A World on Fire (IC, See OOC)

[Nuraca]

A 1700's Alternate History Roleplay

by Nuraca

OOC | Map* (July 21st) | IC (You Are Here) | Discord
*grey lands are HRE lands eligible to be played

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"The ancient Romans built their greatest masterpieces for wild beasts to fight in."
- Voltaire

The year is 1765. The nations of Europe, in a miracle of progress, have surpassed the long-standing civilizations of the East. Grand palaces have sprung up as the aristocracy has grown alongside the opulence of the times. And yet, the era of Kings and Princes, of feudal lords and chivalry, are in their dying days, or perhaps already dead, as the parlors of the continent are filled with philosophers, statesmen, and ideas that will forever change the world.

Africa and Asia are no strangers to strife. Whole eras, begun and ended by the blades of man, lie forgotten, abandoned to be reclaimed by the Earth. Though the bickering states in the West bring gold and treasure to the shores of the East, their competition also brings a new type of war: that which is truly global. The old powers, once the cradles of civilization, must now play a delicate balancing act to not only keep their traditions and culture, but to survive at all.

The New World is, furthermore, being ravaged by this insatiable hunger. Already, many old nations have been toppled by the growing colonies of Europe. Those who have managed to survive are now caught in a perilous game of chess, used as pawns by powers whose intentions are truly unknown. Brick now towers on their ancient shores, its layers strangers to them. In these nascent cities is emerging the ever-growing notion that kings across an ocean cannot, and perhaps should not, rule them as they did their forefathers who first settled the small forts and hamlets of America. The idea that a people ought to have the right to govern themselves, and that all men are created equal, clashes with the scars of the whip and the bodies upon bodies packed as cargo upon ships.

The world, too tired of peace and thirsty for war, is at a flashpoint. The consequences of the next few years will forever change history, and only one question remains: how?



NOTE: This IC thread is for approved players of A World on Fire only. If you are interested in joining this RP, please visit the OOC link above.

[Khasinkonia]

[

Rouantelezh Breizh
Rouantelezh Breizh・Dugelezh Leon
Kontelezh Leon Izel・Brest・Palez Penfell
Kingdom of Brittany・Duchy of Leon・County of Lower Leon・Brest
Penfeld Palace

January 1, 1765

The port of Brest, the beating heart of Brittany, and its vast colonial empire. This is where the Estates met every decade to decide the new Regency Council. They would meet just before the Christmas season, and then celebrate the Twelve Days of Christmas in Penfeld Palace with the monarch after electing the new Regency Council to celebrate the start of a new administration and of a new year. In the year of our lord 1764, the three estates chose Elouan, Duke of Gwened; Nolwenn. Duchess of Treger; and Corentin, Duke of Leon to serve as the Regents to the young Queen Eleanora III.

The Grand Feast of New Year’s Day was a longstanding tradition in Brittany that had held fast since the Medieval Era, and was a festivity that was one of Europe’s wonders of joy. The entire city, much differently from the hardened sailors and merchants that usually filled its bustling streets, was covered in snow and smiling faces hurrying to their noontime feasts. And, in a great crowd around Penfeld Palace, were the masses who had won the lottery for themselves and their families to partake in the meal. In no small part, the excitement was due to the fact that each and every family had a chance to be seated with the Queen, for she and every other guest there had been placed into a second lottery to decide seating arrangements.

Four families had the fortune to be seated nearest to the Queen. Their surnames were Bihan, Prigent, and Seznec. The smiles on the Seznecs’ faces certainly befit their surnames’ sunny meaning, but they were certainly matched by the joyous expressions on the happy Prigent newlyweds, and the Bihans’ wide grins. Even the mild-mannered Queen could not help but smile so wide that her eyes were mere squints. As they greeted one another with open-armed hugs with no care as to ranks, cheek kissing, and even an extra-enthusiastic smooch near-lip for the charming middle son of the Bihan’s on the part of the Queen, the food was distributed through every hallway of the first floor, as the fresh tables spilled from the dining room into other rooms, aided by mats to prevent floor scratching and catch crumbs. Every beverage imaginable, from expensive Chinese teas, to common beer, was available at the crown’s behest. And that was not even to mention the meal itself. Hearty stews, rich pies, both savoury and sweet, with the meat of at least a whole flock of Turkeys, at least a few cows, and even the sweet meat of a few exotic animals known as giraffes. All manner of fruits, cakes, and even frozen custard were available to the lucky banqueteers.

As the banqueters gorged themselves, even the stingiest of aristocrats and bankers could relax knowing that the Christmastime festivities were supported by the very lottery system that brought commoners to the feast. One could enter the lottery as many times as one desired, with each subsequent entry per person costing more. Some individuals, enriched by trade, chose to splurge on these tickets each year. Indeed, in a few of the particularly prosperous fiscal years, the crown would even make a small profit from this endeavour. Elsewhere, in every corner of the empire, similar events were occurring, with Viceroys dining next to miners, trappers with governors, and even harlots with bishops. Truly, the Christmas season brought out the very best in people.

On New Years’ Day, there was a tradition to share gifts with one’s tablemates, and so the Queen had purchased gifts for each Bihan, Prigent, and Seznec. By the evening, as the Queen moved from her table to her throne, nobles and peasants lined up to hand her their gifts, hoping for a smile or even a hug of gratitude—something which they often got. Indeed, a significant portion of the royal wardrobe was commissioned from families banding together to spend reasonable amounts towards a single, more extravagant gift, rather than individually cheaper ones. Every tailor and seamstress in Brittany, by the end of the fall, could usually recite the measurements of each member of the royal family in their sleep.

By the evening, the nation itself was ready to slip into a food coma—something which many of the vacationing workers opted to do—but the Queen and her Regents did not have such opportunities. The previous day, weather willing, the traditional Breton caramels would have been delivered to the French in their brazilwood box adorned with a carved cross. Although recent times had been peaceful, there were still pressing matters for the crown to address. Primary among them was the question of heirship. As the Queen was 16 years of age, and had already reigned for over a year, the new Regency Council was keen to begin the year by extending an invitation to the leaders of Europe to send suitors for the Queen to arrive before Easter Sunday. Although the concept of diplomacy in marriage was still at the forefront of the Regents’ minds, the French concept of love in marriage was not lost on the avant-garde Duke Corentin, and therefore the rest of the Crown, particularly Queen Eleanora, was also distinctly aware of this potential factor. It was thus decided that the suitors would be held in equal regard upon their arrival, and judged on the content of their personality, to be sent home at the behest of either the Queen or unanimous vote of the Regency Council. Although there was some lethargic debate between the members of the crown, it was eventually agreed upon that Queen Eleanora ought to be primarily consulted, but that Duchess Nolwenn address and sign the letters, so as to avoid awkward circumstances of the Queen rejecting a person that she herself had requested..

Most Esteemed [Head of State & title],

Salutations. I am Duchess Nolwenn of Treger, newly elected Regent to Queen Eleanora III of the Kingdom of Brittany. As she has blossomed into a young woman, it is with great pleasure that I extend an invitation to you to send up to three bachelors as potential suitors to serve as consort to my Queen.

With intent for brevity, I wish to outline our preferences regarding his sensibilities and position. Although a commoner will not be immediately discounted, it is naturally expected of all potential suitors that they be of proud and decent pedigree, one of poise and grooming befitting that of a King-consort. Likewise, it is a tradition in Brittany to avoid Unions of Crowns. As there is historical precedent and reason for this tradition, I and the other members of the Regency Council ask that all suitors not be in direct line for a monarchical title within your realm. Furthermore, as we wish to acquaint the Queen with each suitor equally, it is expected that each suitor be competent in either Breton, French, German, or Latin, although the former two are manifestly her preferred tongues. Finally, regarding our criteria for the suitor, I must speak in personal terms, and I ask your grace should this request be embarrassing to you. As we absolutely cannot afford for the Queen’s marriage to go unconsummated and heirless, it is absolutely imperative that your suitor(s) be virile, of strong constitution, and preferably (per the request of the Queen) a handsome man no older than 27, and no younger than 12. Once more, these criteria are based merely out of necessity, and so I beg pardon should you take aback to any of these recommendations for suitors, regardless of whether you choose to offer an eligible young man.

Regarding the time of arrival for these young men, we ask that they arrive in Brest in time for the Feast of Saint John, although they are certainly most welcome prior to it as well. It is my personal expectation that the Queen should have either completed or neared completion of her selection of a suitor by Epiphany of the Year of Our Lord 1766.

Should you have any enquiries for the Queen, the other members of the Regency Council, or myself regarding this invitation, we most eagerly await your responses.

Most sincerely,
Duchess Nolwenn of Treger

At dawn, royally-chartered courier ships and horsemen were tasked with the delivery of these sacred invitations to their destinations. It was understood that the invitations were primarily intended for other monarchies, but the message was vague enough to include France, who received such messages as this as a courtesy. And, under these circumstances, it was reasonable to extend it likewise to such regimes as the Unified States of North-Kin and the Russian Republic. Thus, from Odinbygð to Novgorod, and from Stavanger and Stockholm to Cairo and Lisbon—every corner of the Western World, even those Brittany didn’t love or even particularly like—the letters were distributed to respective heads of state during the following two months.

[Europa Undivided]

The United Kingdom of Bulgaria, Serbia, and Croatia

Belgrade, Serbia

The Royal Palace

January 1, 1765

Thousands of Serbians cheered on the streets of Belgrade as the fireworks sparked in coronas of technicolor far up into the skies; the clock of the church tower had just struck twelve o'clock midnight, and it was now January 1, 1765. The old year had gone, and the new has come.

Of course, as the Serbs of Belgrade celebrated the new year so did the Bulgarians of Sofia and the Croats of Zagreb. Couples, both young and old, stood on the winding streets, recalling the memories of the old year and looking forward into the new one. This was a perfect day of celebration too, as it was also this day 265 yeats ago that the kingdoms of Bulgaria, Serbia, and Croatia merged into the Greater Balkan Kingdom in pursuit of the goal of protection against greater foes, be they be Holy Roman Empire and Russian Republic to the north, the Greeks to the south, the Italians to the west, and the Anatolian Armenians to the far east. However, as time passed, they would truly unite into a single nation; a people united by a common cause despite their differences.

The Balkan Kingdom had been nervous when the Protestant Reformation sparked in Germany, but the allied peoples of that nation of three kingdoms had their own principles. Every faith in Bulgaria, Serbia, and Croatia shall be free. And that would include the Protestants, who would come to encompass nearly 2 out of 10 people in the United Kingdom. Truly, even the Croatian king's second son and nephew were Protestants of the Reformed faith, though the king will always be a Croat Catholic; that was one requirement of keeping the throne as mandated by law.

Another thing of note is that due to the equal protection by Balkan law, Jews have flooded into the country, and their numbers are increasing by the month. They come from all over Europe; Sweden, Germany, England, and wherever else they were persecuted for merely existing. Both the Croat King and the Bulgar Prime Minister knew of the irrationality of their persecution and the skills that the Jews often had, and they intended to take advantage of that by filling their population with the more often than not well educated descendants of the tribe of Judah. It baffled Prime Minister Stanislav why there hated by the rest of Europe; truly, one would not underestimate their skills in matter of finance, no?

February 2

A letter from the Regency Council of the Kingdom of Brittany had arrived; apparently, the Bretons were looking for a potential suitor for their 16 year old Queen. Of course they were!

King Nicholas III sat alongside Prime Minister Stanislav within the office of the king, pondering over the letter that the Bretons had sent.

"What do you think, Prime Minister?"

The Prime Minister, an old, wizened Bulgar of 57 years of age and 20 years of service to the nation, turned to face the King; a fairly aged monarch of age 40. "I say you send Vladimir Trasonov, your nephew, to the queen of Brittany."

Nicholas sniffed as he took a piece of French toast that was his breakfast. "Vladimir is nearly four years older than the Queen. Are you sure about this?"

"Your great-great-grandfather was married to a 14 year old when he was 25.", Prime Minister Stanislav answered. "I don't see how this is a problem."

"Hmmm..."

"The Bretons want someone that is close to the crown for the royal marriage to be meaningful, but not anything that would risk a union of crowns like the one our three kingdoms had." Stanislav continued. "A cousin of the heir would be good enough."

The King took in the French toast whole. "He's a Protestant, Stanislav. He won't be chosen."

"Maybe if he's stay quiet about his beliefs, he would be.", the Prime Minister said. "Besides, your family doesn't have the inbred horror of the Hapsburgs. Vladimir is a dashing young man with a bright intellect and a cunning that even I can't match. I'm sure he'll be good for the Queen of Brittany."

"Hmmmm... Alright then. Call him here."

---

"You want me to what, Uncle?"

"It isn't absolute that you'll be the one to get to marry the Queen of Brittany, but all I'm saying that if you were, do you accept?"

The young Vladimir Trasonov, a short yet handsome man with chill blue eyes and black hair, turned his head away; he had always wanted to marry for love, not for political agenda.

"Fiiiine..."

"Good, good. Let's prepare for your journey to the butt of France then..."

"The butt of what, Uncle?"

The King of Croatia chuckled at his nephew. "Oh, you know, when you look at France on a map, Brittany looks like it is sticking out like a site thumb..."

"That's... funny...?"

"No, but you are.", Nicholas III simply answered as he patted his nephew's hair. He would then quickly call to the butler and servants to prepare the son of his deceased sister to go to the land of the Bretons...

[Sao Nova Europa]

The Great Shun - Beijing - Forbidden City



The yellow shining sun started rising from the ground. It filled the sky with mighty colors of red and splashed the clouds with endless orange hued rays. Birds began chirping, singing a beautiful melody. The Jiajing Emperor was practicing his swordplay under the supervision of Elder Yao Deng. An old man with a calm, beautiful face, long white hair and beard and wearing a blue gown, he was among the top swordsmen in the Shun Empire. Jiajing performed intricate and fast sword forms. The whooshing sound of the sword revealed the great strength put into each form. One attack came after another in quick succession.

"You have made much progress," Yao said, "your Imperial Majesty." Yao, being a teacher to Jiajing, was one of the few people who could talk in a relaxed manner to the Emperor.

Jiajing sheathed his sword. "Thank you Master Yao. I've been having a lot in my mind recently and I find that swordplay is a good way to relax and forget, at least momentarily, about the burdens of the Throne."

"Your Imperial Majesty, that is the burden an Emperor must carry. The Emperor is the Son of Heaven, the Autocrat of All Under Heaven, the Father of the entire Civilized Realm. You have to treat all men as your children and the Empire as your family. You have to take care of them and in return they will have to serve you, just like the children serve their father."

"I know, I know. It's just that sometimes I would like a break from all those politics..."

---

Yang Guo sat on his golden throne. While it was by no means the Dragon Throne, it was nevertheless a throne that was befitting for the second most powerful man in the Empire. Yang Guo had been Chancellor of the Shun realm for almost six years. As a young boy, he had been castrated by his own parents so that he could be sent in the Forbidden City to serve in the Imperial Household. He rose through the ranks, thanks to his diligence and intelligence. It was his friendship with the Empress that won him a meeting with the Jiajing Emperor. He made the most out of that brief meeting, impressing the Emperor. So when the previous Chancellor retired due to health problems, the Emperor appointed Yang Guo to the office despite his relatively young age of thirty-nine years old.

"His Highness Zhang Wuji, Minister of Revenue!" the high-pitched voice of an eunuch announced as a man in his late sixties walked inside the hall. His gown was ornate, decorated with jewels and golden embroiders. He spotted grey long hair and beard and a generous mustache.

The Minister bowed slightly before his superior. "Greetings, your Highness. I salute you."

Yang Guo stood up and approached the man. "My greetings, your Highness. I assume you are here because of the Xinjiang project?"

"Indeed," the minister replied with a smirk on his face. "The necessary funds for the expansion of the road network have been found. The funds are not as high as we've hoped for since I've had to redirect some of them towards Vietnam, but they should suffice for a start. I've had to put on hold some infrastructure projects of lesser importance in order to secure them."

"We aren't going to be constructing a road in every district," Yang replied. "The funds should suffice, as long as we make wise use of them."

"I agree!" a male voice was heard saying. An eunuch at once rushed to announce the name of the man: Cao Bi, Minister of Works. A man in his fifties with quite the flare and a charming, bright smile, he bowed slightly before the Chancellor and Minister Zhang, greeting them formally. With that out of the way, Cao could continue from where he had left. "In order to make the most of our resources, we need to prioritize our strategic needs. We shall repair and expand our road network in three directions, to allow faster movement of troops in the region. Our priority is to ensure better communication between military outposts. The Kazakh hordes in the West are a danger and we need to ensure that our troops can move speedily enough in the province to defend it from any possible invasion."

"I concur," the Chancellor said. "Prioritize the connection between strategical military outposts. Routes that do not serve any strategic interest can wait. We have limited resources and we need to make the best use of them, so there should be no waste on such luxuries. We should be focusing on our military needs. You have my approval to send memos to the local bureaus of your ministries to draft plans for the project. Once approved, we can move to the phase of actual construction."

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

Novgorod
January 5, 1765

The name of this 'newtown' could not be any further from the truth. Said to have been settled by vikings under the leadership of Rurik back in the 800s, the city is nearly a thousand years old, and it has enjoyed 300 years as the capital of the Russian Republic. The thriving metropolis it is has seen its fair share of history, from the first settlers who built the ancient village that would become the foundations for the city, to mass death and decay at the hands of the Black Plague, to the current situation involving the dangerously close Swedish border. The city is bustling with activity, mostly folk getting back to work after the New Year's end, but that is not what is of concern at the moment.

