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[Oscaria Isles]

This is our roleplay board for members of Oscaria Isles. Welcome!

RP guide and map will be added here soon

[Federalists Unions]

The bridge between Parliament and the Prime Minister’s office was dimly lit by the sun shining through the tinted windows. Tall, armed men stood at either end, weapons slung haphazardly across their shoulders. The doors on the far side opened to reveal Parliamentarian Boris dressed in a crisp dark blue suit and red tie. “What is it this time Boris?” asked Prime Minister Bagley in a detached tone. Boris had become the annoyance of the party, constantly aiming for party leadership by trying to appear important.

“Prime Minister Bagley we’re being forced to vote on the expansion of the military. The opposition parties are currently resisting any efforts to expand space and air force spending, and we’ve lost two votes from our side already. The bill will fail.”

“Then why are you here?” Bagley asked, glaring at Boris. “If you truly want to help the party, get the votes we need. Talk to the corporatists if needs be.”

“But. . . sir,” Boris stuttered

“I’ve made myself clear, have I not?” Bagley boomed.

Boris turned, scratched the back of his neck, and left.
A disembodied voice carried from the far end of the hallway. “Prime Minister Bagley,” began one of the guards, “Lazek III is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Lazek III walked in, shoes squeaking on the pristine floor, excess polish leaving a small trail of brown droplets behind. “How are you doing Prime Minister?”

“I’m doing well” Bagley cooly replied, “and yourself?”

Lazek looked him over. “Well, I do miss the tunnel. This was the only real benefit to being the Prime Minister. Trivial though. We have some important matters to discuss.”

“Indeed we do,” Bagley replied, “and what does your party need?”

Lazek smiled, his voice rising, “I’m glad you asked Bagley, truly glad. We want a bigger welfare net. Specifically, we want help for people living in the oil slums and manufacturing towns.”

Bagley frowned for a moment, glancing over at Lazek several times. “Well Lazek, I’m not sure we can do that. You know we’re only asking for 10 billion, and that would cost upwards of 100 billion.”

“Do you not want to expand your military spending?” Lazek exploded.

Hiram shook his head, “not at that cost. You know it’s too high.”

“When my grandfather made this nation,” Lazek III began.

“Your grandfather founded the Federalist Party,” Bagley yelled, angered at the sudden attempt at sympathy voting. Lazek turned directly to Bagley, enraged at the attempt to stop his new welfare program.

“Well it seems you don’t know your own party allies when you see them,” Lazek whispered. “The social democrats will not support any measure supporting increased military spending, nor will we ever support further market expansions that your agenda has called for.”

Hiram Bagley waved him away, turning again to the windows to watch the brilliant orange sun continue to rise. The rays streaked through the streets, with huge skyscrapers only serving as an impediment to the beautiful view.

After a meditative hour, Prime Minister Bagley donned his suit coat and walked towards the Parliament. The soldiers opened the doors, allowing him to pass through to the cold marble offices. The constant tapping of his shoes on the floors echoed through the rooms, reverberating throughout the entire building. He came to the intricate oak carved doors and clasped the golden handles, and as he opened it, the lights and ambience of the Parliament filling him with a dreadful nervousness and an excited hope. As he continued his walk to his seat, the speaker’s call for order sliced through the heavy noise.

“All rise for the Prime Minister,” the speaker bellowed.

Bagley stood, and took his place at the majority pulpit. He opened his binder, and began the inevitable questioning period. “My administration thus far has been able to advance the standing of Federalist Unions in world affairs, economically, and politically. We are on track to finish with a 6% GDP increase by the end of this year, currently rest at 2.6% unemployment, and have increased the average wage by 450 dollars. Currently, one area which we lack is in military spending. I have requested a new military budget to be voted on immediately after the questioning period ends, which will expand our current spending on the military, but mostly to our underdeveloped air force and space technology. People who oppose these measures simply do so out of their own selfish reasons, instead of allowing our nation to take its rightful place among the best militaries in the world.”

Bagley stayed standing, as the speaker called on Lazek III to begin questioning him.

