried, and that’s enough for me. Try to make that enough for you, or you will never be satisfied with the progress you make.”

“You know what?” began Král, “I don’t think ‘well, I tried’ will work as an excuse anymore in twenty-twentyone,”

“I hope you’re wrong, Král. For both of our sakes.” muttered Moravec back, as he promptly flicked his ashed cigarette down into the courtyard and turned to leave. “Come. We must celebrate.” he beckoned, though far more dejected than before. Král, noticing this, began to feel a twinge of guilt for manhandling his predecessor in conversation so severely. Perhaps he had been genuine.

But where to draw the line? To open up as individuals in conversation, and risk the information coming back later, as it had when he’d ran for Subprimar of Orloşka unsuccessfully in ‘09? Or to keep one’s guard up, and to risk losing the connections, nay, the friends that could potentially materialize along the way.

Decades in politics, and he still had no working set of generalizable rules as to the answer to that question. Thirty minutes to midnight. With a sigh, Benedict Král turned and closed the balcony door, heading back towards the New Year’s Party, and into power.

by **Sante Reze** » Sat Feb 20, 2021 11:10 pm

Ypau Qipie
Nine Cousins, Sante Reze
Scipia

The streets of the Nine Cousins were always packed from being built more narrowly than they had any right to be. Monif stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the highrise's wall and hunching her shoulders to present a sturdier profile to the crowds walking past her. She shook her phone and looked at it, sighing and swiping at the screen as she perused her six new matches on Midnight, her dating app of choice.

Her most recent "1" match was late, which surprised her. Sure, Continental Rezese had a more laid back approach to deadlines - something that always irked her when she had to work with one of the Paramount Houses, but those in the Cousins were brisk in their affairs. You didn't dawdle at restaurants or hold up meetings by arriving later than five minutes early.

"Where are you," she muttered as she shook her phone, rerolling five of the results. She swiped at another, assigning it its number, then shook again to reroll the remaining four.

Really, she thought, every single one of these should be a six. But the app required at least rating of the preferential one and a rating of the low interest four in any given round of rolling for matches. She had heard, too, that constantly "scoring" high by giving out tons of sixes would destroy any ability to get good results. So, she spent the mental energy to assign values as much in the favor of the resulting profiles as she could.

Stupid algorithms, she thought. And she knew, too, from work with one of many of Ypau Qipie's advertising algorithms. They were all extremely flawed, given to the biases of their creators and maintainers. In the case of Midnight, that was in favor of quantity dates over quality. All things considered, though, it could have been much worse. It could have been racist or something instead. Or on top of.

She got down to having to assign her preference value for the last match before she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Got any good rolls?" a voice asked.

Looking up, she met the soft gaze of her match. "Ekene?"

Her date nodded and said, "I'm so sorry I'm late. The upper rail was held up and I can't imagine taking the subway."

Monif placed a hand on the small her date's back and guided them inside. The table was about chest height to her, though her date was shorter and so they lowered it down. In the middle was a tray of jars holding classic Rezese condiments from hot spreads to pickled or dry peppers. The restaurant was Fahrani, so perhaps the condiments were out of place, but Rezese liked the safety of their own cuisine and so any tie back to it was important. Besides, Fahranis also liked their hot peppers, so it was probably authentic enough.

"Have you been here before? What do you recommend?" Ekene asked.

She scanned the menu before answering, though knew it well enough. "Yeah, I'm here all the time for work, actually."

"Oh, you work here?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Oh, no, our office is just on the twentieth here. It's a nice building, and this is the best of the ground floor places. There's an Ottonian place around the corner but it's more expensive for lunch, so we come here a lot. Probably two or three times a week."

Ekene smiled and cocked their head to the side. "I don't think I've ever regularly gone to lunch with coworkers before. But I'm in tech, so maybe that's why. We keep more to ourselves, I think."

"Yeah, ha, that doesn't fly in the nonprofit world. Running the city is like a clique, we're supposed to all be friends or else we'd be at each other's throats. So, we have a lot of retreats and lunches and all-hands conferences. Lots of food at all of them though, even the remote meetings. They send us delivery."

"That sounds wonderful. My company just has a beer on tap and orders sandwiches every so often. I don't like beer, though, so what good does that do me?"

Monif chuckled. "The city would throw a fit if they thought we were drinking on the job. We're more strict on everything, so I don't know how wonderful it is. Emails are all monitored, chats, personal apps on our phones. If my boss cared, he could see I made plans with you tonight once I walked into the network range."

The grimace on Ekene's face made Monif regret saying as much. They probably hadn't ever considered how surveilled Monif was, no matter now transparent she had been about her career choice. Working the metro corporation was a very specific life, and Monif had forgotten how different it was from the rest of the Nine Cousins. There were a lot of sacrifices made to keep the cities safe and secure.

The waiter came up to them to break what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.

"Oh, you never told me what you recommended," Ekene reminded her.

She frowned and said, "Oops! Well, should I just order for the table? Correct me if you hear anything that sounds bad to you."

The waiter turned to her, not waiting for Ekene's response. Odd, but just as well as Ekene offered no resistance to the idea.

"An order of mutafayyah, please. Not with the seabream, though. Do you have a good tilapia? That's probably better for Fahrani, yes?"

The waiter nodded and wrote it on his tablet. "More authentic that way, yes. Is two lir extra okay?"

Monif smiled, "Of course, no worries for me."

Ekene's face, however, displayed the discomfort in answering that question. Monif placed her hand briefly on Ekene's and said, "I can cover whatever you want me to. My choices, my responsibility."

Ekene smiled, though it seemed to Monif to be hollow. "We'll see what I like, then, I suppose"

Turning back to the menu and scanning down it with her finger, Monif questioned in her head and aloud whether one or two orders of saltah to start was the way to go. Eventually she settled on three, which hadn't even previously been in the running. One with rice, one potato, and another with the seasonal vegetable medley. Lamb kabobs for each of them rounded out the meal.

"Hummus and bread to start?" the waiter asked.

Ekene answered for them, "Yes, please, thank you."

Monif raised an eyebrow. She said, "Are you paying if I don't like that?"

"I think I could say yes and it wouldn't matter. You come here three times a week, what are the odds you don't like hummus or bread?"

They had a point. It was a safe bet.

To pass the time while waiting for their food to arrive, Monif asked Ekene about their job. Tech was only passingly interesting to Monif, so some of the aspects were difficult to follow, however she did at least have her own opinions with some base knowledge behind them to keep Ekene talking. Ekene was definitely one of those people who had a real passion for their work. That concept was to Monif foreign.

Monif did what she did because she was good at it, but she could never say that she enjoyed it. She could talk most people into almost anything they hadn't formed an extremely entrenched opinion on already, so long as she could manage to sound like more of a subject matter expert than whoever she was speaking to. And typically she could, at that. It was, perhaps, fun for a fleeting moment but at the end of the day, when she was off the clock, she was fully off.

When asked to expand on her own career, Monif merely shrugged and explained that it was far too boring for dinner conversation. Selling products and services which practically sold themselves, and really that her work was more in helping to automate that entire process rather than handling it directly.

"It's mostly meetings, honestly," she said as their food arrived. She set the bowl of mutafayyah between them and dipped in some of the remaining flatbread from the hummus order. "Meetings and continually convincing everyone that we have to keep covering repetitive strain injuries or else lose good people like you to other Cousins… or, worse, the Continent."

Ekene laughed. It was a flowing laugh of honest amusement, at a middle pitch that carried over the table and lit up Monif's heart in its sincerity. She had been concerned about how well things had been going, but this seemed like a good sign.

"I would never," Ekene said. "I can't speak for anyone else but Ypau Qipie is my home. Perhaps another Cousin would do but the idea of going west? I hear it rains there every day and I don't know what I would do with air so wet. I bet it would destroy my hair, at least."

They finished the meal after some light conversation about their preferences in climate, hair and skin care, and of course the all important question: how could it possibly be better to live where the Paramount Houses were constantly competing for your vote of confidence in them while at the same time kicking you back and forth between them as you navigated their services to find the best one for you. In the Cousins, you just had to deal with the metropolitan nonprofit and their single system of handling affairs.

The waiter came by and cleared their table, leaving behind the bill and a handful of Fahrani sweets on an ornate plate fair nicer than anything they had been served actual food on.

"What are these?" Ekene asked.

"Oh, you've never had them? I suppose I've only seen them here and in speciality shops. They're Halmat al-Shwkwlat. This place always serves them with the bill. They're very good. A lot sweeter than chocolate usually is."

"What does Halmat al-whatever you said… Do you know what it means?"

Monif blushed at the question, knowing full well as that was the reason she used the Gharbaic name instead of translating. "Uh, well…."

"What? Don't tell me it's something weird."

She covered her eyes momentarily before saying, "Dusky Nipples. They call them Dusky Nipples because of…." She mimed the curve of a breast and held one up to the region of air she shaped. "I mean, hyperbolically anyway. Mine don't look like this, at least."

Ekene burst out laughing again. "I don't know if I believe you, Monif. That's definitely the most absurd thing you've said so far."

"Oh, oh no, it gets worse. If you ever want to come by my place, I can give you at least two more types. I couldn't say their names in polite company, though."

by **Mutul** » Mon Jun 28, 2021 9:49 am

Two men in jeans and baskets, covered in tattoos and jewelry, got out of a red car in dimly lit underground parking. There, in the middle of the way, they installed a folding table and two similar pick-nick chairs. A third man, the driver, similarly mostly dressed in colorful tattoos, joined them and then they began patrolling around the parking lot, leaving the table and the chairs behind.

Soon after, a second car came in. Entirely black with tinted windows, it pulled out right on the way, next to the table, not even bothering with one of the parking places. Then, it waited for a third, smaller and green, car which arrived a dozen minutes afterward. This car actually parked itself in a decent spot. It’s driver came out, its most prominent figure being the large, waterproof, coat he wore.

He stood there while a figure got out of the black car’s driver seat and respectuous opened the door for another individual. Contrary to the other until now, this one was quite old, with entirely white hairs cut short and a reddish-brown skin wrinkled and worn by the efforts of time. The skin color was shared by everyone else in the parking lot, but what wasn’t so common was the triangular face structure that gave him a snake-like appearance when combined with his small flat nose and two small black eyes half-hidden behind a pair of rectangular glasses. The old man moved with a certain dignity in his movement, but also barely contained contempt and boredom. This sneering attitude was reinforced by his hanging lower lips, which revealed a row of pearl white teeth that had been cut and sharpened until they all looked like small fangs. Instead of the jeans favored by what were obviously his goons, he wore a Sarong wrapped around his hips alongside an ornate loincloth that served as a sort-of belt. Similarily, no baskets at his feet, only sandals and his chest was half-hidden by a colorful sleeveless wool jacket left open. Tattoos were still visible, but they were much more subdued.

He sat on one of the chair, but the coat-wearing man remained a careful distance away, seemingly not really willing to engage with the individual. The black car’s driver then walked to him and as politely as his thuggish manners allowed, renewed his boss’ invitation to a talk. Without a word, the coated man finally took a step and sat down face-to-face to the old man, who had yet to move a single muscle.

“Aj Ahin X’ok.” said the coated man once sat down. This was the old man’s name, but he seemingly didn’t react to it. Instead, his reptilian black eyes were fixed on his interlocutor, examining and studying the man. “Aj Tukun Mat, a pleasure. How is your road ?” The old man’s voice was like the rest of his appearance: subdued, controlled, but hissing and almost inhumane.

“My road is leading me here, to you. You know why I asked for this meeting, don’t you ?”

“Indeed inspector.” hissed Ahin X’ok. “I’ve heard all there is to hear about that poor woman’s murder.”

“All evidence ties it back to you.”

Ahin X’ok sneered. Tukun Mat couldn’t help but wonder how such a half-man, half-reptile, predator could’ve ended up with such a fitting name as Crocodile-Shark. Because sir Ahin X’ok was not just your average third-age citizen. In a totalitarian theocracy known for its regular crackdown on organized crimes, Ahin X’ok was publicly the patron of one of K’alak Muul’ many taxi services. But what Inspector Tukun Mat and many other who spent too much time “in the underworld” were convinced of was that Ahin X’ok was also the brain behind the largest circuit of illegal gambling dens as well as the pimp of the capital main prostitution ring. He was also suspected of being behind a number of human trafficking cases, as well as the patrons of some of K’alak Muul’ most notorious robber gangs. And he’s been at it for decades, with no evidence managing to stick to him, when the average lifespan of other active Mutuleses gangsters was a mere two years.

“I know what you’re thinking, Inspector. But no. I have nothing to do with your case.”

“But you know who did it, don’t you ?”

Ahin X’ok remained silent, but something seemingly shined inside his deep dark eyes. “Your boldness surprises me, Inspector. Demanding a meeting, asking me these questions... I want to see how far you’re willing to push your luck.”

He then took something out from his wool jacket. A revolver. Tukun Mat twitched, but the two goons on either side of Ahin X’ok also moved slightly, just to remind the inspector to try anything funny. But the old man simply placed the gun on the table and left it there. Tukun Mat stared silently at his interlocutor. “What is the meaning of this ?” he asked. Ahin X’ok own gaze was unflinching, and the rest of his body betrayed no emotion either. A minute passed as the two men stared at each other before Ahin X’ok finally answered. “I want us to play a game.”

Ahin X’ok then opened his hand and one of his underlings respectfully placed something in his palm. It was a bullet, which the old man then chambered in the revolver before giving it to the Inspector “You spin it.” he ordered but Tukun Mat would’ve none of that. “I am not playing games.”

“You have gambled your life coming in.”

“I’m leaving.”

“How much do you value these answers ?”

Tukun Mat had already stood up, but Ahin X’ok remark stopped him from going anywhere. The truth is, he was out of options. The investigation was going nowhere, they had no lead, and some of the prime suspects were untouchable. The two men were perfectly, and painfully, aware of it.

“If you win, I will testify.”

The inspector raised his eyes once more, and look at Ahin X’ok with a new curiosity. “So you do know”. The statement was met with silence. “Seat down, Inspector. And spin the cylinder.”

Feeling trapped, Tukun Mat did so. But now, and against his better sense, he knew that, there might be a chance for something to happen.

“Now give me the gun back.”

Tukun Mat hesitated, and the goons around Ahin X’ok felt it. But the old man did not move a muscle, and simply kept his hand open. “You do not know where the bullet is, and neither do I. There can be no trickery now.” he simply stated. Reluctantly, Tukun Mat gave the gun back. Immediately, in a controlled movement that was neither too fast nor too slow, Ahin X’ok brought the muzzle of the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger without hesitating or flinching.

Nothing happened, but this single click had been more deafening than a bang. But Ahin X’ok simply spinned the cylinder again and passed the gun back to Tukun Mat. He was not as certain, simply stared at the gun for a moment as he hesitated. Finally, he took a deep breath, placed the barrel on his temple, and stared down Ahin X’ok two black, reptile-like eyes. His hand shaked, but he did pull the trigger.

There only was a loud click and then silence. Tukun Mat sighted and closed his eyes for a second. Still shaking, he spinned the barrel and placed the gun on the table, its weight still in his hand.

And the two men continued for a while, only the clicking breaking the silence of the parking lot. Ahin X’ok remained cold and seemingly unconcerned thorough, pulling the trigger with inhuman casualness. Tukun Mat, meanwhile, while he tried to act as casual and stoic as his potential source for a few rounds, quickly took longer and longer to raise the revoler up, to pull the tigger, or to spin the barrel. He could feel the sweat on his palm, and the shaking of his fingers. He forgot to count how many time it was. Once again, like in a blurr, he raised the gun to his head but this time he couldn’t do it. His hands still shaking, he replaced the gun on the table, shaking his head. “No.” he said. “No more.”

Without a word, Ahin X’ok took back the gun and then to the surprise of Tukun Mat, spinned it again. “What are you doing ?” Tukun Mat asked. “It’s simple” the old man answered. “We never stop.” And once more, pressed the muzzle against his temple.

“What are you doing ? Stop ! I lost, you don’t have to do this !”

“Inspector, you’re a brave man. But there was two important clues you needed to get if you wanted to win this confrontation: one you got, the other we both missed...” and there he pulled.

Once again, there was only silence. But then, Ahin X’ok pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. Without touching the cylinder. “Stop ! Reholster the gun !”

“... the first thing, and where you were right, is that I do not care about life.” And he pulled again. Click.

This time, Ahin X’ok finally put down the gun, took the bullet out of its chamber, and re-holstered it. “Inspector, I am disappointed.” he said, standing up. “You were willing to abandon your life, but there’s a reason why you will never solve that case.” Tukun Mat did not even raise his head, nor looked at the old man.

“What we missed however, is that before you even drove in, you had already admitted to yourself that you lost.”

Ahin X’ok then returned to his car, which soon disappeared from the underground parking lot. Tukun Mat stayed there far longer, sitting on his chair, his head full of jumbled, messy dark thoughts. Finally he decided to stand up and slowly, with his back bent, he too walked back to his car and drove off.

The last to leave were Two men in jeans and baskets, covered in tattoos and jewelry, who took the two foldable chairs and the table and stored them back in their red car’s trunk.

by **Awasin** » Mon Jul 12, 2021 5:29 pm

ACT I

'Kind Solace In A Dying Hour'

Palace of the Wolf; Omahk'ookoowa a'Omahkapi'sa

Nikanassin, Crowsnest Province

Confederated Territories of Awasin

The courtyard still bore the marks of battles centuries prior, the flagstones shaped from irregular pieces hauled from glacier-fields miles away and stained with the blood of an entire band. Daylight like spears made the few thin birches divulge their branches to the glare with tenuous acceptance from the trees themselves. Arches of faintly foreign design hemmed in the space, dividing it neatly in stark contrast with the wild sweetgrass that even decades after its planting sought to grow beyond this sanctuary of normality amidst its stone prison. On the north wall, here and there a petroglyph, cut and moved from the furthest boundaries of Awasi lands; on the right a bison hunt, small figures throwing spears, on the left a crude dance. Undisturbed in their depictions save for a thin, smooth line below, marked by hundreds of hands whose owners had passed through the heavy doors between. In the light, time no longer existed. One singular moment stretched ahead into infinity.

Iksana Running Wolf walked the sinuous stone path with all the grace of an elk, bare feet undisturbed by the prick of thistles below. The embroidered hem of her deep red cloak trailed along the stems of dried rushes with the telltale swish of softest leather, whilst her eyes caught the reflection from one of the ceremonial mirrors ahead of her. There was no trace of queenliness in her garments, even for all the derision from her mother on the subject of succession, and the simple greys and whites of coat and beadwork accented only the slightest aspects of her figure.

Her own visage, of course, was nothing to her eye; a woman standing perhaps five-foot-six, of slim figure and fine feature, beautiful in the foreign sense of the term but carrying a certain weight within her deep brown eyes. Her hand fiddled with the long, intricate braid of russet brown hair that fell well below her hips, the absentminded gesture conveying some sense of her headspace. On her finger sat a bisonhead ring, unassuming in bronze, but ancient in contrast to its wearer. The few that still went by the name of shaman spoke often of the importance of such things, but for all her education in the ways of her people the thought eluded her. Iksana smiled, halfheartedly, at the thought of her father chiding her for such a lack of decorum.

Suddenly, footsteps from behind; a hard rhythm on worn stone. She knew that strange music, knew it almost like the back of her hand. How could one forget that which they had heard for so long, after all? Iksana levelled a cool eye at the doors ahead and moved nary an inch at the feeling of a hand upon her shoulder. “I can hear your boots from half a mile away,” she said, voice soft in the early morning air, and turned to face her companion.

“You are simply getting better at noticing your surroundings.” For a man who had the unenviable job of guarding someone as important as a princess-heir, Octavian Volusenna never seemed put off by it, thought Iksana, then cursed herself internally. He wouldn’t.

Of course he wouldn’t. Lord Protector, Commander of the Guard, Creator’s Watchman; how many titles more to codify his loyalty? If her mother told him to jump, he would ask the height, if her father told him to run, he would ask how far, and if the premiers asked him to fight he would do it without hesitation. With them, he was a lapdog, admittedly a six-and-a-half-foot-tall pale-skinned foreign lapdog with enough guns on his body for two men, but with her there had never seemed that air of separation. It was almost too easy to look at him, she thought, and certainly improper, though she could not resist doing so anyway.