A man clad in regalia stands at the center of a large room. He is flanked by row upon row of seats, each hosting an attentively listening person. Back to the man in the center. His clothing is strange, very different from the sort usually worn by his station. He is Ivan Kirilovich II, Grand Prince of Russia. His royal robes are of a newer style, more modern in look, influenced by the western cultural osmosis that also brought the Enlightenment. The last few princes had worn similar garbs. Anyway, he prepares to speak to the packed audience. This packed audience being the High Veche, the greatest authority in all of Russia. Prince Ivan almost seems to buckle under the weight of all the eyes staring at him, but he maintains composure, and speaks.

'Greetings, today the High Veche has gathered to discuss matters of great importance. I pray to God that this session bring about fruitful discuss for the benefit of the nation.'

And with that, the day begins. Prince Ivan will spend much of his working hours in this room, along with the High Veche. There are many debates on the table, everything from Siberian settler policy to grain tax rates are discussed. The prince has stances on these issues, and typically leverages his powers to block certain bills should they come to the voting floor. Eventually, these other discussions wind down, allowing the prince to discuss something that's been on his agenda as of late. War. Prince Ivan is young and ambitious compared to his predecessors, full of a vigor he wants to fill the nation's efforts with. He is also a learned man, having entertained himself with the works of great thinkers from a young age. His grandfather, Prince Ivan Kirilovich I, served as prince in the aftermath of the Great Northern War, and managed to stabilize the nation after the war. With this family legacy behind him, the 25-year old hopes to remain Prince for at least a few years, hopefully enough to realize his lofty ambitions. And with that, he speaks.

'I have a proposition on my mind, and as Grand Prince I am willing to speak my wishes to the High Veche.'

Whispers fill the room.

'I have decided to talk of war. War with the Swedish Empire, perhaps.'

The whispers grow louder.

'The Swedes have been a concern for our nation ever since that damned Narva. Their dominance over the North Sea has severely hampered Russian Atlantic trade. Our ships face heavy fines and could potentially be denied passage altogether. not to mention how close they are to this building as we speak. The border is just over there! An army could easily march into this city and put it to siege in a matter of days! Staying vigilant might not be enough. We need to go on the offensive, fight back! Retake our lost lands!'

The whispers are so loud they are no longer whispers, the ensuing discourse fills the room. One man stands to speak.

'This is foolhardy, young Prince. The Swedish Empire is just too strong. It is not worth the effort, gambling away our armies once again. Another Narva, while something no one likes, is on the table should another war with the Swedes break out. I advise you, and the rest of the Veche, to reject this notion as it is. It is simply not possible to tear down the Swedes alone.'

'An interesting proposition,' responds Prince Ivan. 'Perhaps we could find new allies in the continent, revive the alliance of old that once challenged the Swedish Empire. We have certainly learned our lesson fighting the Swedish, and our neighbors will undoubtedly have learned these lessons too.'

'But who would be our potential allies?' asks another Veche member.

'The Holy Roman Empire is a massive institution, chock-full of city-states and minor fiefs that could be willing to lend a hand. And as for their emperor, some negotiation may be necessary. We could easily promise them Denmark under the condition that Russian vessels be allowed continued passage through the Belts. And perhaps other powers may possess an interest. The Swedish possess colonial land on the American continent. And other nations with colonies in in the region, from the Bretons to the Dutch may be interested in knocking them down a couple of pegs.'

The discussion continues. Questions asked Should we send letters? What if the Swedes catch these letters? And to whom should we extend this offer of alliance? All, very hard questions.

With time, the discussion runs down, and the day ends. They decide to send letters. They send them to the Holy Roman Emperor's seat at Prague, to the Kingdom of Brittany at Brest. The French Commonwealth at Paris, and others.

Here are the player nations I sent the letter to:
Kingdom of Brittany
French Commonwealth
United Dutch Republic
Kingdom of Bohemia
I have also sent letters to these nations, assuming their apps are accepted:
Kingdom of England
Ulmer Duchy

To the [Title of recipient], [recipient name]

Salutations. I am Ivan Kirilovich II, Grand Prince of the Russian Republic. It is with vigor that I write to you this letter, to discuss the terms of a potential alliance against the Swedish Empire.

I wish to have your armies at my side in this potential war. The Swedish Empire is strong and powerful. It has grown anything but weak in the last few decades. It controls the Baltic trade, a lucrative region of sea, where dozens of merchant ships pass. Their armies are grand, and their as-of-yet unproven navy may be grander. Let us not see a world where Stockholm's influence stretches from London to Rome. They have absconded with vital Russian territories in the Baltic, and it would be of great interest to Russia so as to reclaim those lands, and clear the Baltic Sea of their dominance. As for your nation? I can promise you a share of the spoils. Swedish holdings in the Holy Roman Empire/The New World/Norway/Denmark* will be ceded to your nation in the peace negotiations. Another award is a less dominated North Sea. Those Swedes have driven the tariffs up far too high, and it is severely hampering trade across northern Europe.

I hope that you may respond to my proposal in a quick and prompt manner, that we may formalize negotiations soon, and I hope to organize this alliance no later than the Year of Our Lord, Seventeen-Sixty-Eight.

Sincerely,
Prince Ivan II Kirilovich

OOC Note: *Read whichever territory Russia thinks your nation might be intersted in. It is as follows:
Kingdom of Brittany-The New World
Dutch Republic-The New World
Kingdom of Bohemia-The Holy Roman Empire (western Swedish Pomerania)
Ulmer Duchy-Denmark
Kingdom of England-Norway
French Commonwealth-Norway

January 10, 1765

The High Veche is once again called, abuzz with activity. They've received a strange letter, from Brittany. And opening it up reveals that no, it is not a response to the prince's plea for alliance. Or is it? Regardless, the prince reads the letter to the room.

(Image)

Most Esteemed [Head of State & title],

Salutations. I am Duchess Nolwenn of Treger, newly elected Regent to Queen Eleanora III of the Kingdom of Brittany. As she has blossomed into a young woman, it is with great pleasure that I extend an invitation to you to send up to three bachelors as potential suitors to serve as consort to my Queen.

With intent for brevity, I wish to outline our preferences regarding his sensibilities and position. Although a commoner will not be immediately discounted, it is naturally expected of all potential suitors that they be of proud and decent pedigree, one of poise and grooming befitting that of a King-consort. Likewise, it is a tradition in Brittany to avoid Unions of Crowns. As there is historical precedent and reason for this tradition, I and the other members of the Regency Council ask that all suitors not be in direct line for a monarchical title within your realm. Furthermore, as we wish to acquaint the Queen with each suitor equally, it is expected that each suitor be competent in either Breton, French, German, or Latin, although the former two are manifestly her preferred tongues. Finally, regarding our criteria for the suitor, I must speak in personal terms, and I ask your grace should this request be embarrassing to you. As we absolutely cannot afford for the Queen’s marriage to go unconsummated and heirless, it is absolutely imperative that your suitor(s) be virile, of strong constitution, and preferably (per the request of the Queen) a handsome man no older than 27, and no younger than 12. Once more, these criteria are based merely out of necessity, and so I beg pardon should you take aback to any of these recommendations for suitors, regardless of whether you choose to offer an eligible young man.

Regarding the time of arrival for these young men, we ask that they arrive in Brest in time for the Feast of Saint John, although they are certainly most welcome prior to it as well. It is my personal expectation that the Queen should have either completed or neared completion of her selection of a suitor by Epiphany of the Year of Our Lord 1766.

Should you have any enquiries for the Queen, the other members of the Regency Council, or myself regarding this invitation, we most eagerly await your responses.

Most sincerely,
Duchess Nolwenn of Treger

'It, it's a marriage offer.. for the hand of the Queen of Brittany, Elanora III. Her regent seeks a partner for the queen.'

One member of the veche stands. He is old and wrinkled, his hair having receded to a graying patch around the backside. A great beard sits on his face, almost commanding his authority. This old and experienced man, speaks.

'If you wish to lead this nation, then you're certainly going to have to sacrifice things for it. The letter states that they're looking for a King-consort, so fortunately, the prince is out of the question. What isn't is the prince's immediately family, I know of the pedigree of your brothers, perhaps it would be wise to send them off to Brittany. Your electoral title is not in danger of being passed on to them. Your family's prestige would be raised by marrying such a proud dynasty, and it could even smooth over relations for when those letters of alliance arrive.'

'Are you suggesting that we marry off one of my brothers? They're great and skilled, indeed, but would they not serve the state better commanding armies or holding mayorships, rather than being stuck up in some court on the other side of the continent? And besides, it marriage not an institution of sacred love?' replied the prince. Other members of the veche supported this notion. Ivan had grown up on Enlightenment rhetoric of free will and self-determination. It would be safe to say that the young lad was almost drunk on these new ideas. And to him, the idea of a political marriage seemed to run contrary to this. Personally he was keen on marrying for love. In fact, was seeing someone, a cultured and intelligent lady from one of Novgorod's local families, and hoped that they could wed some day.

'I am not sure about this.. It would pain me to part with those of my blood, let alone my brothers. But, if it's for the good of the country.. let us leave this to a vote, as we always have. This concerns national policy.'

And so they voted. 'All in favor?' 'All opposed' went the prince. A majority of the veche would indeed, marry off one of the prince's brothers.

January 16, 1765

'I say this to you, dear Peter. The state requires you, to marry the Queen of Brittany abroad. I know, this a difficult decision, and it pains me to part with you, but it appears poltics demands it so.'

These were the words of Ivan to his younger brother, Peter Kirilovich, a 21-year old, intelligent, witty, charming. He was also a bit of a ladies' man, who went from pub to pub cracking jokes and flirting in a tipsy daze. Even if he was of Ivan's age it was unlikely he would be chosen as prince due to these traits. Before Ivan the prince could even let a single tear roll down his cheek, his younger brother accepted. There would be some crying and some hugging yes, their parents while old have yet to expire, and the rest of their family would come to bid the young Peter farewell as he departed the city on a carriage driven by fine horses, and a dowry at the young man's lap. It would be some time 'til they arrived at Brest.

[Union Princes]

Chapter One
The four cradles of civilization are like quadruplet siblings in a household competing for their parents’ affection. First, you have the Nile River civilization, Egypt; Mesopotamia River civilization as Sumeria; the Indus valley civilization; and finally, the Yellow River civilization as China. As these four siblings grew alongside one another, with or without their knowledge, they dealt with the conflicts of adolescents and adulthood. Wars, disease, famine, and religious identity molded these young societies into distinct and recognizable countries that live on the earth.

The Nile River had experienced a hazardous sort of history in which it became a tool by God to punish the ancient Egyptians. Not everyone can boast that their society was brought down because the river turned red and birthed an ocean of frogs. After the freeing God’s chosen people, the next calamity the Nile River saw witness to was the civil war waged by the Roman warlords after the fracturing of the Roman Republic. When Julius Caesar marched into Egypt to crush King Ptolemy XIII, his victory was more guaranteed than death or taxes.

However, the Dark Ages after the fall of Rome saw Egypt be placed on the center of Christianity’s countless crusades. It was already conquered by the Islamic armies by the 7th century and transformed to fit the Arab image of its new rulers. With its close proximity to the Holy Land, to Jerusalem, the crusader armies treated it like it was a fox sleeping near a chicken coop. With the Kingdom of Jerusalem taking the initiative and backed by French and Italian crusaders as well as Byzantine support, a great crusade was launch against the Muslim Egyptians with renewed eagerness. The Fatimid dynasty of Egypt ended in the 12th century when Cairo was taken by the Christian crusaders. It would take another 200 years for the dynasty to finally become extinct in southern Kush.

From there on, the Catholics set up a new kingdom all too zealous to claim the rest of the Nile River in the name of God. Egypt is, in many ways, much like an over-eager runner in a race. It has already, by itself, had proven that Christianity is the most blood-thirsty of all religions, and yet, every day, it seeks to advance the position of our faith in that tally by the worth of a thousand Hinduisms, seemingly for the sole purpose of proving themselves wrong. The Kingdom of Egypt and a loving God are mutually exclusive concepts.

Persecution and murder is the favorite pastime of the Latin Egyptians. 4 million Muslims used to live in Egypt, now it is less than 1.1 million are scattered across the desert in Kush. Cairo, Alexandria, and as far down south as Lake Eugene (Lake Nasser) is virtually depopulated of all Islamic teachings and worshippers since only the heirs of the crusaders inhabit the streets. Their proselytization efforts to find infidels to convert is like searching for the pot of gold. We know rainbows exist; we know that gold exists, but it seems that the Latin Egyptians can’t find a Muslim willing to convert to Christianity without the need of gunpoint at the end of the rainbow.

Egypt may have won first place in the race to create the most violent theocracy to ever exist but it is trailing behind the rest of the European world in the race for modern militaries and economies. If the crusaders were just as fanatic in westernizing their country as they are in destroying Islamic Egyptian culture, then Egypt would have had the time to start exploring and uncovering the truths of its ancient history. The Pyramids of Giza had sat idle since the birth of Christ while the Sphinx watch overs the kingdoms that rose and fell before its very eyes.

Instead, the world watches Egypt choosing to stagnate, choosing religious dogma over scientific reason. Truly, the crusader kingdom is the last bastion of European feudalism in terms of idolatry and blind superstition. The Nile River is split between petty warlords disguised as nobles bickering over one another over who owns the elephants in their rooms. The Catholic Church seemed to devolve back to its old self prior to the Protestant Reformation in which gold was the price for salvation in Cairo as the priests stood by selling redemption like an egg merchant.

However, not all hope is lost, for even a country as backward as Egypt has spawned a generation of students who studied abroad in the Universities of Paris, Vienna, Rome, Constantinople, Prague, and London. No doubt that those brilliant minds have opened their eyes to the world around them and sought to bring the ideas of the Enlightenment back to their home country. That is, of course, assuming that the clerics won’t burn them at the stake for heresy. I, for once, would be surprised if they didn’t.

[Dentali]

[quote="Danubian Peoples";p="37106529"]

The Russian Republic

To the [Title of recipient], [recipient name]

Salutations. I am Ivan Kirilovich II, Grand Prince of the Russian Republic. It is with vigor that I write to you this letter, to discuss the terms of a potential alliance against the Swedish Empire.

I wish to have your armies at my side in this potential war. The Swedish Empire is strong and powerful. It has grown anything but weak in the last few decades. It controls the Baltic trade, a lucrative region of sea, where dozens of merchant ships pass. Their armies are grand, and their as-of-yet unproven navy may be grander. Let us not see a world where Stockholm's influence stretches from London to Rome. They have absconded with vital Russian territories in the Baltic, and it would be of great interest to Russia so as to reclaim those lands, and clear the Baltic Sea of their dominance. As for your nation? I can promise you a share of the spoils. Swedish holdings in the Holy Roman Empire/The New World/Norway/Denmark* will be ceded to your nation in the peace negotiations. Another award is a less dominated North Sea. Those Swedes have driven the tariffs up far too high, and it is severely hampering trade across northern Europe.

I hope that you may respond to my proposal in a quick and prompt manner, that we may formalize negotiations soon, and I hope to organize this alliance no later than the Year of Our Lord, Seventeen-Sixty-Eight.

Sincerely,
Prince Ivan II Kirilovich

/quote]



To Ivan Kirilovich II, Grand Prince of Russia

The United Dutch Republic is indeed interested in your offer. We would commit our navy to work with yours to hamper the Swedes and their trade and then put pressure on their overseas colonies. This however has conditions. Firstly you must commit to large offensive operations against the Swedes for the duration of the conflict, secondly you must get at least one other nation to agree on this coalition, thirdly you must allow the United Dutch Republic to keep territories seized in North America from the Swedes in the peace negotiations, finally you must grant favorable trade measures towards Dutch Merchants.

With Great Regard, King William III of the United Dutch Republic

[Dentali]

(Image)

Most Esteemed [Head of State & title],

Salutations. I am Duchess Nolwenn of Treger, newly elected Regent to Queen Eleanora III of the Kingdom of Brittany. As she has blossomed into a young woman, it is with great pleasure that I extend an invitation to you to send up to three bachelors as potential suitors to serve as consort to my Queen.

With intent for brevity, I wish to outline our preferences regarding his sensibilities and position. Although a commoner will not be immediately discounted, it is naturally expected of all potential suitors that they be of proud and decent pedigree, one of poise and grooming befitting that of a King-consort. Likewise, it is a tradition in Brittany to avoid Unions of Crowns. As there is historical precedent and reason for this tradition, I and the other members of the Regency Council ask that all suitors not be in direct line for a monarchical title within your realm. Furthermore, as we wish to acquaint the Queen with each suitor equally, it is expected that each suitor be competent in either Breton, French, German, or Latin, although the former two are manifestly her preferred tongues. Finally, regarding our criteria for the suitor, I must speak in personal terms, and I ask your grace should this request be embarrassing to you. As we absolutely cannot afford for the Queen’s marriage to go unconsummated and heirless, it is absolutely imperative that your suitor(s) be virile, of strong constitution, and preferably (per the request of the Queen) a handsome man no older than 27, and no younger than 12. Once more, these criteria are based merely out of necessity, and so I beg pardon should you take aback to any of these recommendations for suitors, regardless of whether you choose to offer an eligible young man.

Regarding the time of arrival for these young men, we ask that they arrive in Brest in time for the Feast of Saint John, although they are certainly most welcome prior to it as well. It is my personal expectation that the Queen should have either completed or neared completion of her selection of a suitor by Epiphany of the Year of Our Lord 1766.

Should you have any enquiries for the Queen, the other members of the Regency Council, or myself regarding this invitation, we most eagerly await your responses.

