ORCA Security Summit of 2024 (IC) (TWI-Only)

[The Tsunterlands]

Organization of Regional Cooperation in Argus 2024 Security Summit

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OOC

The Organisation of Regional Cooperation In Argus is an intergovernmental organisation dedicated to managing the security situation in the Argus. Founded in the aftermath of the Imperial War its primary mandate is to serve as a forum where the nations of Argus and external nations with a interest in the region can discuss potential security concerns and develop solutions to preserve the lives and prosperity of those living there.

In the last few months, a sudden reignition of tensions surrounding the Baumish-Romancia conflict, the widening of cracks in governance of Keverai and the conclusion of the decades long civil war in San Javier have prompted the leadership of the Tsunterlands and Avrazhim to call for summit of the leaders of the member-states and observer-states of the Organisation. Ostensibly this summit will be an opportunity to detail the ongoing issues obstructing peace in Argus and find long-term solutions to these conflicts.

The Mandate

The Organisation of Regional Cooperation In Argus is dependent on the mutual collaboration of its members towards the goal of ensuring long-term peace in Argus. Its purpose is to preserve the lives and prosperity of the people of Argus when threatened with inter-state or intra-state violence, criminal activity or environmental disaster.

Based on the principle that “ORCA ends or prevents wars, rather than starts them”, its primary method of achieving this is by providing a forum where nations can work together to send peace monitors, experts and resources to potential or active conflict areas. Such a mission however can only be done with the consent of the state recognised to be governing the territory targeted by such a mission. ORCA does not sanction nations or deploy peacekeepers with a mandate to engage with other military or paramilitary forces. ORCA’s mandate also only extends to the region of Argus (including the immediate islands). It has no capacity to act on any security situations outside of Argus.

ORCA also serves a space whereby its member-nations can agree to make joint statements, defining potential or active conflicts and preferred solutions.

The Attendees

The Heads of State/Government (which ever is the chief political decision maker) of all member-states or observer-states have been invited to attend the summit.

Should they be unable to attend for any reason, they may dispatch as their official delegate either their foreign minister (or equivalent) or their official representative to the Argean Regional Cooperation Council, the leading body of ORCA responsible for overseeing day-to-day operations.

Each country’s delegation may be accompanied by a entourage of advisors, however only the national leader or official delegate may speak during the summit.

The summit will be chaired by Sansērra Raham, acting chairwoman-in-chief for ORCA who was selected to hold the position for a term of one year by the ARCC.

The Location

The summit will take place in the ORCA headquarters in Kertalin, Keverai, a building simply known as ORCA Kertalin. Two Principle rooms will be used: the West Gallery and the Conference Room.

The Conference Room will be where the summit will officially take place. Within this room only the national leader (or delegate) of the attending state may speak in an official capacity. This a large round room with a high ceiling, darkened by the forest-green curtains that drape across tall arch-shaped windows. The thin rays of sunlight reveal walls panelled with polished wood. In the centre lies a massive segmented circular table where the delegations of the attending nations will sit, beneath an ostentatious chandelier of crystal glass.

The West Gallery will serve as a space for the attendees to gather outside the Conference Room, in order to discuss their respective positions and concerns with one another in a less formal setting. Essentially a long and wide corridor encircling the conference room, with windows stretching from the cerulean carpet to the coffered ceiling. The room is also furnished with long, polished tables set against the walls, offering an array of refreshments, including fine teas, coffees, and a selection of local delicacies.

The Agenda

• Day 1
  • Official Reception – Attendees will have a chance to speak in the West Gallery before heading into the Conference Room
  • The Baumish-Romancia Conflict – a discussion on how best to end the ongoing violence in Romancia and steps to achieving a long-term peaceful solution.
• Day 2
  • Reception - Attendees will have a chance to speak in the West Gallery before heading into the Conference Room
  • Keverai Tensions – addressing on tensions between the central government and local groups in Keverai
  • Keverai Catastrophe Bond – addressing the state of preparedness of Keverai in the event of environmental disaster.
• Day 3
  • Reception - Attendees will have a chance to speak in the West Gallery before heading into the Conference Room
  • San Javier – an overview on the conclusion of the San Javier Civil War and next steps in building a long-lasting peace
  • Iersheno – an overview on the situation on Iersheno one year after the Iersheno War, ongoing efforts to rebuild the island and ensuring a stable security situation.
• Day 4
  • Reception - Attendees will have a chance to speak in the West Gallery before heading into the Conference Room
  • Any other business – Attendees will have a chance to raise other areas of concern or cooperation
  • Closing remarks – Attendees will have a chance to make closing remarks on the Summit, the topics discussed and future of ORCA.

[The Tsunterlands]

From the balcony of the Ambassadorial suite Tsanāma watched the sun lazily draw itself over the Southern Sea. They didn’t make sunrises like this back in Ba Bārossa. As a rule, most of her countrymen preferred the soft azure hues of the Mesder over the darker crush of the Southern Sea. But Tsanāma was of the eastern clan Shannēhan, an exception to the rule. Like her ancestors going back near a millennium, she was raised near these waters, where the Tsunterlands met the Gulf of Keverai and the border of the United Partitions.

She tore her eyes from the ocean and glanced back into the hotel room, her president and his aides poured over the latest foreign affairs updates, last-minute memos and eleventh-hour intelligence reports. She doubted that throughout all the Western Isles, you’d ever see a president’s staff briefing so quiet. The entire staff with fluent in Western Isles Sign Language, although only Tsanāma had the honour of being the president’s official voice.

Tsanāma approached the president as the meeting wrapped up. She crossed her left index and middle finger and flicked her hand back and forth.

Ready?

The president nodded and pushed himself to his feet, leaning a little but not too much on a wooden cane, led the way out the room and to the lifts. The cane had been a hard-fought compromise. President Selvīo Shannēhan was not a man accustomed to showing weakness in front of anyone. But seventy years, more than fifty of them in public service, had left their mark on his body, even if his mind remained as sharp as ever.