Where the suit had been tailored, she could not say, its silver threading and Kevlar-lined inner folds too fine a quality for any simple military refit, and it hugged his frame with all the closeness of a troublesome theatre curtain. The light-streaked hair along his temples made him stand out unduly, a poliosis-caused defect that made going completely unidentified far more difficult, but its close-cropped form accentuated his chiselled jawline brilliantly. A stray hand fiddled absentmindedly with a holster at his side. His stormcloud-grey eyes peered at her with a soft expression contrary to that expected, though a certain iciness remained on his face. “Are you alright?”

Broken from her reverie like a deer from an icy pond, Iksana coughed uncomfortably, very much reminded of time in that instant. “Perfectly alright.”

“Are you completely certain?”

“As much as I can be, Tavi.”

“I would not wish to pry—”

“No! I mean, please do,” Iksana exclaimed, then sighed at her foolishness. “I… oh, Creator. My apologies. I do wish to talk.”

Octavian clicked his tongue. “As you wish. If it is about your niksissta, I understand. Everyone has been speaking for weeks.” He nodded in silent counsel a moment later, and fumbled with a suit pocket for a carton of loosely-rolled Kakisa cigarettes in beige paper before he continued. “She continues to go on about your prospects, or so I have picked up upon. Without you ever being present. I assumed you would talk to her yourself. Or am I wrong, Iksana?”

The princess-heir nodded in an aggravated yet understanding manner and then took a cigarette from her partner’s outstretched fingers. “Not wrong. Not in the slightest. Her fondest hobby is talking about me when I’m not in the room.”

“Perhaps you should do better about making sure you are not perennially the object of conversation,” Octavian said, after Iksana had lit her cigarette. His voice betrayed some hint of an urge towards such a conclusion. “I would suggest taking up different hobbies than making state premiers angry at your impertinence. Knitting. Gardening. Best indeed that you were gone, in her mind.” He shrugged, an odd informality. “I am sure having Kanti take your place would be wonderful for your mother. A fully controllable child, and one that does not plan to marry.”

She took a breath after he finished and nearly choked to death. Though the Lord Protector (Creator above, what a weighty title) had a penchant for buying more expensive foreign stock when he shared it with her, Iksana could not deny some level of attachment towards the simpler Awasi merchandise, for what should a princess do if not love the work of her people? The lowland tobacco might burn like a prairie fire and leave her gasping in comparison to that grown nearer to the coast, but it had its charms. At any rate, the feeling of Octavian’s steadying hand on her arm was worth every second of discomfort.

“Iksana, please. Dying is a poor substitute for conversation,” he murmured. “Whatever would I do without your tongue to lick at me with words of ash?”

She slapped him weakly, the attempt to muster any disagreement as would be proper completely forgotten. “Oh, Tavi, do be quiet. Don’t speak any more of Kanti; he has time to figure out who he wants to be yet. As well, if I have to endure any more of your teasing, I’ll report you to my mother myself, her displeasure be damned.”

Octavian frowned. “One wonders why she despises me so. Do I remind her too much of a past lover? A friend? Or do I truly perform that horribly?”

“Come off of it,” she sighed, though a grin returned to her moments later. “I think she doesn’t hate your service too much. I think. Though she’d love the excuse to get mad at the both of us together, I’m sure. Very sure! Why, just the other night I had to endure one of her rants about us being too close. Too close! Can you believe it?” Iksana exclaimed suddenly, her face contorted in anger. “That’s your job! You’re my bodyguard, my confidante, there’s no other reason you’d be here other than to be close to me.”

Octavian glanced to the side. His expression, as usual, remained unreadable. He might as well have been a statue for all the life on his sculpted face. “There has been one too many close calls. Times I was distracted.”

“Well, you were never supposed to be some oohkotok, Tavi, unmoving as the stars! Father wouldn’t have picked you all those years ago if he didn’t know that. If he didn’t know we needed that. But mother can’t see it,” she continued contemptuously, “she can’t see any of it. Is she blind, or does she not care? Some days I do not know what ninna saw in her.

“Something as simple as beauty, or power, or both. Or as complex as the way she spoke when they first met. Unknowable is the mind of one who loves another,” Octavian said. His hand, loyal as the rest of him, had not strayed from her arm.

Her cheeks flushed. There was silence between the two for a moment, so much still unsaid. She could not say it, not here, with her tongue tied into knots. His eyes burnt into her like the coals in the mouth of Omahksoyisina, the slightest hint of his brows made her as dizzy as an eagle in the wind, but even though her cheeks went red like a prairie fire her throat remained closed. Her hand reached almost on its own for Octavian’s face, but fell, only to be caught by his. Fool! All she had done this entire time was act like a lovesick girl. She was a lovesick girl. The princess-heir shook her head as if to rid herself of the thought. “I… for… I cannot delude myself into saying that I know that she is only tough on me because I am the heir. That is a bolder lie than I’d ever dare tell. I just wish that it was different. That it could even be different.”

“You are so sure it cannot?”

“The responsibilities of state are too weighty these days for me to bear,” she groaned. “Is that a Latin saying, ‘heavy is the head that bears the crown?’ Ghantish? It is true enough here. Queen in all but name, now, resigned to my own parent’s discontent. I’m not some doll for her to push around, but I’m cast aside like one just the same. And that she cannot spare a whim towards me any longer! Everyone but me gets the good mother, the kind mother; Kanti, Aran, Sinoa, and all the rest. I love them. She loves them.” The princess paused in a vain effort to collect herself. Words escaped her once more. Fool doubly, she thought, but the anger melted to melancholy. Iksana gazed at Octavian with eyes a half-step away from tears, and her voice finally cracked. “Is it so much to ask that she could love me too?”

"Iksana," was all that he said. Her name sounded like the rushing of wind on his lips. Much against her conscious will, she buried herself in his shoulder. It felt much like being pressed up against a wall, admittedly the sort of wall that one did not mind being against. How such a story would spread if anyone were to see! The princess-heir of the nation sobbing in her own Lord Protector’s arms like a jilted teenager. Long had she waited to feel his body against hers, though she had never thought it would be in this context. A bolt of embarrassment for ruining a thing as important as his suit came upon her suddenly, but the unspoken sense of nonchalance that seemed to emanate from Octavian let it pass quickly. The proximity was new; she had no idea before that a human being could smell so strongly of brandy. Perhaps it was the cologne.

For all of it, a shoulder to cry on was a shoulder to cry on, and Iksana wept like a child into grey wool that retained her tear-tracks cruelly. How long she spent bawling, she could not tell, but it felt like an eternity when she pulled back from his iron embrace. “I am sorry, Tavi,” she said softly. Her voice wavered. “Truly sorry. You did not deserve to see me like that, composed as little as a child on her first day of school. It is… it is hard to pretend things are alright. I am sorry, too, that I should project such thoughts onto someone of your occupation. It is not—”

His arms came back around her, graceful but intense, and his lips pressed down on hers. The room spun. She was vaguely aware that her toes had curled as she came to the realization that she had been lifted a foot off the floor, her chest against his, breath coming hard and irregular.

“Pardon me for the interruption,” Octavian growled, “but I could not let you continue to… project such thoughts onto someone of my occupation.”

Iksana, for all her flaws, made no move to avoid a second kiss. The second time around, she savored it; the stubble on his jaw, his hand on the small of her back, the way that her tears seemed to vanish like the Mannegishi she swore she saw as a child. There was gentleness in his touch. She pulled away and took a breath, feet pressed against the floor only by sheer force of will. “That,” she managed to say, “was most unprofessional.”

Octavian blinked, then threw back his head. The laugh that emanated from his chest had all the deep force and rumbling nature of a train in a tunnel. “Serpent in the depths, Iksana! I have done all but beg to pay your bride-price for a decade and the first thing you do after a kiss is comment on my conduct.”

“Well, it’s true, Tavi!” she said, seemingly unsure whether to be elated, angry, horrified, or all three at once. “Doing something like that to the one you’ve protected for years! Why, I ought to call the rest of the Guard in here and have them haul you off for that… particular conduct.”

“I have the feeling you will not.”

“Of course I won’t,” Iksana exhaled. She wrapped her arms around Octavian’s waist and rested her head on his chest once more. What luck, what providence, to be so loved! She was, quite thoroughly, shaken, but did her best not to appear as such. He had just kissed her, for Creator’s sake. It would be unbecoming to break down again.

His chin came down softly on the top of her head, and she felt the rumble and movement of his jaw as he spoke. “Shall we notify the rest of the palace about this conclusion then, my lady? Accompanied by your characteristic obscenities?”

“Just my brothers, I think. They deserve to know, if they do not already.”

The two chuckled together, and did not move for a long time.

by **Awasin** » Tue Sep 28, 2021 8:39 pm

ACT 2

'Blessed Comes The Falcon'

Red Rocks; Maohk’ohkatoki

Kapesiwin, Province of the Horn

Confederated Territories of Awasin

There were claims that Red Rocks had been the center of Awasi culture on the plains for millennia before the capital had moved. Most were easily disprovable, but a kernel of truth remained— the circle of mismatched and ochre-tinted crimson stones that stretched like daggers or the fingers of a buried god towards the wheeling sky carried the weight of an epoch of culture, painted handprints and horse carvings whose inhabitants barely shared blood with those today resting just out of reach above. Scattered around were patches of sage, wild lavender, sweetgrass; hemmed in between boulders that sat as if dropped from heaven. The individuals who sat gathered between these stones would have torn each other to pieces a century ago if the thought of what they undertook in the present had crossed their minds as a distant fantasy. Yet in some way every clan was represented here, small though the group was; there were nine attendees (some accompanied by their bodyguards) all in all, every one of them devoted wholly to the matter at hand. Somewhere in the distance was the chirping of crickets.

“You cannot seriously think that I would abandon this entire proposal? Being here right now as I am?” intoned Iksana Running Wolf, dulcet voice tinged with a layer of annoyance. A free hand clutched her single braid, white-knuckled with anger or perhaps just annoyance. She wore clothes marked very clearly with the sigil of the Wolf, regal aura present even though she lacked the bone-rings or small diadem traditionally worn by princesses of her stature. Even as plain as she was, a commanding presence was obvious, though the effect was bolstered by the towering Lord Protector Octavian Volusenna who stood behind her half-shrouded by shadow in firelight. His hand on her shoulder suggested much to those gathered around, though not a single one dared to question it further. It reassured Iksana almost as much as the rifle strapped across his chest.

“Your brothers have already. It’s not a wild conclusion to suggest you would too, my lady,” said Deer representative Mati Double Rider, voice thick with sarcasm. He was a thin little man barely out of boyhood, gangly arms and legs in a father’s coat that fit him poorly. None of the men of the Deer seemed to have a penchant for cleanliness— something that the elders of some tribes traced back to the early days, when they were forced to cavort in ditches. Iksana thought that a shower would have done him good. He smiled much like an adder would, devilishly, and with a good deal of the same venom. Most of the others could barely stand to look at him presently. “Some of them, I believe, seemed quite enthusiastic—“

“But not all,” Jasem Achakzai said roughly. His proper name was Hassun Coldweather, recent recipient of his mother’s seat at national gatherings, but he had spent a good portion of his life between Charnea and Kembesa with the people of his father and few knew him by an Awasi name. He was built like a mountain, over six feet tall with broad shoulders and massive biceps, and sported a thick albeit short and well-maintained beard. The symbol of the Hawk on his belt buckle was all that suggested he was more than a rider in beaten chaps. His wife, Zahra, was a pretty-looking hawk-nosed Fahrani thing who sat on the side of his heavy chair with an arm around her husband and ferocity in her gaze. “The lady heir has many brothers. I’m bound to her just the same,” he continued, with a nod to Iksana, “even if we share little in the way of blood, and I’m certainly not about to turn my back on her and her wishes. Oh, don’t give me that look, Double Rider. Some of us have stronger loyalties than simply to whomever pays our salary.”

“You’ve got quite a tongue for someone who’s spent his whole life being a foreign pet,” Mati intoned with a hiss.

Jasem’s glare was strong enough to crack rock. “It’d be a lie to say I’ve spent my life here, that much is certain. But these days it seems I love this country and its leadership more than you.”

“You dare to suggest that I’m some sort of traitor? You, the one who might as well be Scipian now for all the attachment you’ve got?”

“I merely suggest that you seem to have a… how should I put it? Remarkable lack of faith in the woman who seems to be the only one with foresight enough to plan for our eventualities.”

“I plan quite well enough!” Mati spat.

“Boys!” Iksana yelled, and clicked her tongue like a disapproving mother. She had never had patience for idiocy. “We come all the way out here and fight like we’re children? I’ve had better interactions with my sister Sinoa, and she’s a true pain in my neck. Please. I don’t wish for our problems to be exacerbated by our own divisions, lest we be unable to fix them. Until I succeed my mother, I can’t offer any of us true catharsis, but at the very least I’m still a stronger ally now for furthering the collective goal than I was able to be previously.” She shrugged as if to dismiss the previous subject, much to Mati’s chagrin across the table, and looked to her immediate right. “Nadie, you’ve been silent. How goes the battle?”

Nadie Whitehorse was all of thirteen, a meek little girl of the Bear clan with freckled cheeks and red ribbons in her hair. She had come with Iksana, but received her own seat at the table, important as she was. Short for her age, admittedly, but Whitehorse women were not known for their height. She did not meet the eyes of anyone else in the assembly, but spoke clearly nevertheless. “Ahanu… Ahanu could probably see it,” she said, speaking of her brother, “Cousin Byar does too, but he’s worried about his chances of reelection; I think he just needs some time. Time, yeah. If we’re going to commit to democ— demo— uh, democr—“

“Democratization,” Zahra finished. Her kohl-lined eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Thanks,” Nadie said, accompanied by an embarrassed smile. Words had always been as empowering as they were troubling for her overeager tongue. At least a stutter could be trained out. “If we’re going to commit to democratization, it’ll have to start with everyone who has power already. We can’t force it.” Done with her comments, she slumped back down in her chair.

Iksana noticed the way Nadie’s feet dangled over the ground and made a mental note to buy the girl some heeled boots for the next meeting, should they have one before a coronation. Far too young to keep such company, and forced to grow up far too early; but such was the state of the world, she mused to herself, and nodded. “Thank you, Nadie. You’ll surpass this lot yet with insights like that— not that you need to grow up any faster, of course. You’ll always be a baby to some of us!” There was general laughter as Nadie buried her face in her hands. Octavian reached around and ruffled her hair good-naturedly. “All joking aside,” Iksana went on, “it’s good to hear that your cousin’s amicable; that’s Sihkomtatsi accounted for. Mati’s mother holds the Northwater, Jasem takes the Horn here, and I handle Crowsnest. If my math is right, with no guarantees, that leaves Whistler and Sipiista. The latter should fall to the Spotted Buffalo twins, I believe, though they could not be with us tonight.”

The remaining few members— mostly coastal politicians with an eye for change— seemed to take the news with a good deal of understanding. Mati opened his mouth as if to berate the twins’ absence, but a glare from Jasem shut him down conclusively. The man was truly frightening when he needed to be. Absentmindedly, Iksana shook her head. For someone who held a considerable deal of sway with his family and clan as a whole, Mati had little tact, though she was sure she could beat it into him with a little more time and effort; at the very least he could be more than a snivelling twit. “If they manage to turn the tide the next time they hold seats, we should see popular support in Sipiista. Whistler being the last holdout could prove to be more difficult, Creator knows they’re a bunch of neo-traditionalists, but the pressure should be enough at that point they’d capitulate. Then it’s no problem at all for a unanimous decision. Worse comes to worse, we do things ourselves.”

“I know that I’m in too deep,” Jasem said, “to bring up such a concern now, but as it’s quite honestly only just really occurred to me, do you not feel it’s all a bit underhanded to leave this entirely in our hands?”

“Well, like you’ve said, we’ve sunk too low now,” his wife murmured.

“Point taken,” Iksana replied. She hadn’t faced it much, but the cooler part of her mind ached to emphasize that decisions surrounding queenship should hardly be surreptitiously made in the company of foreigners and a little girl. But that they had even come to this conclusion at all! “Any suggestions on who we might approach on a broader level? I know the original intention was to only bring in those who might have a chance for actual change, but.”

Jasem shrugged, his shoulders heaving with mountain-like forcefulness. “No, not unless you want to make this a legislative matter. If we want to stick with people who’ve got a say as to succession then I’m hooped for choice.”

The princess nodded. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve got some influence with the Carries Water family, so that’s an inroad to getting money to whom we wish. Money, though, is its own matter. When we can approach my mother…”

It was after two in the morning when the group finally split, having spent an interminable amount of time— Iksana figured four hours— debating the ins and outs of the new plan. Well, the old plan, she thought, but new in execution. It was what they needed. It was what the nation needed. She had spent her entire life as witness to the failure of old systems. How old women led old men to isolation, war, and death. How even the most noble of those in power could be rendered ineffective by the systems that held them up. If she was to be queen, she would not be queen of a nation that pitched its tents near bone and not buffalo, as the saying went. When she was young enough to still sit on her father’s knee, he had told her once of her namesake, a former matriarch who carried the Calling Buffalo name through some of the leanest years of their history. She’d tried to live up to that legacy, but it seemed an almost unreachable goal.

The politicians from earlier— Iksana hazily remembered they came from Crowsnest, same as her— seemed absorbed in some conversation about horse racing, from what little was able to be heard. Octavian stood with his back against one of the pillars, apparently in the middle of a conversation with Mati, who looked faintly queasy and not at all as slimy as he usually did. The Lord Protector did seem to have an unusual effect on people in that regard. Iksana loved that about him. She loved much about him, of course, but his sheer force of will was to her like gold in its value. Her gaze hung on him for a few moments more before she turned away and adjusted her grip on Nadie. Like a girl of much younger years, she had fallen asleep not too long after the main discussion had concluded, and Iksana had spent the last half-hour or so juggling her between shoulders. She remembered doing the same when she was the same age, and even before. In both positions.

Opposite her, Jasem laughed. “If only we could all do that. Some days I would like to just sit somewhere and sleep an afternoon or night away. No interruptions, no calls for me to do something. I’m sure you feel that even more strongly, princess.” The title rolled off his tongue with a smile. Iksana remembered when he’d come to the palace as a boy; they had made a game out of abusing honorifics, not caring a whit for them then the same as now. Even if the titles had changed. Back then it was ‘princess’ with that almost irreverent air to it; ‘child’ or ‘girl’ felt far more appropriate. Now it was ‘princess’ or ‘my lady’ accompanied by copious bowing and scraping. Soon enough, even ‘my queen,’ if the election went as they had spent the past hours hoping. Creator above! A queen! Jasem had kept up with Awasi politics, she thought, but even he was agog the first time I spoke of such a thing. She denied further thoughts in her mind. They could wait until she was ready to face them.

Zahra appeared out of nowhere beside her husband, hands in her dress’ deep pockets. She smiled cooly at Iksana, then much more kindly at Nadie’s sleeping form, taking the girl in her well-built arms. Iksana could raise no objection, not so long as Nadie leaned half-asleep into the firmer embrace. “Poor thing,” the Fahrani woman murmured. “A long day for her, I am sure. But so are most days when you are already a politician before you can drink. Well before. She has a way back, I am assuming?”

“I did want to bring that up to her, but she had passed out by the time I thought of it,” said Iksana. “Byar’s a decent sort of fellow, I have no doubt he’d come and help out if desperately needed, but he’s almost triple my age and more preoccupied with his work than my father with cold beer after a day fishing on Lake Iyewa. Not to mention Ahanu is… oh, Creator, he’s a college student. One of the bad ones, you know? I may joke that I have it rough, Zahra, but that girl’s stuck with one of the most aloof siblings I’ve ever met. I’d be surprised if he remembers they’re related for all the work I see him putting into the matter.”

“She does not have anyone, then?” Jasem asked. There was a twinge of worry in his baritone voice.

“Well, I’m sure you picked up on the lack of mention of any parents— been a decade since all of that, terrible time. Not a lot of aunts, really. None willing to do anything. There are some support staff, sure, some more distant cousins here or there. Some…” she trailed off, deep in thought. “You’re about correct, I suppose. A lot of tutors and a lot of petitioners, but children aren’t meant for social sterility like that. There’s been no real constant. We might treat her like an adult here, for the most part, but she’s…” Iksana sighed, and silence fell once more. Mati, behind them, actually laughed— laughed!— at something Octavian had said, and then the men resumed their hushed conversation. Somehow the Crowsnest politicians had disappeared. The air had taken on a pleasant but nevertheless brisk chill that made Iksana wish she had a shawl, perhaps the one she had received as a gift years ago, with the red tassels. Oh, how this reminded her of earlier years! Staying out past midnight, surrounded by people she cared to be with; talking like a person and not a figurehead, respected though she may be. It felt almost normal, and that was a rare enough commodity. She could spare a few more minutes to bask in that feeling.