Most sincerely,
Duchess Nolwenn of Treger

Duchess Nolwenn of Treger

The United Dutch Republic is indeed interested in your offer. I shall be send my nephew Duke Maurice of Luxembourg to your court with great speed.

With Great Regard, King William III of the United Dutch Republic

[Reverend Norv]

The French Commonwealth

+ + +

Chancellerie de la République
Paris
Commonwealth of France
January 1, 1765

Joseph Beaulieu brought the bottle: a dusty liter of Calvados from his father's small farm in Normandy. In an elegant pale blue room, adorned with landscape paintings of various regions of France, the foreign minister poured each member of the Commonwealth's cabinet a dram of the apple brandy. When he was finished, Beaulieu hoisted his glass, and the other men - all clad in simple Calvinist black - followed suit. "Monsieur the Chancellor?" Beaulieu asked.

Paul-Henri Maturin stood: a man of average height, with the trim build and clean shave and close-cropped grey hair of a true French Puritan - or a true French soldier. "Another year in power gone by, gentlemen. God be praised for it." A murmur of pious agreement ran through the room.

"He has been good to us this year." Maturin nodded to Bruno Cloutier. "I have on my desk a report from our Minister of Agriculture showing that Monsieur Foljambe's new cast-iron plough has increased wine production in the Rhone by almost fourteen percent. That's enough to get half of Russia quite tipsy." A chuckle, and Maturin turned next to Déodat Bonnet. "And our Minister of Justice has restored confidence in our elections after that unfortunate business in Marseille."

"Old Fortier shouldn't have faked certificates of veterancy for his supporters," Bonnet said simply. "The system only works when we all play by the same rules." Maturin watched his cabinet nod in sober agreement, and smiled.

The Chancellery of the Commonwealth, on the Ile de la Cite.

"Messieurs Beaulieu and Lefèvre have kept us out of war for another year," the chancellor continued. Beaulieu smiled, and the War Minister Bernat Lefèvre gave a sober nod. "I'm told that the new horizontal-bored artillery can be made much lighter without sacrificing strength," Maturin noted. "An advantage we may need in the days to come. And Monsieur Beaulieu has great plans for strengthening our ties with the republics of the New World and Russia in this coming year." The chancellor raised an eyebrow. "It even seems that we are still included on the Bretons' Christmas card list, for whatever reason."

The French politicians chuckled and passed around the traditional box of caramels. Beaulieu smiled along, but inclined his head. "A young man in my office actually sees an opportunity there, Monsieur the Chancellor."

Maturin nodded. "I'll hear it," he replied simply. Then he turned back to the rest of the cabinet.

"And finally," the chancellor concluded, "at home, the Treasury records a surplus - however modest - for the third year in a row." Treasury Minister Jean Perrault gave a satisfied smile at that. "Thanks to Monsieur Marchand and the Ministry of Education, more of our young people are literate than ever before, with the organizational and mathematical skills that they will need to succeed as officers, businessmen, and inventors. And yesterday, to ring in the new year, Monsieur Romilley sang the psalms of our Lord with twelve thousand people on the Ile de la Cité. My friend, the Ministry of Culture has outdone itself." Jacques Romilley ducked his head with a shy grin.

"It is easy, I know, for all of us to keep our eyes so fixed upon our own labors that we miss the work of our fellows in this government." Maturin's green eyes moved around the room. "But at the dawn of this new year, I want to remind you all of what we have all accomplished - all of us together. Remember that as we face these elections a year from now: together, we are capable of so much. And we still have so much more left to do."

Jean Perrault grunted his approval. Bernat Lefèvre nodded thoughtfully. Joseph Beaulieu smiled gently at Maturin. "My brandy's getting warm," he quipped. "The toasts, Monsieur the Chancellor?"

"Ah." Maturin chuckled. "Yes, of course. We drink our three toasts. Monsieur Beaulieu?"

The foreign minister cleared his throat. "To the New Year!"

"Soli deo gloria," the ministers intoned. Outside the window, a few flakes of snow drifted down toward the Parisian streets. The Calvados was warm as it coursed down each man's throat, and the bottle moved quickly to refill the glasses.

"To the Reformed Party!" barked Bernat Lefèvre.

"Semper reformanda!" called back the ministers. The bottle made its rounds again to refill the now-empty glasses.

"And to the Commonwealth," concluded Paul-Henri Maturin.

"Soit fait sa volonté!" replied the Council of Ministers. The words were the motto of the Commonwealth, its warcry in battle, the deepest expression of the French Reformed soul: His Will be done.

And then the Commonwealth's leaders retired to their modest offices, to read reports and write memoranda and carry on all the other business of running a republican government for a modern state. For the march of progress waits for no man, and the year was young, and there was much still to be done.

+ + +

French Merchantman Diligent
70 kilometers northeast of Tunis
Mediterranian Sea
January 2, 1765

The black flag had been chasing Alain Faure for almost two days now, and he knew he could not outrun it any longer.

The Diligent was a good Toulon-built merchant sloop, graceful and fast, and at full sail it could easily outpace a pirate galley. But the wind had been devilish tricky, and it kept blowing back in Faure's face, and he had to tack and zigzag halfway across the Mediterranean just to stay moving. And that galley: it moved steadily, its oars sweeping like the legs of some awful millipede, and it had crawled inexorably closer. So close, now, that Faure could swear that he could hear the drums that beat the galley-slaves to their labor.

The Diligent.

The captain turned to his first mate. "Monsieur Bonfils, we must trust to the sword now. Distribute arms to the men."

Hubert Bonfils looked at Alain Faure, and then looked at the pirate galley. It was close enough that he could see the men crowding its gunwales, already lazily spinning their grappling hooks as the two ships inched closer together. "That's suicide," he said plainly.

Faure reached for the weapons rack beside him, and took down his old Army officer's sword - a sturdy backsword, not like the delicate rapiers of most European officers. "A French captain," he replied calmly, "does not kneel. Come: do you really want to spend the rest of your days chained to an oar?"

"God," Bonfils whispered. He shook his head. "It's just linen. All we're doing is shipping two thousand bolts of fucking linen. That's all. That's the only - "

"All right." Faure raised a hand. "All right. Monsieur Bonfils, take five men and go to the lifeboat. Perhaps a Christian ship will find you before the pirates do."

Bonfils did not move. Faure shrugged laconically. "It's better than no chance at all, young man. I will buy what time for you I can."

Close by, the drums beat loud. Bonfils shuddered. He nodded once. "Captain, I - "

Faure took a flintlock pistol in his other hand and cocked it. "No time, monsieur. Give my regards to Marseille."

They lowered the lifeboat over the port gunwales just as the pirate galley closed with the Diligent's starboard side. As Hubert Bonfils and his men strained at their oars, they could hear the heavy thuds of the grappling hooks sinking in. They heard the demand for surrender, bellowed in accented French; they heard the crash of musketry in reply. And then, over even that cacophany, they heard voices singing: cracked with fear and pain and exhaustion, silenced one by one.

Rendez à Dieu, l'honneur suprême ;
Car il est doux, Il est clément,
Et sa bonté, toujours la même,
Dure perpétuellement.

The lifeboat vanished over the horizon. The sound of the psalm faded. The sea lay grey and still and endless beneath the winter sun. Hubert Bonfils put his head in his hands and wept.

+ + +

Chancellerie de la République
Paris
Commonwealth of France
January 6, 1765

Paul-Henri Maturin looked back and forth between the two men in front of him, and then cracked a wary smile. "This is a joke, right? A little plaisanterie for the New Year?"

"It is certainly unconventional," Joseph Beaulieu allowed tolerantly. "But I think it deserves to be taken seriously."

The chancellor turned his gaze to the younger man at Bealieu's side. "You want to - seduce - the Queen of Brittany. As a matter of national policy."

Michel de Limoux nodded. "Yes, Monsieur the Chancellor. I think we have an opportunity to place a Reformed Frenchman on the throne of the consort of Brittany."

For a moment, there was silence in the Foreign Minister's office. Beaulieu studied the whitewashed ceiling thoughtfully. Then the chancellor shook his head. "This is the Commonwealth," Matruin snapped. "We don't play dynastic politics. It is our business to tear down thrones, not to sit on them."

"What better way to advance the Reform in Brittany," Beaulieu asked mildly, "than from within, at the very highest level?"

"From the bottom up, that's how." Maturin waved a hand. "But it's a moot point anyway, Joseph. The Regents would never allow it."

"The Queen is sixteen." Michel de Limoux was a slim, graceful man of about thirty, with a face a little too smug and crafty to be handsome. He was an undersecretary at the Foreign Office, and one of Joseph Beaulieu's proteges. "She's about due for a little adolescent rebellion. And at exactly the age to fall head over heels - for the right man."

"We wouldn't just need the right man for her, though," Beaulieu noted. "We'd need the right man for us. Someone who can get the Queen to buck her regents and marry for love - and who will then work steadily, for decades if necessary, to bring the Reform to Brittany from within."

Once again, Maturin looked from one man to the other, and let out a short, annoyed breath through his nose. "You've already picked someone, haven't you?"

"We have a candidate," Beaulieu acknowledged serenely. "My young associate's cousin, Cédric de Limoux. Twenty-one years old; just graduated from the Sorbonne. A bright lad, very bright, well-spoken and charming. Comes from the Occitan nobility: an old title, mostly symbolic these days, but prestigious enough. Perfect for the Bretons."

"And he's very good-looking," Michel de Limoux added with a smirk. "Very."

Cédric de Limoux.

Maturin made a disgusted noise. "So why isn't Monsieur Perfect doing his cantonist's service like everyone else this winter?"

"He lost his left hand," Beaulieu replied briefly. "He was called up for the border war with Spain two years ago. A cavalry skirmish outside Figueres. A saber." The Foreign Minister made a slicing gesture with his hand.

Maturin blinked, started to speak, paused. "Well, my sympathies for your cousin, Monsieur de Limoux. But really: you want to send a cripple to seduce the Queen of Brittany?"

Michel leaned forward in his chair. "Yes. I want to send my handsome, charming cousin. A man with just an edge of danger, because he's seen battle; a man who carries his wounded vulnerability around with him, bound up in his folded sleeve. She'll be just a little scared of him, and then she'll want to care for him, and by the time she figures out how she really feels, she'll be head over heels."

Maturin glared. "I will not ask, monsieur, how you gained such insight into the minds of women." He turned back to Beaulieu. "You really think this will work?"

"I think it's worth a try," the Foreign Minister said. "We stand to lose very little if it doesn't."

Maturin grunted in acknowledgment. "And the boy will do it?"

"He believes in people," Michel de Limoux observed clinically. "Including Bretons he's never met. He thinks the Queen will love him for who he is, because he deserves to be loved; I expect he even thinks that he'll fall in love with her, too. When you have too much faith in people, it's natural to believe that everyone is both loving and lovable." Michel smiled. "As for the mission - I'm sure that Cédric believes that, in time, young Ellie will come to see the world more as he does, simply because his way is self-evidently right. Again: faith in her, in her judgment, in her perspicacity." The young man nodded. "He'll do it not out of duty, but out of hope. He thinks he's going to be happy."

"Maybe he's even right," Beaulieu remarked thoughtfully. He glanced at the chancellor. "Paul-Henri?"

"Fine." Maturin nodded. "But I don't want to hear about it if it explodes in our faces. He goes as a representative of his family, not of this government. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Beaulieu acknowledged. "Now - "

A hammering at the door interrupted him. No sooner had Beaulieu called, "Enter," than a grim-faced man in the long brown canvas coat of the French soldier stepped into the room. He inclined his head briefly to Maturin - all the deference that one citizen owed another - and tucked his tricorn hat beneath his arm. "Sir."

Maturin nodded. "What is your report?"

"One of our patrols in the Mediterranean picked up a lifeboat three days ago, a Monsieur Bonfils commanding. He says his ship was attacked by corsairs. They fought to the death rather than surrender." The soldier paused. "The Marseille news-sheets reported it the day before yesterday. The Speaker of the National Assembly has called an emergency session. There is - there is a great deal of anger."

Paul-Henri Maturin nodded slowly. Then he stood, and his voice was firm. "Joseph, stay by me. Monsieur de Limoux, I need to see Messieurs Lefèvre and Bonnet, immediately. Captain, tell Monsieur the Speaker that the government will address the House on this matter before the end of the day." The chancellor squared his shoulders. "These pirates have martyred French sailors for the last time."

+ + +

Parlement de la République
Paris
Commonwealth of France
January 6, 1765

"And again I quote," thundered Déodat Bonnet, one hand raised like a preacher at the pulpit, "again I quote, messieurs, from the very words of Hubert Bonfils, who witnessed the slaughter, that in the face of this inhuman cruelty his captain threw back defiance. And not just the defiance of blade and bullet! No, a far greater defiance than that, the defiance that cleanses and hallows the soul even when no blade or bullet can avail, the defiance that proceeds only from the very Grace of God. In the face of torment, slavery, and death, Captain Faure threw back the Psalms."

The Parlement of Paris was an old building, as old as the Commonwealth itself: a vaulted whitewashed space like a Huguenot church, where the parliamentarians sat on simple wooden chairs and pews. Bonnet, the Justice Minister, was widely acknowledged as the Reformed Party's most gifted speaker. When Paul-Henri Maturin needed to make his government's case to the Senate and the National Assembly in joint session, it was usually Bonnet who took the floor. There was a reason for that: now, as Bonnet plowed ahead with his speech, the faces of most of the Reformed Party's parliamentarians showed various mixtures of fury and exaltation, and even most of the Commonwealth Party's representatives seemed rapt.

The Parlement de la République.

"I ask you now, messieurs: can we do less?" Bonnet's gaze raked around the chamber. "Shall this man's great martyrdom shame our inaction through all the ages to come? Now, with his dying psalm still ringing in our ears, can we deny that his fate shall surely be the fate of this Commonwealth, the fate of us all, unless we act? Shall we hear that holy music, and stop up our ears lest it call us to do our duty?"

"Jamais!" thundered Claude Fortier. Right on cue, Maturin thought. The rotund linen merchant from Marseille was disastrously corrupt as a politician, but he had known Alain Faure, and his fleshy face was strained with emotion. In the heat of the moment, he had clean forgotten his prosecution by Déodat Bonnet just a few months earlier.

"Jamais indeed, messieurs," the justice minister intoned soberly. "There can be no compromise with cruelty, or oppression, or exploitation, or tyranny: for to compromise with such as these is to make covenant with the powers of Hell. We have fought those powers for our whole life as a nation. We fought them at Saint-Étienne." There was a low rumble of approval from the Reformed Party benches, and Bonnet's voice began to rise again as he recited the hallowed list. "At Girona. At Cologne. At Mainz. At Grenoble. On Corsica. At Nuremberg. At the Rhine. In the black heart of the Empire itself!" Bonnet spread his hands and declaimed: "Are we our fathers' sons, messieurs? Shall we shirk the cross they bore, for God and freedom? No, never, jamais, a thousand times jamais!"

The dam broke. The Reformed parliamentarians were on their feet now, roaring their support, and several dozen of their colleagues from the opposition had joined them as well. Déodat Bonnet's practiced voice rolled above the din, ringing from the centuries-old rafters of the Parlement hall. "And so I say ye aye to the government's motion to deploy our fleet to scour the Western Mediterranean clean of this menace. And I say ye aye to the government's motion to mobilize twenty thousand men to take the cities of Oran, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli, to put an end once and for all to these infidel marauders. And I say ye aye to every act that shows this world that we are our fathers' sons, that we do not shirk their cross, that we shall face any foe and pay any price to drive the tyranny of godless men back into the shadows once and for all!"

Bonnet let his arms fell, and the tension in the room broke like fine glass, so that the parliamentarians folded back into their seats, almost limp with emotional catharsis. "So say I, messieurs," the justice minister concluded. "What say you all?"

Paul-Henri Maturin didn't need to wait for the votes to be counted to know the answer to that question. And before the day was out, messengers from Paris were riding hard for towns and cities across the length and breadth of France, and a thousand church bells began to toll their grim demand: Cantonists to the muster-grounds. The Commonwealth marches to war.

+ + +

Palace of the Grand Prince
Novgorod
The Russian Republic
February 6, 1765 AD

Sixteen days. That was how long it took a message to reach Paris from Novgorod, under the best possible conditions. Five days' hard riding by relays from Novgorod to Kaliningrad; ten days by ship from Kaliningrad to Calais, if the winds cooperated; a day by fast coach from Calais to Paris. Sixteen days, if everything went perfectly. Thirty-two, for a reply to reach the Russian capital. As the Commonwealth's ambassador in Novgorod, Nicolas Fabron was used to doing a lot of waiting.

A month ago, Fabron had sent the Grand Prince's letter to his superior, Joseph Beaulieu, at the Foreign Office. He had attached a note reminding Beaulieu that despite his monarchical title, Ivan was in principle an elected sovereign. He also appended the following observation: While the offer of Norwegian territory is bizarre, and Sweden poses no discernible threat to French interests, it would be a waste of one of Europe's great republics to allow the Russians to blunder friendless into a war that they are unlikely to win. I recommend that we dissuade both Russian revanchism, and further Swedish aggression.

Then he sat by the fire for a month, watched the snow pile up outside his window, played chess with his wife, taught his daughters the harpsichord, and drank a great deal of Russian tea from a fine silver samovar. And waited.

Ambassador to Russia Nicolas Fabron.

Thirty-two days later, a sealed letter arrived from Paris. It was full of news: of the Breton queen's courtship, and Beaulieu's implausible plan to marry her off to a young French aristocrat; of an impending expedition to crush the Barbary Corsairs. And, finally, it contained Fabron's instructions, written in Beaulieu's own hand.