They settled into a sleek limousine and cruised through the dusty streets of Kertalin. Tsanāma was no stranger to either the city nor the country of Keverai but she felt uneasy here now. There was a tension that was there before, more police on the streets, more barefoot children to. Nearly all the Tsunterlands eastern trade flowed through the Gulf of Keverai. Chaos here would quickly lead to hungry mouths back home, especially in the Tsunter Interior. Hunger was the quickest way to set peoples against one another and the Interior was already plenty divided.

The limousine threaded itself between a crowd of bodies and pale flowing almost organic building of undulating stonework, giving the impression of natural waves or cliffs. The headquarters of the Organisation of Regional Cooperation in Argus: Tsanāma supposed it made sense that an impossible building house an organisation with the impossible task of maintaining peace in this war-ravaged continent of theirs. The President glanced up the building before turning to Tsanāma with a resigned smile. He pushed the air up with his palms, pinched his thumbs and forefinger together and pointed directly in front of himself.

Lets do this.

They exited the limousine like celebrities, to a sudden wave of camera flashes, a roar of questions and a sea of out-thrust microphones. The president just took one question, from a woman whose lanyard was emblazoned with the words ‘Argus Citizens Today’.

“President Shannēhan, is the Tsunterlands trying to mobilise ORCA to take action against the ongoing coup de ’tat in San Javier?”

Tsanāma recognised the speaker as Marina Santes, that Maurican witch-queen from the television. She kept her judgments to herself as she relayed the question to the President.

Shannēhan seemed to find the question amusing as he responded with a flurry of gestures with Tsanāma succinctly translated.

“The President’s administration is committed to using ORCA for its original purpose: to preserve peace in Argus. ORCA ends wars, not starts them.”

“But hasn’t peace already been broken-“ The President’s security cut Santes off as Shannēhan turned on his heal and stalked his way into the building.

Past the entrance they emerged into a long wide corridor that circle round the building: the West Gallery. The air inside the room was cool and lightly scented with the mix of polished wood and fresh flowers arranged tastefully along the corridor. Tsanāma glanced briefly at the long, polished tables lining the walls, where waitstaff moved gracefully, offering steaming cups of tea, coffee, and trays of delicate pastries. Many other dignitaries, leaders and staff were already present, gathered in clusters, engaged in low conversations that blended with the soft clinking of china cups.

Tsanāma took a deep breath as the heavy doors swung open. Inside, the room was already buzzing with activity, aides organizing briefing materials while diplomats settled into their seats. Shannēhan paused, his eyes scanning the room before glancing back at Tsanāma. He signed one last message before entering.

This is just the beginning. Be ready for anything.

[Ioudaia]

Iola Yemima had held the Argus portfolio for four years now, but this was the first time it might matter. The Argeans had largely settled matters themselves, but now it seemed the whole middle of the island was on fire: a belt of crises from Iersheno to Romancia. A lot to keep track of.

She'd been briefed, extensively, to make sure she had the latest information. To be doubly sure, she was trailed by a small flock of aides as she entered ORCA headquarters. Dror ben Gelo, a sign language interpreter, since the Tsunter president was here in person. Why the Six Kings didn't send Shir to talk to a head of government was beyond her, but she imagined that with several other fires burning across the Isles, an Assistant Minister was going to have to deal with these fires while her boss kept everybody on message and on target.

Just behind Dror was Amelia Keren Slater, Iola's expert on cloaks, daggers, and men with guns. Not that Amelia would be of much use, since the Expeditionary Forces kept up their non-denials about all of the Argean fires. At least the spies admitted to the Ministry of State that they provided "technical assistance" to help the Romancians get the email they'd dumped. But they claimed to be as clueless as everybody else about origin of the video.

Bokiwae Tal knew as much as the Ministry of State could teach him about Argean economics, and so was there to help out if the subject turned to aid packages, and Zethmus Yair was a spare diplomat in case several people wanted Iola's attention at once. Zethmus was also 11 years older than Iola, and a smoother diplomat, she thought, but he never got the big promotion.

Zethmus turned to Iola as they approached the meeting room. "I'll count noses as the delegations take their places. We'll see who believes in diplomacy and who doesn't." Iola nodded, conscious of the opening doors. Only our hosts here so far. Not necessarily the best sign.

[OOC: "Why the Six Kings didn't send Shir": Iola means Shir bat Hekabe Ushria, Ioudaian Minister of State (foreign minister).]

[Ainslie]

Renaut at ORCA pt 1
Day One, Morning | ORCA HQ
Kertalin, Keverai

The sun rays of a Kertalin morning danced through the open blinds of an amber-hued office. A man, with white though balding hair, was sat in front of a large wooden desk surrounded by loose pieces of paper. He preferred it this way - much of the government had chased after the IT revolution and technological innovation. There was nothing like paper for him. And boy, there was a lot of it.

Somehow he found what he needed to whilst fishing through the various binders and sheets across his desk. It was a small briefing paper he knew had to do with an important meeting today. Grabbing his suit jacket, he got the piece of paper and walked through the snaking corridors of the building he was in. Aides followed him, many of them holding folders. One even attempted to give him one, with little success.

Soon enough, he found himself in a limousine - making the short trip towards the ORCA headquarters in Kertalin. He knew the stakes of this meeting, yet was unfazed by it. The nations of Argus were always a turbulent bunch. He did not find much peace in preparing for what could never be truly anticipated. Instead he found himself best when thinking on the fly - letting his aides later backtrack or give him impromptu notes or briefings to guide his discussion on a given topic.

As the limousine pulled up to the large and imposing building, Renaut noticed the horde of journalists waiting outside of the front of it. His driver knew this well already, and made his way past them to sneak the President through the back entrance. After all, Renaut was a man of the headlines - now was not the time, though. Later, perhaps.

He had the responsibility of welcoming the various dignitaries to Keverai once again. Unfortunately, it was under circumstances he would have rathered not to be in. Conflict was breaking and crashing over the continent, mirroring the architectural liberties taken with the interior design of the building. For better or for worse, the President was unsurprised by this. He had always believed that Keverai was always a barometer for the continent at large. The mix of ethnicities, interests and politics in the nation made it have a complexion remarkably like their neighbours. Once the cities glossed over this reality, now, they were mere amplifiers for it.

