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The Mask of Duty

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Kartlis
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Founded: Jul 28, 2017
Democratic Socialists

The Mask of Duty

Postby Kartlis » Wed Oct 10, 2018 8:35 pm

Sadmeli Testing Grounds, Sadmeli, Kartlis

The image of a row of men in uniform, binoculars lifted to their eyes and gazing at the horizon, was almost archetypical of a military demonstration. True to form, as the Kartlian generals and their guest watched through magnifying lenses, a battery of howitzers opened fire with the characteristic thwoomp of an artillery piece. In the far distance, prepositioned targets exploded in succession, fire, dirt, and smoke thrust into the air.

The battery fell silent, the men lowered their binoculars, and nodded to each other with the familiar satisfied nod acknowledging a job well done. Those targets had certainly been defeated. Hereditary Prince Constantine, son of the Kartlian monarch, lowered his binoculars as well, and looked to the officers.

"Well, gentleman, again a mighty victory for Kartlis." he said with aplomb.

They did not laugh, or smile. A four-star general with the name BAKHSOLIANI stitched on his uniform's breast pocket, gestured to the firing field. "As you can see, your Serene Highness, the D-20 model 152 millimeter towed gun is still quit effective as a ranged unit. The D-20 still forms the backbone of our long-range artillery forces, and will remain an effective piece of hardware on the battlefield."

The Prince nodded automatically, and wished he were anywhere else, wearing anything other than the uniform of a Colonel of His Highness's Life Guard of Horse, forced about at the government's beck and call, dressing up and smiling for the cameras as retirement-aged high officers prattled on about their antiquated artillery.

"Naturally, General Bakhsoliani." he said, defaulting to the standard royal voice. "I am very much impressed."

Bakhsoliani and the others saluted sharply, and then tour continued through the Sadmeli Testing Ground, where for several more hours Constantine would watch rocket barrages, soldiers firing shoulder-mounted RPGs, and a few helicopters. He smiled like an idiot through it all, nodding and pointing at all the right moments. Only during a brief interlude was he able to have any moment alone, and he quickly fumbled for a hidden cell phone in his uniform's breast pocket.

I cannot stand this at all, I need you with me, to feel your caress, no one else understands but you, if I could marry you I would but Father would never permit it

With a flash he was surrounded again, this time by smiling soldiers, the thin, wiry mountain farm-boys and shepherds that made up most of the Kartlian armed forces, excited beyond belief to see the Hereditary Prince, the son of the monarch! He smiled, waved, and shook a few hands with a Mihkeil here and a Pavle there. As it was over and his party turned to send him to the car, he caught some of the chatter; "how'd he get the uniform, though?"

That stung. Constantine had actually been through officer school at the Kutaisi Military Academy, and spent six weeks on the Life Guard training course before his father gave him the commission and its accompanying uniform. "I won't hand out swords and honors to anyone who didn't earn them" he'd said. Of course, he hadn't forced the Emperor of Excalbia to learn how to fire a howitzer when he created him a Field Marshal. But a sovereign could do whatever they wanted, right? Except, they couldn't. Only in Sabaristan, or Pantocratoria, where monarchs still were monarchs. Not here in Kartlis, with its constitutional monarchy.

In the car, hidden behind the tinted windows of a gleaming black Peacock Motors sedan, his snapped to his valet, "Andro. Scotch. Double." and unbuttoned the tall, stiff collar of his blue uniform. Andro Ianishvili, a man of around the same age as the Prince, handed him a crystal glass filled to the brim with amber liquid. The Prince drank it in two sips.

"I hate these trips." he said, knowing Andro would not respond. He never did. "I hate these generals, I hate the simpering politicians who demand I make them, and I hate most of all the stupid pageantry of having to be the Good Crown Prince in front of my lessers. Pour me one more. Where are we going next?"

Andro, for his part, poured only a single this time. The Prince drank too much anyway. Not that, as a valet, he could control how much the Prince drank in sum. "The airport. Returning to Mtskheta for the evening. Your private secretary is meeting you there. In the morning I am told the Premier wishes to see you."

Constantine drained the glass again, and then held it out to be refilled. When it wasn't filled immediately he shook it angrily. "Fine, Mtskheta tonight. Good. Listen. Once we arrive have the... other car, waiting. And as for Toma? Well, just tell him to call on me at Erekle House in the morning before the meeting. I want to relax tonight, no interruptions."

A look of trepidation crept across Andro's face. "Sir... I'm not sure that I can..." he started, but a thunderous look crossed the Prince's rapidly reddening face, and he folded like an umbrella in a hurricane. "Of course, Highness. The usual procedure."