"Inform the Grand Prince that the Commonwealth is prepared to guarantee the Russian Republic against any Swedish aggression, but that it will not come to his aid in an offensive war. The preservation of Russian republicanism is a cause worth the sacrifice of French lives; the expansion of Russian frontiers is not."

And so it was that Nicolas Fabron, bundled deep inside a voluminous fur coat, presented himself for an audience with the Grand Prince. He did not bow; French diplomats rarely did, to foreign sovereigns. But Fabron's manners were flawless, and his Russian barely accented, and when all the requisite formalities had been exchanged, he delivered his message frankly but respectfully.

"My government has instructed me to reply," the ambassador stated, "that the French Commonwealth greatly respects the republican tradition of this ancient land. If you are called upon to defend that tradition against foreign aggression, I can assure you that the Commonwealth will march to your aid. And so you may make it known that any aggression toward Russia shall be taken in Paris as aggression toward the Commonwealth of France itself."

Fabron paused. "But my government does not believe that the preservation of republican government in this realm would best be served by seeking war with Sweden. In fact, such a war would imperil and not defend Russian republicanism. Therefore, for the self-same reason that we will stand at your side in a defensive war, we cannot offer you support in a war of aggression."

The ambassador's grey eyes studied the young prince. "I know that this was not the reply you hoped for, monsieur. But if Sweden truly is the threat you claim, then they will choose to fight even if you do not. When that day comes, France will answer your call. But we will not sacrifice French lives to Russian pride. That news may be disappointing to you, but surely it cannot be unexpected."

[Dentali]

The Untied Dutch Republic
Maluku Islands



The Maluku Islands had been long used by various Dutch Traders in the East Indies. As trade with Korea and Asia grew more and more vital and profitable it had become clear to the Dutch Leadership that more bases in Indonesia would be needed to secure the trade routes for years to come and to continue dominion on the Spice trade.

The landing in Ambon was unopposed and unexpected, about a thousand Dutch marines alone with sailors and other ruffians they had picked up in Ceylon and other ports hit the beach in ships a few miles away from the Dutch trading post on the island. The mayor of the post had expected the force and invited them graciously into the post.

This was the first step in conquering and colonizing the islands, in the weeks after this several hundred Dutch settlers would be arriving and spreading out into communities on the islands with this new post serving as the center for all colonial and military activity. The few thousand natives, split up into dozens of tribes could likely not resist such a force.

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

Novgorod
Febuary 8 1765

Prince Ivan sits in a contemplative stir. He is due for another meeting of the High Veche. Fabron's words really resonated with the young man. To see a Frenchman, supposedly some of the most cultured, bright minded folk to walk the Earth, and more or less the authors of the Enlightenment, disown such ideas really spoke to Ivan. The Swedes are a powerful foe, and perhaps national pride is not worth the loss of more lives. It pained the prince's heart, to have to let go of such lofty national ambitions. His revanchist ideal seems to have been stalled for the time being. He continued his contemplation, until an aide walked by the man and notified him of his due.

'Grand Prince, the High Veche is due rather soon. I suggest you make with haste to the chamber.' said the man. He was scarcely any older than Ivan himself. He wore similarly western garb, in fact, it appeared everyone in the palace seemed to be enthralled in the spirit of Enlightenment fashion. The aide's eyes were a faint blue, and the Prince could almost see the eyes of the far older Fabron in his. Roused out of his deep thought by this disturbance, the Prince got up, and went on his way.

The orderly procession was the other way around this time. The members of the High Veche went first, with the Prince trailing behind. Supposedly it would ensure that everyone spent as little time as possible in the High Veche chamber. The high walls allowed for much headroom, and great chandeliers hung from the wall, basking the room in their warm glow. Windows too, big and spacey, remeniscent of Gothic architecture let sun shine through further illuminating it. The Grand Prince was once against at the middle of it all, albeit his face was looking somewhat dejected.

'Greetings, we have gathered the High Veche once again on this day, to discuss the outcome of our diplomatic overtures. So far, we have recieved two responses. One from the Dutch, and one from the French. Our sister republics, it seems.'

And the latter in particular really shook the Prince. He remembers the tales his father had told him, tales passed down from his late grandfather. Stories of the latter's experience as a man on the frontlines. 'The ground turned a sick red that day, bloodied by our dead at the hands of Swedish muskets.' When he started his career as Grand Prince, he'd always looked at the story as a call to action, of retribution against the Swedes. Now he wonders if his grandfather meant to tell a different story when he said such words. Perhaps it was one of peace, to ward against battle. The image the words would conjure in one's mind made the bones shiver in fear. Maybe that fear is there for a good reason. After all, did Prince Ivan I not stabilize the nation? Perhaps it would be best to uphold such a family legacy. His speech continues.

'The Dutch promise to be ready to march into Swedish lands in America, to attack their vessels with mighty canon. All they need is the insurance that we do the same here on the mainland, and another ally to join in the fight.The French response is a decline. They are more than happy, to defend our great republics side by side against foes of any sort. They even invite use to broadcast this fact to the wider world. But they cannot, and will not support any overtures against the Swedish. To paraphrase Nicolas Fabron, French lives will not be sacrificed for Russian pride.'

The room immediately filled with rabble. More peace-happy Veche members, who spoke out against the Prince Ivan the first time he brought up the concept of a war, were elated at this result. 'The French are wise men, and it is therefore also wise to heed their command.' Revanchist elements of the Veche speak in loud words, citing national bravado and fighting spirit as a means to fight without the French Commonwealth's aid. Ivan himself is now thoroughly in the former camp, despite his contrary views a mere month ago. This is somewhat a consequence of the nature of the Grand Prince's position, as the High Veche understandably wants to elect a prince they can easily work with, more agreeable folk tend to be handed the position, willing to change their views and see the world in new and interesting ways. The downside to this is the potential for sudden changes in policy.

'But what of our other letters?' chimes in another Veche member. He is of the revanchist camp. 'We can easily supplement the French Commonwealth for any number of powers, from the Holy Roman Emperors in Prague, to the myriad fiefs it holds sway over. Not to mention Brittany, towards whom your brother is currently due. Where is the lad anyway? The Feast of Saint John isn't for a while. This would also satisfy the prequisite of one other ally for the Dutch, and bring them against the Swedish as well.'

'Peter is currently enjoying a stay at Minsk in fact, largely to accomodate the potential for policy changes like this. As for our other letters, I suggest we send an addendum. Send the fastest horses we've got and tell them of a change of plans. Russia is in no need for another war. I have discussed this with close confidants and friends, advisers if you will, and they say that war would be disastrous. They value their fathers and brothers where they are. Another war would certainly damage the economy and hurt public opinion, even in the case of victory. Any plans for alliance are better suited for defensive purposes. That way, we can keep the war at bay, and ensure a continutation of this relative stability.'

'The Prince may be young but he sure is wise, I'll give him that for sure.' says one in the peace camp. 'I suppose it is time for a vote on these matters?' The Prince nods in agreement, and voting begins. It is a victory for peace, the Prince's revanchist ambitions truly are shot down for the time being. 'Much like our men at Narva,' he quietly snickers.

Later that day Grand Prince Ivan Kirilovich II would stand to greet a swelling crowd of people from a high balcony from the palace. Thousands flocked to hear his words, and this was arguably an easy to spread the word, to simply let word of mouth do the work.

'Citizens of Russia! I announnce to you, good news! Our fellow republic, the French Commonwealth.. has notified us of its wishes to defend Russia's borders should enemies rise to attack. I say this as a comfort to those living under our tricolor banner, and as a threat to anyone willing to attack. French canon will see your shores should your soldiers, march into our lands.' The prince says this firery speech, all while pointing at the direction of the Swedish border and not-so-covertly signaling which power in particular should take the time to back off.

'Let this fact be known far and wide! That our age-old republics will stand the test of time, together!'

Cheers are heard from the crowd, a triumphant cry in open defiance of the monarchic systems elsewhere, and in celebration of their cherised democracy.

Minsk

Peter sits at a table, banknotes held in one hand, a glass of alcohol in another. He is at a local inn, mostly to ward off the cold outside. Other inngoers crowd around the brother of the Grand Prince. He tells wild stories, like that time he supposedly tried to saddle a bear. 'I walked off.. with a bear-shaped indentation on the palace wall.' Of course, bears wandered no where near the palace much less the city of Novgorod in general, they were a creature generally found further east. But Peter was too tipsy to care about the veracity of the words that came out of his mouth. In time, he gets tired of entertaining others with his wit and charm, and walks through the chilly streets before crashing at his quarters. His face lands square on the bed. He turns, and sees a man standing by him.

'Had a drink to many?' says the stranger.

'Ivan sent you, didn't he? Should I get going, meet up with Queen of 'Brittany.'

'Yes, but there is some more. I rode here on the fastest coach we could find. There has been a slight change of plans. Now I suggest you make with haste. Orders from Novgorod.'

Peter, in his intoxicated state is concious enough to realize what's going on. He slings his arm over the stranger's neck, and allows himself to be carried from the carriage. With him is the dowry, as well as another item. A letter. Peter grabs the letter and reads it. He is too drunk to have the upper body strength needed to damage the article, so the stranger lets him.

'So it appears older brother has changed his opinion once again? Look at the man, can't keep a decision for more than five minutes. I swear, one day his favorite color would be green, the next, red!' The stranger, revealed to be the coach's rider replies. 'Well, it would seem so. He's now looking to change the terms and conditions of the alliance. Something more defensive. I hear that the fastest horses we've got are set to thunder through Europe as we speak, so as to deliver this new message. We'll be there in ten or so days, assuming all goes well.' He sallies the horses, and they get going. Destination? Brittany.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Pierrick Guillou, Breton merchant and author, finally managed to publish his book detailing his travels in China. Most Europeans rarely set foot in China. Even Bretons were confined to certain coastal ports and in Macau. Pierric, though, found 'gold' when he struck friendship with a high-ranking Shun official and he became one of the few Europeans allowed to travel - relatively - freely around China. His first chapter is a short introduction of the Shun realm, detailing in a few paragraphs the regions of China.

The Shun Realm

The Shun Empire is a vast land. It is larger than all of Europe. It is the richest and most populous realm in the world. I hope that my writings will give people in the Europe a glimpse into these mysterious land.

EIGHTEEN PROVINCES

The Han heartland, the so-called Eighteen Provinces, are the heart and soul of the Shun Empire. It was in those provinces that the Chinese civilization was birthed, thanks to the Yellow River. It is the land of Confucius and of the ancient dynasties, the Han, the T'ang and the Song. The once powerful Ming Empire was centered on this region. It is said to be housing more than ninety percent of the Shun population. It is the richest and most urbanized part of the realm, the one with the best theaters, restaurants and sights. It is the intellectual center of the empire, where the brightest scholars live and debate the merits of Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism.

By far the richest and most populous city of the Eighteen Provinces is Beijing, the imperial capital. I truly believe that it is the grandest city in the entire world. The gargantuan Forbidden City where the Emperor and his court reside is unlike any palace complex that exists in Europe. The awe one feels when witnessing that sight is overwhelming. Words cannot describe the magnificence and beauty of that place. I really believed I was in Heaven. I blinked again and again, unable to believe what lay before me. There is perhaps no other place in the entire world that better encapsulates the words 'autocracy' and 'awe'.

VIETNAM

Vietnam is the most recent acquisition of the Shun Empire. A tropical region located in the Indochinese peninsula, it is perhaps the most developed region outside the Eighteen Provinces. Unlike Mongolia or Xinjiang, Vietnam is fairly urbanized with quite a few centers of commerce and civilization. Most of those urban centers are located in the Red River delta, as it is rich in agriculture and the river can be used to move merchandise to the Eighteen Provinces. The Vietnamese are a proud people. I've met a few of them in Bắc Thành, also known as Hà Nội, the old capital of Vietnam. An old scholar explained to me how in the olden times, the Vietnamese used to have an Emperor and were an Imperial power of their own. Now that realm has once again been absorbed by the Chinese. The scholar told me that in the past too Vietnam had for centuries been a province of China. He lamented the fall of the old empire. The average Vietnamese person in the countryside, though, did not seem to care much about politics. Whether their taxes went to the Emperor in Bắc Thành or in Beijing, it was the same to them.

MANCHURIA

Manchuria was the center of the Manchu Qing kingdom. Those fierce nomads would raid the Ming Empire and it seemed like they were destined to rule over the Eighteen Provinces. Yet a smart scheme by the founder of the Shun, Emperor Yongchang, meant that the fierce warriors were slain to the last man. The cunning general Wu Sangui conquered that land and now it is mainly populated with Chinese. The Manchus are a minority and limited to the steppe, subservient to the Shun Dynasty. Although less urbanized than the Eighteen Provinces, Manchuria spots a number of vibrant urban centers that bring civilization in that rather cold region.

MONGOLIA

Mongolia is a land even more inhospitable than Manchuria. Unlike the region of Manchuria that is urbanized to a certain extend, Mongolia is in large part one big steppe. The Mongols are skilled horsemen and excellent bowmen. Their mastery of the horse and the bow allowed them to conquer China in the past and to establish the so called Yuan Dynasty. Now though, they are content to serve their Shun masters. The Shun Emperor here is called Khagan and is considered Khan of all the Mongol tribes. The Mongol tribal lords send annually horsemen and monetary tribute to their Khagan in Beijing, but aside from that they are left alone to live as they always had.

The Mongols live in felt tents called yurts. From a young age, their children learn how to ride a horse and shoot from a bow while on horseback. The Mongols are nomadic farmers. They own sheep and cows but due to the dramatic changes in seasons that bring harsh weather, they have to move throughout the year to find good spots for their livestock. In winter, they often move in front of a mountain for shelter. In spring and summer, next to a river for water supply, and in autumn up a hill to collect hay for the winter. They never live in one place for too long.

XINJIANG

Xinjiang, the land of Islam in China. It is the Arabia of the Shun Empire. A vast desert coveted by all. Empires and nomads fought bloody battles for centuries in this land. The Tarim Basin, an oasis in a sea of sand, is the jewel of Xinjiang. It is the only place where the sedentary lifestyle is the norm. The inhabitants of those urban centers are Chinese and Turks. The Turks practice Islam and their cities are adorned with sky high mosques. Outside of the Tarim Basin, various nomadic peoples wander the deserts of Xinjiang. The land is changing, though. Since its conquest by the Shun, Chinese immigrants have been rushing to the region, eager to build a new life despite the inhospitable terrain. Nowadays, Xinjiang has a Chinese plurality and the land of Islam is becoming the land of Confucius.

TIBET

Tibet, the land of Buddha. A land of mountains and rivers. Tibet is where most of the great rivers of the Shun originate. The Himalayas are the tallest mountains in the entire world. The climate is dry and the weather harsh. Yet, people thrive in this land. The Tibetan people are resilient and find strength in their Buddhist faith. Their spiritual leader is the Dalai Lama, a wise sage. Yet, from what I understand, the man seems to be little more than a puppet of the Shun Emperor, a man who ensures the loyalty of the Tibetans to Beijing and does nothing else. Chinese settles have been moving in the region, searching for a better life for themselves. Tibet is proof that resilience can built heaven even in the harshest of places.

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

I.I.MDCCLXV
1 January 1765

---

Kejserlig slottet
Stockholm, Swedish Empire

Karl XIV

Emperor of Sweden

"And then, the bridge collapses—"

Karl knocked the hand-crafted wooden miniature on its side with a calculated flick of his wrist, spilling a deluge of tin Russian soldiers into the Narova River, where they presumedly drowned beneath its painted-on rapids.

"—leaving the enemy with no escape. And what does he do next?" Karl, hunched over the broad oaken table, looked up at his counterpart, demanding an answer. Count Anders Rudolf du Rietz stared back bemusedly at his Emperor, very clearly wishing he hadn't answered Karl's summons. "Well?"

"With their escape route severed," du Rietz supplied after an awkward pause, "the Russian Lifeguards lead a last, desperate defense of their northern flank." He was a Swedish officer, and so he knew the story of the Battle of Narva like the alphabet; it was the greatest Swedish land victory of the century, and so was studied exhaustively by every cadet to attend the Imperial War Academy. What confused du Rietz was the general situation in which he now found himself. The forty-two-year-old general had abandoned his family's Nyårsdagen celebrations in the wee hours of the morning and rushed to Kejserlig slottet, the Imperial Palace, only to find that the Emperor required not expert advice on a pressing military matter, but rather a playmate. He supposed he should have expected this erraticism from the Emperor by now.

"And my grandfather leads the charge against these remnants, forcing their capitulation," Karl continued passionately, not seeming to notice du Rietz's discomfort as he pushed his tin troops— immaculately detailed down to their buttons— forward with a small wooden rake. His words were underscored by the shriek of fireworks, the peacetime artillery, outside. The twenty-two-year-old Emperor carefully picked up a figurine mounted atop a white steed and placed the model of Karl XII, his father's father and one of Sweden's greatest heroes, at the front of his Carolean charge. Du Rietz afforded his monarch little attention, instead craning his neck in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of the fireworks through the palace's tall windows. Both men looked to the chamber's doorway when it abruptly swung open and a tangle of older men burst through the threshold.

"We came as quickly as we could, Your Imperial Majesty," a blond-whiskered gentleman panted.

"How may we be of service to You?" a man in a full-bottomed auburn wig inquired, hand clutching at his heaving breast. A miffed herald followed the confused procession, belatedly announcing the entrance of Count Lars Gabriel De la Gardie, Count Gustaf Otto Kagg, Count Adolf Wrangel, and Count Torkel Jonsson Krus.