These thoughts occupied his mind as he weaved amongst the various delegations whilst keeping an eye on who was still filing in - making sure to give them the prompt welcome some others were not afforded. The President himself knew that all of the heads of state were still making their way through the building - and inevitably would be delayed by the journalists out the front of it. As such, he took the opportunity to collect himself and then welcomed all the various leaders.

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Democratic Republic of Keverai

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Ainslie's chaotic side, in NPC form.
More info here.

[Wellsia]

Himilco XII watched the sun rising in the east, half listening to his staff as they went over the finer points of today's discussion concerning the Baumish-Romancia Conflict, if the incompetent Baumish had done things right the first time, none of this would be happening. Wellsia had come to Baumes' aid during the initial rebellion and Wellsians had lost their lives trying to keep this very thing from happening. Now fighting was going on again. Oh well, the good thing that had come out of the rebellion, was his son Izavales had grown up and not only finally found his way but had also found a wife. Natalie, a Romancian, was a breath of fresh air in the palace, well sometimes something good comes out of the worst mistakes.
Thinking of family, Himilco wished he had brought his wife Arinna with him, this was her thing, before the marriage she had been an intelligence analyst.
Sitting on the side of the bed, Himlco listened to the staff giving him the briefing as one valet pulled his boots own and another combed and styled his hair. Standing the valets finished dressing him with jacket and gorget. Lastly they fixed his belt with ceremonial blade on his hips, at first, he had thought of foregoing the belt and knife, but the protest of his chief valet about not being properly dressed and traditioned demanded it.
Now properly dressed and hopefully prepared, Himilco headed toward the meetings at ORCA headquarters building.

[Nhoor]

Acāver Jā̦ had never been to Keverai, not even since he became Foreign Minister in June 2020. Nevertheless, he had set up a face that – he hoped – expressed a kind of professionality as if this visit were nothing new to him. In the back of his head however, the 39-year old politician was already looking forward to the moment he could access his incognito social media account and upload his world map with the countries he had visited in his life; now including Keverai!

He was kind of nervous though. Nhoor was only an observer member state of ORCA, so he hoped that the other nations wouldn’t mind that he would be the highest ranking Nhoor official present during this summit. Prime Minister Orumha Cany had other obligations at home, with the charm offensives of Arzana and Corkair delegations visiting ROS nations this week to convince them to accept them as prospective member states.

The Minister covered his eyes with his hands as the bright rising sun blinded him. He was used to the high buildings of Sārruc keeping the sun away from the political centre until well after 9 AM. One of his assistants handed him a pair of sunglasses, which he refused. “I am not entering this summit looking like some kind of Arzanan godfather!” he thought, wondering why he had let him be convinced to wear a pinstriped suit.

He entered the building and immediately noticed several colleagues he already met. He approached them to greet them.

[Kravato]

"Zahem Chaliseph? Sandro?"

Sandro Burkas had lost track of the outside world while in the car. The city of Kertalin was beautiful, at least in this area. Glass buildings shimmered in the Southern Sea Sun. He made sure that his route to the headquarters would take him along streets with some view of the ocean. Its deep blue waves were visible from far out. The morning light made its crests like silver. There was little else Sandro enjoyed as much as seeing an early-hour ocean. It was half of the reason that his schedule included departing for a stroll along the Mesder at five in the morning. He reasoned seeing the ocean on his way to the summit would comfort him. Remind him of home, almost. But he knew that deep down it was because he wanted to drive through the nice parts of Kertalin and not upset his conscious before such an important meeting.

The city of Kertalin was like a perfect summary for the continent of Argus. Once Argean, colonized by Gaeltics, a hotspot in several major wars, and now home to widespread poverty and a questionable government. Kravatoans prided themselves on their status as one of the nicer nations in Argus. No civil conflicts, dictatorial governments, or deep social divisions for them. Admittedly, it was thanks to the beautiful sea that things didn't go awry. Waves stopped mainland invaders from attacking the island for hundreds of years, and by the time that they could cross the Iervitan strait, Kravato had the strength to bat them away.

Yes, this was why the glittering sea made Sandro feel so welcome. It was what helped separate his people and the others. It's what made Kravatoans uniquely safe. Their little buffer state, the Mesder Sea. It made him feel safe in strategy, and seeing it made him feel safe in mind. Maybe, somewhere far below his thoughts it did.

"Sandro? Are you alright?"

Oh, now he remembered.

"Yes, I'm fine Lofi. I was just looking around. Tchi, I did lose myself didn't I?" Sandro let out a chuckle. "What were you asking me, Lofi?"

"We're almost there. When we get out there'll be plenty of people. Your detail will make the pathway in easier. Are you presentable now though? You're definitely going to be in the papers."

Sandro pulled out a personal mirror. As a force of habit, Burkas had taken off his shoes in the car. It was a force of habit from long, private flights, where no one would judge him for his distaste of formal footwear. He looked at his face. His dark brown and gray locks were a little messy. He'd been told by his familiars to dye his hair, to retain looks of youth in office. He never liked it though, as he always thought that youthfully vibrant hair and a worn face would make it too obvious. He also liked the idea that he was stressed in office. Who'd re-elect a man that didn't even seem like they cared? Faded hair would do.

He took his comb out of the back of the mirror and pulled his hair back. He never had a problem with thick hair, so it was nice and easy. He held the top of his navy tie gave a resounding tug down. There was no look worse than a loose tie. He pulled down on his charcoal suit, making sure his shirt was tucked.

"Well, good Lofi, I am now."

"Alright, Sandro. We're here."

The surroundings suddenly became noisy. Lofi popped out of the car, as the noises suddenly got louder, and light poured in. He liked his windows tinted strongly, to keep out photos, but now the photos would start.

Lofi opened up the back door. "Good luck!" Lofi's figure faded away as Burkas walked towards the entrance. He let out a warm grin, some well-placed waves, a smile or too as he greeted his colleagues, the Minister of Foreign Affairs Hennerko Aukola, as well as some other aids he only partially knew, Elova something and something Patcharko. Hennerko had picked them, so he trusted them. His eyes picked out which journalists he would respond to. His strategists didn't like it, but he just couldn't help himself from answering questions.