Zahra, with a hand on the back of Nadie’s head, suddenly frowned. “This girl needs mothering. I do not intend for her to go without it. If that cousin of hers wishes for a return soon, I shall be happy to give her up. Until that point and until I get some guarantee she won’t be shuttled about like a prize thoroughbred for display, however, she shall be coming with me. Ah, only if you allow such a thing, of course, your highness,” she said, bowing slightly in Iksana’s direction. Jasem looked worried, but Zahra shot him a glare that communicated such intent and ferocity that the feeling seemed to disappear as quickly as it came.

“Zahra, formalities are the last thing I need. Iksana is fine. You’re my sister-in-law,” the princess said, to Jasem’s small half-hidden smile, “I don’t expect you to treat me like a glass doll. I get quite enough of that from everyone else. Certainly enough. But about Nadie… if we’re to ask anyone to allow it, I feel like it should be the person we’re actually talking about, hm? She’s old enough to make her own decisions, I think.”

Zahra’s cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet against dark skin, but she maintained the rest of her composure when she jostled Nadie awake; the girl’s eyes snapped open, then she sputtered half-aware excuses and fell hard onto the ground. A moment later she was anxiously and ferociously dusting off her bronze-threaded skirts. “I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, voice high and fluttery. “I think I fell asleep, if I ruined something, I’m sorry, or missed something, I’m sorry, sorry, really, I—“

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Iksana said. Had she been this jumpy when she was younger? Creator, how Nadie shook! Might as well have vibrated out of her moccasins. It was almost too much to think of why she might be so nervous. Princesses did not tend to berate their subjects, but the more time she spent with the girl the more she felt the need to beat that brother of hers senseless. Preferably with a metal club, or something heavier. She’d have to consult Octavian later on torture methods. “Really, Nadie. You haven’t. We were just going to ask how you were getting home.”

The girl deflated like a balloon, or a porcupine expelling its spines, worried expression replaced by a weary one. “Oh. Oh, okay.” Nadie furrowed her brow. “Uh. I didn’t really think about it. I… Byar’s not home for a few weeks, and Ahanu kinda sorta said he didn’t want to see me…” she trailed off, kicking at the dirt. “As usual, I guess. He’s like that. So I don’t really know.”

“You know, Zahra was thinking you might wish to come along with us for a while,” Jasem rumbled, lips beneath his beard curling up into something of a grin. Nevertheless, he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “We bought a place on the Longbow when I came back. Trying to make a forever home, you know. Pastureland, and orchard. Plenty of space for horses; I was told you’re not a bad rider. Only if you absolutely would like, of course, and feel comfortable with the idea. I would not want you to feel that we’re forcing you.”

Nadie bit her lip. She looked to Iksana, then Jasem and Zahra, then back to the ground, tugging on a ribboned braid. A myriad of emotions played upon her face. Kindness, it seemed, was not exactly first on her list of considerations when dealing with others, and she seemed almost unused to the concept. “Are you… I mean… to stay? To stay with you?” Her eyes widened and lit up at the prospect, green as a field. “No strings? Free of charge and all that?”

Octavian, who had appeared from behind silently like he always seemed apt to do, seemed like he might well burst into laughter. It was strange to see such a dangerous-looking man so relaxed. Iksana could not help but fix her eyes on his, and blushed as red as a chokecherry bush when he looked in her direction and smiled. Damn that man, how she loved him so! “They are not trying to kidnap you, Nadie.”

“Heavens, no,” said Jasem. He wrung his hands like one might a dishcloth, but otherwise seemed stalwart.

Silence for another minute. Nadie swung her hands back and forth, brows furrowed in concentration. Iksana shared a knowing glance or two with Octavian, who had moved beside her once more, then clasped his hands in her own. She felt the heavy ring on his thumb; the history it carried, the promise it kept. So many meanings wrapped up in so little bronze! But even his skin was enough to give her peace. Her eyes moved over to Zahra, who was busy whispering to Jasem in hushed tones with an urgent look in her eyes. Iksana could recognize it well enough. Zahra was a strong woman, as willful as her husband, but even she was not immune to certain higher calls and it seemed that it had taken but a few hours for her to be hopelessly maternally afflicted. No matter what Jasem said to the contrary, there was the sense that the two would have a veritable gaggle of children in the future. It would be a good thing if they got practice with Nadie. There were worse things, to be sure. Worse people as well— Iksana thought idly that there were few who could love harder than her sister-in-law, if Jasem’s calls from Fahran had betrayed any true sense of it all. It was almost strange to be able to be so casual in calling him a brother, now, but she did not mind. She did not mind at all.

Finally Nadie looked up. “I think I want to come along. To stay.” She seemed to chew on the word for another moment with her eyebrows faintly furrowed. “To stay with you,” she concluded, with a good deal of force, and smiled.

Iksana squeezed Octavian’s hand harder, grinning. “It’s settled then!”

“I suppose it is,” Octavian said in reply, though with such a cadence as to suggest the statement was primarily directed towards himself.

“I expect,” Iksana continued, pointing a finger at Jasem, “that the next time I see Nadie I shall hear nothing but praise from her mouth as to your conduct, and see that she is completely safe and sound in body, or I will exile you from the country for the rest of your natural lives.” Mm. Never one for speeches like that, the princess thought. It doesn’t feel right. Good in the moment, but I shall not be my mother. Not yet, not now, not ever.

“You really mean that?” Jasem laughed.

“Do you think I don’t?”

Suitably amused, Jasem bowed; highly exaggerated, he finished with a flourish, and shot Iksana a look of pure gratitude. Either that, or one of joking acknowledgment; he had always had the bad habit of making the sorts of gestures and expressions that left everyone else in the vicinity scratching their heads. But something true showed, thin enough as it was. That was all she needed. There were no more words, really. Zahra took her leave with Nadie, talking kindly with her arm wrapped around the younger girl’s shoulders as the two went towards an Ipia pickup; Jasem followed soon after with only a small nod to the others. Mati, who appeared either impressed or frightened enough by Octavian to have abandoned his general smarminess, gave Iksana general words of pointless gratitude before ducking out to a waiting helicopter. A helicopter? Creator, she swore he’d come in a car. Where the Deer boys kept getting their resources, she had no idea. Or perhaps her memory was simply suffering that so normal of consequences as overworkedness. But he left just the same, and soon enough the fire had died down and all that remained was the princess and her bodyguard surrounded by rock.

Octavian blinked. “Well. That is that, at any rate. They are gone.”

“What exactly do you suppose we should do?” Iksana asked, fluttering her eyelashes. Her companion rolled his eyes, reaching out, and with a single tug she felt the cool night air on her shoulders. His hand traced the smooth skin on the nape of her neck. It was all she could think about.

“I have some ideas.”

Then they were on the ground, and she was left thinking about something quite different.

by **Mutul** » Mon Jan 17, 2022 3:09 pm

Hell began with a question : “Life or Death ?”. Well, it started when he and his crew, in an alcohol-induced daze, picked up a fight and killed a man by accident. But it’s only when the judge returned to his stand, demanded silence, and asked him the question that it became clear there was no escaping it.

“B’a chi Kame”, the judge asked. Life in prison, or Death on the altar ? He was only twenty-two years old and it was all over. He did not care about transmitting an heritage, he had none, or to preserve his family name, he had none either. But the idea to spend the next fifty, or sixty, or maybe more, years in prison with no hope of ever getting out terrified him. So, deciding to take the easy way out, he stood up, pale and shaking, and answered : “Kame”. Death. The judge nodded, he sat back, and his lawyer sprung to his ear to say a bunch of things. He heard none of it, it was all buzzing sounds in his ears. The lawyer only stopped when he began to cry. “Just like that.” he thought. “It’s all over, just like that.” But he was wrong. It was far from over.

Hell had just begun.

A few weeks later he was in one of the special cells reserved to those who chose Death. He was kept away from the rest of the prisoners, was allowed as many trips to the prison’ yard as he wanted, his bed was great and so were his meals. There was a video game console and a flat screen in his cell. When he saw it, his first instinct had been to throw the console against the screen in a fit of impotent rage. But he controlled himself. He did not care about the bed, nor the meals, his heart was not there he simply could not enjoy them. Instead, he spent all his days doing two things : first going to the yard, watching the sun, the sky, the cracks on the walls, anything, for hours. And then playing video games alone, hoping the visual and auditory stimulus would numb him to sleep.

It lasted two weeks. He had no schedule beside the meals given to him, nor was he ever forced to anything besides meeting his lawyer from time to time to discuss administrative stuff. He had no family and his friend had either never been caught by the police (refusing to give their name was part of the reason why he was where he was) or been mandated to pay large sums to the victim’ family. Many wouldn’t have the money, so they will be forced to take debts, which everybody knew they wouldn’t be able to repay, and so will be thrown to jail. No question asked. So, in a way, he had nothing and no one to care about anymore and he just let the various clerks coming to see him handle the details.

Two weeks was just enough time to start getting accustomed to this new un-life. But then one day, the door of his cell opened up. He did not stop playing video games nor did he turn his eyes from the screen. It’s only when his character died that he finally acknowledged the presence of his unwanted guest who had patiently waited for him to finish. He was surprised by the man he saw. A dwarf, in black clothes. The prison’ director waited in the corridor, visibly uneased. Certainly not because he was in the “death corridor” so was it because of this guest ?

“It is time.” the guest said. He simply nodded. In a meaningless habit he turned off the console and stood up. The dwarf simply left the cell without acknowledging the director despite his very respectuous salute. In fact, the dwarf did not acknowledge the existence of anyone or anything surrounding him, as if all the deference displayed to him was a given, that doors opening before him without having to give a single order was normal. Walking behind him was like walking in a bubble outside of reality, a taste of another world. And the taste became only more pungent when they entered the black limo waiting for them in the parking lot.

After a few hours of driving in pure silence, he thought he was going mad. The dwarf was always writing on his phone, listening to something in his earpiece, or both. But somewhere halfway there was a brief moment where he did nothing and he jumped on the occasion, knowing there would be none other.

“Where are we going ?”. And, to his surprise, the dwarf answered.

“To the Royal Necropolis, to see His Holiness the Divine Lord and his eminent family. Although you will probably never see him.”

His heart stopped, barely registering the hint of sardonicism in the last words. A stayed silent for a while, before asking another question.

“Why ?”

This time the dwarf crossed eyes with him. He almost looked down but stopped himself just in time. What was he going to do if he displeased him ? Kill him ? As if he read his mind, a smirk appeared.

“Because a man was killed, a property was vandalized, and a lot of people were hurt. There was no need for your entire gang, so only you were asked the Question. As for why only you, well, of all your friends you were the only one who did not abuse the bottle nor enjoyed more than necessary various… substances. Your health was one of our most pressing concerns.”

The answer confused him. “Did… did the Divine Lord… order the judge to ask me the Question ?”

“Oh no, you were going to be asked the Question no matter what there was absolutely nothing to save your case. But your friends, too, should’ve been questioned. We merely explained to the right people it wouldn’t be necessary.”

This time the dwarf smiled warmly at him. “You see, sir. It may not look like it but His Holiness cares for everyone.”

Now he was simply too stunned and the rest of the drive was spent in absolute silence.

When they arrived in the heart of K’alak Mutul, he did not get to see the Necropolis. Instead they entered directly within an underground parking lot and two guards escorted them to an elevator.

“Why here, of all places ?”

“Not all sacrifices have the same purposes. This one is not to be broadcasted.”

He couldn’t tell if the elevator went up or down. Nonetheless, they were then escorted through a series of dark corridors. Some of which were in dark stones, others in concrete. After one last turn they stopped, facing a double metallic door. A guard opened it and the other pushed him inside. The dwarf stayed outside, leaving him alone but before he disappeared, he heard him one last time.

“Whatever happens, stay still. It’s the only way to guarantee you a painless death. Do not move a muscle.”

It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to sudden brightness. The walls, the floor, the ceiling… Everything was white. Even the neon lights, which had been placed in such way to make sure there would be no shadow in the room. On one wall, a large reflective glass probably hid the people watching him. The guards brought him to the middle of the room, where they ordered him to take off his clothes. Hesitant and suddenly frightened again, he complied until there was only his underwear left at which point he was ordered to stop.

The guards stepped back and two women then entered the room. They began covering his body in the dreaded ritual blue paint. The holy color of sacrifices. Even their expert hands barely managed to ease his muscles as they coursed delicately on his skin. He wondered if these servants also painted women sacrifices, or if they had male counterparts. Maybe it was adapted to each situation, so to try one last time to relax the sacrifice despite the situation ?

Once he was entirely painted blue, the ladies excused themselves and the guard stepped back up. They seized him by his shoulders and forced him on his knees. “Don’t try anything funny.” they ordered. He was really tempted to say something back, but the look they gave him convinced him to not try to be smart.

They covered up his eyes and then he heard the door open again. He heard some shuffling as someone positioned himself behind him. He began panicking, trembling.

Unknown to him the Aj Nakom, the priest dedicated to sacrifices, had stopped himself. A clean cut was impossible in this situation, but fortunately he knew his trade well enough to not botch it. He took off his shoes and silently moved to one side of his victim, the Macahuitl clutched in his hands. “What is that ?!” he exclaimed and as on cue, the sacrifice turned his head even in the direction of the sound by reflex, even if he couldn’t see. Immediately, quickly, and in complete silence, the Aj Nakom stepped to the other side of the sacrifice and in one swift move had the obsidian blades of his ritual weapon meet the neck offered to him. There would be no need for another chop, the head fell forward, completely severed.

But this is not where the ritual stopped. The sacrifice may have been told that they needed a healthy young man, he hadn’t been told why. But if he had kept track of the calendar, he would have known.

Because it was the time of the 7 Manik Festival. The Day of the Hanal Pixan. Although he may as well have not. As for most of the Mutuleses, it was chicken who were sacrificed.

The two servants returned with a large bath of water and sponges, washing away the ritual paint while the head was placed in a cooler and carried away. The flesh would be boiled and the skull carved with ritual glyphs and special jewelries, before being exposed at the skull-rack in front of the Necropolis.

The rest of the body was draped in a shroud and carried away, but not to be buried. No, it was brought to a nearby room, also completely white and covered in neon lights, but this time with odd grooves and channels on the slightly tilted ground, as to evacuate liquids to the oversized evacuation. There were also two hooks on the ceiling, and the purpose of all these oddities became clear once the lady servants unpacked the body, brought the hooks closer and pierced the body in two precise places, and then raised the corpse off the ground. The Aj Nakom then entered the room, with new obsidian knives and a small book of prayers.

A few hours later, when he left, the lady servants pushed behind him a chariot full of coolers which they brought to a new area of the Necropolis : the kitchen. Usually reserved for the complex’ personnel, its cooks had no problem handling the meat they brought them.

They rubbed it with achiote paste, and then placed the pieces in pots with salted water, spices, and a few other vegetables, ready to be cooked. Once the meat is ready, it is taken out and some maize dough is mixed with the broth to form a gruel known as K’ool. Meanwhile, the rest of the dough is malaxed into large balls, which are then expanded and filled with the meat, tomatoes, some leaves, and finally a spoonful of K’ool. The ball of dough is then closed back, covered by another spoonful of K’ool and finally wrapped up in banana leaves. The packages were then slowly roasted and smoked in an oven for an hour.

Once ready, the lady servants returned to collect the packages and brought them to the upper levels of the Necropolis until they entered a room lined up with small altars, decorated with flowers and candles, urns, and skull shrines. All was delicately crafted with gold, silver, and platinum, with gemstones set therein. There was no other light than those of the colorful candles. A dark blue carpet led to the other end of the long, corridor-like, room where stood a great altar, sculpted in the form of the double-headed serpents contorting itself. Candle-lit figures stood there, on their knees, in front of this grand altar.

The servants walked up to them, with their chariot, and then kneeled down to the people praying. Then, one of them stood up and reached for the food. In the candle lights, the traits of his visage were deformed but still recognizable : it was the Divine Lord himself, Jasaw Chan K’awiil the fifth. And the figures around him were his wife, his children, his cousins, and their spouses. All the Ilok’tab family gathered there, among their ancestors.

The Divine Lord took the P’ib and brought it to the altar. He presented it to the gathered clan, first to the livings then to the deads, before depositing the P’ib on the double-headed snake of stone. He then sat alight white copal incense and then left the room, bowing before each of the smaller altars on his way out, and so did his family when it was their turn to leave. The servants were the last to go, shutting the doors close behind them.

For the night, the spirits of the deads were left alone to partake on the essence of the food, its smell brought to them by the incense. But the day after, it was time for the living side of the clan to partake and unite in the communion of a shared meal.

by **Mutul** » Fri Nov 11, 2022 3:25 pm

A drop of blood touched the nine years old' cheek. Eyes wide open, he could only look as the man fell on him. A gigantic figure, arms wide open, who grabbed him as they both fell unto the ground. He head a second gun shot, then another. The man only grabbed the boy stronger, his teeth clenched by the pain. The boy was simply frozen, the speed at which the world around him had seemingly crumbled took away his ability to react entirely. The weight of the man was simply too much, pinning him to the ground and he could just feel. Feel the pressure of the flesh above him, the friction of the clothes on his arms' bare skin, the fingers' grip so tight on them it hurts, the smell of sweat and iron and, of course, the growing dampness sticking to his torso. A fourth gun shot was heard but this time someone else screamed, someone the boy couldn't see. The same voice continued to whimper for a second until a fifth shot silenced him.

"Ch'ok Ajaw!" a voice screamed. "B'ah Ch'ok Ajaw!" It felt like it took an eternity for the child' brain to process the words. "Young Prince" it said. They were looking for him.

He wanted to scream that he was here but he only managed to emit a small whimper. But that was enough: he felt the crushing weight on top of him get lighter as two strong hands grabbed the body and pushed it away. Finally, he could breath. The new figure looming over him immediately placed a knee on the ground and a finger on the boy's neck, the panic in his eyes slowly dissipating. He quickly checked for any wound, any broken bone, any bruise.

"The Young Prince is safe." the man finally said to someone else behind him. He took the boy by the arm and forcefully brought him back up. The nine years old's eyes were still wide open. He turned his head to the left and saw the man who had grabbed him now sitting against the bedroom' wall, breathing heavily yet weakly. His chest was completely red and dripping. The boy realized he himself was also covered by the man blood. The wounded bodyguard saw the child - still frozen in shock but standing - and smiled. Not a word, not a syllable pronounced, but the boy saw the glimmer of relief in his guardian' black eyes.

"Xiki!" said the man who checked on the prince to the dying one. They had the same brown and beige clothes, the same orange turbans wrapped around their heads, and the same metallic machetes to their belts. "Xiki! what happened ?!"

"The kitchens are compromised." He said, struggling to find the breath to enunciate his words. "The Valets too. Evacuate the prince..." He grunted and the other asked for no more. He simply took the radio at his belt and began talking in it. "Jade Machete, Jade Machete, this is Red Machete, target secure we're beginning extraction, personnel compromised alert all Crews over." He then turned toward the prince and took his hand.

"Follow me." He said, in a fashion probably too casual for whom he was talking to and not even in Mutli. But it did not matter. Somehow, it stuck with the boy throughout the years. The Young Prince, no longer young nor a prince, still remembers looking up to the back of that man while they were running through the corridors of the place he had once called home and which had then been closing on him like a death trap. He remembers the feel of his skin, hand in hand, the metallic glister of the raised gun, the three other figures escorting them. And of course, as he entered the room where he had slept for the first nine years of his life, he remembered the weight of the bodyguard on top of him. The bodyguard who entered the room not long after a Valet had brought him his lunch on a silver tray. The bodyguard who pushed the silver tray away, before the Valet pulled out a weapon and shot him a first time. The bodyguard who stood up despite his wound and threw himself in front of the Young Prince when the Valet aimed at him.

The Divine Lord took the time to look at the dark empty room. There no longer was a bed on one end of it, no more tables and books to study, the calligraphies painted on the whole have long since been erased. The only thing that remain were two phrases written in Demotics and graved directly in the bricks' of the wall. Two phrases written by the hand of the Young Prince now Lord, and not in Mutli but in this language that he still holds dear to his heart. The language of his mother, the language of his childhood, and the language of his ancient bodyguards the so-called Macheteers. "Follow Me" they had said. Ni'ib jyuky'äjtën.