"Excellent! Gentlemen, gather round," Karl instructed, beaming, with a flourish over his mock battlefield. Du Rietz looked from one prestigious nobleman to the next, each clearly expecting a national crisis. But the general knew better; the assemblage of the most respected names in Sweden by the Emperor could mean only one thing: the restoration of a long-forgotten practice.

"Gentlemen, I have chosen you because you are, to speak plainly, the realm's finest in each of your areas of expertise. And I require men of the highest caliber to fulfill the charges I am about to set forth." Realization dawned on the rest of the men, too. "My forefathers and, until now, I, have taken counsel only from ad hoc advisors ever since the reign of my great-grandfather. Today, I reverse that policy by re-establishing the Privy Council."

There were slight exhales at this news. The Privy Council had been flattened by absolutism generations before, so that the Kings and Emperors of Sweden ruled almost entirely alone. Its revival would dramatically affect Imperial politics. "Count De la Gardie, you are an able statesman and fair justiciar, and so I instate you as Lord High Steward, head of all Imperial courts."

The blond-whiskered count puffed out his chest, cornflower eyes twinkling with pride. "It is my honor and privilege to accept."

The awarding of titles continued in this manner, Emperor Karl standing at the head of the table and regimenting his Privy Council just as he would his campaign staff. He was a tall youth, boyishly handsome, but with an inspiring gravity that defied his tender age; he was born and bred to rule. Count Kagg, a tall and haughty man with a curling Vandyke beard, gracefully seized the position of Lord High Admiral; Count Wrangel, the auburn-wigged, relished in the honor of Lord High Chancellor; and Count Krus, a wan and feeble gentleman, quietly consented to his new post as Lord High Treasurer.

Last of all, Karl turned to du Rietz. "And finally, one of the most imperative duties I invest in you, Count du Rietz: Lord High Constable." If the count had known that he was to be appointed commander of Sweden's armies, he might have smoothed his general's uniform and bedecked it with medals; but he had no choice but to accept, even in his debased, bedraggled state.

"Now— you each know your duties. Lord Wrangel, I expect you to dispatch missives to all of the great powers of Europe in my name, securing allies for the Empire. I also wish you to contact the Kingdom of Rogaland and discuss a modification of the Friendship Treaty. It is over sixty years old, a relic, and I am certain there are clauses which need be revised. Lord De la Gardie, you are entrusted with the ongoing integration of our territories. It is my understanding that printing in languages other than Swedish has been forbidden for quite some time, but you are to ensure the enforcement of that law, and the implementation of more like it to make Swedes of my subjects." The Emperor said all of this without stopping for a breath or to collect his thoughts; his hands moved constantly, expressing his thoughts in physical form.

"Lord Kagg, a full inspection and review of the Imperial Navy is overdo. I wish you to assess our capabilities in comparison with the other great sea powers and determine the best direction whither future investments should go. Lord Krus— I confess I am no economist, and so I can offer you no guidance except to continue and, if possible, increase the economic gains which have been made in the past half-century. Our Empire will require bottomless coffers if it is to withstand the pressures our eastern neighbor is likely to exert." Karl's lively eyes flickered down to the miniature battlefield before he finished: "Which brings me to Lord du Rietz." They made eye contact, and du Rietz was slightly unnerved by the energy and force concentrated within the Emperor's irises.

"I have no intention to make war on Russia, but I believe she has every intention to make war on me. Just as the vultures swooped down on Sweden in the time of my grandfather, they will do so now. They perceive weakness in me, a young and untested ruler, just as they did in him. I cannot swear that I will be the hero that my grandfather was. But I will swear to you, and to all of Sweden, that while I respire, no foreign boot shall tread upon rightful Swedish land, be it in Malmö or Marienburg!" Karl thrust a clenched first into the air as the Privy Council cheered. "If I am to succeed, I will require an army as great as my grandfather's. It must be admitted that our armies have only atrophied during the Great Peace, with no enemy to study. Lord du Rietz, you must head a committee to study the great armies of Europe and imbue mine with the same tactics, the same weaponry, the same spirit which makes them great. Any resistance to these reforms from the officer corps is treason and shall be dealt with as such."

At last, Karl took a breath. "We shall meet monthly to discuss the affairs of the realm. You have your assignments. I shall inspect your progress on the 7 of February."

---

Your Imperial Majesty,

I hope this letter finds You and Your lands well. I write on the behalf of His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV, who has expressed to me personally his utmost desire for the peoples of Bohemia and Sweden to cooperate and prosper together. I trust that such an august and venerated ruler as You has similar intentions. It is time, in the opinion of His Imperial Majesty, the Swedish people, and— God willing!— You, that Catholic and Protestant— Christians— work as one for the good of Our Lord and His people, be they Bohemian or Swede, German or Finn, Pole or Balt.
In accordance with these designs, and at the instruction of my Emperor, I seek now to arrange an audience with You and/or Your ministers, in order to discuss the methods whereby our great realms may together flourish. As this appointment is of the utmost importance to the Empire, I will make it at whatsoever time as is earliest convenient to You.

Your Servant,

Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

Your Royal Majesty,

May the New Year bring peace and prosperity to both our realms!
Our peoples have long stood united against foreign aggression into the Baltic, as per the terms of our Friendship Treaty. That treaty, while it did serve us well, has, as with all the works of men, become antiquated with the passage of six decades. It is past due that we again convene to celebrate our historic unity and preserve it and the wealth which it has brought us by renewing our terms of alliance.
I ask that You dispatch a delegation of Your ministers to Oslo, a city we share and thus symbolic of our brotherhood, during the week of 10–16 March. If You are able and willing to attend, Your Majesty, then likewise His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV would doubtless make an appearance. Otherwise, I ask that You appoint someone capable of accurately representing You in Your stead. Also, I request that men representing and with extensive knowledge of your admiralty and army be in attendance.

Your Servant,

Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

Your Royal Majesty,

I hope to be the first to wish that the New Year dawn favorably on the Angles just as on the Swedes!
Our peoples are cousins by blood and brothers in Christ, and it is the Empire's foremost desire that no machination of man disturb that divinely ordained concordance. To that end, at the behest of His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV, I hope to affirm our friendship with a formal promise of non-aggression and peace between our glorious realms. I am sure that Your interests are the same as Sweden's, those being the continued wellbeing of all citizens of the Empire and of those countries amicable to it. If that is truly the case, I hope You would consent to a meeting between either Yourself, or a minister acting on Your behalf, and the Empire's representative in England, His Excellency Count von Hessenstein, in order to discuss the futures of our noble nations, which must surely be entwined with prosperity and friendship.

Your Servant,

Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

Your Excellency,

Sweden and I hope that the New Year smiles upon our fellow Protestant brethren, whatever form of government they choose.
His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV firmly believes, as do the Swedish people, that no creed should stand between the fellowship of two nations— especially nations such as ours, united by a common opposition to Papism.
If you and your countrymen harbor the same sentiment— that Franco-Swedish relations should be built upon the commonwealth of our peoples rather than ideological misalignments— you are most welcome to convene with Sweden's representative in Paris, His Excellency Count Gyllenborg, whose foremost purpose is to pursue a closer amity between your Commonwealth and our Empire, whether that be through treaties of non-aggression, trade, or alliance.

Your Servant,

Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

Your Highness,

Greetings and goodwill from Sweden. I pray that the New Year will be fruitful, prosperous, and, most of all, peaceful for both of our realms. I write to You on the instruction of His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV, who wishes to affirm His steadfast devotion to the wonderful peace which has, for sixty-three years, blessed the Baltic.
If Your Highness is also dedicated to the preservation of the lasting peace between Sweden and Russia, then You and/or Your representatives are invited to meet with Swedish delegates at the city of Riga during the week of 17–23 March. There the Empire hopes to achieve a written compact between Sweden and Russia guaranteeing their neutrality toward each other.

Your Servant,

Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

IX.I.MDCCLXV
9 January 1765

---

Governor's Mansion
Karlsborg, New Sweden

Axel Jesper Stenbock

Governor of Gustavia

"Three days into governorship and I have to deal with an uprising!"

The longstanding alliance between the Iroquois and the Swedish was collapsing— and Axel was the man who had to deal with it. "Explain to me again what they want."

"It's very simple, Your Excellency," the blue-uniformed officer across his desk said, as if he were talking to a child. "The Settlement Treaty of 1714 forbade Swedish encroachment on land beyond the Genesee River. Your predecessor, Governor Hanson, was very lenient when it came to enforcing said treaty. The Iroquois— the Seneca, specifically— have demanded Swedish retreat from these lands at the threat of violence."

"Is such a withdrawal feasible?"

"It's not that simple, Your Excellency." Stenbock groaned. Kneading his brow, he rose from his desk and walked to the window, unable to stand the colonel's patronizing gaze.

"Bring their chieftains, or medicine men, or whatever functions for a leader in their primitive society, to me, along with our own local leaders. We will let everyone air out his concerns and then we'll come to a compromise."

"A compromise?"

"You bloody well know what a compromise is!" Stenbock roared, spinning around on his heel. "A compromise— like the Peace of Westphalia, or any number of European compacts. We will find a solution that placates the natives without impeding our colonists."

"We are far from Europe, Your Excellency," came the calm, well-measured reply. "The natives here are anything but the enlightened diplomat-scholars with whom you are accustomed to treating."

"We may be, Colonel de Geer, but the principle is universal. Our neighbor may be a savage— but is there not that same spark of humanity in him as in us? If he can be made to see the light of God, then by all means he can be made to understand a compromise." De Geer fell silent, and so Stenbock turned back to the window. From his office he had a clear view of Karlsborg's harbor, bustling with Swedish ships bringing goods from the fatherland. Due to its fortunate position at the crossroads of Northern Europe and America, Karlsborg had rapidly become one of the largest cities in the New World— and Axel was governor of not only it, but all of Gustavia, which spanned from the Saco River in the north-east to Lake Gustavus— stubbornly called Ontario by the natives— in the west.

De Geer stood to leave. "Colonel," Axel intercepted, rushing back to his desk and retrieving a gilded envelope, "dispatch this by rider to Odinbygð, as well. I don't wish to lose our only other ally in this god-forsaken New World."

---

Your Eminence,

Greetings from New Sweden. I am Axel Jesper Stenbock, and have just been appointed Governor of Gustavia, the northernmost Swedish colony, after the retirement of my predecessor, Governor Hanson. I hope to further the good relations you shared with him and with New Sweden during my tenure, and shall make it my foremost objective to strengthen the already healthy sinews of trade and diplomacy between our peoples.
Should you or your people ever require anything from me, my doors, and those of the Swedish garrisons at Fort Lewenhaupt and Fort Rehnskiöld, are always open to friends of New Sweden such as you.

Faithfully,

Axel Jesper Stenbock
Governor of Gustavia

VII.II.MDCCLXV
7 February 1765

---

Kejserlig slottet
Stockholm, Swedish Empire

Karl XIV

Emperor of Sweden

The first official meeting of the Privy Council took place in a dedicated chamber with a long table and roaring hearth, unlike the impromptu session Karl had hosted around his faux battleground— although it was certain that some of his toy soldiers were near at hand. The only thing from which he was more inseparable were actual soldiers.

"So, tell me; what progress has been made?" the Emperor inquired once all were seated, his fingers drumming restlessly upon the table. There was a pregnant pause; Karl's eyes raked them, eager to see who would be bold enough to speak first. But before anyone volunteered, the Emperor himself broke the silence. "Actually, I suppose I should inform you of a development of my own. I have just received a missive from the Kingdom of Brittany, which is quite desperate, it would seem, for a consort for its queen."

The Privy Council exchanged glances. Suddenly, Wrangel spoke: "Your Imperial Highness, Your marriage to a woman of such status would be quite beneficial to the—"

"No," Karl scoffed, dismissing such a suggestion with a wave of his hand, "she has requested that her consort be low in the order of succession." Several noises of disappointment escaped the lords; they feared a repetition of Karl XIII's famous abstinence, which, had he not finally selected a bride late in his reign, would have left the Empire without an heir. "Still, it is necessary to send a candidate to Brest, for if he is selected, our relations with the Kingdom will be significantly improved."

"I believe," Lord Wrangel said shakily, "there is only one such candidate in our realm."

"I believe we can risk sending Cousin Frederick, don't you, Wrangel?" Wrangel gave a stiff nod that indicated that he absolutely did not agree. "He is around the Queen's age, which will help— unless there are any more masculine men around," he laughed. Since the Queen was not marrying for titles, it was certain that her own personal taste would be the deciding factor. "If nothing else, it's a good opportunity for him to practice his French and learn the art of diplomacy. He may prove a valuable servant of the Empire yet."

Much to Wrangel's distaste, it was decided that seventeen-year-old Duke Frederick, cousin to the Emperor, would depart for Brest in early May. Next, Karl gave his rapt attention to Lord Kagg's pain-staking review of foreign navies, which was proved pointless by his conclusion that he was still deliberating which armada should serve as an example for Sweden. After a brief discussion of the realm's financial situation— steady, according to Lord Krus— and an extensive list of the measures Lord De la Gardie was using to stamp out the cultures of the Baltic— most striking was a new requirement that all churches and schools use exclusively Swedish— Karl turned to Lord de Rietz.

"Your Imperial Majesty, Sweden's greatest weakness is its numbers. While the induction of Swedified Finns and Balts into our ranks will insure that we will not want for replacements in the event of any prolonged war, we will never be able to field the vast hosts which France, Bohemia, and particularly Russia employ. Instead we will have to rely on superior morale, equipment, and tactics to triumph. Specifically, if we find ourselves entangled with Russia, it will be imperative that we defeat her armies, and on a tactical level, her units, one by one, never allowing her to utilize her advantage over us. We will need innovative and daring commanders willing and able to push the enemy and exploit his mistakes. On a less theoretical level, I believe our current battlefield tactics to be sound. We merely need to update them to modern standards and ensure that our troops are able to execute them effectively. To that end, I am proposing increased drilling of our army. Since most of our soldiers have never seen real combat, we must ensure that they are prepared for it."

Karl, who had been absorbing every word, applauded. "Bravo, de Rietz, bravo!" The Lord High Constable felt envious eyes boring into his skull as he thanked the Emperor and retook his seat. "Drill our men night and day, as much as it takes to ingrain them with the same discipline with which their ancestors swept the field at Narva."

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

Novgorod
Janurary 8 1765
(note that this is in response to The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile's post, which is dated on the 1st of January.

'It appears that the Swedes have sent us a letter,' says Prince Ivan. His audience is, once again, the High Veche. And the setting is the same chamber they've convened at for the last 6 months, ever since Ivan's election as the new Grand Prince. This will become a common sight for the young prince in the weeks to come, as the nation rises out of the winter slumber, and things start happening again. There are few places in the empire spared from the winter season. It is usually a time of rest, and the number of meetings of the High Veche takes a dramatic turn downwards in the cold months, as there is so little to discuss when even the mighty armies stay in place.

(Image)
Your Highness,

Greetings and goodwill from Sweden. I pray that the New Year will be fruitful, prosperous, and, most of all, peaceful for both of our realms. I write to You on the instruction of His Imperial Majesty Karl XIV, who wishes to affirm His steadfast devotion to the wonderful peace which has, for sixty-three years, blessed the Baltic.
If Your Highness is also dedicated to the preservation of the lasting peace between Sweden and Russia, then You and/or Your representatives are invited to meet with Swedish delegates at the city of Riga during the week of 17–23 March. There the Empire hopes to achieve a written compact between Sweden and Russia guaranteeing their neutrality toward each other.

Your Servant,
(Image)
Adolf Wrangel
Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

The Prince leads the letter aloud, only omitting Adolf Wrangel's loopy signature. The room is abuzz with discussion. The tone is an obvious attempt at placating the 35 million Russians living in the country, more than a few of which are armed at the ready to fight against the Swedish Empire, and avenge Narva. The defeat has been etched into the officer corp's battle plans, and into the rank and file's general conciousness, and agressive military reform has been rolled out in the years ever since in response. Narva almost seems to have a magnetic place in the Russian conciousness, a great shame that some consider worthy of retribution.

'It's a sham, I can tell,' says one member of the High Veche. Thing's clearly an attempt at maintaining Swedish dominance. I stand against such a silly notion, of maintaining peace with the enemy. What is there to gain from Russia, besides continued denial of economic opportunity in the Baltic. I suggest we gather allies, as the Grand Prince had helpfully arranged for us not too long ago. With the might of powers in Europe and beyond alongside us, we can easily attack the Swedes from all angles, and win back the Baltic Sea.'

'It is no secret that I detest the Swedes,' replies Prince Ivan. 'And I agree with this sentiment that you have so helpfully raised. March is a ways from us at the moment, and time will tell if such an agreement will even be tennable by then. My nationalist pinings draw me towards the not-so-tennable solution, to be honest. We need not make haste with the response, we simply gather our allies and punch at the Swedes at a later date. The exact details of our attendance can be a matter for later.'

And with that (as well as many more hours of discussion), the session comes to a close. Time did tell indeed, the conclusion to this debate. Time however also took this debate in a rather strange direction. It has now been arranged, that Russia will meet Sweden on the 17th to 23rd of March at Riga, largely to discuss continued peace in the region, and perhaps squeeze out a few concessions, as opposed to threatening war.