Constantine, Hereditary Prince of Kartlis, wasn't even listening. The cell phone was in his hands, and he was rapidly clicking away, excitement and alcohol pounding through his veins.

I'm coming back tonight, meet me as usual, I cannot wait to hold you again, to stroke you and kiss you and love you.

We will find some way to be together in the end, I promise.

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Kartlis
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Founded: Jul 28, 2017
Democratic Socialists

Postby Kartlis » Thu Nov 01, 2018 10:53 am

Argveti House, Mtskheta, Kartlis

Isidore Mikeladze did not, as a rule, enjoy mornings, despite waking like clockwork at 5 AM regardless of the day. He compensated for this lack of congenital early-birdness by consuming a huge amount of coffee, which he drank throughout the day, black, and supplemented with tobacco. It was only 8:00, and he was already smoking his second full pipe, the wood-paneled study of the Prime Minister's official residence filled with bluish smoke from his Snefaldian tobacco.

The Prime Minister of Kartlis preferred not to use a desk; his usual position, whether in his office in Argveti House or at the House of Parliament, was sunken into a leather wingback chair, his papers spread about him on a collection of end-tables and ottomans and in the worn red leather document case he carried everywhere and used for everything. He was a distinctive figure; 65 years old with an chest-length grey and black beard, deep green eyes peering over tortoiseshell readers, and impeccable grey hair, he looked more like an aged college professor than one of the most successful Premiers in Kartlis's last century. This morning he was putting the finishing touches on speech on the Zamimbian conference for later that day; the opposition had been hounding him, demanding to know why Kartlis had not deigned to attend such an important regional event.

The door to the study opened and his Private Secretary, Ioane Abazasdze, entered, and seemed almost physically struck by the wall of smoke, coughing and waving his hand. "How can you even breathe in here? No oxygen at all." he said, knowing the PM was ignoring him, and strode to open a window and let in some fresh, cool morning air. Abazasdze handing Mikeladze a typed summary of the day's schedule, with penciled additions and changes from the early morning.

"Am I not meeting with the Ernestine Ambassador at 11:30?" Mikeladze said, glancing only briefly at the changes while Abazasdze waited.

"No, Prime Minister. Batiashvili has a new update on the Epheron conference and wants to brief the Cabinet before Question Time." he said, referring to the Foreign Minister."

"Hmm. Fine. I will want to meet him in the evening." Mikeladze went on, pulling out a match to re-light his pipe. "Invite Lord Oberwischau for brandy and cigars after dinner. What else before the Patriarch comes for the morning service?"

"Colonel Toreli is waiting. He says it is urgent."

The PM paused with the lit match, holding it briefly before flicking the flame away and setting his pipe down. "Very well, I'll take him now. No disturbances."

Abazasdze nodded, and left. A moment later, a thin, bald man in a grey Colonel's uniform entered, removing his hat and saluting sharply as Mikeladze rose, clasping his hands behind his back. He always had a slight stoop in this pose, and looked more like a kindly grandfather than a politician. "Good morning, Colonel. There must be something important for you to see me this early. What does Department 42 have for me on the Royal Family?"

Bagrat Toreli, Colonel, Army of Kartlis, was the Deputy Chief of the Royal Household Agency's security force, but he was also a member of the His Highness's Department for Protecting the Public Security and Order, the Kartllian secret service, colloquially known only as "Department 42" on official government lists. Legally, Department 42 served the Prince of the Kartlians, but reported to the PM, and its members were also inserted into key Royal organs in order to both root out threats to the Royal Family and ensure the government was kept apprised of problems or concerns with the Prince and his relatives.

Toreli raised his eyebrows at Mikeladze's question, which prompted a smile. "Come, Colonel. You show up unannounced without a briefing dossier from the Household Agency. You're here on Department 42 business, not Household security."

"Quite, Prime Minister. Unfortunately, I have bad news." Toreli said, returning to military formality.

"Speak on then."

"We have reason to believe that Prince Constantine has been disappearing on certain evenings regularly for the past six months. We were not sure until recently, when he returned from a scheduled military inspection tour on Monday, and was not accounted for over the course of several hours in the evening. He returned to Erekle House at 5 in the morning, and immediately dispatched his Private Secretary to delay a meeting with you, sir."

"Perhaps he was out drinking." the Prime Minister said, straight-faced. "He has been known to do that." Mikeladze was understating the facts immensely. The Royal Family paid a large amount of money to buy and bury stories about the Crown Prince's excessive drinking.