For the Divine Lord, events were either ongoing or over, but there was no past to forget, no time to sooth over the old pains. And so, in one of these rare moments of solitude his life afforded him, he deposed a share of P'ib in front of those two phrases and sat on his knee in front of the makeshift altar. "Hello Xiki." he said as he lit up a small stick of incense, inviting the dead bodyguard to partake this year again in a meal that was normally reserved only to the Ilok'tab, the lineage of the Divine Lord. But he did not forget the men who saved his life, who went on to track down those who had threatened him no matter how high ranked they were, those who paved the way for him to be where he is today. The reality is, since that day, he never felt like he had done much. Behind Xiki, behind the other Macheteers, he simply followed.

by **Zacapican** » Sat Nov 12, 2022 9:28 pm

Clicking, infernal clicking. The first time Zianya had heard that sound it seemed so unremarkable to her. She thought it sounded like the chirp of an electronic metronome, the kind her friend Sacniete had in her bedroom to help her practice the violin. Her class had been visiting the exact sciences faculty of the prestigious Angatahuaca University, a privilege regularly extended to the primary school students across the old, proud city. This section of the university was housed in two long, rectangular block towers, each the size and shape of some of the larger housing blocks one might see in any Zacapine city. The day of the visit was a winter day, although Zianya could no longer remember exactly when. July? August, perhaps?
There were a few centimeters of snow on the ground, although it wasn't fresh. It had already melted and re-frozen into an icy shell that she so loved to step on for the satisfying crunch it provided. The class was raucous as it always was during field trips, but Zianya was too wrapped up in the thrill of the moment to let her friends egg her on. Mother had said this would be her future, that this was an important day and that she should pay attention. Zianya was often skeptical of her mother's lectures, but this time she believed her. As she looked on to the rather featureless grey slabs of the exact sciences faculty, she felt a sense of purpose as if it was her destiny to be here, that if she worked hard in school she would be here in this very place not as visitor but as student soon enough.

Inside, an almost claustrophobic hallway opened up to a huge interior atrium, with each floor of the building ringed with a walkway, a balcony festooned in political slogans and colorful banners. Zianya's class was led across the atrium, up a set of concrete stairs so worn they'd turned smooth as ice and seemed to have melted a bit in the center, up to a lecture hall on the second story. Along the passageway into the lecture hall, Zianya read the plaques outside each room, Tlamatichantli E, Tlamatichantli F, Tlamatichantli G. The laboratories of this floor. She felt a deep excitement at the though of working inside one of these dimly lit concrete boxes, towering chemistry equipment silhouetted against the light of the grey sky coming in through the windows beyond.

Inside the lecture hall, insulated electrical ducts and water tubing ran openly across the ceiling, just beyond the round florescent lights. The whole building seemed to Zianya to be bare brick, concrete and ductwork, even more austere than the other faculties of the university and remarkably similar to the calpolli factories more common around her own neighborhood, far from the waterfront wards where she stood now. Far from finding her surroundings gloomy or drab, they inspired her. It made her feel that real work was done in this place. It was all very clean, evidently in regular use. These are people concerned with deeds, not appearances, she thought.

Most of the presentation was a blur, a sales pitch by one of the admissions officers, followed by the somewhat flashy exhibition of one of the more enthusiastic faculty members. What stuck with her was the talk of nuclear engineering, the technology of the atom. In those days, long before Zianya gave up on her lackluster mathematical skills, she believed she would be a nuclear engineer one day, designing reactors, maybe even working at one of the big power plants that made every Zacapine city glitter at night, powered everything in the whole country. What an exciting idea! She could practically hear the low hum of the current pouring from the plant and swirling across the metropolis, making it shine like the sun. So, when the faculty presenter asked for a volunteer, Zianya's hand shot up in an instant.

"Are your fingers strong," he asked, producing a black plastic box from a desk drawer.

"Mhmm", she affirmed, eyes fixated on the mysterious object being brought to her. It had an gauge in the shape of an upside down arch on the front, with a series of what Zianya assumed to be numbers in small print underneath. Below the gauge, she was surprised to see not a complicated interface of dials and knobs, but only a single unlabeled button. Across the left-hand side of the box was a copper-colored metallic tube, inlaid into the box and appearing only through a series of windows in the plastic casing.

"Now, you will need to hold this button down for 60 seconds. Have a look at the clock and make sure you hold it down for the full minute. And make sure to count all the clicks," he said, casually handing her the instrument.

She glanced at the clock over the door, waiting for it to reach 13:30 exactly, then pressed the button. It was a little resistant at first, but she quickly got used to holding it down. It was only a couple seconds before she heard the first click, followed by two more in quick succession. It happened so suddenly, she almost forgot to count. 1, 2, 3.

Her classmates near her started counting out loud as the sporadic clicks came, mostly in bursts, often separated by long silences. Zianya found it a little annoying, as it almost made her loose count more than once. 14, 15.

Towards the end, as the clock approach 13:31, there was a long streak of silence, just a couple meager clicks to round out the minute before she let go of the button. She barely noticed the faint jump of the needle on the gauge every time were was a click, only really noticeable when a few of them came in at once. 20, 21, 22.

"Each one of those counts you just heard was a particle hitting that copper tube on the side of your counter, and interacting with its electro-magnetic field," said the faculty presenter, a smile under his moustache. 'How many counts was it?"

"24 clicks," Zianya reported, with nods of agreement from her peers. The presenter raised an eyebrow.

"Only 24 counts in one minute. Interesting. The average background levels are normally 60 or 70 outside," he said, "can you imagine why it would only be 24?"

"The concrete is shielding us?" Zianya asked, a small smile coming to her face when she saw the presenter's approval.

"Very good, very good. Yes, everyday objects can attenuate the energetic particles we associate with radiation. Concrete, steel, brick, even wood and soil provide some effect. We'd probably be closer to 60 counts if we were standing outside but...no, its awfully cold out there today."

He smiled as a wave of giggles swept the hall full of children. Reaching for the instrument, he took a jokingly seriously demeanor, "Now, if you see that go up a thousand counts in a minute, that's when you start to worry"

To be continued

by **Awasin** » Sun Jul 02, 2023 3:13 pm

Mohsistsiikin
Province of the Horn
Awasin

Mato had always thought of Kaya Sinquah as the girl with the elk-bone earrings, even now, when she had so many others given both in earnest and with hate. Neighbour was common, which he considered to be absurd. Her real name, which was not an epithet, was the only thing marking her as anything less than just as Awasi as all the others. Lady was a mocking one, some underhanded attempt at categorizing her too rich for the rest of them. Mato also found this ridiculous, because she had about as much money as he did and little to show for it. The worst was more of a question, because it involved asking if she was that girl whose parents had shuffled off somewhere without her, and even the askers knew it wasn’t a pleasant thing to discuss.

He preferred to think of her as Kaya only, Kaya with the elk-bone earrings. She had sat beside him for three years now in History near the end of the day and in the right lighting those earrings glimmered like they were something other than just broken pieces of antler. When they had finally reached the topic of Mahikan’s walk and its mention of bones like jewels in the dust Mato had thought of her earrings. As if she could somehow hear him.

The parking lot was nearly empty, and he was thinking about Kaya Sinquah because her little coupe was the only vehicle still sitting there apart from the janitor’s beat-up Wazhe van and his own rust-red Sika pickup. 1970, his model. Still running like clockwork. He wondered where she was this afternoon as he drummed his hands on the steering wheel. Kaya was punctual to the last when she wasn’t otherwise held up, out and on the road in five minutes or less, but he hadn’t a single notion where she could be.

Detention was unlikely, of course. She was a straight-A straight-laced student. Creator’s chosen in washed jeans. Maybe talking to one of the teachers, he thought, then shook his head and just as quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen him. Kaya didn’t talk to teachers after hours because she could do that just as easily during the day itself. Staying late was Mato’s thing. Sometimes, if she was dawdling more than usual, he knew it was because one of her parents— guardians, foster parents, he never knew what to call them— was coming. Isatai Red Hand in his heavy truck or pale Sahsina on her motorcycle purring like a cat. Neither were here.

The shadows were stagnant again. Days were getting longer. Summer was coming too fast and too slow all at the same time, even now that grad was approaching and he would be free for however long such a state could last. When Mato was young he had wished that the summers would last forever, but he enjoyed them now because they ended; an ending was potential, an ending meant he could see everyone again another year. Teammates, teachers. Kaya. All that ended now. Final year, graduating year, everything changing and staying exactly the same in a town that did both and neither at the same time.

He watched the secondary hallway doors swing open. Kaya had her hair up, ponytail swinging with the force of her strides. She wasn’t heading for her car. Funny, he thought. Strange too. It took him a few seconds more to realize she was heading for him, throwing her bookbag off her shoulder and into the bed of his pickup. He rolled down the window.

“My car’s broken,” she said, as soon as she knew he could hear her over the rumble of the engine. Her eyes were somewhat red. “I was talking to Asipiso but he’s busy getting set up for grad, dad’s out on call. Can you give me a ride?”

“Yeah,” Mato said. It took him a moment to realize what she was actually saying. “Yeah. Hop in. Might have to sweep off the soda cans, sorry.”

Kaya climbed into his passenger seat. She was still wearing her earrings, cream against the worn grey of her shirt, itself under paint-flecked overalls with hemmed cuffs. He liked when she wore them. Brought out more of the color in her cheeks.

“Your truck is clean,” she said.

Mato laughed. “No, it’s not.”

“A few cans is clean, Blackbird.” His last name. She’d called him that off-and-on since the last year of elementary. “Have you ever put an easel in here?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Try to imagine it. I’ve got one every other day. Right now, actually.” Kaya motioned to her vehicle.

“Do I need to grab it for you?”

She shook her head. “It’ll be fine until tomorrow. We can go.”

He nodded and put the truck in reverse before pulling out of the lot. The streets were quiet. One of the only benefits of getting out ahead of the workday was the lack of traffic, even on a quiet road like Willow, which neatly bisected most of Mohsistsiikin. Kaya lived on the north side, and liked taking the route slow. Mato did so too. When he got the chance he would watch her out of the corner of his eye, tapping her fingers on her leg and staring out the side window like it had all the mysteries of the universe just beyond it.

Mato couldn’t understand what kept her here. His own reasons he knew like the back of his hand, obviously, because both were his. Perennial homebody. No need for cities or other countries. Kaya was an enigma because she had everything on her side to leave. Smart, talented. Pretty. He hoped she didn’t notice his sudden flush. She was the perfect candidate to pack up and head somewhere she could change the world in, not sit around a town that hadn’t changed since before their country was even a country. But he’d never been good at understanding people.

“How’s your mom?” he asked, after what felt like an eternity.

She looked at him. “What? Oh, Sahsina. She’s good, she’s alright. Wants to go dress shopping with me soon.” A beat, and then: “How’s yours?”

Mato shrugged. “Same as she ever was. Always talking about hockey, how I need to be more like my dad, all that crap.”

“Didn’t your father do just about everything?”

“Everything but catch the Trickster, yeah. Dad was great, he is great, but I’m just, you know, not him?”

An understatement. He was nothing like his father. He loved the old man, probably more than he loved his mother, though he'd never admit strongly to either, but there was nothing in Mato that was built for the life his father had lived. He wasn't going to change the world. He didn't much want to. Mediocrity wasn't the goal. He just wanted quiet.

“I get you.”

“I just don’t want to live in his shadow all the time, I guess.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Does he say the same things she does?”

“Not so far by half,” he said, sighing. “But he’s busy. Most of what I get is her complaining. Sorry, advice.”

Kaya smiled thinly, ears moving up just enough to jostle her earrings in the corner of his vision. “I know how that can feel. You could talk to her, maybe. Get her to see what you’re thinking.”

“That’s smart,” Mato said. “Thanks, Kaya.” Neither spoke for the rest of the drive.

There was no concrete leading up to her garage, but he could not have driven in anyway, for the gravel was occupied by a large dumpster. Spring cleaning, he remembered. They were redoing the attic. He parked just up the road behind it and got out with Kaya. The house itself was well-kept, vaguely Enyaman in style. Dark gabled roof. Screens on the windows. There was a big blue neon sign in one of the downstairs windows that read ‘SAAM,’ which was shorthand for healer. Sahsina did consultations and midwifery. He’d heard she was quite good.

Mato walked Kaya to the door. She held her bag in her hands, not on a shoulder, and lingered a little on the bottom step while she peered through the windows. Isatai wasn’t home yet. Sahsina might have been; there were some sounds from within the house that resembled pots and baking sheets, but it was hard to tell. From behind he saw Kaya bite her lip, then turn on a heel. Standing on the stairs she was barely taller than him.

He looked at her, really looked, while they stood there only inches from each other. He knew her face quite well, but it was still something to see without much distance. A line in her left brow from where the razor had come too close. Old, thin scratch marks on her cheek. It all only made her prettier. She opened her mouth, and he listened.

“Do you want to come in?” she said.

He blinked. “Now? For how long?”

“Through dinner, if you’d like. I keep getting asked about you.”

“You do.” Mato had meant to ask a question, but the words came out far more like a statement.

“Yes.” Kaya looked somewhat embarrassed, now, pulling at one of her pockets with chipped-paint fingernails. He thought he could make out the faded outline of a thistle blossom on her index. “You don’t have to. It was just a thought.”

“No. I mean, yes! I’d like that.”

“You would?”

Mato smiled. He didn't quite know why. “Yeah.”

“You’re not just humouring me?”

“I can’t lie.”

"That's not lying either?"

"I promise."

“Okay,” she said.

They stood together for a minute or two more, neither moving nor really breathing. Only time could break the spell that held them, and it did, as Mato clicked his tongue and Kaya shook her head. She put the bookbag over her shoulder. Her hand found his. It was warm against his palm.

“Can I take you in now?” she said, asking as much as urging.

His smile only broadened. “Yeah, Kaya. Yeah, you can.”

by **Aureumterra III** » Thu Nov 09, 2023 12:49 pm

Potens, Aureumterra
March 18th, 2018

The wave plunges and the sea-birds cry;
Power is in the ocean and the sky.
The wind-driven tide
That would come whispering on still days With a long ripple breaking in a sigh,
Now crashes down;

To say that the sound of the city was deafening would be an understatement like none other. One could hardly hear a person standing next to them in the roar of the crowd, as millions upon millions of people had flooded the city of Potens, Aureumterra’s old and proud Imperial Capital, for an event that most hadn’t experienced in recent memory. Uncharacteristic of the Sunday afternoon, streets upon streets were jam packed with crowds, a sea of people that wore the colors of Yellow and Orange, the colors of the Hæstirétt. The city’s various pubs, shopping districts, malls, and squares were full of jubilant crowds, eager to witness the historic, once-in-a-lifetime event. Practically the entire city was draped in the colors, along with the ubiquitous sight of the monogram of the soon-to-be monarch flying at every lamppost and many balconies overlooking the city streets.

Thousands of police officers, soldiers, security personnel, and Imperial Guards had been deployed the handle the mass of people on this day. Many in the crowd had waited for almost twenty-four hours to be able to get to the front of the barricades lining the path of the procession that was about to happen, carefully watched by the line of ever present Imperial Guards lining the entirety of the route, ever remaining silent, stoic, and expressionless.

At long last, their wait was vindicated. The enthronement procession, in its route snaking through the streets of the capital, would be met with a cheer at each turn so loud it may as well have drowned out the sound of anything else in the entire area. People waved flags, held up portraits of the Hæstirétt and Alladrøttning, and desperately attempted to get a glimpse of the procession as it made its way.

A group of lead vehicles would be leading the procession, loudly projecting the Imperial Anthem. This was followed by a mass of Imperial Guards riding horses, who in turn led a convoy of police motorcycles surrounding a central vehicle - the Solvogn, a modified limousine which had replaced the carriage of the same name that had been used by Hæstirétts for over a millenia. The vehicle had a golden-cream colored finish, and had two flags flying on either side of its hood - one being the Åltæden’s coat of arms, and the other being the now-Hæstirétt’s monogram.

The wind-blown gulls
That stood in tranquil days
Like metal birds fixed on the lobster-floats,
Mirrored gray-silver in the glass tide,

It was a strange feeling for Ingrid, as she sat stiffly in the vehicle, witnessing the masses waving and cheering as they passed by out of the window. The deafening roar of the city outside was hardly a hum in the impenetrable walls of the Solvogn, and yet it may as well have been the most powerful sound she had heard in her life. She glanced at her husband, who sat stoic and without obvious expression beside her, dressed in a grand mantle and dress that had been used by every Hæstirétt since the fifteenth century. She looked down at her own dress, a stunning diamond-studded gown that flowed past her feet and seemed almost like a river of silver and diamonds, with its white silk sash wrapping around her.

It had been a long day already for her. Both she and her husband had gotten up well before dawn, heading to the Valley of Angels just outside of the capital city’s premises. The site of the legendary Eternal Coronation of 1060, where Cnut I established the eternal bloodline that would forever link God and Earth through the Hæstirétt and the Åltæden - when it was said the voices of angels could be heard singing from the heavens as the he put the first crown on his head.

Today, the valley was home to a magnificent Imperial Church, built around the fated site. The Imperial party was accompanied by an entourage of Church Presbyters - those selected by the previous Hæstirétta to oversee the hierarchy of priests and bishops, and officiate the ceremonies and functions of the Imperial Church - alongside a convent of Nuns which accompanied Ingrid. The dual functions of the Presbyters and the Nuns at this ceremony highlighted the dual, complementarian roles of the Hæstirétt and Alladrøttning in Aureumterran society. The former being the embodiment of the church, state, and military, while the latter being the figurehead of domestic life and institutions of family and hearth.

She knew the fateful day would come, ever since she wedded the then-Crown Prince. However, the feeling on the day itself was indescribable. It may as well have been a cocktail of emotions, forming something which the woman had never felt in her life. She and her husband had been separated once they arrived at the basilica, the Presbyters following him into the main sanctum of the building, while the Nuns accompanied her and her ladies-in-waiting as they went to the secondary sanctum. Both of them had been undressed and bathed in Holy Water as the dawn sun shone itself in the sky, a ritual said to purify one’s soul, and cleanse the body of sin and vice. Certainly, it was necessary for one to be of pure soul before taking on the mantle of being God’s link with Earth.

Following this ritual purification, the Imperial couple visited the tomb of the previous Hæstirétt - or in this instance, the Hæstirétta - the late Lisette II. The late Empress had designated her eldest son from her second marriage as her successor long before her passing, and the visit to the tomb was a symbolic fulfillment of this designation. The Hæstirétt was a cyclical, successive position. There had been an unbroken line since Cnut I, having gone nearly a millennium, each Hæstirétt successively fulfilling their duty to God and their bloodline.

Her husband then inflicted himself with a wound on his right arm - his second one. The first one still showed its scar on his arm, as it did on Ingrid’s arm, the wound that had been inflicted upon their marriage. As was ritual, the two would join their wounds together, mixing their blood, symbolizing an eternal blood union in their marriage. The importance of blood, especially for the Imperial Family in Aureumterra could not be understated. This time, her husband let himself bleed onto the tomb of his late mother, while a stored capsule of blood from the late monarch would be brought in, and put into the wound while it was still fresh. The symbolic exchange of blood here would represent a continuation of the bloodline, the link between him and the previous Hæstirétta.

There wasn’t much time to get ready for the procession and the zenith of the day thereafter, a brief trip back to Höll Glæsilegt was made, with both of them doing final touch-ups on themselves and changing into their ceremonial dresses for this monumental occasion, as her husband got ready to finally enthrone himself as the Hæstirétt.

On any other day, Ingrid would be thoroughly exhausted by this point. However, as she looked out of the tinted windows into the gargantuan, adoring crowds outside, it filled her with an energy - not one of excitement or anxiety, but a strange one she could not put her finger on. Perhaps it was the simple exotic feeling, one that she was hardly used to, one that she certainly did not have for most of her life seeing such admiration.

After all, she never had been the focus of so much… attention. Let alone the adoration.

Rush with the gale and, when they turn,
Struggle upright, tossed again back.
Heart that, once as still as they,
Idled with an unmeaning sigh,

For most of her life, her family hardly paid much attention to her. Born into an offshoot branch of the Åltæden, both of her parents hardly gave her even the time of day when she was born. Not only was she a daughter, but she wasn’t even their first daughter. That, however, was still preferable to what she would endure for most of her life ever since her father began to suspect she was illegitimate. He was a rather easily inflamed man, but he had decided, it seemed, to take all of his pent up anger out on his daughter. Her mother, hardly a presence in the house, only with her father when they needed to present themselves as a happy couple in front of society, never cared enough about her to stop it.

