**The Federation of Brislow** As late morning hung over the designated Nova Domovian airport, the plane holding Brislow, or more specifically, President Kjell Vollan and a translator, landed on the airstrip. The news of the terrorist attack in Monrot had swept through his nation like wildfire, igniting the Brislowian people who then demanded President Vollan to take action. And while he wasn't too inclined about the idea of starting an all out war with Lagitia or Monrot should they begin fighting, he agreed that something had to be done. If Brislow had to step in to try and put an end to the war, then so President Vollan would make the call. After all, his nation was threatened, bordering Monrot. There was low chance he could simply ignore a war raging just past his borders, because that war could very easily spill out onto Brislowian soil. This was the mindset he arrived in Nova Domov with, and he got off his airplane feeling confident that things could be settled. He greeted his escort politely, taking into account that there were still other escorts awaiting their specific leader. This didn't come as much of a surprise to President Vollan, as he was one who usually arrived early in order to get things properly organized.

**Novo Domov International Airport** Air traffic control techs diligently sat at their terminals in the control tower overlooking the runways at Nova Domov's busiest airport. The control room shuddered every now and then as jets screamed just overhead just prior to coming to a screeching halt on the tarmac. Incoming delegates from around the world were touching down every fifteen minutes, all arriving for the summit hosted by President Novak. There was little room for being inattentive here - a few seconds of negligence could cost the life of a foreign dignitary. One such tech was thus quite justifiably concerned when an ominous, blinking light appeared onscreen. "Sir!" He reported, bolting up from his seat. "Unidentified aircraft closing in at Mach 1 at low altitude. Radar profile is consistent with fighter aircraft; recommend calling the president at once." ["No need for alarm."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2r8qpf2Paw) The flight control manager denied, knowingly shaking his head as he sipped from a steaming mug. A flash of motion shot past the airfield, stealing the attention of the flight control techs. A sleek jet fighter - painted bright red and adorned with yellow flame decals on its wings and fins- screamed down the airfield at full speed before pulling into a sharp upward climb. A thunderous crash rattled the control tower as the jet's sonic boom reached the airfield. The fighter dove down from the sky and leveled out with the runway at a far slower - though still alarming - speed. The fighter swooped down over the wing of an airliner and then touched down itself. The fighter taxied itself down to the terminals with total disregard of air traffic control, leaving the younger techs flabbergasted. The air traffic manager, however, had seen it all before. "But call the limo drivers up to the terminal. They'll want to know that the Lizard delegation just landed." ____________________________________ Bert, the High Lizard King of Lizard Island, shoved the cockpit of his idling fighter open and slid down the nose of the plane and onto the tarmac. He tore the bug-eyed pilot helmet off his face and threw the headgear into the cockpit as the hatch shut automatically behind him. He was, indeed, a lizard. Fiery orange-yellow eyes with a deep, black slits sat upon the head of a bipedal gecko standing a bit six feet in height. He replaced his helmet with a crown and dark aviator sunglasses, and produced a cigar from the pocket of his patch-studded leather jacket. A black, polished limousine eased down to the runway toward the parked fighter and King Bert. The Lizard King puffed away on the cigar as the car parked itself alongside the jet. "Esteemed High Lizard King Bert," The chauffeur addressed Bert as he exited the driver's door, "welcome to Nova Domov. I am here to provide transportation to the summit today." "Neato." Bert acknowledged unenthusiastically, letting himself into the rearmost door of the car. His driver, seeing him continue to puff away in the limousine, nervously knocked on the window. "Forgive me, my liege, but we do not permit smoking in the limousine." "That's too bad." King Bert decided, continuing to stoke the cherry on the end of his cigar. "So are you taking me to this thing or what, bud?"