“When I suggested we expand welfare today,” Lazek began, “you said we didn’t have the funds. Yet now you call for an expansion of military spending. Where do these funds come from?” He finished angirly, evoking cheers from the members of the opposition.

“As I also told you this morning, finding funds to send 10 billion will be much easier than finding the cash to pay for 100 billion dollars worth of welfare while simultaneously crippling our economic growth.” Cheers erupted from his side and from the corporatist party, drowning out what he attempted to say next. “Let us remember! Let us remember! Remember, when he was in charge, our GDP not only shrank, unemployment went up to 15.7%! This is why we don’t listen to the social democrats on economic policy, they’re crazy!” The parliament erupted, cheers and boos echoing across the room. The speaker slammed the gavel on his desk, attempting to force order onto the chaos. The efforts were futile, and it took 3 minutes for the Parliament to calm down.

Lazek stood up, dusting off his shoulder as he did so. “The only reasons you’ve had economic growth is because you found oil! Of course your economy has grown.”

Hiram smirked, flipping through his binder to another page. “He claims the only way we can grow an economy is oil. Well perhaps the failed Prime Minister ought to look at some other policies we did: slashing 3 million pages of regulations, cutting business taxes, and eliminating tariffs entirely. Yet this failure wants to claim that the only way for an economy to grow is finding oil. Let me guarantee you that if this failure takes office again, even oil won’t save our economy!” The crowd erupted again, but quickly quieted as Hiram signaled for silence once more.

The leader of the green party stood, slamming a binder down onto his pulpit. “Good morning Prime Minister” he jeered. “The question from the green party is simple and to the point. Why are you allowing unlimited polluting from unfettered corporate greed?”

“Ah yes, the usual question from your green party. Let me ask you, why did you use a car to get the 2 members you party has somehow elected to get here? Why didn’t you walk from the bottom of our nation to the middle? Questions like these are the reason your party has failed to garner any national attention.”

“How dare you!” shouted the Green leader. “You ignore our questions more, our party will overtake your district!”

“You said that last month,” Hiram laughed. “And I have reason to believe that the results will be exactly the same. Your new candidate to challenge me, like your party, will fail.” The right leaning parties jumped from their chairs, cheering and clapping as the most annoying parliamentarian grew increasingly flustered. Even Lazek III joined in halfheartedly, smiling warmly.

The corporatist party send up a delegate. “Mr. Speaker, we have no questions for the Prime Minister today.”

“Thank you,” the speaker replied. “Communist party?”

Chairman Stalin stood, grabbing his briefcase and taking his position at the edge of the pulpit. “Prime Minister, you have killed 358 people this week alone due to the evils of pollution, overwork, and child labor. You have created this system through capitalism. Will you not stand with the worker and stand against unfettered corporate greed?”

“Funny how you call if unfettered corporate green when you have a supermac bag at your chair,” Hiram replied smiling. “If even you can’t abstain from partaking in this supposedly evil system, then why should we stand against it?”

Various members of parliament stood, waiting for their turn to ask questions. Hiram dealt with them deftly, kicking out arguments underneath Parliamentarians and using positive figures from his most recent reforms. At the end of the 3 hour session, at which point he had emptied 3 water bottles, he sat down again, organizing his binder once more. Soon, the tap of his shoes on the cold floor rang again as he left to deal with some foreign ministers.

The call came to him as he walked from a lunch to a negotiating room. “Sir,” Boris Began, “we passed it 61-39.”

“Thank you Boris” he whispered.

[Federalists Unions]

Lazek’s shoes crunched quickly on the crisp fall leaves as bullets pounded into nearby trees. He unclasped his firearm from his side, turned, and fired into the abyss, emptying his chamber and then haphazardly dropping his weapon. His breath came in short bursts as he continued weaving through the forest, dodging Caslanian soldiers as best he could. His blood splattered jacket bore testament of his previous encounter, but in his exhausted state that result could not be replicated. The crunching stopped as he moved into a grassy valley, picking up speed and curving towards the left. The shots became louder, and bullets whizzed past him. He jumped over a spiky log, rolling down into a pre-dug hole. His hands shook as he pulled on the metal chord, sealing shut the door and scattering dirt near the surface. His breathing filled the room as he sat down, reaching for an experimental siagora rifle. The siagora was soon clasped tightly, and aimed at the door. The sound of running soldiers crashed from above, pounding uniformly as they continued their hunt. As the sounds distanced, his taut body loosened, and a brief sigh escaped his lips.