And so rather tragically, Ingrid would spend most of her days at his mercy, being unable to find any glimmer of hope in her life. Unlike most girls, who dreaded being sent to boarding school and leaving their families behind, Ingrid was one of the few who looked forward to it, and saw it as a relief from her abusive household. She was planning on a rather uneventful life thereafter, pursuing a career as an administrator in the bureaucratic mass that was the Imperial Government.

As such, nothing could have prepared her for the path fate would take her when she caught the eye of the late Hæstirétta - not from a recommendation from her parents, they couldn’t care less - but rather her instructors. During a chance visit from the Hæstirétta to the school, one of the most elite institutions in the Empire and where many of the Åltæden would go, she had been singled out as a girl of good character, piety, and morality. Of course, it wasn’t that she intently followed such, her upbringing had instilled a sense of meekness and deference in her. She hardly ever stirred up any trouble, neither did she try to break any rules - drugs, partying, and whatnot - like the other girls there did, she knew any slip up here and she would be condemned to a life of suffering at her prison of a home.

It seemed almost comically fast how things took a turn from there. She was summoned to Höll Glæsilegt, intently met - rather interrogated - by the Hæstirétta as she was seeking a match for the then-Crown Prince, whomever would later go on to become the Alladrøttning. The Empress seemed to like her, and set up the match, neither her nor her future husband were consulted. No one could question it, however, Lisette was a figure divinely revered by that point in Aureumterra, questioning her judgment may as well have been the equivalent of blasphemy.

Ingrid didn’t know what to expect. She had then, in a matter of months gone from a relatively mundane existence to soon being one of the most revered figures in the world by a strange twist of fate. Both she and her husband remained stoic and awkward on their wedding, the bloodletting, the union, it all seemed rather forced. She didn’t even bother remembering the details of the consummation of their marriage.

Yet there was a sense that she was now about to become what she had been missing her whole life. Seeing the reverence she was now suddenly shown by so many… it empowered her in a way she had never been.

It felt good. She enjoyed it. And she wanted more.

She turned and glanced at her husband, he sat stiffly and silently, not showing any hint of emotion on his face as the procession made its way. Despite her being rather used to it by this point, she was surprised his demeanor remained such even on this monumental day, the day that would define both of their lives. She had hoped he would have mellowed out after nearly three years of their marriage. Both of them were committed to each other, but the intimacy she had hoped at this point simply wasn’t there. Perhaps that would only happen when they have their first child, or at least she wished so.

Or gazed at bygone days in memory's glass,
Now with hard passion buffeted,
Beats up against the gale,

Her train of thoughts, however, was interrupted as the procession finally begun to slow down… and came to a halt. Before her stood the magnificent Canutian Basilica, the Mother Church of the entire Imperial Church. The vast basilica was draped with the monograms of the new Hæstirétt to celebrate his enthronement for this day, yet the 17th century artwork and statues of every Aureumterran Hæstirétt since Cnut I still lined the building’s sides.

Her heart began to race as the mix of emotions stirring within her throughout the day came to a boiling point. Her husband turned to her, and she nodded, him returning it. Neither said a word to each other. Billions of eyes were now on them, from the Empire and across the entire world.

Ingrid first heard the doors of the vehicle right behind the Solvogn in the motorcade - the one carrying her ladies-in-waiting - shut as they made their way out and took their places. An Imperial Guard walked up to the door of the Solvogn on her side, and opened it. Almost immediately, the insulated, armored walls of the vehicle gave way to the absolutely gargantuan noise outside. A mass of cheers and shouts hit Ingrid’s ear like a train, yet rather than causing more anxiety for her, it was strangely a boost to her confidence. The Imperial Guard prostrated as he pulled the door back, allowing for the soon-to-be Empress to step out - which she did.

The roar of the ocean of people grew only louder upon seeing Ingrid, as the pool of Imperial and international press began flashing their cameras. She carefully stepped out in her silver heels, the silver sequined, diamond studded gown glimmering in the afternoon sunlight, almost angelic. Her ladies in waiting curtsied as she stepped out, and quickly scrambled to hold her flowing dress and mantle behind her. Now extended, the full mantle looked almost like a long, flowing river of glittering lights, reflecting the afternoon sun on its jewels. The end of the mantle displayed her own monogram as Alladrøttning.

She carefully made her way around the Solvogn, her ladies in tow, carrying her flowing mantle. Her light brown hair flowed in the breeze as she felt it wrap around her, almost complementing the mesmerizing sound of the crowds and the fanfare in her ears. She now had a very slight smile on her face as she came to the other side, facing the carpet that led to the entrance of the basilica. Another Imperial Guard opened the door facing this side, this time, almost all in close vicinity prostrated as her husband stepped out. She curtsied, as was standard procedure, while her ladies prostrated whilst continuing to hold her mantle.

The crowd, meanwhile, had gotten to a point of euphoria the moment he stepped out. The subjects and millions of Enme around the world were laying eyes on their now spiritual and political leader, shortly about to put on the crown. His demeanor, as ever, was expressionless and even comically relaxed given the magnitude of the moment for him. A mass of Imperial Guards, these dressed in yellow instead of the usual blue representing their positions at a religious site, lifted their bayonets and bent their right knees in unison as the couple, along with all of the personnel in tow, walked on the carpet into the vast, bronze doors of the Basilica.

Inside, the roaring crowd outside almost eerily gave way to a silent sanctum. Not devoid of people, in fact, the most important members in the highest rungs of power in Aureumterra were all present - The Chief Minister of the Imperial Government, Commander of the Imperial Guard, various high ranking bureaucrats, top military officers, and of course, the Hæstirétt’s close family. Despite this generally unruly crowd however, everyone stood and remained dead silent, so as to not infringe upon the sanctity of the ceremony that was about to happen.

Ingrid walked carefully beside her husband, the only sounds in the room being those of footsteps softly landing on the carpet. She made sure to remain slightly behind him as they approached the altar at the head of the sanctum. On the altar were two thrones. The legendary Midnight Sun throne itself, symbolic of the spiritual and temporal power of the Hæstirétt, ornately decorated with symbols of authority, strength, and piety sat imposingly. Besides it was a smaller, yet no less ornately decorated throne, this one with symbols of hearth, domesticity, and life. In front of the Midnight Sun Throne lay a pillow with two crowns resting on top of it, and besides the throne, a stand of a couple gold plated dishes, each holding a different substance.

Ingrid watched carefully as her husband ascended the steps leading to the altar. He dipped his right hand into one of the gold dishes, carrying Holy Water, and sprinkled it on his head. He then dipped his hand into the one carrying oil, and silently spoke a prayer as he anointed his own forehead with it. Finally, he turned around and picked up the crown with both of his hands, carefully placing it on his head, as his retainers released the mantle they were holding up allowing him to step back. He then took a seat on the throne.

The entire sanctum now deeply prostrated, including Ingrid. They all got on their knees, bearing their heads and necks down to the newly enthroned Hæstirétt, the scion of the eternal link between God and Earth. This prostration continued for exactly one minute, following which the room returned to standing positions at ease, with the exception of Ingrid.

She remained prostrant, her ladies now having let go of her own mantle and dress. Remaining on her knees, she carefully ascended the steps to the altar, making sure to keep her head and neck low as she did, as she still was not officially Alladrøttning yet. As she made her way to her husband’s feet, she now slightly raised her head. Her husband sprinkled Holy Water on her own head, and anointed her forehead with oil, in the same order. He then turned and placed the second crown on her head.

As the crown touched her hair, she felt a sense of power surging through her, a feeling she had never felt in her entire life. Her slight smile grew wider, and she briefly looked at her husband, who for practically the first time today, gave a very slight smile in return. She rose now, her mantle and dress wrapping around her as she turned around. The entire room prostrated once again - this time to her. Her smile was now a wide, visible grin. She knew millions were watching her at this moment, all in reverence. She was no longer bound to her miserable existence, she was powerful now… even revered. And she enjoyed the feeling.

Or crashes on the shattered glass of memory,
And cries that there is power in destiny
As well as in the ocean and the sky.

Poem: Power by Duncan Campbell Scott

by **Enyama** » Thu Mar 21, 2024 11:57 am

Ardullian Mountains
17 March 2024
S.R. Valdavia

Emil Grigore Radov wasn’t the type of man to be used to the typical luxuries expected of a high office, even in a place like the Prime Republic. He worked in concrete halls defined more by their thickness than their gaudiness, he lived in a top-floor apartment entirely unremarkable in every way beyond its heightened security system, and if he ever visited family, his village house was delightfully anonymous. And yet, now, the meeting that had brought him up these winding Ardullian roads had heightened his anticipations. Through the slightly amber tinge of his offroad’s windshield, and beyond the black leather coat of his driver, he saw his quarry coming up beyond the piny bend. It was a relatively new building, built in the 1980s, the Stațiunea Helix. By all accounts, a standard ski resort’s uppermost complex, linked to its cousins by the distinct silhouette of a dormant cable car leading to the valley below. Radov remembered the place’s history: it’d been built in the late 1980s on a wave of foreign investment from someplace or other. He remembered coming here as a student, long ago, before civil service, before politics. In many ways, before problems. As Spring progressed, the streaks of snow and rows of skis and snowboards that typically packed its sides were replaced by a steady silence, buttressed by the pleasant smell of sprouted flowers and a suspiciously large motorcade outside.

Helix had been reserved by the Primar and his crew. The Prime Defense Council was here. Undoubtedly a bold move, coming to such a nice resort in such a remote part of the country when any old government assemblage in Karsko, Levi, or Vale would have done just fine. And yet, perhaps because of the sudden thaw, there was a certain utility, Radov thought, in breaking the monotony. He knew Král lived for it. As he finally trotted up the stairs, the large birch doors before him swung open with only the mildest of creaks. Before him were a couple of valets, wearing maroon vests emblazoned with the traditional geometric dashes of the local ie. The closer one had his palm calmly extended to his right, guiding him down a secondary hallway and away from the lobby. He saw why they called it Helix; the hallways broke apart and intersected much like a needle going through thread. He’d never seen this part of the building when he’d been a lowly skier. The hall began to slope downwards, crossing by several doors, some of which seemed better suited for utility than for guests. The hallways stopped at a glass door, and beyond it was a balcony populated by many sitting silhouettes. As the valet approached with Radov in tow the door slid open on command.

The small balcony wasn’t wide, fitting no more than the round table and nine chairs surrounding it. And, partially engulfed in the shadow of the main restaurant’s balcony platform above, the place was cool, but offered a great view. Below them, a craggy cliff stretched out until it hit the spires of trees in the forest below. “Pan Králî. Pan Skalițy. Pani Simonová.” Radov offered his regards to the familiar faces in the form of a curt downward nod. Král had already started eating some sort of pastry, and he offered his nod in response. Sitting beside them were two more men in darker suits, all lanky, all bearded. Like a pair of twins. The Court’s representatives, thought Radov.
“Ah, Director Radov. How nice of you to join us.” said Kral, moments after wiping his mouth with a napkin, “It appears you’re the last one through, which is good. Nela’s flight was delayed twice, and as such, I don’t think she’ll be joining us. So we can start. Please, sit,” he extended a hand to the chair closest to the door, and then towards Radov. He shook it as he sat. Král continued, “This is more of a formality than anything, and you know how I feel about that. Hence the locale.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” nodded Radov slowly; he knew exactly why he’d been called here, and what this was. “I can only assume that it’s time?”

“Yes,” replied Simonova. The Prime Commander was nigh-unrecognizable outside of her uniform; it tended to make her look older. Now, even he would have to squint to pick her out on a busy street. The price of skirting fashion, thought Radov. “Indeed. It is time for our new Intelligence to reintegrate into the Prime Defense Council fully,” continued Král, “This means, that, as of now, you take over securitization for the Council, Radov. And whatever you’re doing for election security, quintuple it. A lot can happen in those 45 days.” with that the Primar leaned in, “If that means banning every IP coming outside of Transkarminia for that time, do it. Radanna’s already working on it.” With her first name mentioned, Simonova nodded, “Per ORVOS we have reasonably credible reports of disinformation, and interference campaigns brewing abroad.”

Radov gave the point of his beard an intellectual-looking stroke as he mentally filed this new information, “Is there a preferred candidate?”
“We don’t know. They continue to lack basic comprehension of our ways of thinking; most of their attempts are obvious anathema.” shrugged Commander Simonova. “That applies to us for them too,” noted Radov, ushering in a mediated smirk from one of the Justices, and a blank stare from Král. He continued; “Origin points?”

“Latium, perhaps through proxies in Aligonia. The northerners, of course, as well. You know how they can be. Potentially other would-be kingmakers.” replied Simonova. “The Garimans?” asked Radov, looking away to the most distant peaks he could see - well within Garima. “For now, they’re quiet.” said the Primar, finally speaking up. He’d been briefed, clearly. Radov noted the man was less talkative than usual, but perhaps it was too early, or the company too tightly wound. Král, in his estimation, had always been better on offense than defense.

“So,” began Radov, “we have credible reports of some sort of election manipulation attempt, coming from somewhere. Is this what we call ‘real intelligence’ these days? Surely there must be more?” His attempt at matching the Primar’s glibness, but this time Král wasn’t replying in his usual way. Instead whatever atmosphere of guardedness Král had projected earlier now morphed into something else. A hint of frostiness solidified in his gaze now. And, as if to imprint that moment, a cold gust of dry mountain wind gently breezed across the table. Král offered a tactical smirk, but his words betrayed no lack of purpose. “Careful with your confidence, Radov. Your leash is short for a reason. Today, I’m loosening it - and trust that it will continue to get looser, if you can assure the council that you can get ‘real intelligence’, without compromising our values.” he paused, “Let me reiterate. Our values. This isn’t a ploy of vapid morality, but what your old bosses did - and what my predecessors allowed them to do - is damn well unacceptable.”

Radov digested Král’s answer. His expression betrayed nothing more than anyone needed. “And…the election. If RBOS is to regain its privileges, then, we would-”
“This isn’t just an executive decision. It comes with the full support of the PDC.” interrupted Simonova. “So we understand each other,” commented Radov with a nod.
“We understand each other,” replied Král.

“And we have no plan for retaliation, then?” Radov asked, shifting in his chair as he looked among the pairs of eyes staring in his direction. “The first step is proof.” said Král, “Not evidence, mind you. Proof. Find that, anticipate their movements, and rest assured the assets of the PDC will open up to you, Director. You’ll think chasing Zoztrak murderers a simple warmup,”

“Very well. I’ll divert task forces right away,” replied Radov. Simonova had stood up, and the two judges had already inched their way to the open door. Radov’s gaze followed them, but he stood seated. “Enjoy your vacation, Director,” said the Primar as his hand gently patted Radov’s shoulder, “May fate wish us luck in our endeavors,”

“Hm..” Radov nodded, his gaze breaking to look toward the distant mountains. It was too far to see the border fence from here. The PDC began to trickle out of the balcony. “May fate wish us luck in our endeavors. For they are our own,” he repeated the mantra. Standing up to follow the rest, he watched their silhouettes disappear into the air-conditioned shade within the Helix.

by **Saegon** » Fri Jun 20, 2025 6:03 pm

The air surrounding the Sensations gentlemen’s club was warm, moist, and stinking of the most repugnant brand of humanity Saegon’s seedy underbelly had to offer. John DeWitt instinctively tugged at his cover, feeling nothing but disdain for the people that stumbled their way up and down the incomparable High Street (really a long wooden dock with some stonework built up on rocky shoals in the middle of the eponymous Farnsworth Bay), a hive of human debauchery and wanderlust. It was the frontier town that everyone dreamed of being able to visit as a young adult, the lawless wasteland where any vice could be satiated for the right price. Now that the national constabulary was being slowly introduced onto High Street, the people began looking at law enforcement warily as the bringers of justice into the anarchy. It did not help that the city’s private security firms wanted the police out as quickly as possible to maintain their monopoly on authority in Farnsworth Bay and its notorious vice district. It was hard enough for John to believe that people actually lived in this cesspit.

John DeWitt was, by all accounts, a moral crusader in the constabulary; most of his colleagues considered him a holy roller with a stick up his ass, but the truth was far more simple than that. He simply could not abide by the vice district’s lawlessness; up until that very day, there was no police presence in Farnsworth Bay because Farnsworth Bay was outside the jurisdiction of Saegon-proper. It was its own entity, surviving off the scraps of society through an eclectic blend of individuals that operated brothels, gambling parlors and saloons all up and down High Street – also known by its sobriquet ‘The Walk’. People taking ‘The Walk’ were almost universally looking for a good time in the most duplicitous manner possible, and most would wind up the victim of pickpockets or other prowlers taking advantage of the strip’s lack of policing. Private security firms made a mint protecting businesses but gave two shits about what happened outside of them. It was now up to Saegon’s national constabulary to clean the ‘The Walk’ up and take down High Street’s criminal element, a tall order to be sure.

”Mercy be”, John thought to himself as he took the patrol watch on the north end of the ‘The Walk’ on High Street, “there are a shit ton of brothels on this pier”. The Sensations Gentlemen’s Club was actually something of an outlier – most adult establishments were for sexual intercourse, not ogling naked women. Perhaps this was the ‘budget’ option for people that could not afford the exorbitant prices to sleep with hookers. Even so, their businesses had been registered with the government’s vice administration and were legal, so he was bound to abide by the law and protect them despite his own personal protestations against the industries in question. Granted, not everything was vice-related in town; a number of artists and other hippie-sorts had set up shop, selling medicinal herbs, crystals, paintings, whatever they could hawk on tourists lapping up their wares like the dogs they were. There was no shortage of drugs on display in the formerly unregistered, now legal dispensaries. It truly was the apex of human depravity and greed, all on one boardwalk in the middle of the cove.

As Jon passed Sensations and made his way towards the Dirty Dawg Saloon, it became apparent that there was a repressive atmosphere on the boardwalk, something dark and sullen that the rest of Saegon had turned its back on until recently. What was relatively safe by day turned into something darker, seedier, and more virulently dangerous in the evening. Not even the Twilight Express line over at Sunset Beach was as thoroughly dangerous as Farnsworth Bay was at night, and that area was also a capital of vice for the city. DeWitt instinctively placed his hand on his utility belt, feeling the heft of the weight with his service baton in it – the only truncheon an officer of the peace would need to protect themselves, or so the saying went. His truncheon was his first, last and only line of defense against the prowlers that lurked in the shadows between pontoon barges. He felt a bit naked without a service revolver, something issued only in times of duress in the city. He would be well baked without it here in Farnsworth Bay if things popped off, of course, but beggars could not be choosers.

“At least it is beautiful scenery here,” John mused, taking note of the nicer buildings built on the rocky shoals compared to the cheaper pontoon buildings. Some of the exteriors, baroque in design, looked fanciful and downright exquisite, which was particularly jarring next to the cheaper, older wooden buildings built on pontoons or barges. Farnsworth Bay was a tale of contradictions it seemed, contemporary in its vices and antiquated in its architectural stylings. The sunset over the bay rivaled Sunset Beach’s noted twilight experience, helped out by the lack of buildings and resorts obstructing the view over the water. The evening sun shone down a million sparkles over the cove, creating an absolutely beautiful visual, so much so that he had to remind himself to remain vigilant for troublemakers that may not take kindly to the law infringing on their former freedoms. He had to be cautious, lest he run afoul of the lurkers that wanted to slit an officer’s throat for being an officer. That was the dangerous reputation of the city and its anarchic former nature, or so his colleagues had said.

As he passed by the Dirty Dawg, a young woman wearing little more than a string bikini came sauntering out of the saloon, waving at him sensually. She was something to look at, alright – bosomed to the hilt with fake plastic and silicone, spilling out of her top as she bounced her way forward. She had a long, plastic tumbler full of a slush of some concoction in her right hand, the straw accentuated with a small umbrella for flourish. Her bikini bottom was so thoroughly wedged up her ass that to call it a G-string was an insult to G-strings; he had seen more material on a cotton swab. Her sandals were dingy, so dingy in fact that for a moment he considered the possibility of having her arrested for a foot fungus display, if such a crime existed in the legal code. Her strawberry blonde hair was worn in an old-fashioned bob, her diamond earrings shining under the lighting of the saloon as she exited onto the High Street. She wore a choker with diamond-emblazoned letters spelling ‘DIRT DAWG’ on it; where the ‘Y’ went, he had no clue. She motioned for him to stop over, something he detested.