 **The People's Republic of Belkern** A massive aircraft resembling a Lockheed C-5 Galaxy descended upon the runway. Belkern, being a very insular nation, was not often one for visitations to other countries. However, the leadership had decided this particular outing would be worth their time, and with their arrival came the usual unusual spectacles heralding the arrival of Belkern on foreign soil. As the rear ramp brought itself slack against the ground, a procession of uniformed men were revealed to be waiting in formation within. They immediately began marching in lock step, each waving above them the hideous flag of their nation as they disembarked. Behind the stream of banner bearers followed a band, who played the [anthem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CqktrVbyVk) enthusiastically. Belzerk von Trapt, Lord Chancellor of Belkern, was amidst the last group to depart from the aircraft's innards. Among his retinue were his armed guards, as well as several of his military officials. His sanctioned canine handlers gripped the leashes to his three pets: two Tamaskan dogs, and one wolf. Given the visual similarities between Tamaskan dogs and wolves, it was hard to discern which was which. Belzerk himself wore a ludicrously long cape which sagged along the ground behind him and bore the design of the Belkernese flag. Beneath his cloak was a grey uniform befitting a military commander of the last century, its collar high and its innards red. He brought his band to a pause with a gesture. As his cohorts saluted at him, he saluted back. This set off a chain reaction of saluting as the officials saluted each other, then turned and saluted their other colleagues. Even Belzerk's prized canines, as well trained as they were, issued a few salutes of their own, raising their paws. After a frenzied moment of saluting, Belzerk turned away and surveyed his surroundings with his one steely grey eye (his other was obfuscated by an eye-patch which was also painted in the style of the flag). Trapt motioned towards his assigned escorts with a brief, insouciant swipe of his gloved hand. "Take me to your leader and delay not a moment more, lest the greatness of our kind cause your inferior people any more distress than necessary." He commanded, his disinterest and disdain abundant. Trapt slicked his jet black hair back as his overly large procession was led towards their destination. As they observed the environs of this unfamiliar nation around them, some seemed sickened, others scowled sourly. One general even looked down to his raised boot with disgust every other moment, as if each step he took deeper into this alien land was like treading in another mound of dog droppings.

Among the rocks and the trees and the wet, dead grass of the great Patagonian wilderness, the raw-wood village of Battlesteak was filled with the sounds of the Pankration. It was angry drum beats and shouting fans, barking dogs and humph of warriors fighting it out in the ring. Night had came hours before, and the starry infinity above was joined by simple torchlight below. The Pankration was a simple type of fight, where the only rules were about what one could take into the Arena. Once there, armed with only your hands and feet, you could do whatever you want. These fights were common for the Bearfighter warriors, as they called themselves. Tonight's event was something else, however. Tonight was the Bloodfight. In the bloodfight, the warriors slit their left arms so that the stingy, sticky blood of their opponents became another weapon. By the end of a Bloodfight tourney, where these matches took place one after another for hours and hours, the dirt of the arena was stained a deep red. A late fight meant more honor. Brevo was a simple warrior - a man from the Boarhurter clan who's green banner was one of the many that flew on the Bearfighter pole. He was of normal height, and his black hair was joined by a pointed mustache that hung down to frame his mouth. He had won two fights, and surprised everyone when he threw a ceremonial bayoneted AR-15 into a straw-stuffed target on the far side of the Arena, signifying he was ready to go another round. "Brevo! Brevo!" his clansmen chanted. The next man in the Arena was from the Cattlepuncher tribe. He was taller than Brevo, but much thinner and with only a small amount of peach fuzz on his chin. He was handed a blade, and gleefully cut into his arm. Brevo reopened his own wound, and felt the air swirl around him for a second before he got his balance. Soon, they were fighting. It was a whirl of fists. Brevo felt the Cattlepuncher's fist strike him in the gut, where he had been struck in the previous round. Brevo tried to get his foe in a headlock, but the slippery blood that covered bother of them let the Cattlepuncher go free. Before Brevo could act, the Cattlepuncher's elbow was in his face. Once, then Twice, and the world flashed to black.