It had only been 30 minutes since the leadership council convened. 28 minutes since the explosion. 27 minutes since the Caslanians attacked. 15 minutes since he had killed a man. 10 minutes since he became fatigued. 5 minutes since he had been pursued. 1 minute since he had found safety. Safety was a small metal walled box, with wooden platforms making up a floor. Food sat nearby, along with a wealthy supply of weapons and water. He attempted to stand, but his wobbly legs stopped him. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his telegraph guide, crawling towards the back end of his shelter. His hands scraped against the thin metal sheet, searching for the edge. A slight push from his hands and the wall fell, revealing a small tunnel and an archaic telegram machine.

Taran telegram machine sat inside a wooden frame, its metal handle a dull shade of orange. Lazek placed his crumpled telegraph guide onto the dilapidated stand. A screech ripped the air as he attempted to lift the handle, orange rust having destroyed the internal mechanisms. The unstable machine began to collapse, and all hope of sending a message did too. He curled up into a ball on the dusty floor, his hopes and energy wasted. Restless sleep found him, and he drifted away.

The crisp night air blasted through the newly opened door as Lazek’s hands peeked over, pulling himself out along with his new pack. His siagora sat nearby, and he stooped to grab it as he began a new journey. Shrill shrieks filled the forest, and the occasional cry of the nightlife never failed at startling him. The tip of his weapon dipped, his arms fatigued. More shelters were fairly close, but he suspected that their communication measures had ended like his. Shadowy figures cast by stately oaks startled him, and readily alerted him to possible danger. A nearby rustle of leaves drew his weapon up, and he prepared to fire. A small mouse, trailed by a fox, passed by, leaving Lazek to breathe a sigh of relief. His winding journey continued, leading him back towards the center of the nation.

The faint morning rays shone on the emboldened Caslanian soldiers stood over the smoking remnants of the Taran military HQ, laughing as they cleared pieces of rubble away to look for intelligence. They believed that all of the Taran leaders had been killed, and were excited to press a new assault. A few lonely tanks rumbled by on the way forward, small groups of soldiers walking alongside. An occasional scream could be heard, often with an accompanying bang from a firearm. General Talon kicked a small chunk of concrete aside, picked up his briefcase and began to move. He had a nation to conquer, and the battle needed to end soon. He signaled to an assistant, and soon the artillery began to pound Tara City. Talon heard a faint shrieking sound, and looked to the sky. A single plane barreled towards their position, and it looked like a Taran machine. He called out for everyone to leave, and began to run. The plane streaked closer, releasing its payload and turning as the bomb launched itself towards the remnants. It exploded on impact, the emboldened soldiers becoming no more. The blast launched General Talon forward, cutting his body with sticks and rocks. He collapsed, energy drained and body beaten.

Taran soldiers yelled as they began their charge, firing at the few standing Caslanian soldiers as their assault began. Lazek jumped into the woods, towards General Talon. He grabbed the man’s briefcase, fired a shot, ending Caslanian war leadership. His small squad cleared out the Caslanians, taking 7 as prisoners after prompt surrender. The briefcase swung neatly open as Lazek began searching through documents. Neatly drawn plans on sleek maps plopped over the rocks as he examined them, and promptly returned them. White flakes fell from the sky, and Lazek signaled to his soldiers to begin a long march away.