“Hey there, handsome,” the woman slurred her words slightly, displaying a buzzed condition that would have been illegal anywhere else in the city. “Want to take a tour of duty upstairs and visit the dark side of the moon with me? Only fifty quid for a jump.”

“Ma’am,” John said as politely as he could, feeling her dingy hands feel up his torso, making him want to vomit on the side of the boardwalk. “Is there… something I can help you with? If not, I really need to get back to my patrol on High Street here. You see the uniform, miss?”

“Oh, I see the u-uniform,” she stumbled again, her hands moving up to pat him on the shoulder. “Y-you’re a sailor, right? Right. You sail all over the Sea and come back here to get up on your high horse and tell us what to t-think and d-d-do. I don’t like your kind here!”

“Miss, you’re presently fondling a police officer, now cease and desist before I arrest you for felonious assault on an officer of the peace.” John pushed her hands off of him momentarily, but within a split second they were back rubbing at the side of his face.

“Aren’t you the cutest thing ever,” she said in a sudden about face, the drunkenness more pronounced than he had realized. “Tell you what, s-sailor. You buy me some drinks and we can screw like rabbits for free. I won’t even charge… uh, charge you the fifty quid for a jump.”

“Ma’am, go back inside the saloon and find someone else to jump,” DeWitt said forcefully, trying to move past the woman. He could tell that he was going to get nowhere with this hooker and desperately wanted to be anywhere else on the boardwalk than outside the saloon.

“W-well, you’re no fun,” she said hastily, sloshing her slush around and scowling at the constable. “You sailors are all talk and no game, you know that? I can jump anyone I want here, you can’t s-stop me.” The woman gave him a lighthearted ‘boop’ on the nose, irritating him.

“Then go find someone to jump your bones, I’m busy,” he said caustically, just before a pair of revelers came tumbling out of the bar beside the woman, collapsing at the constable’s feet. They were rumbling and stumbling, alright: they were fighting in public, something he could prosecute.

“Fuck you!” one of the men yelled at the other, grabbing at his hair. Blood trickled down his forehead as the hair came out in clumps, leaving welts wherever the man bludgeoned the other patron. “You owe me for the drink you made me spill, you piece of shit!”

“No, fuck you!” the other man yelled, pulling out a pocketknife from his pants pocket. John quickly dove on the small pile of humanity, grabbing at the hand that contained the pocketknife, warily eyeing it to keep from being cut by the drunken brawler that held it.

“That’s enough, both of you!” John yelled, managing to wrestle away the narrow blade from the one assailant, even as the other punched him directly in the right eye, causing it to bruise up almost immediately. “Stop in the name of the law before I fuck the both of you up!”

That seemed to do the trick, at least for the moment; both men sobered up at the announcement of the law officer’s presence, turning to look at him in unison. Without warning, both of the men began laughing up at the officer’s face, almost in a mocking tone.

“We were just playing, officer,” the assailant on the bottom said amicably, moving the other man off of him in order to scarper up to his feet. “We had a minor disagreement over a spilt beer and were just hashing it out. There’s no need for the law to g-get involved, honestly.”

“Honestly my ass,” John said harshly, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “You two are under arrest for public brawling and assault with a deadly weapon, respectively.” DeWitt fashioned the handcuffs on the one man’s wrists, even as he went to reach for a zip tie for the other.

“Aww, man, look what you did Jake,” the man that had brandished the knife said mournfully, rolling over on his side to be zip-tied. “Now we have to ride a boat back to jail on the mainland.” The knife was lying several feet away from the pair, which John retrieved dutifully.

“Just sit here and wait until I figure out what to do with the both of you,” he said without much patience left. They were correct, it would take a boat ride to the coast with the two in order to book them into jail. He would be off the beat for quite a while, letting God knows what else go down there.

As he stood over the two brawlers, a man dressed in a formal business suit came walking up, brandishing a cane at the two fighters. He looked down at the mess of humanity lying on the deck, then pointed his cane at them accusatorily. “Look at what you’ve done to this poor constable!”

“Back up, don’t get involved here,” John said forcefully, looking at the dandy in front of him. “I have things under control, now back up unless you want to be arrested for interfering with police business.” He neglected to mention that he only had one set of zip-ties left on him.

“Oh, of course, officer!” The man took a few steps back away from the scene before removing his hat and bowing deeply at the waist. “Montell Vance Eugenio, Mr. MVE at your service; I am a self-appointed officer of the peace here on the boardwalk you now sit upon.”

“Who the Hell gave you the authority to be an officer of the peace?” John blurted out, feeling as though he were taking crazy pills all of a sudden. “Do you have some reason to be here, citizen, or are you just trying to stand there and piss me off? Get moving, now!”

“Oh, I appointed myself, see,” the dandy proclaimed proudly, opening his coat pocket to reveal a glistening badge polished to a high sheen. “Old habits die hard, I’m afraid, and up until today we had to police ourselves. I see you met Jake and Greg here, the two rapscallions!”

“You know these two?” John said confusedly, not understanding what it was that was happening at the moment. “Are they always doing this? You know what? It doesn’t matter, these two assholes were fighting over a knife. I can’t let that slide. They’re going on the boat.”

“Aww, now officer, be reasonable,” the dandy, MVE said politely towards him. “They meant no real harm, they always fight around this time in the evening. It’s one of the boardwalk’s main attractions, see?” He pointed to the number of gawkers that had started encircling the lot of them.

“Well, those days are over now,” John said with a rushed tone, standing the two men up to their feet in sequential order. “The law has come to High Street, and I intend to do my damn job whether you or the gawkers looking on want me to or not. These assholes broke the law.”

“Well then, if there’s no talking you out of it,” the dandy said, reaching into his coat. “Allow me to assist…” Suddenly, the man pulled out a small muff pistol out of his jacket pocket, levying it at John’s face. He pulled the trigger just as John reached for his truncheon, a puff of smoke coughing from the barrel.

“Gah!” John wailed as the bullet hit him just below the eye, causing his head to snap back, his body flung backwards onto the wooden dock. He could feel the blood coursing from the wound, the bullet powerful enough to bust his orbital socket into pieces from the close range.

The assailant, Montell Vance Eugenio stood over the constable of the law, reloading his weapon, almost in a nonchalant manner. “There is no law except what we, the people of Farnsworth Bay allow,” he said calmly before levying his pistol at John’s face once more.

“When the force finds out I’m dead, they’re going to shut this whole strip down,” John said caustically, his body unwilling to move from the force of the gunshot to his face. His vision began to blur as consciousness eluded him. Eugenio smiled at him from above, winking.

“That’s what they’ve always said,” MVE spoke coldly, pulling the trigger again. A brilliant puff of smoke filtered out of the barrel, but darkness stole John’s vision before he could respond. It was an all-encompassing darkness, muffled and quiet, and he thought no more.

by **Saegon** » Mon Jun 23, 2025 10:09 pm

The smoky backroom that they had chosen to meet in was so clichéd it almost bordered on axiomatic. Politicians scrambling in a dingy room, sitting around a narrow table discussing policy before a big speech, it was all so politician-like it was not even funny. Monika Ashburne took her seat across from a trio of her subordinate Cabinet picks, straightening her blouse as she sat down at the table. She had in her hand a torch lighter and a cigar in the other, hand-rolled especially for her and her husband. Monika began to toast her cigar properly, feeling content in the speech she had made earlier that evening. Policy speeches were all she was seemingly able to do right now as she waited for the new legislative term to end. Until then, Thomas Slayton was still the Prime Minister, gumming up the works, unwilling to shake things loose and liven up the political scene in Saegon. She was going to change that; she was going to change a lot of things, really. When her time in office began, she had policies out the yin-yang that were going to reshape what it meant to be Saegonian.

Sitting to her left was Elaine Pertwee, her pick for the Minister of the Treasury. Pertwee was a long, abiding companion of sorts – she had helped get Monika her start in politics back in 1989 through the south ward council. Pertwee was chosen for the Treasury spot because of her political savvy and her tenacity in the backroom wheeling and dealing necessary of a Treasury Minister. Together with Sandy MacTavish, they would be a formidable team in making Labour’s economic reforms a reality, provided she could convince Elaine that she knew what the fuck it was she was talking about. Sometimes Pertwee had a bad habit of holding meetings hostage with negative takes, but that was the price of doing business with someone with the political acumen as Pertwee. For the price she paid politically to deal with her hang-ups, she got a wealth of political knowledge and know-how for her buck. That was worth the headaches in Monika’s mind, though whether she would come to regret that decision was to be determined. Elaine certainly made her work for her supper, at least.

On her right was Destiny Rambeau, her pick for the Law Ministry cabinet position. Unlike Pertwee, who Monika knew from beforehand, Destiny was a political unknown to her, chosen because of her meteoric rise through the political ranks and for her savvy use of social media to help Labour make huge gains among the youth vote. Rambeau was a firebrand orator and one of the best legal minds in the Parliament, making her an obvious choice for the Ministry of Law. Her hang-up was that she did not personally take constructive criticism well from anyone short of the Prime Minister, which made her a handful to negotiate around. A politician needed some awareness of their own flaws, otherwise their bright ascent into the political heavens would wind up an Icarusian tale of flying too close to the proverbial sun. At least Rambeau was a straight-laced, home grown political commodity Monika could make use of; she was easier to deal with than Pertwee was in some respects, as awful as that was to say. Just the way things shook out, she guessed.

Finally, sitting directly across from her at the table was Andrew ‘Andy’ Weaving, a brownnosing kiss-ass of the first order that sucked the meat missile with the best of them. He was known for being a political apparatchik that made men and women alike swoon, he just had that kind of appeal. And he used that appeal to get ahead at every turn, cozying up with the latest rocketing star in the party. He was the kingmaker of the group, never to be king but to be the one that made the king (or, in this case, queen) look good. Andy’s strengths were his communication skills and his political acumen; weakness-wise, he had a bad reputation for being a smarmy prick and it rubbed everyone the wrong way. Still, Monika could abide by the dickish behavior if he got results, which he usually did. She had taken a risk appointing him to the post of Minister of the National Septenary, the most important cabinet position in a Labour administration. She had hoped that Andy’s flaws could be minimized and his strengths maximized for the position, but that was to be seen.

“The Wernerists are calling you a traitor to Saegon again,” Elaine Pertwee chimed in, putting down the dossier from the Ministry of the Treasury long enough to comment. “They believe you are betraying the Labour movement and opening up the country to capitalist claptrap.”

“I really don’t give two shits what the Wernerists think – they had a chance to join our coalition and balked at it, so they get to sit in timeout with their ten measly seats and collectively shut the fuck up,” Monika replied, taking a long drag on her cigar, sighing audibly.

“Fair enough,” Elaine said with a laugh, leaning forward in her seat to speak quietly to Destiny. “I think the Prime Minister-elect is a bit cross with those on the left side of our coalition. Just a hunch.” She elbowed Rambeau gently in the side, drawing a scowl from her.

“I’m of the mind to ignore them altogether, they mean nothing to us,” Destiny said resolutely, looking towards the Prime Minister-elect for confirmation. “Like Monika said, they had their chance and they blew it because ‘Oh no, Social Democracy!’ Screw them.”

Elaine shook her head. “They may not amount to much legislatively, but they have a pulpit that they speak loudly from. It would be good if we could distance ourselves from them as whack-a-doodle jobs to keep the public at large from fretting over our tenuous association with them.”

“And be accused of lying through my teeth by the Conservatives? No thanks,” Ashburne replied curtly, holding her cigar between two stable fingers. “The best play is to let them bloviate about how much of a sell-out I am to the cause; that will distance us in the public eye.”

“Alright, then,” Elaine said with a tinge of disappointment in her voice. She quickly pivoted to a new talking point, one that was not quite as contentious. “Would you consent to reviewing your planned policy speech tomorrow morning? After tonight, I think we need to–”

“–Need to what?” Monika finished the statement for her, interjecting her own special brand of dominance into the conversation. “What was wrong with the speech this evening? I thought things went off without a hitch, and you know how critical I am of my own speeches.”

Elaine looked at Destiny, then back to Monika. “Ma’am, you did well enough tonight, but some of the content was… controversial, to say the least. Land reform was something we thought about implementing eventually, not a campaign promise for day one business.”

“The public is with me on this,” Monika reminded her Treasury Minister, looking over at Destiny for confirmation. “Legally, we have the ability to seize land through eminent domain for the public good. This is for the public good, ergo, we have the right to enact land reform.”

“It is not so simple as that, and you know it,” Destiny chimed in, leaning forward to join the conversation proper. “The Conservative coalition will take you to court the minute you try to appropriate land. And they may win; eminent domain has always been sketchy at best in Saegon.”

“If it is not legal, then you will find a way to make it legal,” Ashburne charged her, pointing her cigar at Destiny. “I chose you for your legal mind, not just your looks you old warhorse; get it done for me, would you?” The Prime Minister-elect actually managed a smile towards her.

“Of course, ma’am,” Destiny responded, shaking her head in the affirmative. “If there is a law on the books that makes it legal, we’ll find it. If there isn’t a law on the books, we’ll pass one and make it legal. We have the votes to go either way with it. Land reform can work.”

“Good! Good…” Monika put her cigar down in the ashtray, butting it out as she would a cigarette. She looked over at Elaine, arching an eyebrow. “Your job, as it were, is to figure out a way to pay for this measure. Otherwise we’ll be paying out the asshole for months.”

“Well, if eminent domain fails us, your NEIF scheme should be workable,” Elaine suggested earnestly, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t have the specifics in front of me right now, but I know that the fund generated around £4.5 Billion in revenue last quarter. It was a sizable gain.”

“If we let people get a piece of the pie, can we still afford to fund our welfare programs?” The tone in which the Prime Minister-elect asked was one not just of inquiry, but of consternation. “I don’t want to bankrupt the NEIF and ruin a perfectly good revenue stream.”

“Eminent domain would be the preferred modus operandi in this matter,” the Treasury Minister said calmly, trying to sort through the consternation of the Prime Minister-elect. “But if it came down to it, we could offer the landowners something from the NEIF.”

“Good, then it’s settled,” Monika said, cutting off questions from both Destiny and Elaine. She looked over towards Andy Weaving, the Minister of the National Septenary, sighing. “Andy, Andy, Andy, whatever will we do with you? You have your work cut out for you, sir.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, ma’am,” Weaving said politely yet forcefully. “My office has already begun scheming plans out for the redistribution of land to the landless. We are also preparing to handle a redress of grievances from landowners unsatisfied with their payout.”

“Well done,” Monika said brightly towards Andy, “you manage to surprise me with your optimistic take on things Andrew. I’m sure Sandy would be proud of you if he were here with us this evening.” Ashburne looked at Elaine and Destiny as if to chide them for not being like Weaving.

“Sandy sends his regards, ma’am,” Andy said amicably, straightening the files in his portfolio intensively. “He is presently rearing his third child with his wife Erin, but he sends his compliments on your performance this evening. A smashing success, that policy speech was!”

“I thought so, too,” Monika laughed, turning in her chair to face Weaving. “Tell me, Andrew, can the National Septenary withstand land reform? Don’t bullshit me, now, I need to know the truth. If the welfare system is too weakened by land reform, we will have to pivot quickly.”

“I think… No, I know we can get it done,” Andy said resolutely, correcting any assertions of uncertainty in his speech. “We have within our means the ability to reform land ownership and nationalize the ports as well. We’ll be swimming in Conservative tears within the week.”

“Goddamn, give this man a cigar, he’s making me moist!” Monika shouted, slamming her first down on the table in excitement. “Andy, you can’t smooth talk me like that in front of my colleagues, here. I can only get undressed so fast, slow down and romance me some!”

“No worries, ma’am,” Andy laughed, leaning back in his chair. “We have the capacity to get the job done, and we’re going to make it happen for you and your administration. The first wave of appropriations could probably be handled by the Septenary in August at the latest.”

“You’re still speaking my love language,” Monika joked, looking over at Elaine as she laughed. “Get with Andrew here and make the necessary corrections to our budget outlook for land reform to go through. I want to be able to make a learned presentation tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elaine remarked timidly, feeling the pressure weigh down on her shoulders. Still, she decided to try and make a go of Andy Weaving’s confidence. “If there is any possible mechanism in the budget to make land reform a reality, we’ll find it and go with it.”

“I know you will,” Monika said candidly, exhaling sharply as she spoke. “It feels like we have a real chance at making this happen. I want each of you to know that I will love you all a long time if you manage to get my reforms through the Parliament. If you fail, it’s your asses.”

by **Saegon** » Fri Jun 27, 2025 10:27 pm

The new was racing across the city and had been for the last two hours. The Grand Prince Winfried sat in his study, drinking from a bottle of vintage 1922 pinot noir from the vineyards on the north slopes of Sumendia. It did not matter in the slightest that he was burning through his father’s private stock; quite the contrary, his father would approve of the hubris it took to dip into his personal selection. Winfried sat quietly, watching the clouds pass by through the study window, saying little. His mother Astrid was sitting across from his desk in the study, watching him intently but saying nothing. She knew what was on his mind and knew well enough to leave it alone for the time being. The Grand Prince would speak on the matter in due course, when his father arrived to rub the news in his face. The High Court had voided the decision of the District Court and reinstated his right to reacquire the Alyssum Throne that Winfried now sat upon. Pending, of course, Winfried’s resignation as the Grand Prince. That was the one aspect of the ruling that might have chafed his father.

For as much as had happened in the past month, Winfried was remarkably calm given the circumstances. Parliament had been dissolved and a new election favorable to his regime had been selected. His father cared little for the matter after the fact, worried only about his right to reacquire the Alyssum Throne legally. But for Winfried, everything he had set out to do had been accomplished, and now in his season of rest, his father would come to brow beat him into relinquishing the throne. His father had never cared for Winfried, who chose intellectual pursuits over the athletic career his father had enjoyed. Alistair-Sebastyn viewed Winfried as a dandy that liked the finer things in life at the expense of the monarchy’s funds; Winfried viewed Alistair-Sebastyn, his father as an out-of-touch old bag that needed to be put out to pasture. Neither spoke kindly of the other and had not for some time now, but the pressure on the both of them during the constitutional crisis had been immense. One could only imagine what his father would be like in lieu of his victory.

He did not have to wait long to find out; the doors to his study were thrown open, and in sauntered Alistair-Sebastyn, the former Grand Prince, his father. Winfried looked up at him with a bored expression, noting that by his gait and posture, Alistair-Sebastyn had stopped off at a pub before returning home from the courts. He was as drunk as a sailor in port for the first time in six months, stumbling over himself, his uniform haphazardly worn. Winfried felt contempt for the man, this disgraceful showing! Alistair-Sebastyn seemed to pay him no mind, greedily looking for the affection of Astrid, who scoffed at his drunkenness. The former Grand Prince walked over towards the desk from where Astrid sat, looking Winfried up and down as if to assess whether he was going to give him any problems. The contempt that Winfried felt for his father was palpable, but he was too drunk to realize anything was amiss. He casually picked up the bottle of pinot noir sitting on the desk, letting out a laugh as he took a swig from the bottle, causing Winfried to revolt at the sight of his drunkenness.

“Congratulate your father, boy,” Alistair-Sebastyn said caustically, walking into the study with his military uniform on, prancing forward like he were still a common soldier. “I see that you broke into my selection to celebrate the news; good! Good… I think I’ll have some.”

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” Winfried said boredly, taking a sip from his wine glass between speaking the words his father wanted to hear. “The High Court voted in your favor to reacquire the Alyssum Throne. I’m sure you must be thrilled to no end, father.”

“Yes, well,” Alistair-Sebastyn started in, “I would be remiss in not congratulating you as well, my son. Now that this legal matter has been resolved, you can abdicate the throne and continue your studies free from the pressure of the monarchy, and I can resume my seat.”

“Abdicate? Are you serious, father?” Winfried let out a laugh, standing behind his desk. “I think you misunderstand my purpose here today, sir. I am not here to celebrate your good fortune, but to render unto you some unfortunate news. I will not be abdicating the throne.”

Alistair-Sebastyn’s eyes narrowed towards Winfried, his mouth a grim line set on his face. “I do not believe I heard you correctly, boy. You dare suggest to remain on the throne? You’re but a wee lad, a chucklefuck of the first order! You will resign immediately, stupid boy!”

“Ah yes, get it all out in the open, father, all your ills!” Winfried scornfully looked at his predecessor as he walked around the corner of the desk, facing up to the man. “You have never liked me, never thought me worthy to succeed you. You’re a washed-up old man!”