 **Novo Domov International Airport** “Remind me why we're here again?” said the good and pleasing pretty pony princess Dave as he lounged back in the seat of his private jet. The sounds of the screeching scram jets muffled against the glossy fiberglass and aluminum hull of his chariot. “To assert our political influence.” said his adviser, a skinny Latino man going by the name of 'Chico'. He looked up at his leader with a despondent glare, “It's really all that simple. We have no business in the region being half a world away, but since we heard the damnable lizards were going then there's no reason for us not to be there. “Besides, we might actually figure something out. Anything really.” “Oh.” Dave replied, nonchalantly. His skinny white hands crawled up under his fedora as he scratched at the roots of his long, straight, oily black hair. He hadn't bothered with formal attire as demanded of the situation. Surrendering instead to a casual black leather jacket by Georgio Armani. 'JanTrahn' stitched just over the front-breast pocket. “Indeed, sir.” Cicho bowed, “And we'll be touching down at the Nova Domov Capital airport soon. “Noma Domov.” Dave scoffed, “Who thinks of these names?” “Quite.” Chico replied, rolling his eyes. Clearly thinking of the nation he now called home: Mulp. At least the pay was good. “By the way, has the Department of Glorious Scientific Advancement messaged you back on any updates?” Dave asked, fastening his seat belt. “Am I your secretary?” Chico asked, doing the same. His brown eyes glowing up at his leader, passively annoyed with him. “You are.” he affirmed. “Then yes, I got the E-mail not long after we set off. They believe we'll have a presentable product for the newest generation of research by the end of next week. They're only running some final tests of the first samples of this generation to make sure they're at least safe. “This time.” “Oh I can't wait!” Dave chirped excitedly, drumming his feet on the cabin floor as he watched the city landscape outside draw up closer, “After so many years and generations of genetic experimentation! We'll finally have them!”

**Novo Domov International Airport** The gray plane went down and landed, touching down gently on the paved runway. It was brightly polished, the national flag of Ltek clearly standing out on the side of the dull-colored plane. The doors on the side opened, and a foot stepped down, followed by four more. "So, this is Novo Domov. Nice place, I suppose. President Novak will need to explain this, we don't have the details of the situation back home. Oh well." King Tarle stepped out of his plane, accompanied by his five-man guard. After all, this was about terrorism, was it not? They all had the flag of Ltek sewn into their uniforms. Tarle's advisor, and also close friend, Charlie Lakno, led him outside. "Tarle, we've never been here. Are you sure it is safe?" He was the only one besides the King's family allowed to call him that. His family. Tarle wondered why he hadn't brought them here, and then remembered. This was about a country that had been struck by terrorism, and they might have gone over the border. He didn't want his family to get involved if that were the case. He then patiently waited for his escort.

**Nova Domov Capital Airport** The airplane touched down on the tarmac, coasting along to a slow crawl as the local air traffic control directed the airplane of the South American leader. There was a reserved business to the activity on the tarmac. Hastily doing their work to direct and see to the airplane. But not busying themselves so much as to cause potential insult or even show as if they would endanger the men aboard. The jet engines fell low. The intensity of their burn lowering to a slightly more tolerable rumble as the slick and pearl-white private jet braked. Already a black limousine waited on the tarmac next to it as it lowered its purple-velvet lines entry steps. Unfolding onto the ground Dave and his entourage made quick to get into the limousine and be on their way, not wishing to be late. With a thud the limo doors slammed shut behind them, and the Mulp delegation was on their way. “I suppose I should go over the published outline for today's summit.” said Chico, “If for posterity.” “You could.” Dave responded, reclining back against the plush crimson seats of the limo's interior cab. His greasy green stare turned over to the side, where he noticed the mini-fridge tucked in under neath the window seats. “But can you?” he added, with a toyish smile. “Your excellency, this is not a game. I certainly can.” Chico snapped. “Oh!” Dave called sternly, leaning to the refrigerator, “Don't be rude! I am the Pretty Pony Princess.” he remarked with a smug look. The reminder of Chico's position on the pecking order shut him up. He gave a long drawn out sigh. “Very well.” he began, “The main purpose of the summit here today is to discuss acts of accused terrorism between the states of Lagita and Monrot. No doubt Nova Domov may seek a way to encourage the international community to condemn them to pressure the two states from going to war. We're going to no doubt be asked to condemn the acts of terrorism in this international summit, and commit to make moves against it. “Besides this, I assume we could always use it to make our own personal gains. If you would I will represent our nation on the floor and you can sulk about the backrooms pursuing whatever goals you want, or you can go on the floor. Either way, my Pretty Pony Princess.” “Oh, that's find. I'll go on the floor.” Dave said, agitated, “But we got a problem.” “And what would that be?” “Motherfuckers didn't pack me any Mountain Dew!? How am I supposed to function without my Politics Fuel, DAMMIT!” Chico stared blankly towards the arcing figure leaning into the mini-fridge like some possessed boa constrictor. He again sighed. “I'll see what I can set up when we arrive.” he said unenthusiastically.