He pointed over towards Edriko Hatvara, The Magistrate. He liked their paper, and their paper didn't hate him too much.

"Thank you, Zahem Chaliseph. What are your foreign policy goals going into this summit? Will you attempt to rekindle Tsunter-Kravatoan relations after the Red Hand incident?"

"Oh, good one Edriko. Personally, my goal here is to pursue the most peaceful and beneficial solution to all the discussed topics. And by beneficial, I do mean beneficial for all. As far as the Tsunter-Kravatoan relationship goes, I'd hate to see the events of one or two months ruin a strong relationship that's built over centuries of camaraderie. There's no point in sacrificing that."

"Thank you once again, Zahem Chaliseph."

Edriko's question was fun, but he was looking forward to a certain question that he knew they'd bring up. He wanted to take more questions, but knew it'd make Hennerko upset. He looked over at Hennerko, who smiled as Burkas put a step forward. Burkas stopped in his tracks and looked back at the frown forming on Hennerko's face.

"One more question, Burkas, seriously."

Burkas nodded, amusingly. He didn't want to make Hennerko too upset, so he;d respect his wishes. He pointed over at Argus Citizens Today, knowing that they'd give him a fun one.

"Will your administration attempt to solidify its political control over Iersheno at the summit?" Marina Santes's face was one he'd seen before. Here, he had an opportunity to answer this question before he got back home.

"Well, Marina, if I am correct, I don't want to solidify any control over Iersheno. Nothing of the sort is a priority for me or hopefully, anyone in my administration either. My Iershenovan priority is that the good people of the island are never ruled by Vacrus, or any dictatorial, unjust government, and that existing Kravatoan assets on the island don't go to waste, preventing us from protecting both the Kravatoan people as well as the Iershenovan people, who've definitely been through enough at this point."

Burkas turned away before she could think of something strong, heading towards the doors. Damn, he thought. That was creative of me, wasn't it? Now however, he started to feel upset himself. What lied ahead was a summit-full of dealing with rigid, traditional Tsunters, their president practically ancient. He'd have to push himself through plenty of preachy, out-of-touch Raelosi and Gaeltic observers, with little understanding of just how different and broken Argus was. There'd be no shortage of the Baumish defending their invasion of a foreign nation with excuses everyone knew were fabricated, solely made for the point of justification. And he'd have to agree with all of the aformentioned just so that he could get Kravato political control of Iersheno, as it desired, as it deserved. Wouldn't be a mess if it wasn't Argus, he reminded himself. Sweet floral smells braced him for the clamor he'd see on the other side of those big doors. He graciously accepted a cup of coffee from a waiter, anything to get his mind ready for the slog inbound.

"Some game we'll play, Hennerko?"

Aukola nodded. "Some game indeed."

[Avrazhim]

The smell of the car interior was the first thing to hit Benziom Giladev, even before the anger could fully sink in. Rich leather—expensive and overpowering, mixed with the faint trace of perfume lingering from the driver’s seat. He hated it, but it was meant to convey authority, wealth. A trick for the cameras, should any get too close. But none of that mattered right now, not while Menachem Shevardnadze was dragging the name of Avrazhim through the dirt—again.

"Yes, Rabbi, I saw it! I saw the video!" Giladev barked into the phone, his voice tight with rage. The Chief Rabbi's calm voice on the other end was doing nothing to ease his frustration. "That meshuggeneh Menachem was plastered. Drunk out of his skull, holding some bottle of Ahnslen red like it was a torch of freedom!"

The sleek black car jolted slightly as it moved over a speed bump, sending a vibration up through his back, up his spine, making him fidget. He adjusted his position, pulling at his too-stiff collar. The seat beneath him was warm, too warm. Sweat was beginning to bead under his arms despite the car’s air conditioning. Outside, the streets of Kertalin blurred by, sunlit and deceptively peaceful. He couldn’t see the people from behind the tinted windows, but he imagined them. Staring. Judging. Always judging.

"Rabbi, the man is a walking disaster. If Ainslie pulls out of the weapons deal because of this... this fool, I'll have his head!" The words were spat, dripping with disdain. That deal—it had been months of delicate maneuvering, backroom negotiations, promises made underhandedly and then swallowed in the dark. All jeopardized because Shevardnadze thought he could handle Ahnslen wine.

The Chief Rabbi tried to interject, to offer something resembling calm wisdom. But Giladev wasn’t having any of it. His finger hovered over the screen, ready to cut the call, when the car hit another bump, sending him tilting into the door.

"Fix it, Rabbi. That man’s an embarrassment to our people, and you know it. If he ever pulls another stunt like this, I’ll send him back to Avrazhim in chains. And you know I will!" With that, he hung up, throwing the phone onto the leather seat beside him. His hands trembled, but it wasn’t from fear—it was rage. Pure and distilled, like the alcohol his ambassador had enjoyed so much.

He glanced across the seat, where his bodyguard sat, stoic and silent, a great slab of muscle in a well-tailored suit. On his lap rested the ivory chest, the ornate pistols inside reflecting the sum of centuries of craftsmanship, of Avrazhi tradition. Gold. Intricate. Engraved with motifs from both Avrazhim and the Tsunterlands, it was a symbol—a declaration of unity, of friendship. It had taken weeks to prepare. Giladev had personally overseen every detail, right down to the floral designs that curled around the barrel, reminiscent of Avrazhi ceremonial patterns, but with Tsunter iconography woven in.

His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for the chest, to open it, to run his hands over the cool metal. But he didn’t. Not yet.

He shifted again in his seat. The car’s hum felt distant now, the leather sticking slightly to the back of his neck. The weight of the summit pressed down on him like an invisible hand, pushing, always pushing. The rejection of Resolution 34 had been a triumph—one of his finest moments. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. Momentum was key. This summit... if he could just maintain control, keep the pressure on, push forward...

But then the doubts came flooding back. Would the Tsunter President even appreciate the gun? Should he have gone with a horse? Too late now. Besides, the gun was perfect. Symbolic. A masterpiece. Surely...