Eastern Brittany
Febuary 18, 1765

Peter is a long ways from his Russian home. He is now very close to his destination, after 10 days of travel through Europe. The sun is miraculously beginning to rise as his coach rides through Brittany proper, almost as if on time to bask Peter in the most flattering manner possible. The French Commonwealth is not to far behind. It hasn't been too long since they've crossed the border. Peter joked that he could still smell their eccentric cheeses. On his way to Brest, he goes over the letter one final time. It is a letter of acceptance, as well as an addendum. It reads as follows:

To The Queen of Brittany and Her Regent,

I have accepted your proposal for marriage. If you are hearing this, then it has arrived by my brother, Peter Kirilovich. I have gone over your initial letter multiple times, and I have concluded that he is the best choice we might have for your queen. Peter is fluent in Latin and German, knows of many a great thinker, and is known for his wit and charm. A valuable King-consort by my standards. With him are also some dowries to help smooth over marriage proceedings. A fine Russian standard, a magnificent painting, and a small carving of a bear are all gifts I bring to you.

To go on a tangent, I would also like to discuss the offer of alliance I have sent you earlier this year. The situation has changed back home, and while the Russian nation still requires your services and frienship, immediate war with Sweden is not our goal as of now. Rather, it is deterrence, a means to keep Sotckholm for furthering its influence any further. I sincerely hope that this change in policy is something you agree with.

Sincerely,
Ivan II Kirilovich

Soon enough, he will arrive in Brest, and present the Prince's words to some of the highest men and women in the country. Similar letters have also been sent to other nations Russia has extended the alliance offer to.

[Ontorisa]

THE KINGDOM OF ROGALAND
"Sterkt i Nord!"

Stavanger
Kingdom of Rogaland
Winter, 1765 AD

Snow slowly fell over the city of Stavanger as the Ollist gathered for the first time of the new year of 1765. While normally a time for celebration, instead the Moot had gathered to discuss the renewed offensive against the regional rivals in Sjaelland. The Danish Straits had become an ever-increasingly important area for the Rogalanders, not only for trade but for their strategic position as the sole controller of the straits. As Sjaelland remained free and prone to conspiracies with the Rogalander rivals, it was of the utmost importance that the straits came under the control of the Rogalanders so that they were able to maintain their expansion into the Danish peninsula.

It was of the utmost importance to the Rogalanders to strengthen their position as the sole controllers of the straits.

"Gentlemen," 31-year old King Sebastian Bjorssen IV stood at the head of a massive council chamber, filled to the brim with the representatives of the various provinces of Rogaland, as well as the Duke of the Peninsula, Karl Halofsten II. "Tensions remain high with Sjaelland, and our key priority needs to be the formalized takeover of the county."

"Aye, you're going to bleed our people dry in a vain effort?" Halofsten II stood up in immediate objection, causing a few heads to look over at him. "Listen, how did this work out for your forefathers? And their fathers before them? Sjaelland is a difficult position to attack, particularly since the preference for the wars has been siphoning money that the peninsula needs to bring themselves into this year."

"Lord Halofsten, you are out of line!" One of the members of the Moot objected, standing up in protest before the entire room burst into a commotion of yelling and hollering as more and more representatives began standing up and accusing either side of being treasonous and stepping out of line.

"Enough!" Came the call from Bjorssen IV, deafening the room into a tense silence. "We cannot achieve anything with this Ollist if we continuously bickered. We have discussed this issue so many times, and yet we fall onto weak promises and indecisiveness. This indecisiveness causes stagnation, which causes our core values to become corrupt and invalid. Yet, no one here wants to speak on that. Lord Halofsten, you keep raising the issues about the Peninsula and yet I hear an absurd lack of any real planning from you to develop the peninsula. I hear so many vague arguments against Sjaelland, and yet you all still insist that we are perfectly content. I am not content with any of this!"

Bjorssen IV's caused the room to fall into an awkward situation. No one dared to speak out against the young king, whose fire and dedication to the kingdom could seemingly felt by everyone. The king had taken charge of the Ollist. There would be war with Sjaelland once again, was the unifying thought between the representatives.

"Lord Halofsten, send word immediately to Lord Commander Gustav Leonardssen to prepare the Peninsular Corps. Lord Admiral Birger Vollan, you are to depart upon the conclusion of this meeting and to take the 2nd Fleet to the Danish Straits and begin the immediate blockade of any trade going in or out of Sjaelland. Any opposing forces are to be arrested and confiscated if they resist." Bjorssen IV spoke quickly and harshly as the room continued to remain silent. "Any questions?"

"Your Majesty," Lord Admiral Birger Vollan spoke up quietly after a lengthy thought. "This ... is brilliant, however, I have concerns."

"Good Lord Vollan, please speak up so that we may hear you." One of the representatives spoke up, obviously annoyed with the turn in developments.

"Well, less than brilliant. We would face condemnation from the international community if we were to embark on this war." Vollan began to speed up the pace of his sentences, visibly nervous about being put on the spot. "Additionally, the Danish Confederacy would be surely to intervene in such a conflict. Both Sjaelland and the Danes remain unified in their efforts to contain our expansions."

"Do not fret about the Danes," Halofsten stood up once again, abruptly this time, visibly startling the admiral. "For every Roglander they find on the field, they will find that their armies will have to fight with thrice their number. We have shown in the past that we are more than capable beating the Danes, and we will show them once again the reason why we are the God's chosen masters of the Danish Straits."

"Do not forget!" A voice rang out. "The bloody Sjaellanders have continuously insulted our reputation! Their mere presence is a disgrace to our honour!"

"Sterkt i Nord!" Another voice rang out before the men began to repeat this mantra over and over again.

War had returned to the Peninsula.

---

To His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Karl XIV of the Empire of Sweden,

As of this morning, a state of war exists between the County of Sjaelland and the Kingdom of Rogaland. We ask that His Imperial Majesty deny the entrance of Sjaellander merchants to the Empire of Sweden in the vicinities of Oslo, southern Sweden, and throughout the realm of the Swedish Empire. As per the 1701 Friendship Treaty, the Kingdom of Rogaland remains your faithful ally, and asks this as a favour in order for a swift victory against our rivals in Sjaelland.

We will also be accepting your invitation to Oslo for the further discussion of the Friendship Treaty from 10-16 of March.

Regards from the King of Rogaland,

King Sebastian Bjorssen IV

---

To the Bumbling Bastard, Count Karl Nborg VI,

Damn your house and your seventh grandfather. As of this morning, a state of war exists between the County of Sjaelland and the Kingdom of Rogaland. Our armies will crush yours on the field, and our fleets will annihilate yours on the waves.

The King of Rogaland & the Rightful Ruler of the County of Sjaelland,

King Sebastian Bjorssen IV

---

• The Peninsular Corps of the Kingdom of Rogaland have begun to organize for a land invasion of the County of Sjaelland.
• Declaration of War between Sjaelland & Rogaland.
• Deployment of the 2nd Fleet to the Danish Straits, blockading Sjaelland.

[Union Princes]

Chapter Two
What inspired the Latin Egyptian students in Europe to bring the Enlightenment back to their home country was partially thanks to one book: Candide. It was my satirical novella that introduced the young generation to my numerous history books and pamphlets. Quite to say, their reaction to my firm belief of social progress through reason and religious tolerance was no different than a cyclops waking up with two eyes. I have met some of these students during my time in Paris, Brest, Amsterdam, and London. Their exotic language and Euro-Arabic style of clothing stuck out from the crowd like a flamingo in a bog.

If these individuals gave me an indication of what the young Latin Egyptians are, then I must say that they entered the Enlightenment Era with a childish naivety that they were going to overthrow their government, and that no one was going to overthrow theirs. They will put their delusional conviction to the test when they return back home.
What I quickly learned after talking to these Latin Egyptian scholars was that their admiration of my philosophy had inspired them to form a new political movement they appropriately call “Voltairism”. Having a particular political conviction named after me, I can now say that I am the closest to Christ of all persons living; and having arrived there I do now understand His desire to die on the Cross.

Most strangely, King Cybatsyn Derlon is content fiddling in Rome while his country is being set on fire by the ideas of the Enlightenment even with the pamphlets are publicly nailed to the doors of churches or read aloud by a few foolish Voltairists. When the nobility used the Muslim minority as a scapegoat for the rising popularity of Voltairism, it only confirmed my belief that hippos are the only religious tolerant inhabitants in Egypt. At least they attack anyone with impunity regardless of their religion and ethnic background.
Regardless, it is still awe-inspiring and yet terrifying of how quickly “Voltairism” was organized among the Latin Egyptian students across Western universities. From what I have heard, the young adults have set up a black market in which they took French language classes in order to accurately translate my writings into Egyptian before sending them back home to distribute among the populace. It seems zealotry runs in their blood as they are determined to become the heirs of the Crusaders.

During my stay in Brest, I had recently encountered a Latin Egyptian university student who referred to himself as Salomon Alvalentino who was a participant in this shadowy plan to bring the Enlightenment to Cairo. Even though he had originally come to France for military education, he entered the University of Brest to become a polyglot after he finished his military studies. He was one of the more active Voltarist as he printed 100 translated copies of Candide. He invited me to join his secret society of Voltairists but I politely declined. It was clear he done it out of principle as he looked to me as Christ ascendent much to my chagrin. Christ only had 12 Disciples to teach and I only needed myself to lead.

He referred to his group as the “Society of the All-Seeing Eye" with membership in the hundreds throughout the universities with some even in Egypt itself. But back in his home country, his Voltairist society went by a different name: the Illuminati.

[SangMar]

The Unified States of North-Kin

---

1st of January 1765
The Capital City
Central Territory
The Unified States of North-Kin

A bitter cold swept through the streets, accompanied by the heaviest of snowfall. This scene was repeated all across the nation; from the most isolated hamlets of the far north - where few people but the most hardy of travelers dared go, to the slightly more moderate climates of the far southern reaches of the country: where human beings were admittedly, in much more abundant supply. Make no mistake however, just because the North-Kin refused en masse to slum it out with the polar bears and live solely off of seal and whale in the Arctic, that didn’t make them a soft people. No. It was quite the contrary in fact - they were a hybrid people: mixing equal parts European with Indigenous American. In fact, just to look at them would show proof of this - because while they certainly prided themselves on their differences to the other native peoples with whom they and the Europeans met, to that third party mentioned, just to look at the North-Kin felt odd. To them, while they couldn’t put their fingers on it, there was a certain... hesitation about considering the North-Kin as equals. Sure, for the most part, the North-Kin didn’t share the darkened skin and pseudo-Asiatic features of many other groups considered by the Europeans to be “native” - but that was besides the point, their religious practices certainly weren’t European - neither were their clothes, or just general... culture. However, these differences of opinion - like many others, had lessened amongst those who had been in contact with the North-Kin for a significant amount of time. This, mainly, was in reference to the North-Kin’s cultural brethren to their south - the inhabitants of New Sweden. Who, as far as the North-Kin were concerned, were a fine people... even if they did sound a little bit odd.

Still, deep and meandering thoughts like these were of little concern to the residents of the North-Kin capital - who went about their day with little sense of urgency: mostly clad in long garments made of caribou and wolf fur, they traded and chatted at leisure. After all, there was little in the world that currently presented an existential threat to them: so why not smile a little more? It’d certainly brighten up these frigid mornings after all, even if it was only in the metaphorical sense. Even the small Scandinavian community there - composed almost entirely of settled Swedes, Finns and Norwegians and a few diplomats of the same nationality, was braving the cold. Not that they were used to warmer climates, mind you. An example of the Scandinavians’ ruggedness was illustrated at that moment too, as if just to prove a point: In Swedish teachers who were just beginning their lessons in schools across the capital - educating the boys of the middle and upper classes in various matters. Hopefully, some of these after several years of instruction would make the trip across the Atlantic Ocean to Scandinavia proper - where they would attend Swedish Universities, all with the goal of aiding their people back at home.

In short - all across the timber-infatuated capital, life was going on just as it always had - and hopefully always would. To be frank, the year seventeen-thousand-and-sixty-five was just another year for them.

Though, in the High Chief’s residence - notable for its stone construction in a city surrounded by plentiful amounts of timber - this wasn’t the case.

---

The High Chief’s Dwelling

Sat on an ornately-carved chair next to a large, elongated window overlooking the capital’s port, the High Chief - Agnar the Quiet, as he was known to the North-Kin, and Agnar Aglukkaq - as he was known to the Europeans, ran a hand across his bearded chin inquisitively. To say he was deep in thought would be an understatement: a brooding man, this High Chief loved nothing more than to question everything - from the quality of the caribou and salmon at one of his feasts, to how much mead he should consume before meeting a foreign dignitary and finally, and most irritatingly for his advisors - important legislation. Now, it was true that the High Chief held little power outside of wars or diplomacy: all internal matters were the responsibility of the Council of Chiefs after all, but that didn’t mean the legislation before him was always of a useless nature. No. In fact, with this particular piece of legislation in particular, he was in a very powerful position. Research. A thing that many of the simpler nations of the Americas had lived and died on; snuffed out by the more advanced Europeans or crushed beneath the might of organised indigenous empires was now in his hands...

”High Chief...” Said one voice.

Silence.

”High. Chief.” Said that voice again, its owner rapidly approaching exasperation.

”HIGH CHIEF. CEASE THINKING ABOUT MEAD, EXPLORING THE NORTH WHILE RIDING A POLAR BEAR OR FISHING WITH SEDNA!” The voice - and several others were now yelling, rousing the High Chief from his inquisitive mental slumber.

Instantly, the High Chief jolted about and looked around - finally realising where those voices had come from. His advisors. All of whom were now looking at him, annoyed grimaces stretched across their faces.

”Ah. Yes. You wanted my verdict on whether or not to establish the University of Aurora Borealis, didn’t you?”

The now exasperated advisors, said nothing preferring to just nod.

Well, I’ve thought about it - and yes. We shall. After all, we have a strong basis for it from our links with New Sweden, and our own increasingly learned young men. With this new institution, we’ll be able to undertake research endeavors of our - not on a scale like how the Europeans do, but everyone, including us North-Kin, have to start somewhere...”

The advisors, still exasperated, filed out of the hall they were stood in, in great droves. They didn’t wait for the High Chief to finish, his approval was all they needed. With it, construction of the university could begin in the earnest: made of stone, it would provide a distinctive sight for the capital’s citizens. Especially given how it would be only the second building in said capital that was constructed of a material other than timber. After the High Chief’s Dwelling, of course.

---

9th of January 1765
The Capital City
Central Territory
Unified States of North-Kin

A letter had arrived at the High Chief’s Dwelling. More resources for the Nálgask perhaps? It was an important event after all, a ritual bonding custom for the men of the North-Kin, but they could wait. It was three months- Wait. A Swede? No. A New Swede. The man had obviously been permitted entry by the Dwelling’s guards, so the High Chief should hear what he had to say. The man however, said little, instead the High Chief - surrounded by his advisors, and the man just exchanged greetings in Swedish. After that, the man gave one of the High Chief’s advisors a letter, and then left.

After the letter was handed to the High Chief, he silently skimmed it. Governor Stenbock? Not Governor Hanson? Friendship? Doors always open? Strengthening of relations?

The High Chief, easily could accept such warm terms. So he ordered a letter of the North-Kin’s own be drafted. It read:

To the Most Noble Governor of Gustavia,

I received your letter with great interest. But first, may I wish you a long and fruitful life and a long and fruitful governorship. You are correct, the ties between our peoples are strong - born not out of want, but out of something deeper: a shared blood and kinship. Ever since the first Norsemen sailed to these shores nearly eight-hundred years ago, our people knew that it was destiny that we’d be reunited at some point. Long distant brothers alone in a New World. However, like yourself - us North-Kin also wish for the further deepening of these ties. Please ask anything of us that you require. On that topic, let us ask you of something we ourselves wish for: it has long been a dream for many North-Kin to see beyond our shores. So we have an offering.

It is as stated:

The North-Kin wish to offer New Sweden and The Swedish Empire the following:

Our continued military support all across the New World, and secondly, a young officer-cadet in the North-Kin’s only regular land force - along with fifty of our berserkers. The berserkers and the officer-cadet in question, will be entirely at Sweden’s beck and call. I feel that, with their unique and unconventional tactics - if taught to Sweden’s men, it could help them greatly against all enemies. Therefore - I feel it best that these individuals - should you choose to accept any of them, be sent to Scandinavia proper where they can be utilised most keenly. Please send my regards on this matter to the Swedish Court, and my own personal regards to Emperor Karl XIV.

Eternally yours,

Agnar Alukkaq
The High Chief of the North Kin

Before the ink on the letter could scarcely even dry, the letter was on its way south to Karlsborg - and the Governor’s Mansion.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Great Shun - Beijing

Yang Guo

Chancellor of the Great Shun

Li Bao

General of the Great Shun

More than a hundred swordsmen and servants had gathered outside the Li Manor. The entrance gate of the manor was painted vermilion and had copper door knockers on it. A pair of stone lions were placed outside the gate. A soldier knocked the door and one of the manor's servants rushed to open the gates. Seeing the Shun Chancellor among the countless of men, the Li servant at once fell on his knees and bowed. "Your Excellency, what can I do for you?"

"Let me in," Yang Guo calmly replied.

"Oh... y-yes!" the servant stammered. His Master, Li Bao, had told him that the Shun Chancellor would come to at the manor today, but the awe of seeing the Chancellor in person had made him temporarily forget all about it. The servant at once led him inside the manor, an awkward smile flashing on his face. The Chancellor was led to the courtyard. With plants, rocks, and flowers, the courtyard was like a garden. It was a place that offered peace and quite to the family members. There, Li Bao was waiting for Yang Guo.

A man in his forties with long dark hair and beard and beaming eyes, he was wearing a lamellar armor, a type of body armor made from small rectangular plates of iron laced into horizontal rows, and a steel helmet. Li Bao was sitting on a stone bench and gulping a cup of wine.

"General Li," the eunuch Chancellor said with the most charming voice he could muster. "I see that you are still wearing your armor."