[Soviet Russian Amish]

Enoch quietly welcomed himself into the foyer of the Chapel, the echo of ending Mass welcoming him as he crumpled into a chair and waited. Centered on the furthest wall, on display within a shining golden frame, rested an icon of the Savior. Below it, a simple sign saying:

Christ welcomes you!
Morning Mass at 6 A.M (Coffee Hour at 7:30!)
Dinner hosted in the main hall at 5 P.M (Thank you to Brother Angelo and Sister Maria!)
Evening Mass at 6 P.M
Let us worship Christ and make Christ known!

Like magic, the smell of warm coffee wafted into the foyer, and hushed conversation mixed with the tip-toeing of the congregation as they passed through the foyer. Though he was sure no one paid him any mind, Enoch still sat up and adjusted his jacket, the eyes he felt on him were his own alone.

"Father McClellan! I'm glad you could make it!"

Enoch's eyes widened and a faint smile formed on his face as he looked up and into the eyes of Father Romero. Romero was an older man, far older than Enoch at least, and had easily doubled in size since Enoch's seminary days. Yet his smile was just as warm and his laugh as full and plump as his waistline. For a man no doubt nearing 70, he looked as though he was still in his prime.

"Well I had business on Gethsemane anyway, and after all it's not like these anniversaries come every day," Enoch replied, embracing his old mentor, "Oh and please, just call me Enoch. No need for all the formalities between friends."

For a moment Enoch detected the faintest frown on Father Romero's lips, but his eyes lit up once again and he gave a firm nod.

"Of course, of course. Well come with me and we'll chat in my office."

Enoch nodded and the two men departed through the main hall. This time Enoch knew the congregation's eyes were on him as they passed the coffee hour, he couldn't help but swear he heard faint whispers and feel eyes like daggers on his back as they slipped away into Romero's study.

Like the rest of SRA, Romero's study had remained nearly the same as when he'd apprenticed those years ago. A false fireplace sitting over the heating unit; desk littered with old notes, sermons, and countless books. Perhaps the only difference was Romero's desk chair, now looking more like a bean-bag on a swivel with more cushioning than seat.

Romero waddled across his office and made himself at home behind his desk, leaning down and, with a wink to Enoch, bringing up an ancient looking cognac bottle.

"It's hard to believe, even to myself, you know. Forty years in the ministry. If you went back in time and told that little runt I was at 28 that I'd be spending my life preaching I'd have called you a lot of nasty names. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn't it Enoch?"

Without asking, Romero poured both of them their drinks.

"I'd certainly say so Father. Though surely you aren't feeling any regrets about your ministry? You did some amazing work in Rome back in the day, I still quote that thesis you wrote on Old Earth Papal encyclicals."

Romero chuckled, "I imagine if His Holiness were here he wouldn't like some of what I said in that one. But I couldn't help myself, I've always felt a tad skeptical of Papal infallibility. Not that it matters too much, we've had the Grand Abbot since both of us were twinkles in the eyes of our forefathers."

"Well, cheers to the Grand Abbot then! Long may he guide the Church." Enoch replied.

Once again, a burn followed by relief. Enoch felt his muscles calm and the ache of his hands subside. The conversation drifted for awhile, questions about how Rome was, reminiscing about seminary, ministry life. Finally, after nearly an hour had passed, Romero's look became more serious and he straightened in his chair.

"You know Enoch, I know about what happened in Rome."

The air became still, and almost instinctively Enoch's eyes fell to his feet alongside his stomach. Yet, he remained silent.

"What happened to that girl wasn't your fault, son. You know as well as I do, ministry is a burden as much as it is a blessing. We minister to the poor, the needy, and those often left behind on other worlds. Sometimes we save them, bring them into the Church and give them new meaning, but it isn't always in our control. We can only advise, give faith and pray that the Spirit works in those we speak to."

"You know that she didn't just fall back to her vices. Samantha had become one of us, she was on her way to joining an order. What happened to her was not natural, Manuel. There was darkness involved." Enoch said, his knuckles white and his teeth grinding.

"But where is your proof, Enoch? I have just as much faith in the goodness of men as you do, but we can't pretend that man isn't just as likely to fail as he is to succeed. It might seem hard to believe, but sometimes people do just fail."