"I'm afraid not. His valet has told us he was ordered to prepare a second, private car owned by the Prince, but registered under the pseudonym "Vakhtang Tavkhelidze." He does not know where the Prince went after that. If the Prince drinks, he always makes clear where he goes. We suspect he is gambling illegally. "

"What about his cell phone?"

"He may have a second. We have already checked the Tavkhelidze name, but nothing."

Mikeladze twisted some of his beard thoughtfully. "Keep a closer watch on him. If he's gambling illegally... it will damage the monarchy. It's dangerous and stupid."

"Very good, Prime Minister."

"Thank you, Toreli. If you'd like some, stop for a coffee in the kitchen. Mrs. Leonidze will see to you. And keep to the usual secrecy, of course."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Prime Minister." Toreli said, saluting sharply and replacing his cap as he retreated. The Prime Minister returned to his seat, lighting his pipe and returning to his speech. His mind was elsewhere, though. Prince Constantine had been a thorn in his father's, and thus the government's, side for twenty years. He had been a precocious child, and when he went to boarding school had discovered the joys of fighting and underage drinking. He hadn't improved with age: an array of buried scandals involving drunken antics, gambling, and even a few shocking stories involving prostitutes had caused both Mikeladze and his predecessors no end of headaches. If he at least had gotten married and produced an heir of his own it would have possibly been acceptable... but at this rate he was headed for an early death from cirrhosis, and where would that leave the throne?

"Gambling would be bad. Not as bad as a sex scandal, but bad." the Premier muttered to himself, returning to his pipe and speech, unaware of the irony of his musing.
Last edited by Kartlis on Thu Nov 01, 2018 10:59 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Kartlis
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 61
Founded: Jul 28, 2017
Democratic Socialists

Postby Kartlis » Fri Jan 10, 2025 8:35 pm

Royal Hunting Lodge Stag's Leap
Mleva, Kakheti Province


The sun was barely peaking over the hills as Police Inspector Irakli Kuchava's car wound up the hills above the sleepy town of Mleva, toward the even-sleepier royal retreat of Stag's Leap, an old hunting lodge from the 19th century occasionally used as a ski chalet - or at least had been some twenty years ago when the Prince was younger. The only visitors now were, occasionally, some cousins of the royal family and the odd diplomatic visitor being feted or given a photo-op with the stunning Kartlian mountains in the background.

Kuchava yawned as he turned the bend, taking a sip of hot coffee. Just thirty minutes ago he been woken up at the duty stations by a call from an anxious patrolman on the night shift who'd received a call from the caretaker saying there's been a break-in at the main lodge; he thought he'd heard gunshots. The superstitious old man had refused to go in - the patrolman was waiting for him. All he'd said was "Inspector, you'd better get up here." The kid was quite insistent, the old cop thought, scratching a greying beard he'd not had time to shave. Occasionally kids would go up on a dare, having a few drinks in them and bored out of their skulls in the winter drudgery after New Year, and try to mess around in the lodge. It was never anything serious and never went anywhere except a strong talking to and some threats to behave, because if it was the Royal Guards who caught them it'd be no laughing matter.

The lodge compound looked like a cross between a Kartlian palace, in miniature, and one of those fairy-tale castle chalets you see in Braslander picture books - gingerbread trim, timber framing, big Tudor windows. The car rolled in through the open gate in the stone wall surrounding the compound and pulled up alongside the patrolman's car, waiting on the gravel drive near the big carved doors leading to the main house. A second car was parked on the far side of the yard, near the carriage house. Kuchava pulled his trenchcoat tight in the morning cold and walked up to the patrolman, nervously pulling at a cigarette. The old caretaker was sat in a chair across the yard at the entrance to his little cottage; the only lights on were in the window of his little domicile.

"So, patrolman Papuashvili, what is it that needed me up here at the hairy ass-crack of dawn?" he grumbled, sparking up his own cigarette. "Is this your first time dealing with a couple drunk kids who got dared to do a break-in at a Royal property and you're afraid the Prince is going to put you in the dungeons if you fuck it up?"

Papuashvili, looking very young and very scared, shook his head - and his cigarette, trembling. "No, Police Inspector. I- it's not that. It looks like a murder."

Kuchava frowned, sucked on his cigarette, and tossed it away. "Murder?" He looked the young policeman up and down. Pretty green, right out of the academy, good kid though. "Murder? Not an accident with a couple of drunk kids who played around with some old swords on the wall and got carried away? It's happened before."

"No, Police Inspector. Here. You should see it. I didn't know who else to call. This is my first case, and..."

Kuchava held up a hand as he started into the lodge. "Ok, we'll take a look, Patrolman. Then we'll call the M.E. and see what's what."