The car slowed as they neared the summit entrance, the towering building of ORCA headquarters looming above them like a judgment. Another thing he hated—the scrutiny. The incessant watching. He pulled at his cufflinks, adjusting, readjusting. His short frame—just 5'7"—always made him feel even smaller in these settings. But that’s what the suits were for. The power play. The appearance of control.

His mind drifted back to Menachem. The wine. The idiot. He could see it in his mind: the Ambassador, slumped over, rambling, embarrassing everything—everything Giladev had fought to build. And for what? To be the laughingstock of Ainslie?

He reached for his phone again, but just then, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Outside the tinted window, a Keveraite civilian—young, thin, face twisted in confusion—was being slammed up against a brick wall by two police officers. Their uniforms were sharp, rigid, unforgiving, like the cold law they served. The man looked terrified, his hands spread against the rough stone as the officers patted him down, barking orders. His face hit the wall with a dull thud as one of them pushed harder.

And then, just like that, the moment passed. The car rolled on, smooth as silk, the muffled sounds of the city falling away as they approached the summit's grand entrance. Giladev didn’t spare a second glance.

The game was waiting behind those doors.

He took a breath. Adjusted his tie. The weight of the day—of Menachem, of the summit, of everything—pressed down on him like a storm cloud. But he was ready. He had to be.

"Show time," he muttered under his breath, fingers twitching again.

[The Tsunterlands]

Tsanāma took note of the attendees who had already arrived, assessing them in order of rank and distance from her own country. She spotted the representative from Ioudaia, a meddlesome nation but other than the competition over the microchips industry, not necessarily antithetical to Tsunter interests. Acāver Jā̦, the Nhoor Foreign Minister, was also present looking quite zesty in a pinstriped suit. He was no doubt looking to dig the ROS’ cold claws into Argus. The rest were all Argean born and bred. The Wellsian monarch, dressed out of time, had drawn lots of attention when he swept into the gallery, perhaps because of his sartorial habits but more likely due to his country’s recent alignment towards the autocrats of Gael. Tsanāma wondered if the Nhoor minister would have to address the recent protests against their countries shared familial ties. Giladev was at least dressed for this century, even if his country still languished behind its peers. Tsanāma had of course met the Avrazhi president during the recent state visit with Shannēhan. She’d liked him, perhaps just because the humble nature of his country reminded her of her childhood home in the interior. Renaut on the other hand… not so much. Still she kept those thoughts to herself, she was the President’s Voice, not his judgement.

When she spotted the Kravatoan Chaliseph, she pointed him out to Shannēhan. He furrowed his brow, gripped his cane and made his way over with Tsanāma following, ever faithfully. The two men hadn’t met for nearly a year, not since the Red Hand incident had stuck a rather unpleasant wrench in the normally highly-amicable relations between Kravato and the Tsunterlands.

“Salo Ghedro, Zahem Chaliseph.” She greeted the Kravatoan leader on her master’s behalf. “President Shannēhan is pleased to see you here. He believes there is much to be discussed before the talks begin.”

[Baumes]

Alessandra Orvande drummed her fingers against the armrest of the car seat, her heart rate matching the tapping rhythm as she glanced out of the window. The vehicle had been stationary for the better part of half an hour, trapped in a sea of cars. The delegate to ORCA, whom she represented on behalf of her country, couldn't believe her luck. Of all the days for the car to break down...

With a sigh, she checked her watch. The meeting was in ten minutes. If the car didn’t move soon, she would miss her first session, and that simply wasn't an option.

"Can we do anything?" Alessandra asked the driver, her voice edged with urgency.

“We're almost done,” the driver replied, sweating slightly as he tinkered under the hood.

The seconds ticked away, painfully slow. Just when Alessandra had considered abandoning the car to sprint to the building, the engine roared to life. With a slight jolt, the car resumed its journey, and Alessandra breathed a sigh of relief, though the tension remained in her muscles. She was cutting it close. As the ORCA headquarters came into view, Alessandra grabbed her briefcase and prepared for a sprint. The driver pulled up to the entrance, and she bolted out, heels clacking against the pavement as she rushed through the grand doors.

Her breath came in hurried gasps as she reached the meeting room, the heavy door looming ahead. Taking one last breath, she pushed it open. The room fell silent as Alessandra slipped in, aware of the many eyes turning towards her. She found her seat, straightened her jacket, and offered an awkward sheepish smile. "I apologize for the delay, everyone. We had some...technical issues on the way."

Her foreign counterparts offered nods of understanding. Alessandra sat back in her chair, calming her nerves as she readied herself to contribute to the day's discussions, relieved she had made it in time.

[Avrazhim]

As Benziom Giladev stood in the grand hall of the ORCA headquarters, the air felt thick with anticipation. His shoes clicked softly against the polished floor, each step echoing his mounting nerves. He scanned the room, his eyes darting from one delegation to another, searching, always searching.

Where was President Shannēhan?

And then, through the bustling crowd of diplomats, he spotted them—Shannēhan’s familiar figure amidst the Tsunter delegation, but not alone. Kravato. Of course. They were in conversation with Sandro Burkas, the Kravatoan leader, both men engrossed in what seemed like a casual exchange, but Giladev knew better. Nothing about this summit was casual.

Giladev’s hand reflexively tugged at his tie, tightening it against his throat. His thoughts churned as he observed the scene, trying to piece together the angles. Iesherno. That was the centerpiece. If Tsunterlands threw their weight behind Kravato’s ambitions in Iesherno, it could shift the entire balance. And if they didn’t... Well, the uncertainty was almost worse.

"Are they taking sides?" he muttered to himself, though his aide, a tall, lean figure with sharp eyes and quicker reflexes, caught the whisper.

Giladev turned sharply to the aide, his voice low but commanding, "Get to Shannēhan’s people. Tell them I’d love to meet with the Tsunter delegation in front of the press for the handover of the gift." His hand gestured toward the chest that held the ornately crafted pistols. "And make sure they understand their time is important to us, and we'll get the press notified too. I want this moment to be noticed."