The former Grand Prince absorbed the comment, then struck his son in the face with the palm of his hand. Winfried took the blow as well as he could, drawing a sharp rebuke from his mother towards his father. “Alistair-Sebastyn, what the devil are you doing? Stop this!”

Alistair-Sebastyn growled, grunting at Astrid. “Keep quiet, woman, this matter does not concern you.” He then turned back to Winfried, whose lip had been split by his hand. “Now then, you will do as you’re told: resign, and I might let you keep a cottage in the Low Ward.”

“Fuck you, sir,” Winfried spat back, bowing up to his old man. “The throne is mine, and I will not relinquish it for anyone; not you, not her, no one. I am the Grand Prince of Saegon now, and you will acquiesce to my decrees! Now stand back before you regret this action.”

“Why you puffed up ignorant wretch!” Alistair-Sebastyn took his hand and slapped Winfried again, this time across the brim of his nose. The young prince let out a loud scoff as the hand connected, causing his nose to bleed uncontrollably. “Stand aside and give me my crown!”

“Do it again, I dare you sir!” Winfried screamed, the veins popping in his neck. “Strike me again, and I promise you as God as my witness, you will rue the day you set foot in my palace!” Alistair-Sebastyn looked incredulously at Winfried, who put his chin up in the air.

“Stupid boy,” Alistair-Sebastyn grunted, taking the back of his hand and smacking Winfried across the face once again. This time however, Winfried did not cower from the blow. Instead, he quickly took off his gloves, palmed them in his hand, and struck his father across the face.

“I demand satisfaction!” Winfried shouted, raising his voice so loud that the palace guards instinctively ran into the room to see what the commotion was all about. Winfried held them off with a simple gesture of his hand. “I say again, father, old man: I demand satisfaction!”

The words were like a brick dropped atop Alistair-Sebastyn’s head. He immediately sobered up, his hands stayed in place. “What the Hell are you talking about, boy? ‘Satisfaction’? You mean to tell me you wish to duel me, your own father? Have you lost your last bit of sanity?”

Winfried bowed up to his father, undeterred by the mellowing out of his countenance. “You heard me, you son of a bitch! I demand satisfaction, as is my legal right according to the peerage laws of this country. And as the aggrieved party, I choose dueling pistols at dawn!”

“Winfried, stop this, right now!” Astrid proclaimed, feeling a sense of dread creep up upon her. “There will be no dueling under this roof, especially not between your father and yourself! Pistols at dawn, my God! Imagine if the press got a hold of that salacious bit of verbiage!”

“Silence, mother!” Winfried screamed, blood still pouring down his face from where his drunken father had struck him repeatedly. “This old bag has given grave offense, and as the Grand Prince of Saegon, I demand… no, I require satisfaction. And I will have it, father!”

“Winfried, be reasonable,” his father pleaded, feeling pangs of regret crawl up his spine at the mention of dueling. “I am sorry that I struck you, I was intemperate and out of line. There is no need to demand satisfaction, we can talk about this issue when you have calmed down.”

“I am calm,” Winfried said forcefully, walking over to the south wall where a pair of antique dueling pistols were kept in a case on a shelf. He opened the case with a flick of his wrist, drawing one of the pistols out. “And I demand satisfaction, you miserable fucking leech!”

Alistair-Sebastyn shook his head, his hands raised. “Boy, put that away before someone gets hurt. There is no need to take things to this extreme; all I want is for you to abdicate and allow me to reacquire the throne. You’ll still succeed me when I pass on, I swear it!”

“I would never abdicate this throne, under any circumstance. You were weak to do so, old man, and I will learn from your mistake and never repeat the blunder.” Winfried began to draw out a bullet and powder, priming the pistol to be fired in front of his mother and father.

“Stop it, now!” Astrid yelled, walking over to Winfried by the gun case, shortly before he finished priming his weapon. “Do you know what you’re doing here? This is your father, drunk and foolish as he may be, he’s still your father, my son. Please, stop this, right now!”

Winfried snarled at his mother, leveling the pistol at his father from across the room. “You will agree to the duel, sir, or I will shoot you on the spot for striking me in the face. My guards will claim it was self-defense, I swear it upon God almighty. Do not test me, sir!”

“Alright! Alright, just put it down!” Alistair-Sebastyn threw up his hands in surrender, slowly backing away from the desk. “You win, I will give you the satisfaction you seek. Tomorrow at dawn, it is agreed, just… put down the pistol, please.” The former Grand Prince whimpered.

For his part, Winfried relaxed his aim, holding the pistol up to his shoulder to keep the musket ball from falling out of the pistol – he was no fool, he knew that his father’s temper was great enough to erupt at any moment. He was keeping his sidearm at the ready, just in case. "Go, get!"

His father cautiously backed away from the scene, his eyes narrowing at Winfried. “Alright, alright, I’m going; maybe some time to cool off will help you to see reason.” He kept backing up until he reached the doorway by the palace guards, turning to scamper out as quickly as he could.

Astrid was incensed; she looked at her son with disgust, shaking her head. “Haddon Winfried Magnus, what the devil has come over you? Challenging your father to a duel, where the hell did that come from? Why on earth would you challenge your father like that?”

“This day has been coming for some time, mother,” Winfried remarked, putting the pistol back in its case. “Father would stop at nothing to reclaim his throne; if I would not abdicate, he would gather support from the military and attempt to foster a putsch. I found a letter as such.”

“A letter? What in the blazes are you talking about, what letter?” Astrid was confused, uncertain. “Your father is many things, but a criminal is not one of them. He would not launch a putsch to reclaim the throne when the military would turn on him the moment he sat upon it.”

“I am not so sure the military would not support him; he is a former commander, and I have never served, not yet at least,” Winfried reminded her, turning to square up towards her. “No, I must put an end to this tomorrow, come Hell or high water. It has to end tomorrow.”

“Winfried, he’s your father!” Astrid pleaded with her son, putting her hand on his shoulder carefully. “Please, don’t do it; don’t go through with it. I know you have your rights, and I know he was in the wrong, but he’s still your father and he deserves your respect.”

“He deserves the heel of a jackboot on his skull,” Winfried sneered, smiling at his mother with deceptively grievous glee. “Tomorrow, I make him pay for all the years of mistreatment. Tomorrow, I end the threat to the Alyssum Throne once and for all, and I will have my moment.”

by **Saegon** » Sat Jun 28, 2025 9:21 am

The sun was shining brightly in the morning calm, nary a cloud in the sky to spoil the view of the sunrise over the Sea of Ghant. The colors in the sky, resplendent with their pinks and oranges, cast an effervescent glow over the courtyard of the palace. Winfried stood at one end of the courtyard, wearing his finest attire, standing opposite his father and their family, all dressed casually in light of the events to transpire. He stared at his brothers and sisters, leveling stern looks at each and every one of them standing beside their mother, Astrid, who was as white as a sheet watching the events transpire. A duel master had entered the courtyard under military guard to witness the proceedings. In the midst of the open plaza was a table with two antique pistols lying in repose, awaiting their uses to take hold of them and go to work. Winfried impatiently watched as his father stalled, trying everything in his power to get out of their morning rendezvous with history. The duel master had a gray beard and looked wise beyond his years; it had been some time in Saegonic history since a duel had happened.

“Son, listen to me, we do not have to do this today. I apologize profusely for my behavior last night, it was unbecoming of a royal in this nation. I talked with your mother and agreed that my drinking has become a problem, and I am to receive help this day if you will pardon me.”

“I will do no such thing, father,” Winfried openly professed, turning to look at the table with the pistols arrayed in ceremonial styling. “We have a date with destiny, you and I, and I am afraid it can no longer be avoided. I demand satisfaction, and will not leave here until I receive it.”

“This does not have to end in bloodshed,” Alistair-Sebastyn proclaimed, pointing at the table with the dueling pistols. “That table leads to heartbreak and tragedy; let us avoid the mistake of firing on each other with weapons. I do not seek to become a pistoleer today.”

Winfried shook his head, marching over to the table. “Father, you cannot talk your way out of this; take your weapon and go to work! I will have none of this loving father bullshit, you have made it clear my whole life that you found me undeserving of the success I now have!”

“Winfried, please,” Alistair-Sebastyn begged once more, putting his hands up in the air. “I am unarmed. Shoot me if you must, but I will not draw pistols against my own flesh and blood. I would rather die in ignominy than shoot at you, Winfried. As God as my witness!”

The Grand Prince took the pistol from the table, thoughtfully loading it as he stared at his father. The duel master turned to Alistair-Sebastyn expectantly, but frowned when Winfried leveled his pistol at his mother Astrid. “Pick up your pistol, or I swear to God I’ll shoot her.”

Astrid took a step back, flummoxed at the sight of her son leveling a pistol at her. Alistair-Sebastyn took a step to cut him off, sweating profusely. “Hold on a moment, wait! It doesn’t have to be like that. I’ll… I’ll take the pistol, alright? Just don’t shoot at your mother, please!”

Winfried took note of his father’s acceptance, bringing the pistol up to his shoulder as Alistair-Sebastyn hurriedly moved towards the table, accepting the pistol from the duel master. “Good man, finally at the last. Now you are beginning to understand our predicament here.”

“There is no predicament here, this is madness!” Alistair-Sebastyn was completely unnerved as his trembling hands began to load his pistol. “Son, please, for the last time, we do not have to do this! Let us find another way, a better way to resolve our differences!”

Winfried was incensed by this cowardice, shaking his head with vitriol. “Are you so much a pussy that you cannot train a pistol on target? And you wanted to be this nation’s monarch! Pfft, you have not the balls necessary to rule it. I must break you, father, once and for all.”

Alistair-Sebastyn grit his teeth at the insult, trying his best to retain his composure. “Do you know what it is like to have a pistol drawn at you? You have never before been through military training, you do not know what it is like to have someone aim a weapon at you!”

“Tell me, father,” Winfried said, leveling the gun at his own temple. “Does it feel like this? Does it feel grossly empowering to have the power to save a life or to take it? What if I were to pull the trigger, here and now – where would I go? The gates of Heaven, or the gates of Hell?”

“You dishonor the parade grounds,” the duel master barked, stepping forward towards Winfried. “Your father has loaded his pistol, it is time for the duel. Now if you would not mind taking the pistol away from your temple, stand at his back and let us complete this process.”

Winfried nodded succinctly, walking towards the center of the parade ground where the duel was to formally take place. Alistair-Sebastyn grimaced outwardly, knowing that time was running out to stop this madness. He looked at Astrid pleadingly, as if to find some form of resolution from his wife, but her tears betrayed nothing but sadness over the situation unfolding. Sadly, Alistair-Sebastyn marched towards his son, turning to where his back was facing towards Winfried’s back. The two men, father and son, drew up their pistols into the air, taking their positions for the duel. The duel master marched forward then, separating the two with his cane, clearing his throat audibly. There was a brief pause before he said anything, as if the moment had captured his breath and stolen it away. The long seconds droned on, leaving a stunning silence capped only by the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees overlooking the garden courtyard. He then lowered his cane from between them, his eyes narrowing on both Alistair-Sebastyn and Winfried at the ready.

“Gentlemen, these are the rules of the duel. You will both march ten paces within my count; when I reach ten, you will turn around and fire your pistols at one another. The last person standing is to be declared the winner. “Do you understand these rules as I have explained them?”

Winfried grunted his approval, followed by an audibly nervous and weeping Alistair-Sebastyn. Astrid clenched at her dress collar, tears streaming down her face. “Please, the both of you, see reason! This does not have to end in violence; my husband! My son!”

The duel master ignored Astrid’s pleas, beginning the process. “I will now start the count. March your paces at your discretion, but be advised that any trickery will result in a default summary judgment for the other participant. Now, if you are ready, I shall begin the count.”

“Goodbye, father,” Winfried said almost casually, interrupting the duel master’s count. “I hope that have better aim than you do judgment, or else this will be a gruesome day for you to consider. Be well and know that mother is watching this unfold, and it is your fault!”

“One!”

“My son, whatever you think I have felt towards you, whatever I have done to make you feel this way towards me, I apologize. I was hard on you because I knew you would take the throne one day, and this nation needed a tough leader that could handle themselves well.”

“Two!”

“You tormented me night and day with your rhetoric,” Winfried said as he took a pace forward in time with the count. “You foisted all your worthless expectations on me and made me miserable. You son of a bitch, you do not deserve my forgiveness! Now march!”

“Three!”

“Son, I love you, I always have,” Alistair-Sebastyn said, marching off a pace. “I cannot fathom what brought you into the depths of despair such as this. Please, let us march off this courtyard and find favor with one another again. I will relinquish my claims to the throne.”

“Four!”

“Yes, because you haven’t put in letters to field commanders in the Army seeking their help in conspiring a putsch against my throne,” Winfried blatantly accused his father. “Yes, father, I know about your plotting to have me removed from the Alyssum Throne!”

“Five!”

“Oh, son, whatever do you speak of?” Alistair-Sebastyn swallowed deeply as he marched off another pace, trying his best to hide his complicity in the plot Winfried spoke of. “I may have wrote some letters asking for advice, but I never would have had you taken off the throne.”

“Six!”

“You’re a lying son of a bitch,” Winfried yelled, marching off another pace. “I saw the letter when I broke into your study; you were stupid enough to leave your correspondence lying around in the open. They would have had me arrested and put you back on the throne!”

“Seven!”

Alistair-Sebastyn shook his head, pleadingly. “Oh no, son, you’re mistaken. I don’t know what letter you’re speaking about, all I did was ask for advice from the military commander at Fort McPherson. The garrison commander and I go back a long ways, we’re just friends!”

“Eight!”

“Are you mentally prepared to die today, father?” Winfried asked in earnest, marching forward. “You’re almost at the end of the road, you had best make your peace now before a bullet cuts you down. Lie to me if you must, but do not lie to your wife and other children!”

“Nine!”

“Winfried… Astrid, children, I’m… I’m sorry,” Alistair-Sebastyn finally confessed, feeling the weight of shame fall down upon him. “I just wanted my throne back, I thought that we could arrange things to make it look like a mutual decision. I’m sorry for what I have done to us…”

“Ten!”

Alistair-Sebastyn closed his eyes tightly, spinning around on his heels and waiting to hear the sound of a pistol being fired. A few moments elapsed before he dared open his squinting eyes. Winfried was standing in the distance, his back still turned to him. “Son?”

Winfried shook his head, his back still turned to his father. “Take your shot, father. If you want the throne that badly, then I will give it to you. All you have to do is cut me down where I stand, and the power is yours once more. Do what must be done; mother, siblings, look away.”

Alistair-Sebastyn stared after him, hands trembling. He wanted his throne back so deeply, he had conspired with his friends in the military to launch a putsch. Now his son was asking him to shoot him, to cut him down so that he could reclaim the throne that was his. “I can’t…”

“Do it, father,” Winfried said, turning to face him finally, still holding the pistol up to the sky. “Go on, shoot me. Take back your throne the right way. Tell the press I challenged you to a duel and you accepted on the honor of your family name. They will hail you as a courageous man.”

“Son, forgive me,” Alistair-Sebastyn said, closing his eyes tightly as he aimed his pistol. With the slightest hesitation, the former Grand Prince pulled the trigger, feeling the gun jump in his hand. Silence filled the courtyard, not a word spoken as the gunshot reverberated.

Alistair-Sebastyn opened his eyes, slowly, the gun trained up and over Winfried’s head, deliberately shooting high to miss him. Winfried looked at his father blankly, then shook his head furiously. The words came out of his heart like daggers, cleaving at his father. “Coward!”

Winfried immediately trained the gun on Alistair-Sebastyn and fired, watching as a spurt of blood ejected from his body where the musket ball had pierced into his chest. Winfried’s father stumbled a step backwards, his head thrown back by the force of the blast into his chest. He raised a trembling hand over the wound, his eyes glazing over almost immediately. In a huff, Alistair-Sebastyn fell to the ground in a heap, landing with his head pointed upward towards the sky. He spat out a mouthful of blood into the air, the contents landing back on his face. He tried to gurgle words, but only the sound of blood rushing into his mouth could be heard. Winfried stared blankly at the scene, watching as his father began to spasm violently. Just as quickly as it had began though, the movements subsided as his father settled into the pavement of the courtyard, the spasming giving way to an ethereal stillness. His eyes rolled back into his head, and Alistair-Sebastyn was no more. Astrid screamed out in anguish as her husband expired on the pavement, knowing no more.

The duel master walked over to Alistair-Sebastyn’s corpse on the pavement, kneeling down beside him. He brought his stethoscope up to his chest, careful to avoid the gunshot wound, listening for a heartbeat. There was none. He stood up, shaking his head: “He’s gone.”

“I win,” Winfried said quietly. He dropped the pistol to the ground, almost shellshocked by what had transpired. He shot a look over at his mother, who went rushing to be beside the cooling body of her husband. His siblings looked on in a state of absolute shock and horror.

“What have you done!?” Astrid shouted, tears freely flowing down her face. “You killed your father! You, you killed him! Why? What did he do so wrong that he deserved to die? Tell me!” She was bitterly weeping now, resting her head on the bloody chest of Alistair-Sebastyn.

“I have saved the integrity of the throne, mother,” Winfried remarked casually, walking over to where his dead father now lay. He used his boot to kick at the foot of his father’s corpse, almost beaming with pride. “He now rests with his forefathers, and I reign supreme.”

by **The Fanboyists** » Sat Aug 08, 2026 12:10 pm

Late December 2007
Ka’ankhot, Kazhamkand

Nurguei had only just settled into reading in his study, on his first day home from the military academy for holidays, when there was a slam and the study’s heavy wooden door swung open.

“His Latin whore is pregnant again. Papa just told us.”

Nurguei jumped at his desk as his cousin Tulai stormed into the room. The young man, despite being taken aback, had enough presence of mind to mark his place in the tome he had been taking notes from and close it. Then he turned back to the rather grumpy 17-year-old princess who was, even as the door swung shut, beginning to pace angrily. He cocked an eyebrow and stared impassively at the young woman who had interrupted his studies.

“'Welcome home, glad to see you,’, too,” he said dryly.

“Don’t give me that, Nurguei,” she said, still irritable. “You know what I’m talking about. We have a problem.” She folded her arms, and she wasn’t exactly wrapping herself deeper into the blue-and-purple brocaded silk deel, but the gesture had that defensive effect.

“You have a problem,” the prince said, lean face showing a hint of a smirk. “I suppose. I’m not sure what that actually changes, especially for me. Also you really shouldn’t refer to Lady Alexandra that way. She’s nice enough if you’re willing to actually talk to her…”

“Easy for you to say, it’s not your mother who was set aside.” Tulai’s comely, ethnically-ambiguous features did nothing to soften the withering look she bestowed on him. Clearly that was not the tack to take to lift her mood up.

Nurguei decided that reminding her that Prince Wei and Lady Jijek’s relationship had been rocky even before he had met Alexandra Tarpeia was probably not the best decision under the circumstances. Not if he wanted Tulai to calm down. Instead, he figured it was best to figure out if Tulai’s anger was actually out of any practical concern, or if she was just telling herself that to feel better about her on-going anger about his father’s remarriage (now a five-year old marriage, not a long time but not that fresh of a thing).

“Okay, well, then what’s the problem? And why is it my problem?” he added. “It’s not as if you don’t already have a half-brother. Ilkin is what, five already? Wouldn’t his birth have been the problem?”

Tulai’s glare lost some of its heat. “He’s four. Five next summer. And yes, Ilkin’s the actual problem. Or could be. It’s just I figured after one kid, Father might lose interest and…”

“And not have two kids with his new lady wife, who is quite firmly in his ear?” Nurguei supplied.

“Yes.” Some of the tension was leaving Tulai's posture now, at least.

“And it doesn’t reassure you that she doesn’t seem to have much interest in the court itself?” Tulai’s expression was all the answer he needed. No, of course it wasn’t reassuring. A lack of ambition could be a very temporary state of affairs. Things could change. Especially if Prince Ilkin turned out to be ambitious. He sighed. “I didn’t think you were that worried about Temir’s chances to be Khagan one day. Nor did I think this had changed anything about his status as heir,” he said. He had suspicions he wanted to use the mention of Tulai’s two-years-junior brother to test.

Tulai glanced over at the door, making sure it was closed. “It’s not my brother’s chances I’m worried about.”