"What can I say, I've gotten used to it. It just doesn't feel right to be wearing gowns!" the general laughed. "But I suppose you haven't visited me to talk about my choice in garment."

"No, I haven't. You are perhaps the best general the Empire's got. Which is why it is always enlightening to converse with you on the strategic situation of the Empire."

"Your flattery is too much. I am just a simple soldier."

"The Kazakhs are mobilizing in the West. In the South, I've got reports about Western barbarians moving into the Indies. I wonder what you make of all of this."

Li grabbed a jar and refilled his cup with wine. He gulped it. "Perfect wine!" he exclaimed. "The Kazakhs are of no threat to us. The vast deserts of Xinjiang make an invasion from that front impossible. We need to be careful about small-scale raids though. It would be bad for the prestige and reputation of the Empire if a bunch of nomadic barbarians were allowed to raid Shun land. Your project of road construction in strategic routes should help our troops in the region in moving from one strategic stronghold to the next far quicker than now. This should be deterrence enough against any ideas the Kazakhs may have about raiding Xinjiang."

Yang smiled. "I concur with your analysis, which is why I have approved the expansion of the road network in three routes. It is within our budget constraints and shall adequately bolster our defenses in the region by connecting our military outposts. About the Western barbarians in the Indies?"

"They are of no threat to us either. The Western barbarians might snatch an island or two in the South Sea from some insignificant tribes, but they are in awe of the size, population and might of the Shun Empire. They are merchants, not warriors. They are no match for our army. You should be careful with them, though, as they may seek to trick you with offers of trinkets. Those barbarians might lack courage and strength, but they are cunning."

"I once more find myself in agreement with your words. General, next week you will be heading to Bắc Thành I've heard."

"Yes. I will be the Marshall of the South, supreme commander of all forces in Vietnam. A rather boring assignment but someone has to do it."

"Boring?" Yang chuckled.

"I prefer the vast steppes of Mongolia personally. Those Mongols are kindred spirit to me with their warrior ethos. Vietnam, on the other hand, is a land of farmers and a few cities in the red river delta. Warriors are lacking there."

"Don't underestimate those farmers," Yang replied. "And Vietnam has quite the landscape. Maybe you can view at as a vacation of sorts."

"Probably. I might take some time sightseeing the green hills and rice terraces there. Could serve as an inspiration for my next poem."

[Nuraca]

Prague Castle
Kingdom of Bohemia, Holy Roman Empire
January, 1765

As Prince Rudolph walked sternly through the halls of the castle, a cacophonous din of coughing and wheezing echoed around him. It grew louder as he neared the end of a long corridor that ended at a door to the Imperial Chamber. With him was Friedrich von Holten, Baron of Linz and Chancellor to the Emperor, to whom Rudolph turned to and remarked "Is His Majesty well?"

"No," replied the Baron, curtly. "But say nothing to him."

The two continued for several more paces, though for Rudolph, it seemed as though hours had passed. The pair stopped short of the chamber as two guards, dressed in shining white and red, pounded their halberds on the floor. A portly though well-dressed chamberlain thrust opened the doors, examined the pair, and about-faced in one swift motion. He shouted into the chamber:

"His Highness the Duke of Moravia, and His Grace the Baron of Linz!"

"Oh fuck off you fat bastard and your- cough- incessant wailing!" exclaimed a haggard, old voice. "Bring yourselves to me!"

The Prince and the Baron entered the Imperial Chamber. The Baron, a landmark of Bohemian politics, instinctively gave an initial bow as he crossed the chamber's threshold. The young Prince, on the other hand, petrified of his grandfather and determined to mask his fear, forgot and delayed a moment. The pair proceeded up to the chair in which His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Otto VI sat, blood dabbled on the corner of his mouth, which quickly had a handkerchief held up to it to catch more percussive coughing.

"Your Majesty, I have retrieved the Prince as requested," remarked the Chancellor. The Emperor did not respond, instead staring soberly at the Prince as he cleared his throat.

"I am ashamed and disappointed that you have so readily forgotten the traditions of this court, as did half of Europe," the Emperor stated, his eyes still fixed on his grandson's. "Your father and I..." he continued, glancing at a portrait of the former Crown Prince, "...had our disagreements but he, at least, remembered to bow when he was required to, as I did to my father, and as countless generations have before you. It is not something to be taken lightly."

The Prince took a moment to collect his shattered thoughts. "I offer my sincerest apologies to the-"

"Never mind that," the Emperor interrupted, "you are of use to the Throne, which is why- coughing- I have dispatched for you." The Emperor erupted into another barrage of hacking before settling down. "Her Highness the Duchess of Treger has solicited, on behalf of the Queen of Brittany, suitors for the consortship. You are to attend as the candidate for the Empire."

"I am immensely humbled by this-"

"This is a great responsibility in which you must not fail. To win such a title would mean to wrestle away one good and Catholic nation which has been taken hostage by the..." another burst of coughing sounded "...treacherous so-called French government." The Emperor spat blood into a nearby chamber pot. "You shall travel overland beginning in May, and I wish for you to make several appearances to the courts of our good vassals as a representative of myself. Your itinerary is being arranged by my undersecretaries and you shall receive it some time in March. For the time being, you will remain in Prague where Master Vasek from the University will continue your education and where, apparently, you shall reacquaint yourselves with the customs of our people and our Empire. You are dismissed." The Emperor waved off the Prince who, in a dazed but unquestioning manner, bowed and exited the chamber.

The Emperor, initially intending to dismiss both the Prince and the Imperial Chancellor, noticed the continued presence of the latter after a much-needed gulp of wine. "Well... what is it?" he said wearily.

"Your Majesty, there are correspondences I have received which require your attention. The Swedish and the Russians have both accosted us, the Russians expressing rather... plainly... their determination to come to blows with the Swedes. They seek to grant us Swedish holdings in Pomerania."

"I see... have they been joined with anyone else?"

"It is hard to tell, but the French and the Swedes have not gotten along since their... pretender government... seized power. I would imagine the Russians would not hesitate to approach them as well."

"To think of the Empire having to choose between such filth... our ancestors are surely weeping..." the Emperor groaned as he stared off at the wall.

"Your Majesty, the Swedes are only asking for a formal audience. Perhaps there is no need to force our hand now. If we can ascertain their intentions, we may be in a more favorable position to dictate our direction."

The Emperor broke his stare, trying to gather what the Baron said before replying. "Very well," he remarked, "invite both to an audience, separately, of course, with us."

"An audience with you, sir?"

"No no... call the Crown Prince here to Prague and he shall meet with both parties. Do not inform him of our plan until his arrival."

"Very well, Your Majesty."

The Chancellor bowed and the Emperor dismissed him in response. With that, the Baron of Linz went to his offices in the same castle to appoint the scribes to write responses.

To His Highness Prince Ivan II Kirilovich, Grand Prince of the Russian Republic

Your Grace,

Our Good and Catholic Court, having received your correspondence, must insist that His Imperial Majesty cannot so readily involve himself in what would be a solemn and costly affair. However, we invite Your Highness or Your Representatives to an audience with the Crown Prince in Prague so as to discuss this matter further. His Imperial Majesty would insist that such an audience be arranged as quickly as possible, though not too hasty as to discount Your Highness and Your Representatives' opportunity for arrival. Therefore, if Your Highness would agree to such a meeting, we beseech Your Highness to reply with an expectation of when Russian delegates may arrive.

We wish for Your Highness' good health and continued governance.

Most Respectfully,
His Grace the Baron of Linz, Chancellor and Lord Representative of His Imperial Majesty Otto VI, By the Grace of God, Emperor of All Romans, etc. etc.

To His Grace the Lord High Chancellor of the Swedish Empire

Your Grace,

Our Good and Catholic Court, having received your correspondence, welcomes the prospect of an audience in Prague and invites the Honorable Representatives of Sweden to meet with the Crown Prince. Understanding the importance of the matter given by Your Grace and His Imperial Swedish Majesty's Councillors, His Imperial Majesty has arranged for an audience as soon as transportation permits for said delegates. We ask His Imperial Swedish Majesty's Representatives to present themselves to Prague Castle and be prepared for an audience for His Majesty the Crown Prince the subsequent day.

We wish for His Imperial Swedish Majesty's good health and continued governance.

Most Respectfully,
His Grace the Baron of Linz, Chancellor and Lord Representative of His Imperial Majesty Otto VI, By the Grace of God, Emperor of All Romans, etc. etc.

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

Novgorod
January 11, 1765
(Note that this is in response to Nuraca's post just now. I feel as if I am doing this wrong for some reason)

To His Grace the Baron of Linz, Chancellor and Lord Representative of His Imperial Majesty Otto VI

Your Highness

Having recieved your response to our inquiry about the potential for an alliance with the Swedes, and the offer of an audience at Prague, I am more than willing to arrange such a meeting on the date of Febuary 12, Seventeen-Sixty-Five. I will be sure to attend, along with some of my most trusted confidants. I repsect your wishes for a prompt discussion on this matter, but it appears that my schedule is largely filled until then.

To go on a tangent, the number of titles Your Highness posseses boggles me. I wonder how much is ink is allocated for his full name alone.

Sincerely,
Ivan II Kirilovich, Grand Prince of Russia

The prince wrote these words on a parchment. He is deep within the Grand Prince's palace, in his quarters to be exact. The Prince is expected to spend most of his life holding the position in the large and sprawling building, outfitted with lavoratories, storage closets, record rooms, diplomatic housing and of course, a great chamber to house the High Veche. The room he himself has taken residence in the Grand Prince's quarters, whose walls have been graced by so many a Prince before him. Their visages line the walls, painted largely to flatter but also to reveal. Their graying hairs and receding hairlines. Their wisened brows and heads almost bursting with wisdom. Ivan almost seems to recede into himself, as he once again finds himself in deep thought.

The young prince is by all means a grown man, who interests himself in the matters of adults. He is fluent in a battery of tongues, able to stand his ground in a debate, and is a capable statesman, at least capable enough for the High Veche to elect him. And yet, he feels almost a sense of deficiency, standing in halls graced by so many princes before him. He has reigned for the past year now, even celebrating his own birthday within the confines of this labyrinthine palace. And yet he feels as if he needs to do something. Create a legacy. Be remembered. And as he goes over the letter he's writing one final time, he hopes, that by the time he has to leave this palace as a prince no longer, that he will have built something for Russia. He hands the letter to an aide, who will that hand the letter to a coach, who will ride through Eastern Europe and deliver the message to Prague.

Novgorod
Febuary 10, 1765

The sun is shining high wide in the sky, and the winter snows seem to begin their annual retreat. It will be some time before the shovelers hang their spades, but that time seems to be due in just a few more weeks. Ivan is stands on the streets of Novgorod, his palace behind him, and its doors wide open as many a delegate enters the outside world. Most are members of the High Veche, specifically selected by the prince for this journey. His brother Peter is currently taking a similar if far longer journey. If Ivan is keeping track of time correctly then Peter must be 3 days closer to his trip to Brittany. His trip is of a far closer destination, Prague. It's almost fortunate that he was able to squeeze in a sudden change in policy a mere 2 days ago, especially considering that policy is what is to be discussed on this meeting at the moment.

And with that, he and many others get into coaches, destined for the Holy Roman Empire. It is a sight as the prince bids farewell to his mother country, many sets of wheels rollong across Novgorod's roads.

Prague
Febuary 12, 1765

The prince has arrived at his destination. It is the great city of Prague, seat of the Roman Emperor. Of course, that is a disputable fact, as this Roman Empire makes its home in largely un-Roman, German lands. It is an interesting choice of title, albeit one that the Grand Prince is not too keen on questioning, as the labyrinthine politics that inhabits the realm he has found himself in is a chore enough to read on. 200 different poltiies to memorize, some of them scarcely larger than a bread crumb on even the largest maps he could find. His coach halts at the middle of the road, along with many others. Their destination awaits them just ahead.

And so a procession of strange men in strange garb emerges from the column of carriages. The locals exchange confused looks. Nearby are the large castles of old, their high walls sure to guard from unwelcome armies. If their walls could talk, then they surely would have many stories to tell, for the decades of religious war, peasant revolt and foreign invasion that this Holy Roman Empire has endured since its inception under Charlemagne must have brought more than a few armies to their gates. While those particular castles are not so close as to be within sight, their presence is certainly felt by invading forces. It is fortunate that the Prince has come here not as a general.

Eventually they arrive at their destination. An intimidating set of doors greets them, separating the emperor's dwelling from the rest of Prague. He raises his fist to pound the door, only to be stopped by a sense of respect. He merely stands silent along with the rest of his entourage, and awaits a response.

[Sao Nova Europa]

OOC: The OP has approved of me writing the responses of the two implied NPC nations.

IC:

Imperial Edict

Your Lordship, King of Bhutan

His Imperial August Majesty, the Son of Heaven and Autocrat of All Under Heaven, Jiajing Emperor firmly believes that you are a Sage among men and that the Bhutanese are a cultured and respectful people. His Imperial Majesty thus wants to extend a hand of friendship to you. His Imperial Majesty wishes to offer you a place in our Realm. He is willing to confer to you the titles of Marshall of the Mountains and King of Bhutan. He is also willing to place the Bhutanese people under the protection of the Shun Empire. None will dare to disturb the peace of your people. In return, His Imperial Majesty expects you to be a loyal subject and to rule as in a sagely manner.

With the utmost respect,
Lin Pingzi
Minister of Rites of the Great Shun

To His Imperial Majesty, Jiajing Emperor

My Excellency has received the letter of Your Imperial Majesty. It fills my heart to know that Your Imperial Majesty holds such respect for My Excellency. My Excellency accepts Your Imperial Majesty's offer. My Excellency shall henceforth be a loyal subject of Your Imperial Majesty. My Excellency shall serve Your Imperial Majesty as King of Bhutan and Marshall of the Mountains. My Excellency will commit myself to ruling in a sagely manner. My Excellency shall be a faithful Shun subject.

Your Subject,
Druk Phuntsho
Dragon King of Bhutan

Imperial Edict

Your Excellency, King of the Khmer

His Imperial August Majesty, the Son of Heaven and Autocrat of All Under Heaven, Jiajing Emperor has a deep respect for the Khmer people. The Shun Realm and the Khmer Kingdom have for years been friends. Your Excellency has been a loyal tributary of His Imperial Majesty. His Imperial Majesty seeks an Imperial Consort. His Imperial Majesty hopes that Your Excellency shall offer a Khmer Princess to His Imperial Majesty. His Imperial Majesty is confident that Your Excellency shall not disappoint Him.

With the utmost respect,
Lin Pingzi
Minister of Rites of the Great Shun

To His Imperial Majesty, Jiajing Emperor

My Excellency regards Your Imperial Majesty as a true friend. My Excellency has the deepest of respect for Your Imperial Majesty. My Excellency offers to send Princess Ang Peou Moha Ksatrei, My Excellency's daughter, to Beijing to serve as an Imperial Consort. My Excellency's daughter is nineteen years of age, educated in the courtly manners, modest, respectful and has a beauty that is famous throughout the Khmer Kingdom. It is My Excellency's hopes that Your Imperial Majesty will find her to your liking.

Your Friend,
Outey II
King of the Khmer Kingdom

[Aureumterra]

Kazakh Horde
Alma-Ate|Әлма-Әтэ

"The Yurt City," as it was known to many, Alma-Ate, was a glorified camp on the Central Asian Steppes. It was the location of the convening of the Council of Yabgus, elected leaders chosen to represent each of the Kazakh clans. The council governed the Kazakh confederacy, its members were skilled military leaders and tribal religious leaders.

Recently however, the Kazakh Horde had been taking great interest in their Northern neighbor, the Russian Republic. The Kazakhs, whom did not have a written language before, constructed a writing system based on Russian Cyrillic following the return of an envoy sent to the Russian capital, Novgorod. He told of large buildings, and a settled lifestyle similar to the one of their neighbors to the South and East. He told of a book containing the accounts of divine being himself, one which the Russians worshipped, whose son was said to be crucified in a faraway land long ago. Most importantly, he told of the so-called "boomsticks." Weapons which could kill a man a good distance away with the pull of a trigger. This news had caught the greatest interest of the council, whom had convened in Alma-Ate.

"We must not provoke the Russians, for we do not know what they are capable of. We can have a beneficial relationship, if we are able to use their weapons, we will easily overpower the enemy to the South, their riches shall be ours." One council member said.

"Their God is all knowing, He is the God of all under the sky. He is our God too. We have been deprived of his worship for centuries, I am firm with His blessing, we shall be able to take on even the mightiest enemies." A Yabgu from a Northern clan said. The Russian Orthodox religion had been spreading throughout the Steppe. Missionaries had converted much of the Northern clan to the Orthodox religion, including the Yabgu. This meant an Orthodox Christian was on the council.

"Do tell, councilman, of this God you speak of. I have only heard rumors of the Russian God, I have yet to hear why the ways of our ancestors were wrong?" Another Yabgu commented.

The Yabgu from the Northern tribe began explaining the entire story of Jesus Christ, the blessings of His father, the sins of man, his crucification, death, and resurrection all for mankind’s sins. Many Yabgus became wide eyed, as if their reality was shattered, while others remained skeptical.

"I have faith in what you say, if the man they speak of is true, he died for our sins." A councilman said. "I shall spread the story of Him to my clan."

"We must also discuss ways to gain the riches of the Southerners." Another Yabgu said, changing the topic.

"I suggest we trade our quality animals, horses, cows, sheep, and goats, in exchange for their weapons. We must also train our army with those weapons. I call a vote on this."

Almost all Yabgus unanimously voted in favor of the suggested strategy, most hadn’t seen these weapons in person, yet the stories of these weapons sounded mythical.