The aide nodded, disappearing swiftly into the crowd.

Giladev turned back, scanning the room. His hands fidgeted again, fingers tapping rhythmically against his side as his gaze swept the delegations. His nerves buzzed, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. Not a moment to waste.

And then, something caught his eye—a flash of color, bold and unmistakable. Acāver Jā̦, the Foreign Minister of Nhoor, stood out in the sea of dark suits, his loud pin-striped ensemble impossible to miss. Giladev felt a flicker of relief. Acāver Jā̦ wasn’t just a flamboyant figure; he was someone Giladev could work with. Their nations, though distant in many ways, had shared interests. And now, with the newly appointed Avrazhi ambassador settling in Nhoor, there were fresh opportunities to explore.

His expression shifted, a practiced smile curving across his lips. He straightened his jacket, crossing the room with purposeful strides, pushing aside his irritation at Menachem’s earlier disgrace. Focus. Focus on the game ahead.

“Minister Acāver Jā̦!” Giladev called out warmly, catching the Nhoor representative’s attention as he approached. “It’s good to see you again.”

Acāver Jā̦ turned, his eyes glinting with recognition. His smile mirrored Giladev’s, though perhaps with a touch more exuberance.

“I trust our new ambassador, Mr. Elor Tamir, is settling in well? He’s spoken very highly of your hospitality.” Giladev’s tone was careful, measured. It was important to strike the right balance—informal enough to suggest camaraderie, but not so casual that it undercut the gravity of the summit.

“And of course, we’re eager to welcome your newly appointed ambassador to Avrazhim, Mr. Mosē̦d Jwnuyseqh. I think there’s much we can accomplish together in the coming months.”

His fingers twitched at his side again, that ever-present nervous energy threatening to spill over, but he kept his gaze steady, waiting for Acāver Jā̦'s response.

[Nhoor]

“Mr President, I was hoping to bump into you”, the Minister said, bowing his head to Avrazhi president Giladev. “I am glad that our countries managed to exchange embassies! Unfortunately the rest of my government is far too hesitant to be this proactive internationally; they like to keep their distance. The whole ROS thing is already a miracle in itself…”

[Avrazhim]

Giladev’s smile lingered just a moment longer than comfortable as Acāver Jā̦ mentioned his government’s hesitation on international affairs. His mind was already racing. Hesitant. The word clung to him like a burr. In Argean politics, hesitation was death. Still, he kept his face smooth, his fingers adjusting the cuff of his shirt—again—as if that would silence the noise in his head.

"Minister," he began, voice warm, but a touch too eager. "I understand, truly. Sometimes diplomacy takes longer than we would like. But the exchange of embassies... it’s the start of something, wouldn’t you say?" His hand twitched toward his lapel, fingers running along the embroidered fabric. "And there’s so much potential here."

Across the room, Giladev’s eyes flicked toward King Himilco of Wellsia, the monarch’s towering figure unmistakable. The Eastern Tripartite's newest member. Giladev’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to glance away before the scowl fully formed.

"Especially now," he continued, voice lowering just slightly, "with certain... realignments happening. I'm sure you’ve noticed." His eyes slid sideways, subtle, as he nodded in King Himilco’s direction. "Wellsia’s recent… decisions are something we’re all watching closely, yes?"

The words dripped carefully, each one placed just so. No need to overplay it. He didn’t have to spell out his concerns about the Eastern Tripartite, not when the weight of Himilco’s presence was so loud in the room. Let the Minister fill in the blanks. Giladev’s hands fidgeted with his cufflinks as he gauged Jā̦’s reaction, his thoughts darting. Wellsia. Lesva. Balnik. The alliances were shifting, tightening, and he was stuck between giants. Wellsia’s newly found aggression could spill over the border any day.

But that wasn’t something he could say to Jā̦—Nhoor had always been careful, distant, playing at neutrality. He needed a softer touch.

"Of course," he added, leaning in slightly, his voice sliding into a lower, conspiratorial tone, "I know that Nhoor is careful with its alliances. Rightfully so. But I imagine some of the moves we’ve seen with... certain authoritarian leaders in Raedlon might be giving pause." His fingers tapped absently on his thigh, a rhythm matching his heartbeat. Don’t push too hard. He knew Nhoor had shown discomfort with how some of its ROS partners were cozying up to Lesva’s dictator, Marshal Scadi Luna, but that wasn’t a thread he could pull on directly—not yet.

Giladev’s eyes flicked to the Minister again, watching for any hint of discomfort, of agreement. Was it too much? Too blunt?

"But not all is grim." He shifted gears, the anxious energy now coiling into a practiced smile. "I’ve been particularly pleased to see how your relations with our Thythean friends have developed. A promising move." His fingers stilled, resting briefly against the edge of his jacket. This is where I can win him. "Thythe, you know, has been one of Avrazhim’s most important partners—natural gas, food resources... we’ve built something strong. And now, with Thythe signaling interest in joining the ROS?" He let out a soft chuckle, just enough to feign ease. "It could open doors, not just for them, but for all of us."

There. Let him chew on that.

Giladev shifted slightly, his weight pressing into the heel of his shoe, trying to ground himself. Momentum, that’s what matters. Thythe was the ticket—its potential ROS membership would let Avrazhim’s resources flood the Raedlon markets. Nhoor, with its ties already forming, could be the bridge he needed. But he couldn’t come off desperate. Not now. Not yet.

"And I think," he added with a glance at Jā̦, "with a mutual friend like Thythe, we could find... opportunities. A way forward that benefits everyone, wouldn’t you agree?"

[The Tsunterlands]

Tsanāma stepped back slightly as President Shannēhan squared his shoulders, tapping his cane lightly against the ground as he looked over at Sandro Burkas. His sharp eyes betrayed nothing of his seventy years, scanning the Kravatoan Chaliseph with the cool demeanor of a man accustomed to long diplomatic games. With a quick flick of his hand, Shannēhan began to sign, his fingers moving decisively.

Tsanāma, standing faithfully by his side, translated his words aloud.