The inside of the lodge, a series of large rooms filled with woven carpets, antique hunting rifles, and animal mounts, was dark except for what looked like oil lamps burning through the doors of the Great Room at the end of the entrance hall. The lodge was spacious but not immense, and Kuchava frowned. "No lights?"

"No, sir. The electricity is off. The caretaker turns it off when there's no one here."

He walked further into the Great Room and let his eyes adjust to the dim, flickering oil light. He fished a handheld flashlight from his coat pocket and shined it on the floor ahead of him, catching the pink flesh of a human body sprawled on a carpet in front of the large fireplace. It was a young woman, partially undressed, her head facing away from him, covered in a mass of wet, black hair. Kuchava sighed deeply before casting his light about the rest of the room, full of antique tables, chairs, and lamps - most of which were still covered by white sheets to protect from the dust. It looked like a few had been uncovered and his flashlight stopped briefly on an uncovered table with two glasses and what looked like five empty wine bottles.

His little light caught something else against the opposite wall behind him, below to a huge painting of the current Prince of Kartlis's grandfather, looming over a big green velvet couch. It was another human form, and he moved toward it - a man's body, middle-aged, in simple slacks, shirt, and casual sportcoat, crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood. Kuchava carefully moved his position, catching sight of the glint of a long hunting revolved in the corpse's hand. Then, he caught his breath.

"Theotokos!" he gasped, crossing himself out of sheer habit, something he had not done at a murder scene since he was a rookie as green as Papuashvili, hanging back at the door. "Patrolman, get back to your car and radio immediately to the Station for a Code R-10. Code R-10, do you understand me? Then, go and place the caretaker under arrest as a material witness. Now!" he barked, and Papuashvili bolted out the door.

The morning light had begun to crest the hills and illuminated more of the room. Kuchava put one hand to his temple as the dim light took away any lingering doubt about the face he'd seen countless times in books and on TV, because the dead body on the floor, with a single bullet wound through its temple, was that of Constantine, eldest son of Prince Teimuraz, and had been until a bullet pierced his brain the Crown Prince and heir to the throne of Kartlis.
Last edited by Kartlis on Fri Jan 10, 2025 8:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Kartlis
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Founded: Jul 28, 2017
Democratic Socialists

Postby Kartlis » Sat Jan 11, 2025 8:42 pm

Argveti House, Mtskheta, Kartlis

Prime Minister Mikeladze looked particularly old this morning, or so Deputy Prime Minister the Count Liakhvi thought as the old man entered the reception room in the Premier's residence. Isidore Mikeladze always cultivated an avuncular, grandfatherly look - long beard, with the dappling of grey having given away in the last three years to streaky white, always peering over rimless half-moon reading glasses. But this morning, Count Liakhvi felt, the Grand Old Man of Kartlian politics, Prime Minister for nearly twenty years, the helmsman who had steered the ship of state (and the National Democratic Party) so deftly, looked as if he was truly ready to give up the ghost.

"Avto." the premier said to his younger deputy, forgoing the formality of his title for the first time in living memory. Count Liakhvi did not frown, he gaped. "Mr. Prime Minister?" he stuttered.

"I regret to inform you that I have just gotten off a call with the Adjutant-General of the Royal Guard Division. At 6:05 AM this morning, the dead bodies of the Crown Prince Constantine and an unidentified woman were discovered at the Stag's Leap Royal Lodge in Mleva. The initial report indicates that it was a murder-suicide. That is, it appears that the Crown Prince first killed the woman, and then himself."

Count Liakhvi sat, shock still, staring hard at the Prime Minister, gazing back at him from over those damned reading glasses.

"I am," Mikeladze continued, "going to do three things. First, I am going to ask you to assemble an emergency cabinet meeting for those who are in the capital. Then, I am going to go to the Palace to inform their Majesties. Then, I am going to return to preside over the cabinet meeting and inform them of the affair. I ask that you not inform them yourself."

The Deputy PM took a five-count and then snapped back to reality. "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. I, uh... who was the woman?" he said suddenly, the question emerging from his tongue unbidden.

Mikeladze regarded him carefully, quietly, for what seemed like an eternity. "Avto," he said again, for what would be the last time Count Liakhvi would ever remember, "The police do not know yet. But, as you will come to find out, I know. Her name is Clara Vexhara, a minor Caldan socialite and divorcee with whom the Crown Prince had been carrying on an affair since at least 2018. She arrived in Kartlis some time in 2016 after divorcing her first husband, a wealthy man who she married quite young. She got quite a bit of money out of the deal, and set herself up here as what I think they would call in the old days a "vamp." She attracted the Prince's attention in early 2018 and they began their affair, which continued. It was judged to be better for him than his inveterate and almost uncontrollable drinking and gambling - she got him to cut down on the first, and stop the second. We have kept a close eye on his activities with her in the belief - and, with the Prince's knowledge. I will not say blessing - that the devil we knew was better than the devil we did not. And she seemed like less of a devil than some."