A messenger was sent to go to Novgorod as fast as possible, the Kazakhs still had an envoy in their capital who was representing the council there. He would reach out the the Russian leaders and suggest trading the rare quality Steppe livestock for firearms.

[Guuj Xaat Kil]

شنسبانی
Ghurid Empire

---

January 1, 1765
Firozkoh, Ghōr
فیروزکوه ,غور

An aging Ghiyath al-Din Muhammad opened his eyes as he awoke from a strange dream, one that left him pondering on what it was. He went outside to the balcony connected to his chambers, and breathed in that cold, crisp mountain air, made ever so crisp by the early morning. The skies were still a dark shade of blue, and the sun was nowhere to be found, very early morning. Clearing his mind and focusing on that dream, he returned to his bed and sat down to think of the possible meanings. "A tree, strong and healthy, a tree that I was taking care of in the dream," his thoughts continued, "And an impossibly tall tree it was, below it were five mountains, and six rivers..." This dream had haunted him for a few weeks now, but it was most vivid last night. "There was a parade in a glorious ancient city, and I saw someone who looked like me," he stared outwards towards the balcony as the sun finally peaked from behind the mountains, "But I couldn't just call him me, there were strange differences I just can't put my finger on." He then left his bed and went to his wardrobe, a few moments later the Padishah of the Ghurids was dressing himself for the day, "In a different time, I would merely brush it off as a dream, even if they came back over and over again," he began slowing down as he finished up dressing, slowing down to nearly a pause at the last button, "But now... I'm not so sure..."

Finished with clothing himself, the Padishah left the room and entered the hallway outside. Empty and quiet, with the sounds of his shoes clacking against the floor being heard clearly. Ghiyath would arrive soon at the council room, and it seems that he awoke the earliest. He sat down on his designated chair at the head of the table, waiting; and he wouldn't wait for too long, his councilors and advisors would, one by one enter the room and seating themselves on their chairs.

First to enter was the Aretshebd Mahmud Aslani; otherwise the highest authority in the empire's military other than the Padishah. After him came Akbar Qasemid, the Grand Vizier, and tagging along with said councilor was his son and heir, Baha al-Din Sam, "Good to know he still attends council meetings, the decadent fool," he was worried for his heir and for the empire that he would inherit, as he was a man with much interest in the flesh and worldly things, not really a good paragon of the true faith, and some might see him as a weak protector of Sunnism; and yet, the young man was able to balance it with his capable skill in administration, and the Padishah couldn't help but think of it as perhaps on par with the likes of his ancestor Ghiyath al-Din Muhammad II, and that wasn't all! Young Baha had a taste for war similar to the first Ghiyath, and beloved by the soldiery like Mu'izz al-Din Muhammad was, "The empire under my son will be a coin to be flipped, that is certain. A shame, I won't be there when the coin lands, greatness or ruin?". Then the Mebasher, or steward arrived, interrupting his thoughs, then finally the last two to arrive, the Imam of the Shansabānīds, and the spymaster.

"Shall we now begin this meeting?" nods all around, and he would nod along with them with a small smile on his face, "Very well then, on our first order of business, this rebellion in the south." He paused to glance at his marshal. "Aretshebd Mahmud, please do enlighten us on the current situation."

"Very well your Imperial Majesty, the rebellion, or as they call themselves, the Maratha, are a spurious bunch, and if the spymaster is correct with what he has told me of their goals, they have the lofty goal of bringing our empire down," he spotted his son chuckling quietly at this while the Aretshebd was speaking, and a few smirks from among the advisors, "However, their apparent popularity with many Hindus in the south is quite disturbing, I suggest we send troops to crush this rebellion immediately before it spreads; I've already sent cavalry to mow down a few small-scale rebellions close to Raigad, we better cut the head of the snake as quickly as possible." Mahmud raised his hands to let them know there was still things to be said. "On a different but perhaps even more important note, the hordes of Kazakh pagans to our north, I've already told the forts on that border to stay alert, same with the march-governors." he took a look at the map, "We really need better artillery to teach them a lasting lesson, as it seems that good artillery is brutally efficient against their kind of cavalry on flat land, and we have the latter in spades over there."

"These all seem to be... Defensive military talks Aretshebd, perhaps some offense is needed to be discussed today," the Padishah placed a hand on his chin, contemplating something, "Hmm Aslani, how quick could we bring the Nepalese kingdom between us and the Chinese to heel? I need it to be fast enough to be considered a sufficient show of force, to show our neighbors we are not to be trifled with even with this rebellion. The fact that we'll get a tributary after the war is merely a bonus in my eyes." The Aretshebd would also grow contemplative at this question, a hand resting upon his chin, and his index finger tapping. "A weak nation yes, but covered in defensive terrain that we haven't navigated since the days of Mu'izz al-Din Muhammad IV, a quick war may be unlikely as we would have to be careful," he would continue with a grim look on his face, "And who knows what the Chinese might do, the king of Nepal may petition them for assistance against us, and I am unsure with the outcome of a war with the emperor of the Chinese."

The Grand Vizier Akbar would then raise his hand slightly in a gesture, "Your Imperial Majesty if I may be so bold..." Ghiyath would gesture back for him to continue speaking, "I believe any attempts at expansion eastwards into the Himalayas or the rest of India even, is a fruitless affair today. Sure, the first Padishah may have conquered all the way to Bengal in his day, but that's the point, "in his day"; things were different then, now, I don't believe we can go for Bengal anymore without compromising the integrity of this empire with the addition of conquered Hindus, especially now that there's a rebellion in the south. Your Imperial Majesty, I believe... That we may have to look elsewhere if we are to expand." Before the council could explode into loud mutterings and murmurs, Ghiyath raised his hand.

"That... Is a hard truth the Ghurids must swallow, we can truly no longer aim for a conquest that will see our empire's flag from sea to sea," he nodded with a frown firmly plastered upon his face, "But even then, we shall persevere in this new age, we will not falter in the face of outsiders, Westerner nor Oriental, Christian nor Pagan, will force us on our knees." A loud 'yea' would come from most councilor's mouths, and firm nods from the smirking silent.

The productive day continued, breakfast was had, and talks with councilors went on until the afternoon, when the Padishah declared the meeting complete and adjourned it. They all filed out of the room, all save his Court Imam, a man by the name of Hassan Eshtiaq. "Your Imperial Majesty, how may I serve you on this fine afternoon?" The old man inquired with a slight smile. "Imam Hassan, I have been having... Strange dreams," he confessed, and the Imam's right eyebrow was raised inquisitively, "Dreams that I would usually brush off as merely that, dreams. But they have been hounding me for weeks now, and last night's was the most vivid, and I feel that there is a meaning to them, I think they are al-ru'ya."

"The Prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name, had many al-ru'ya dreams, and the end result was the word being spread from Persia all the way to Spain. Funny don't you think? They dreamed a mighty dream... And then that dream was real." the Imam chuckled lightly, a rather hearty noise that eased Ghiyath, "Now, why don't you describe me the dream that you had? Perhaps this simple Imam of the court might have the wisdom to interpret it for you." And that was what Ghiyath told him, every facet of the dream, every little detail he could remember, but in the end it all boiled down to that tree he took care of, the five mountains and six rivers below it, and the parade in the ancient city dedicated to not-him. All the while the Imam was listening intently, nodding to 'do you understand's and 'you think so's. And soon, the description ended, and the Court Imam was deep in thought.

"Do you mind a little riddle for you to solve? Although, its not that much of a riddle, rather a seed of an idea to be planted in your mind," he stood up, "Read up on some classical Persian history, perhaps something about the Achaemenid era. And one more thing your Imperial Majesty... And that is, look west."

And then the Imam left a Padishah deep in roiling thought.

"Look west? Achaemenids? What do those things mean? And why do I need to read up on a pagan empire's exploits?"

But he would go to the library and read up on that empire thoroughly anyways.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Great Shun - Bhutan - Thimphu

Druk Phuntsho

King of Bhutan and Marshall of the Mountains

Druk Phuntso was sitting on his golden throne. Standing on his left and right were Buddhist monks, with their yellow monastic robes and shaved heads. Bhutan had always been a devout land, a haven of Buddhism. The young Dragon King was half-asleep and daydreaming when he heard a servant loudly announcing that an imperial edict had arrived.

A young eunuch bowed before the Bhutanese monarch. "Your Excellency," he said in his high pitched voice, "His Imperial Majesty thus decrees." He began reading the edict. "The Imperial Court of the Great Shun grants your Excellency the Seal of Kingship of Bhutan. His Imperial Majesty also grants your Excellency the Jade Sword and names you Marshall of the Mountains."

Druk stood up from his throne, approached the eunuch and helped him get up. "Tell his Imperial Majesty that I thank him for his generosity and that I shall be a loyal subject of the Shun Empire."

"I most certainly will," the eunuch smiled. He bowed slightly and made his way out of the throne room.

"That was a wise decision," one of the Buddhist monks said. He was a frail looking old man with a long white beard and slim physique. "Your Excellency was correct to accept the Shun offer."

"It was the best of the available choices," Druk replied. "The Shun Emperor cares only about his prestige. He has no interest in micromanaging Bhutan. I will still be King and able to govern my people. The Nepalese, however, would turn Bhutan into a province of their kingdom and would depose me. With Bhutan being a part of the Shun Empire, my throne is secure as the Nepalese will not dare invade the Shun Empire. If they do, hundreds of thousands of Chinese soldiers will pour into their kingdom."

"Indeed. With Chinese backing, the Dragon Kingdom is safe and will prosper!"

Great Shun - Upper Assam - Jorhat

Swargadeo Rajeswar Singha

Duke of Assam

Swargadeo Rajeswar Singha was riding atop his brown horse and overseeing the vast tea plantations of his Duchy. His horse was galloping forward, the thundering of hooves splitting the silence of the dirt road. Swargadeo was in his late thirties. Being Duke of one of the remotest regions of the Shun Empire gave him a great leeway in governing his land. As long as he paid his annual taxation to Beijing and contributed a predetermined levy of infantry troops, the Emperor in Beijing was happy to let him run his private kingdom as he wanted.

With the introduction of Chinese tea techniques, Assam became famous for its Chinese-Assamese hybrid of black tea. The plantations were worked by corvee labor and the tea was sold both to aristocrats in Bengal and Breton merchants in Macau.

"Duke!" a male voice was heard.

The young Duke turned his horse around with a swift movement; he was a competent rider. Before him was an elderly man in a purple gown riding a black horse. It was Minister Kirtichandra, one of the closest advisors of Swargadeo.

"Minister, a pleasure to see you."

"Quite a day, your excellency, eh?" the minister smirked.

"Indeed. It is quite a beautiful morning. But I assume you did not ride here only because the weather is nice..."

"You are very perceptive, your excellency. I have managed to finally secure the funds you've asked for."

The young Duke flashed a bright smile. "Excellent! Now we can at last begin the construction." Swargadeo was a devout Hindu. He had gifted much land in his Duchy to Brahmins and had already erected more than a dozen Hindu temples. Now he was authorizing the construction of another such temple, this time grander than all others. He wanted to showcase to everyone his piety. "The temple will be the greatest in the history of Assam."

"I've also got news from the West."

"What news?"

"The King of Bhutan has become a fellow subject of the Shun Empire."

"Makes sense. It was either that or losing the throne to the Nepalese."

"I also have news of a great Hindu rebellion in the Ghurid Empire."

Swargadeo laughed, his laughter being one of joy and enthusiasm. "Excellent. I hope my spiritual brethren throw out those barbarians. I want you to bring me news about the revolt whenever you can."

"It is a sure thing."

Swargadeo had no interest in aiding directly the Maratha. Aside from the fact that they were too far away and that his duchy did not have the resources in either gold or manpower to offer a significant assistance, Swargadeo also understood that his Emperor in Beijing would not look kindly at such an initiative. Swargadeo was happy with his lordship over Assam and had no willingness to disobey his overlord over a revolt in a distant empire. He did sympathize dearly however with the image of Hindu warriors fighting against an Islamic tyrant.

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

OOC note: The existence of governors like this was something me and Aureumterra discussed via telegram. Also this is in response to his earlier post.
Russian Central Asia
January 3

A small (in comparison) fortress sits in the steppe. Its brick walls and stone floors seem out of place in these open plains, where the only other buildings you'll see for kilometers are going to be white yurts. Compared to its European bretheren, built to whistand siege warfare and hold up against mighty canon, this fort is small.

Inside the fortress sits none other the Governor of Central Asia, a centrally appointed position whose holders are chosen by the Grand Prince himself. He is responsible for civilian administration, and mans the grain stores, the tax collectors and the bureaucrats. There is also the General of Central Asia, who has his own dwelling, a far mightier fortress elsewhere, and it is he who commands the standing army stationed in the region.

'Governor, there is someone ahead,' cries out a guard manning the fortress walls. His face is pale, betraying his western origins. So are the faces of many other folk in the fort, albeit interspaced with men sourced from the local population, who look more like the nomads outside. The guard continues to speak. 'Three, two, one... One man, there is one man ahead! He bears the standard of the Kazakhs to the south!'

'Good eye, responds the governor. 'It appears to be a messenger of sorts. Bring him in, then! Or does he prefer to speak outside, in the open plains?

The governor rises out of his seat, opens the door to the outside world, and tells the rider to halt. He is capable of speaking the language of the Kazakhs, a trait which has certainly helped him attain this position.

'By the Grand Prince's orders, I tell you to halt!'

The rider halts, and seems visibly befuddled.

'Who are you?' asks the governor? 'Where are you headed? Why are you here?'

'I am a messenger, sent by the Yagbus to ride to Novgorod, so as to trade for your 'boomsticks' with our livestock.'

The governor chuckles under this notion.

'Novgorod? You want to talk with your envoy at Novgorod? It will take many days to cross this vast land. Days of endless riding, you might even tire your horse out. And it is also wintertime, the ground has frozen over there, laden with snow, and your steed will find no open pasture to graze on.'

The messneger merely sits on his horse, more confused. The horse itself shows no interest in the discussion, preferring to flail its tail around, so as to keep flies away.

'Ah, you haven't heard it seems. I am Sergei Vasilyev, the Governor of Central Asia, a relatively new position to handle all civilian matters, here. Diplomacy included. Our empire is vast, and it can take days for even the fastest steeds to cross it. It helps to have local government. The locals have already pledged to me, and it appears you will be one of my first diplomatic missions. Come inside.'

We are inside the fort now. The guards continue to man the walls, while one of them seems to wander around the messenger, like a hound inspecting meat. The messenger himself is seated on a table, and governor Sergei is seated opposite to him.

'So you want to trade firearms for some of your fine livestock?'

'Yes. Your boomsticks will be helpful to the Yagbus to equip their armies with.'

'Hmm.. I am allowed to trade you these muskets for livestock, but training your soldiers to use them.. no, I am afraid that last one, it is someone else's job. Anything else?'

'I, I would like to see one. A firearm, that is.'

The governor gestured to one of the guards, and asked him is he could so kindly fire a few shots outside, and make sure no one was in the way. He then told the messenger to go watch from the fort's walls.

A wooden slab was placed on top of a stand, meant as a target. While 'said slab was rather thin, it was quite wide, so as to account for the inaccuracy of the weapon compared to the bow and arrow, and other contemporary options for warfare at a distance. The musket, held by the guard, began to be loaded, packing gunpowder, then the musket ball, and finally, he leveled the gun and prepared to fire.

Crack.

A puff of smoke, and a great big hole went through the wooden slab, as if the material there vanished. The messenger stood, astonished at this show of force. His mouth wide open, and his eyes taking it all in.

'And the best part is,' said the governor. 'We have, lots of those. The one's at the general's place are for his soldiers, but we have more than a few surplus muskets here meant for new soldiers or to resupply old ones. Surely they will fit your armies fine.'

And soon enough, the messenger departed, to visit the general, only for him to return to the governor with the news that he(the general) would happily send some of his best men to train the Kazakh armies.

'Then it is settled. We will trade your fine livestock for our firearms. And do not worry, the ordeal of moving sheep and goats among others is not a fast manner, so herding them to Ukraine's pastures should be easy for our experienced herders, if a bit tedious.'

With that, the deal is made, and these boomsticks would soon find themselves in the hands of the Kazakh horde.

Alma-Ate

'...the end,' said a missionary to his audience of Kazakhs, as he wrapped up a telling of one of the Bible's many stories. The holy book lay in his hands, albeit in Russian cyrillic. At the moment studious scribes were busy translating the Bible to Kazakh cyrillic elsewhere. Their translation would then be copied over and over using the printing press, an invention that sparked a religious war in Europe some 200 years ago. In the recesses of his mind, the missionary hoped that what they were doing would not bring similar chaos to the Steppe. These new Bibles, now in the native language, would be the new Word of God in the steppe, as opposed to the Russian missionaries who were painstakingly translating their Russian bibles into Kazakh words.

Meanwhile more holy men stood inside a yurt, puzzling over an incomplete copy of the Bible. It was not any ordinary copy, for it was being written in the new Kazakh script. One of the holy men, the one largely in charge gave out his orders.

'We need to replicate the Word of God as closely as possible. New converts ought to have access to these texts, even if they speak a different language. As for replication, since their alpahabet is written in cyrillic characters, we won't need to switch out any of our keys on the printing press. And be careful with it, it is a complicated device, and getting a new one will take months considering where we are.'

With these orders, the man checks out the partially completed draft, going over each page meticulously. He nods in apporval to the others, and they continue writing. It will be many days 'til the entirety of the Bible is translated properly into Kazakh, but it will have been a worthwhile endeavor for this missionaries, seeking to spread their faith in the steppe.