"President Shannēhan thanks you for the opportunity to speak, Zahem Chaliseph," she began, her voice clear and formal. "There is no doubt that we have a few outstanding matters to resolve, especially regarding recent events." Her eyes moved from Shannēhan’s gestures back to Burkas as she continued. "The President sees this summit as an opportunity to move past the tensions caused by the Red Hand incident."

Burkas nodded, his expression measured but his lips turning upward into a polite smile. He straightened his navy tie, taking a moment before speaking.

"Yes, it’s about time we close that chapter," Burkas replied, his voice smooth. "Kravato and the Tsunterlands have always benefited from mutual understanding. The Red Hand incident, while unfortunate, shouldn’t stand in the way of long-term interests. I’m sure we both agree on that."

Shannēhan’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching the edge in Burkas' tone. He signed again, his movements deliberate. Tsanāma, ever in sync with her president, translated swiftly.

"President Shannēhan agrees. We have a long history of collaboration, Zahem Chaliseph. And for the sake of both our nations, there is much we can still achieve together. He believes, however, that the matter of Iersheno must be addressed before we move forward."

Burkas raised an eyebrow but kept his composure.

"Iersheno..." Burkas said slowly, leaning in just a little. "You know that Kravato’s interests on that island go beyond mere political ambition, Shannēhan. We share a deep historical connection with its people, and we cannot let Vacrus or any other power use it as a pawn in their games. Iersheno is vital to our security. It has to be part of Kravato’s sphere of influence—fully."

Tsanāma relayed Burkas' words to Shannēhan, whose expression didn’t change. The old Tsunter leader was unmoved by sentiment, focused only on what was best for his nation. After a pause, he began to sign once more, faster this time, with a sharpness to his movements.

"President Shannēhan understands your position. But Kravato must understand that in exchange for Tsunter support on Iersheno, the Tsunterlands will require a concession of its own."

Tsanāma translated the message fluidly, but the tension in the air was undeniable as Shannēhan continued signing, his hands quick and firm.

"Keverai," she said, her voice steady. "President Shannēhan will offer his full support for Kravato’s ambitions in Iersheno, but in return, he expects Kravato not to interfere with Tsunter plans to exert greater control over the Republic of Keverai. You know its strategic importance to us—and the stability of the region."

Burkas frowned slightly.

"I see," Burkas said, letting out a slow breath. "Keverai, you say. It’s no secret Kravato has watched the developments there closely. But if I’m hearing you right, you want Kravato to step back. To leave Keverai to the Tsunterlands." He paused. "If we agree to this, Shannēhan, I expect Tsunter support to be solid. No second-guessing when it comes to Iersheno."

Tsanāma quickly translated for Shannēhan, who responded with a slight nod before signing again, this time slower, more measured.

"President Shannēhan assures you," Tsanāma translated, her voice soft but firm, "the Tsunterlands will fully support Kravato’s claim to Iersheno. No second-guessing, no backpedaling. But in return, Kravato must refrain from involving itself in Keverai’s internal matters. This is non-negotiable."

"Very well. Kravato will stay out of Keverai. In exchange, Iersheno is ours to protect. Agreed."

Shannēhan’s face softened, and he signed once more, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

"President Shannēhan is pleased," Tsanāma said, her voice reflecting her leader’s approval. "We have an agreement."

Burkas extended his hand, and after a brief moment, Shannēhan, with a glance at Tsanāma, grasped it firmly.

OOC: Written in Collaboration with Kravato

[Nhoor]

“But Thythe has not been signaling interest in joining ROS”, Acāver Jā̦ said. “Their Prime Minister has made it clear that their current government policy is not to pursue membership of international allicances. It was an opposition party that wanted to push for ROS membership. Thythe would be eligible as a member state though, since the latest revision of the Treaty of Sārruc.”

The Minister was a little bit surprised that the Avrazhi President had perhaps read too much into Thythe’s ROS aspirations, or rather lack thereof. Maybe has was just a victim of his own wishful thinking. He also wondered if he should mention anything regarding President Giladev’s remarks about Wellsia, but decided not to. Wellsia’s recent flirts with the Eastern Tripartite had brought a negative focus on Nhoor’s Royal Family and spindoctors were working overtime to turn the general public’s attention away from this.

“Of course”, he continued, “opportunities exist in all corners; if our partners make attractive offers, my government is very much willing to negotiate about terms, as long as they don’t clash with existing agreements. For larger scale economic interaction, Avrazhim would have to negotiate with ROS as a whole.”

[Wellsia]

Himilco leaned against the wall and watched the gathering, observing the different leaders and dignitaries, reading the room so to say. He would have to have a talk with the Ioudaian. Their troops had tangled with Wellsian cavalry in Baumes, he smiled as he thought back to the call from the Ioudian president about the mistake of seizing Malachus, he had almost let them keep him. Oh well he had agreed recognize Romancia's independence and pull his regiment out.
Well now, what's this, he noticed Benziom Giladev of Avrazhim heading toward the Nhoor Foreign Minister, what was his name, oh yeah Acaver Ja. He needed to make sure he asked about the Nhoor Royal Family. He watched Giladev's face tighten just a fraction, before he turned away quickly. The man couldn't play poker or politics, he showed his emotions to quick. That scowl would have to be answered before the meeting was over. Needed to be something completely innocent and subtle. He knew he had promised to "play nice" to the Littles, but he would answer to the terrible threesome, his grandson, granddaughter and daughter when he got home.
Oh, what is this Kravato's Chaliseph and Tsunterlands President were involved in something serious Old Shannehan looked irate at the rapid movement of his hands in Tsunter sign language. He was sure that Sandro was trying to get support over Isherno, he just wondered what Tsunterland would demand in return, that could be the important part. It was partially Tsunter-Kravato relationship that forced him into the Eastern Tripartite, the fear of them closing the Isherno Strait. That and a desire to counter Ainslie, Altera and the United Republics by getting allies in Gael. He needed those three to keep their tentacles out of Argus and the Southern Sea. Kravato and Tsunterland could wait, the scowl couldn't. He called over one of the servers.
Himilco walked over to where the Giladev and Acaver Ja were talking. "Foreign Minister Ja, it's a pleasure to see you again, it has been quite a while since I've had the pleasure. Tell me, how is my daughter, the Queen, and my grandchildren doing."
Turning to the Avrazhim President. "Benziom, how are things going in Azrazhim? I always like to make sure that everything is going smooth with my neighbors. By the way have you tried some of the wines they are serving here? May I recommend the Ahnslen Red, it has a quite smooth taste."