He stopped there, suddenly glancing off into the distance, hands clasped behind the back of his waistcoat, under his jacket - the stance of the old college lecturer. "At any rate, perhaps she was not the devil we needed to worry about."

He looked at his watch as Count Liakhvi processed the news. "In any case, Mr. Deputy Prime Minister, I need to be on my way in five more minutes," he continued, placidly. "Miss Saakashvili is preparing an announcement. She is "read in" to the secret for now. We will have to announce the news soon before it gets out, there are too many other people involved already. I feel the story that will work best for now is "accidental death."

"Was it?" Count Liakhvi asked, halfway up from his chair. "Accidental? It is plausible?"

Mikeladze regarded him again, this time with a slight curl to his lips. "No. And, maybe. But with the right stories in the media, it can be. Please excuse me, Count Liakhvi. I will be back for the cabinet meeting." he said as he turned to shuffle out the door. The Deputy PM regarded the closed door for a moment, gears in his head turning, before he shook himself out of it and himself walked out of the reception room to call together the Prince's government ministers to inform them of this national tragedy.

By 3:00 that same day, the wire services blared the news: "Kartlian Crown Prince Dies by Misadventure." By nightfall, the news would be all over the region, and Kartlis would be in a state of official mourning.

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Excalbia
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Posts: 1330
Founded: Antiquity
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Excalbia » Sun Jan 12, 2025 12:55 pm

The following letter was hand-delivered by the Excalbian Embassy in Mtskheta to the Royal Palace.
The Imperial Seal of the House of Alsgood


((Date))


His Royal Highness Teimuraz III, Prince of Kartlis
Her Royal Highness Tamar, Princess of Kartlis

Your Royal Highnesses:(crossed out by hand and rewritten in cursive: “My Dearest Cousins”)

Please accept my heartfelt condolences and those of my family and all Excalbia at the sudden loss of your dear son Constantine. I know how dear Constantine was to you and I can only imagine the pain of your loss. We grieve with you, and will hold you and all your family in our thoughts and prayers.

If there is anything that we can do for you and your family at this difficult time, please do not hesitate to call upon me; I shall do whatever I can to be of assistance.

Sincerest Regards,

(signed by hand: “Joseph”)
Joseph, Emperor of Excalbia

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Brasland
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Posts: 967
Founded: May 16, 2006
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Brasland » Tue Jan 14, 2025 5:00 am

Prince Emmanuel de Courtenay, Ambassador of the Kingdom of Brasland to the Principality of Kartlis, personally delivered two letters from His Majesty the King to the Royal Palace in Mtskheta.

[Coat of Arms of H.M. the King of Brasland]
Residenzschloss Friedrichsburg


To: His Serene and Apostolic Highness Teimuraz III, Prince of the Kartlians
Royal Palace
Mtskheta

Your Serene and Apostolic Highness,

I was deeply saddened to learn of the death of Prince Constantine. On behalf of My family and the people of Brasland, I would like to extend Our heartfelt condolences and sympathy.

I had the pleasure of meeting Prince Constantine on several of occasions, and I was always impressed by his intelligence and unique sense of humour.

My thoughts and prayers are with your family and people during this difficult time. Please know that you have My support and solidarity.

Yours sincerely,

GEORG R.


***

Private Letter from H.M. the King to TS & AH the Prince and Princess of the Kartlians


Dear Uncle Timmy and Aunt Tamar,

I cannot imagine the sadness and shock that you must be feeling. The whole family from Brasland send you our love and sympathy during these very difficult times. I met Constantine several times, a few of them in Knootoss. I was always struck by his deep erudition on the subjects that interested him, as well as a very amusing and sardonic sense of humour that was unique to him.

For almost two centuries, our families have been united by ties of blood. We Balkronns do not forget our kin from beyond the mountains. A part of your heritage is Braslander and will be honoured as such. I have personally asked the Court Chaplain and the Archbishop of Markund to celebrate masses in Constantine's memory every Sunday for the next six months.

There is nothing I can do or say that will relieve the pain I know you are both feeling. I can only assure you that we are all thinking and praying for your family and for Constantine. May his soul rest in peace in the presence of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Yours sincerely,

Georg
Last edited by Brasland on Tue Jan 14, 2025 5:03 am, edited 1 time in total.


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