I knew it, Nurguei thought. “Ah, finally decided? You were on the fence last time I was here. But perhaps I’m not the person you should be telling this to.” The Chuyan prince leaned back in his seat even as Tulai remained standing. “Am I not a rival? Not to mention that to have any meaningful path to the throne you’d need to put on a smile and support your father…”

Finally, Tulai stopped pacing and seemed to reach the end of her bad mood, more or less, and sank into a plush armchair, pointedly not the one she knew was Nurguei’s favorite. Now she gave a (somewhat weak) smirk of her own. “Oh come on, if we’re rivals I have bigger problems. This whole…” she gestured vaguely to the room and their shared presence in it, “confidants thing we have is a problem, then. You know entirely too much about me.” She probably meant the smile she gave him to be reassuring, but Nurguei was too aware of the potential danger that phrase could imply to be reassured, even if he was sure she didn't mean it that way. She leaned forward. “No, I think I still need you as an ally. I could never leave you behind after all this time you’ve spent, hearing me out and giving me advice.”

“That’s very touching,” Nurguei said, “But I would like you to remember that your father and my father becoming Khagan are mutually-exclusive outcomes, and I happen to think Dad would make rather a good Khagan,” he said. “And then obviously I’d be the first choice to succeed him, when that time comes, hopefully a long time later. Which leaves you…”

“Outside looking in, yes,” she said, standing up again and meandering across the plush carpet to one of the book shelves that surrounded the study. She idly glanced at the tomes on the shelf, running a finger lightly across the spines. “Not ideal. So you think I should drop my ambitions?”

The Chuyan prince stood up and stretched. “That would certainly be ideal from my view,” he said. “You’d give me one less thing to worry about while I’m at the academy in Xem,” he said. “None of the other cadets have succession worries to trouble them.”

“For now,” Tulai said, watching him sink into his preferred armchair. “Just wait until our esteemed uncle joins you there.”

Nurguei sighed, looking annoyed. “Oh, is that what Dorgon’s saying now? I usually feel my eyes glazing over anytime the brat opens his mouth.”

Tulai wandered back over and leaned over the top of the chair to look down on her cousin, a teasing grin on her face now. “Oh, who’s being needlessly mean now?”

“Surely, surely you’re not about to insist that our dear uncle is actually a nice guy once you get to know him?” Her grin widened in response. “Do you think he knows about the academic requirements?”

Snort. “Doubt it. But do you really think the military academy is going to turn away the apple of the Khagan’s eye?”

“I wouldn’t if I thought Dorgon was capable of walking and thinking at the same time.”

She swung around and dropped back into the other chair. “Don’t underestimate him, Nurguei. Just because he usually chooses not to doesn’t mean he can’t think at all.” After a moment, she returned to the original topic. “But let’s say that I don’t find reducing your workload to be a sufficient reason for abandoning my aspirations. What then?”

“I don’t suppose asking nicely would work?”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Tulai mused. “But I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up.” Not the answer Nurguei wanted, but he was at least pleased to see she was in a better mood now.

They sat in companionable silence for a minute or two while Nurguei gathered his thoughts. “How about ‘I’m not sure you actually want that’?” he asked.

“What?” Tulai glanced over at him, suspicious. There was something almost feline in the pose she adopted, leaning onto the armrest, resting her chin on her fist. "Explain."

“I’m not sure you actually want to be Khatun,” he elaborated. “I think it’s one thing to say that while you’ve been getting tutored and schooled here in the palace and something you might think of very differently if you prepare for it in earnest.” He sighed and stretched. “The Academy in Xem is not exactly a picnic, and if you want the rest of the clan to take you seriously the only real alternative is to go to Baotu, or Ozhe, or the University here. And none of those are going to be a cakewalk, either.”

“You think I can’t handle it?” Tulai asked defensively.

“That you can handle it is not the question. I have no doubt. You're bright. You hate being told 'no'. If you're determined, I'd consider it done.”

“But?”

“But it’s going to suck, Tulai. It’s going to be a lot of work, and not a lot of reward, and at the end of it it might be meaningless if there’s still no path to the throne, and if that all works out too then you still get to stand in front of the Mother and our ancestors at the end and be judged by your results,” he said. “Are you even sure you want that? Because bluntly, if it weren’t for my father’s ambitions, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, poor martyred Nurguei, being expected to succeed to being a literal emperor,” she teased.

“Laugh all you want, I’d rather just become a bureaucrat or minister, get assigned to some province or other, and do my small part to govern justly. Seems less stressful. Less demanding.” With a small huff, Nurguei continued. “Look, all I’m saying is maybe wait until you’re actually getting your Civil Service education before you commit yourself to this course, it might be worse than you’re expecting, and if you’re hoping to be the kind of leader that just enjoys the perks and doesn’t put in the work I’m afraid I would have to stop you.”

Tulai clapped a hand over her heart. “Ouch, that hurts,” she says. “You know me better than that. You can’t possibly think I haven’t thought about that. Or would want that.”

He shrugged and nodded. “I do, but I figured I’d put that out there anyway. Just in case. Fair warning, you know?”

They lapsed back into comfortable silence for several minutes before Tulai spoke up again.

“Let’s say you haven’t convinced me, still.” Nurguei sighed again.

“That’s about what I expected. But just because you have the ambition doesn’t mean the clan is willing. You know what a lot of our relatives are like, and it’s not like there’s not multiple other qualified male candidates,” he said back. “Unless you’re planning to start sticking knives in backs…”

“Ha! Of course not, that would be un-ladylike.”

“Of course, big fan of riding side-saddle, that’s you.”

“Just because I refuse to bow to Belisarian fancy doesn’t mean I’m devoid of feminine charms,” she shot back. “But anyway, rest assured serial murder does not appeal to me as a tactic. For now, anyway. Never say never,” she half-joked.

“Very reassuring. That being the case, though, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you’ll just have to try and figure out who has the best chance to be elected and make sure to marry him,” Nurguei said with a chuckle. “An ambitious lady like you will figure something out.”

Tulai looked at him, an odd expression on her face, like she was lost in thought. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

Nurguei’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you go trying to marry my father, too,” he said. “It’s uncomfortable enough having one step-mother barely older than I am.”

“Eww, no.”

“Thank goodness.”

They lapsed into silence once again. For all their sniping back and forth, Nurguei had missed Tulai while he was away, and was glad she had come to see him so soon after he had returned. Not all cousins or even siblings in the Yu clan got along so well, after all.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t bother you, by the way,” Tulai said after that long pause. "I don't buy that that was just a joke."

“I have no right to complain,” he said with a sigh. He shifted and straightened his plain, off-white woolen tunic. “Dad grieved Mom for longer than His Imperial Majesty wanted as it was.”

“I meant less that he remarried at all,” Tulai explained, leaning back, “and more about the who.”

“Again, on what grounds can I justifiably complain? Sure, Lady Meilin is… disconcertingly young compared to my father…” Tulai nodded. “And while cousin marriage is hardly uncommon in this clan, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel weird about it…” Tulai nodded again, more slowly. He rallied. “But she’s been nothing but kind to myself and my siblings, she’s made it clear that she respects that she’ll never replace Mom, and her affection for Dad seems genuine. It would be wrong of me to raise a stink, especially now that I have siblings by her.”

“You can’t,” Tulai agreed. “At least in general. But I think it’s good to at least get your thoughts out to someone,” she added. “You do know, right? Any time you need to vent…”

“I know,” he said, relaxing. “You’ve got my back. Always have.”

"Well, 'always', at least once you stopped calling me a 'doo-doo head'," she said. They both chuckled.

Plans of studying were now squarely abandoned; comfortable in the chair, in the warm study, at ease in Tulai's presence, Nurguei felt his eyes drooping shut as another cozy silence reigned. After a few minutes lost in thought, Tulai seemed to return to attention, and glanced over at the sleeping Chuyan prince. A quiet snore drifted out of him and she laughed quietly.

“Guess I better leave you to rest,” she said, climbing out of the chair. She gave him a light pat on the head as she crossed plush rugs and exited the room, once more lost in thought.

by **The Fanboyists** » Mon Aug 10, 2026 4:52 pm

January 2014 – Palace of the Waters
Tengrekhot, Kazhamkand

“Absolutely not.” Nurguei normally cut a fairly regal figure in his military dress uniform, which he’d donned for the Lunar New Year’s Feast, dress blacks accentuating the muscular, if averaged sized, frame the young man had built over several years in the military. Alas, right now, the effect was somewhat spoiled by how flushed his face was with visible embarrassment. “Absolutely not,” he repeated. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Tulai’s face was a war of emotions. Amusement at Nurguei’s reaction, annoyance at his words, determination that his was not going to be the last word on the matter. Clearly she had anticipated the need to convince him. “You haven’t even heard out my proposal,” she said, resting her hands on her hips, preparing to stand her ground. “At least wait until I’ve made my pitch before you shoot me down.”

“I don’t need to,” Nurguei said, looking away from her. Rich velvet upholstering and ornate tapestries covered the walls and an array of seats in one of the palace’s many private entertaining rooms. In the moment of hyperawareness, he even felt the soft carpet squish under his indoor-use slippers “Nothing you can say is going to change my refusal.” He stood behind the couch, hoping for some distance to help him maintain his composure.

“I don’t buy that,” Tulai said. “But I’ll tell you what: if you hear me out, and your answer is still ‘no, I don’t want to,’ then I’ll drop it and I’ll never bring it up again. No hard feelings, we can just pretend this conversation never happened.” She approached Nurguei slowly. “Deal?”

Nurguei sighed, still uncomfortable, annoyed at her coming closer. “Fine. Make it.” He was pointedly still looking away, though. He backed away slightly, although the richly-upholstered salon did not have all that much space for him to escape into.

A win was a win. Tulai’s smile wasn’t a large thing, but it was equal parts genuine and self-satisfied. “Alright, first of all, it would force our fathers into the same camp. To cooperate.”

“Oh, you think it would encourage them to finally decide who should succeed our Grandfather, and for the other to focus on that support?”

Tulai was momentarily nonplussed. “Err, no, not exactly. That’s also a good thought, but not exactly what I had in mind,” she said somewhat uncertainly. “But either way, it would give a good central point for rallying opposition to Dorgon ascending to the throne,” she concluded.

She rallied. “Second, it will let you move off-base,” she said with a cheeky grin. “Won’t that be nice?”

“You know my lodgings at Tara are not exactly standard officer’s quarters, right?” Nurguei replied, allowing himself a quick glance at the Chuyan princess. “Even if that’s what I’d have preferred.”

“Fine, be that way.” She had reached Nurguei by this point and walked past him. “Third, it will prevent someone else from making the decision for either one of us. As will almost certainly happen for me in the next year or two, and might happen for you sooner rather than later, too.” Nurguei nodded an acknowledgment, allowing her the point.

“Anything else? Those are compelling arguments. Well, two out of three, anyway. But my mind isn’t changed.” He allowed himself a glance at Tulai, who had meandered away.

She sighed, and her shoulders slumped somewhat. “So you admit that us marrying would, in fact, solve multiple problems for both of us, and in spite of that you’re still not convinced?”

“Convincing me isn’t the issue,” Nurguei said, trying eye contact again. He lasted a little longer this time. “It’s not about the logic of the thing.” Tulai spun back around, putting her hands back on her hips, now looking annoyed again.

“Fine.” she said, her confidence now faltering. She sighed, and now she was the one that broke eye contact for a moment, before seeming to steel herself and look back at him. “Fourth: I want to.”

Now Nurguei had no trouble keeping eye contact. In fact, he was flat-out staring at her. “You want to?!” He blinked in shock, as Tulai nodded hopefully. After a long moment of silence: “And what if the answer is still ‘no’?” he asked.

Tulai was crestfallen. She looked down, visibly trying to keep her composure, before she looked back up and forced a smile and fronted confidence she obviously did not have. “Uh, I… I guess then I have to start thinking about the fact that I misunderstood what kind of relationship we have.” She tried to make it sound like a quip, but no one would be fooled even momentarily.

Oh no, Nurguei thought, alarmed at how hard Tulai was taking the implied rejection. Even if she wasn’t entirely wrong… he’d certainly never thought about her that way before today. The reason he was having such a hard time maintaining eye contact was that Tulai confronting him with a marriage proposal had caused all sorts of new, interesting, and uncomfortable thoughts for Nurguei. Not least of those thoughts had been noticing how well-tailored the white-and-silver silk brocaded qipao Tulai had chosen for the imperial clan’s New Years’ Feast was, and how very well she wore it.

Don’t be stupid, a thought rose, unbidden. You’ve never found her unattractive, an annoying voice in his head reminded him. You’ve certainly made a point of ignoring the fact, and now here’s the consequences of that. Now, make sure you don’t hurt her any further.

Right, damage control. “I’m not saying no. Not… not yet, anyway,” he said, walking towards Tulai, who looked up, surprised. “But… yeah, I… you know what I think about our family’s habit of marrying cousins. And seeing as we’re… I kind of never thought of you that way…”

Nurguei noticed that Tulai’s eyes were a little wet, but she wasn’t actively crying. In fact, she gave a weird sort of half-laugh at his words. “You need to work on your reassurance skills,” she said, still melancholic.

“...before now,” he finished somewhat lamely. Some hope returned to Tulai’s face, at least. “Although frankly I think you could do better.”

“Hmm. Agree to disagree,” Tulai immediately shot back. “At the very least, I could certainly do worse.” She seemed to have recovered, at least for the moment.

“Maybe I could do better.” Nurguei’s tone was clearly joking, and Tulai didn’t even dignify it with a verbal response, she just raised and eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Seriously, though, you’re sure you want me? Has this been your intention the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” Tulai said, now looking a little embarrassed herself. “I mean it’s been a few years now. Around when I turned sixteen,” she said. “Someone mentioned something about how you were probably going to be getting hitched any day since you were of age. It took me a few days to figure out why the idea upset me so much.”

That snapped things into focus for Nurguei. The matter of their eventual marriages had come up in discussions before over the last few years, and the subject had always given the prince a vague feeling of unease. And… well, he hadn’t previously ascribed it to anything romantic, but he couldn’t deny that the idea of anyone else being as close to Tulai as he was in the same way bothered him.

Maybe that was enough?

He got lost in thought. The fact was that sooner or later, the longer he and Tulai remained unmarried, the higher the likelihood that some crucial-to-the-country match would come along, and they’d be paired off with total strangers to facilitate internal or external diplomacy. To say nothing of the practical considerations of a union between them, the both of them had essentially planned to devote their lives to serving the Khaganate. This represented a rare opportunity to be selfish and prudent at the same time.

No, he thought as he reexamined the possibility of Tulai wedding someone else, of giving them her ear, her words, and her thoughts. I don’t like that idea at all.

Even if it turned out that he didn’t feel the same way about Tulai as she apparently did about him, he did genuinely like her platonically. That was more than a lot of couples in their position got.

Of course, that did leave…

“Strictly speaking our fathers – and your mother – do have some ability to gum this up if they don’t like it. You have thought about that, right?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about it,” Tulai said. “Although we don’t know that they would try to prevent us from doing it, and equally to the point, at the end of the day, unless His Imperial Majesty specifically blocks us at their behest, there ultimately isn’t any way for them to stop us. We’re adults, custom may say that our parents have the right to choose our spouses but at the end of the day unless the Khagan declares it so, it’s only custom.”

“Ah yes, ‘only custom’,” Nurguei said. “A pity, of course, that ‘only custom’ would place either one of us in the ‘rightful’ succession to either of our fathers and that there is very much a mechanism for one or both of them to bypass us if we piss them off.”

Tulai shook her head. “I’m not saying it’s not a potential obstacle, I’m just saying that at the end of the day, as long as we don’t alienate them too severely, we can force their hands. Assuming that’s even necessary. I don’t think it will be. I rather think your father will jump at the opportunity. Mine might be a harder sell, but my mother will certainly like it and I’m not sure he’ll want to fight her about it due to a simple lack of interest. Assuming he doesn’t like the idea for his own reasons, which I think he might.”

Nurguei couldn’t fault her logic with regard to Altan. He would probably welcome the opportunity to try to bring Wei into his camp. And it would be advantageous for Lady Jijek, as well. But as for Wei…

“Well, two out of three is a start,” he said. “What did you mean by our fathers picking one of them to rally around not being what you had in mind?”

Tulai looked a little surprised. “Oh, well, I would have thought that was obvious. The idea is that they’d support our attempt to succeed our grandfather, and they’d both be important ministers in the ensuing government,” she said. “Although in retrospect I realize that’s a rather big assumption.”

“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t lead with that one,” Nurguei chimed in. The word choice was not lost on Tulai, whose expression slowly brightened. “Not sure that will go over well with either of them.”

“Where is this ‘we’ coming from? I don’t remember you saying yes, only that you insisted you didn’t say no.”

“Let’s say—”

“Can we not do this, Nurguei? I’m serious. If you’re not comfortable with this, or even if you need more time to decide, that’s… that’s fine, I can live with that. But I need you to stop being vague. I don’t think my heart can take it.” She paused, thinking about what she’d said, and added “And I don’t just mean that in a romantic sense,” she added with a bit of a flush.

Nurguei opened his mouth, then, seemingly thinking better of what he was going to say, closed it. Opened it again. Closed. Uncertainty flashed. Finally, undercut slightly by a voice crack: “The idea of you marrying someone else bothers me, too.” Tulai’s mouth didn’t fall open, but her jaw did noticeably sag a little bit. “More than a little bit. Actually it’s pretty of upsetting, the idea that you’d listen to and talk to someone else the same way you do with me.” She started to stammer. “Look, Tulai, I can’t promise that I’m going to feel exactly the same way you do about me. This is new ground for me. But the more I think about it, the more I think not doing this would just be miserable.”

Now she was genuinely smiling. More, there were even happy (or maybe relieved) tears falling down her cheeks, making her mascara start to run. “So that means… I just don’t want to be wron—”

“Yes,” Nurguei said. “Let’s get married.” A moment later, he was wheezing as Tulai pulled him into a tight hug, practically head-butting the top of his shoulder. Slowly, awkwardly, he answered the hug, then settled into it, holding her snugly. He heard a deep breath, felt air pulling against his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Muffled. “Yes. Awesome. I’m great.” After a few seconds more, she lifted her face back up. Nurguei was only a few inches taller than her, although right now their faces were almost level. “I just needed a moment.”

“Take a few moments, if you need,” Nurguei said. “We’re going to have to spring the news on our parents. And probably convince at least one of them. Not sure if you want to do that now or if we want to try to wear them down one at a time.”

“One at a time, for sure. Easier that way, and not just because trying to get all three of them into the same room is hard enough. Let’s start with my Mom, I’m pretty sure she’s going to be the easy win.”

“How about your father?”

“Let’s save him for last. Maybe we can even enlist your father in that one.” She leaned back, biting her lip as her eyes lost focus in thought.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…”

“No, you’re not the boss of me.” Tulai stuck her tongue out at him. “I’ll get as ahead of myself as I want.”

“Ohhh, disobeying your husband-to-be already?” Nurguei said with a snort. “How grotesque. I am outraged. Ashamed. Humiliated. How will I ever cope?”

Tulai shrugged. “You’ll figure something out. You’re smart. Conscientious, even.” On another day, there might have been something teasing in her smile or her next words, but right now all she showed was joy. “That’s why I’m marrying you.” She judged for a moment, stood up on her toes, and quickly but firmly planted a kiss on Nurguei’s clean-shaven cheek.

She started to lead him towards the door back into the corridors, but Nurguei stopped. “I assume we should probably keep this under wraps, for now, right?” Tulai paused, then nodded. “So we have to play it cool for the rest of the festivities?” Another nod. “So maybe we should not walk back together?”

She looked annoyed, but held up a palm and half-shrugged, conceding the point. “Yes, I suppose,” she admitted. “Although it’s not like us spending time together is all that unusual.”

“I’m more worried you won’t be able to keep a straight face,” he said, cracking the door open to make sure the hall was clear. “Some schemer you turned out to be, you’re blushing like a school girl.”

Tulai prepared to exit ahead of him. “Am not. I’m just glad to have secured my most important ally.”

“Sure, tell yourself whatever you need to.”

“I will. I’m efficient. After all, I just did that AND snagged a hubby. Multitasking. Get on my level,” she said, the smirk returning. “See you in a few minutes.” Before Nurguei could react, she planted another kiss on his cheek and bolted through the door, leaving the prince, flushed once more, rubbing his cheek and trying to process what had just happened over the last few minutes.

Ajax Character Intrigue [Closed; Ajax Only]

Ajax Character Intrigue [Closed; Ajax Only]

First Taste of Ambrosia

On the Beat, Part I: John DeWitt's Tour of Farnsworth Bay

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