[Avrazhim]

As soon as Minister Acāver Jā̦ mentioned Thythe’s stance on ROS, Giladev felt his stomach lurch. He kept his smile fixed, though the knot of tension coiled tighter in his chest. Wrong brief, damn it. He cursed the staffer under his breath, the one who’d clearly failed to clarify the situation. He could already feel the misstep hanging in the air, visible like a smudge on his otherwise meticulous political posture. His hand instinctively reached for the hem of his jacket, fingers pressing into the fabric. A subtle grounding technique—one of many he'd perfected over the years to keep that anxious energy from spilling over in moments like these. He smoothed the lapel once, twice. Breathe. Move forward.

Giladev nodded along, as though he'd meant every word, his expression never faltering, even as his mind whirled. Of course it was the opposition pushing ROS membership, not the government. A miscalculation, yes, but not fatal—at least not yet. He’d have to pivot.

Just as he began crafting a more measured response to Jā̦, the towering figure of King Himilco entered the conversation, bringing with him that smug aura Giladev had come to expect. He turned toward the Wellsian King, forcing another smile, but inwardly, he braced himself. When Himilco made his casual dig—the wine, of course—Giladev felt his irritation flare once again. Of all things.

Himilco's barb, though, was met with a carefully measured smile. “Your Majesty,” Giladev replied, his voice even, his gaze steady, “things are as smooth as one can expect in Avrazhim, though I’d say it’s fortunate we’re both here. Ambassadors, after all, aren’t always quite... enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

The words slipped out as if benign, though Giladev took a certain satisfaction in the subtle jab. His fingers brushed the seam of his jacket again, once more grounding himself in that moment, refusing to let the tension overwhelm him.

He then shifted gears, smoothing over the exchange as quickly as it had spiked. “I’ve appreciated the strong stance both our nations took with Resolution 34,” he added, “ensuring stability in Baumes is something I think we both understand the value of, especially in these uncertain times.”

He turned to the Nhoor Foreign Minister, addressing him once more. “Minister Jā̦, I must say, Romancia has been at the forefront of so many discussions of late. I know Nhoor abstained on the vote for Resolution 34, which has piqued my curiosity. Your country’s position, as always, is an important one, and I’d be very interested to hear more about where you see this heading. Especially given how rapidly things are changing on the ground there.”

As he spoke, his fingers brushed the sleeve of his jacket one last time, a subtle reminder to keep control. The faux pas about Thythe? A wrinkle, not a tear. He’d move past it—he always did.

[Nhoor]

The King of Wellsia had entered the scene. Nhoor Foreign Minister Acāver Jā̦ immediately sensed the room temperature drop by a lot, at least figuratively: the disdain King Himilco radiated towards President Benziom Giladev of Avrazhim seemed only compensated by the latter’s irritation about the former’s presence so close to him. While the two exchanged some smalltalk that to people who did not know the two heads of state must have sounded simple and friendly enough, Jā̦ suspected that especially the President was indeed performing a feat of strength by managing to control himself. The Minister was briefly occupied by this spectacle and only right on time noticed that the King had asked him a question.

“Your Majesty,” he said, after bowing his head to the Wellsian monarch. “Her Majesty the Queen and their Royal Highnesses the Princes and the Princess are in excellent health, as is His Majesty King Elerha. I hope the same can be said about their family in Wellsia, including yourself?” He decided not to mention the protests against the recent foreign policy of Wellsia; King Himilco was surely aware of developments concerning his family.

The King then addressed the President, who answered with a hidden reference to a controversial visit the Wellsian King had paid to the League of the Western Isles in March. Jā̦ had to stifle a laugh when the President said the word enough with a little too much emphasis: he remembered the many memes that flooded the internet following King Himilco’s appearance in the League. Laughing about this now would however be very inappropriate and could possibly undo his career as an international politician and diplomat, and he was too professional for that anyway.

President Giladev had turned to the Minister once again, asking him about Nhoor’s stance about Romancia. “The Dominion of Nhoor has never recognised Romancia”, Jā̦ explained. “Nhoor has a good relationship with Baumes and has no intention of putting that into jeopardy. Our abstention was the only logical answer to the resolution as both a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ would have expressed an opinion about a territory the Dominion considers to be part of Baumes. By the same reasoning, my recent criticism on fellow ROS members was about them doing business with the State of Lesva, which is not recognised by Nhoor either. As we are all members of the same organisation, it could of course have complicated consequences if individual member states are conducting affairs with entities that are not recognised by other member states.”

The Minister smacked his lips. The Wellsian King talking about wine had made him thirsty!

[The Tsunterlands]

A slight man from Keverai, dressed in a crisp grey suit, quietly entered the West Gallery.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying a calm authority. “On behalf of the Organisation for Regional Cooperation in Argus, we thank you all for making the journey to Kertalin. If you’d kindly follow me, we’re ready to commence the summit in the conference room.”

The delegates began to filter into the conference chamber—a large, dimly lit space with an air of quiet tension. The room is dominated by a vast, segmented round table, each section neatly prepared for the attendees. At the head of the table sits Sansērra Raham, the acting chairwoman-in-chief of ORCA, her sharp features framed by greying auburn hair. Severe and composed, she scanned the room as the representatives take their seats, her eyes betraying no emotion, only expectation.

“Thank you all for attending,” she began in a measured tone, hands clasped before her. “It’s encouraging to see so many nations committed to fostering peace across Argus.” She paused. “As per our agreed agenda, we’ll begin today’s session with a discussion on the escalating situation in Romancia, within the Republic of Baumes.”

Her gaze shifted toward one of the attendees. “Representative Alessandra Orvande, the floor is yours. Please outline the current violence in Romancia, what your government is doing to address it, and how the international community might contribute to restoring stability.”