"Open your eyes! Look around you, Manuel. Forty years in the ministry, fifteen in Rome. It doesn't take a seat on the Holy Council to read a headline. People across the Core worlds are vanishing in the dead of night. Mothers, Fathers, children. This... Evil. It is taking anyone, from the selfie-obsessed club-tourists in Rome's under-city to farmers on Gethsemane. We've seen it happen right in this very town. You expect me to believe none of these are connected? I know you, I studied under you for a decade and I know your mind as well as I know mine. You know it's true too. Every damned Cleric and Acolyte on Rome has heard of them, but no one knows a thing. So, if the Church won't look into all this then I will... For her sake."

Romero became quiet, and almost like flipping a switch Enoch saw his age finally start to show. His faded blue eyes, sunken and tired, his lips curved into a thoughtful and anxious frown.

"If you're serious about this Enoch, I won't stop you. But I will voice my concerns about you, my son. Five years ago you didn't drink, now I didn't even have to ask if you wanted to. You don't shave, you smell like the gutter outside a bar, and your clothes don't look like they've been washed in a month. It's one thing to want justice, to want to understand the cruel fate we're sometimes dealt. It's another to become obsessed, to chase shadows and conspiracies where they may not exist... I won't deny the rumors, the Church has certain voices that believe there is more happening in our space than we know. Some say it's cult activity, perhaps some heretics from Zion or Lord knows where in the fringe. Others say Demons, and even more say the Black Sun is behind it. I don't know for certain what to believe, I'm an old man Enoch. My days of asking questions and hunting for answers is behind me, and in truth I'd say they're behind you as well. But if this is really, truly what you want to do. Then as your mentor, no, as your friend, I'm obligated to help you."

Romero reached under his desk again, and after a moment pulled up data chip and a tablet.

"If you want to talk to some of these voices, read what's on that paper. I'll set up a meeting for you on Rome. But I'm warning you Enoch, there is no turning back from this path once you're on it. Few who join ever leave alive, and those that do come back with more scars than they know what to do with."

Enoch took the paper in his hands and placed it into his jacket. He looked up at his mentor, more questions now than when he'd arrived.

"Join who?"

"The Inquisition."

[Oscaria Isles]

The flag flitted in the breeze, dashing from side to side as gusts blew around the Parliament building. Armed men stood at attention surrounding a sleek black limousine, as Prime Minister Hiram Bagley stepped inside, loosening his tie and taking off his jacket. He grabbed a bottle and poured himself a glass, taking a few gulps and preparing himself for his next mission. The Secretary of State was already heading towards Dorport to deal with oil issues, which left Bagley to visit the monthly Oscaria Isles convention. “If only Malthus hadn’t messed it up last time.” he mumbled. Malthus, Secretary of Defense, had almost declared war on Dorport the last time, and thus disqualified himself from future meetings. Hiram inwardly cursed the entire time of the drive and his subsequent boarding of his aircraft.

The plane touched down on the tarmac to slippery wetness of freshly removed snow. It jumped once, and then safely slowed down. Hiram, who had been on the phone, almost fell over and had to leap into a seat to protect himself. He snapped his phone shut and stood up, preparing for the inevitable torture to befall him.

As Hiram was enduring this torture, Prime Minister emeritus Lazek III stood in the Prime Ministerial library, looking over documents related to his grandfather’s reign. Lazek, who had thwarted the Caslanian attacks on Tara and instead united the countries. The greatest Prime Minister who had ruled. Lazek, who had founded the Federalist Party, to eventually revoke his membership as they strayed too far right. Lazek, who had then formed the Democratic Party at age 87, fighting for 6 more years as a member of the opposition in the Parliament until a heart attack ended his resistance. Then Lazek II, his father, who had led the Democrats to rule, and then led them to a party with no seats. Lazek II, who had merged the Democrats with the Socialists, returning to his rule and to a majority. And Lazek II, who had killed the new party until his resignation. Lazek III remembered the empty bottles sitting in the cellar of the Ministerial Mansion, with his father singing off-pitch nearby.