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In Lutte, the Council Building stands resolute in the center of the settlement, its towering figure peering over the chimneys and roofs of the surrounding buildings. Its brown bricks become cleaner as the building goes higher and higher, capped with a pristine bronze roof on the clock tower. In its bowels, the Small Council meets routinely. 11 members sit around the table, waiting for their last member with various degrees of patience. The Fleet Admiral eats a foul-smelling fish sandwich, and receives disgusted grimaces from the High Chamberlain. The High Justice flicks through papers, and the Field Marshall fidgets in her seat, looking at the clock every few seconds. Eventually the High Consul walks through the door, accompanied by a sigh of satisfaction. Things settle down into tedium. Trade talks, budget meandering, and the rest pass uneventfully. Military fears are discussed and dismissed, and the topic of the draft comes up briefly before being dismissed quickly, the Council unwilling to be drawn into that particular tooth-and-nail debate. After the foreplay of unimportant talk, the High Consul calls for order to speak. “Fellow Councilors. Ahem. FELLOW COUNCILORS”. The council falls silent. “I have before me a paper from Lucius Medici, High Consul of the Kingdom of the Red Dragon.”. The High Chamberlain speaks briefly, a confused expression on his wide face “Those spear-throwers from the South? You’re telling me they have diplomats?”. Before the Consul can respond, Marshal Lysette elbows him in the side roughly, and in quiet tones explains the reality of the situation, motioning for the Consul to continue. “They are offering to receive a representative from our Republic, to negotiate trade. A friendly port on the southern continent would be a windfall, and it is my proposal that the Council act on such events as quickly as possible.” A chorus of ‘Aye’ goes round the table, before the Councilors stop, bemused at the first unanimous vote in who knows how long. The Consul smiles and sits back down, obviously pleased with himself. The meeting continues for a time, but after another quarter of an hour it is adjourned, and the 12 most important people in the nation return to their various duties. Just outside, Marshal Lysette walks quickly to speak with Consul Montefleur. “High Consul, I have a recommendation for the diplomat.” The Montefleur sighs. “I wonder, Marshal Lysette, would this recommendation be your protegee… what was her name?”. Quickly, the Field Marshal responds. “Colonel MacAlistair is the perfect choice! She is well-known, garnering favor in Red Dragon. She’s an immigrant, which will get good press at home. She is charismatic, and better, she is the perfect leader for the 2nd Dragoons, who are going with her.” The Consul stopped walking, the Marshal overtaking him before walking back. “Marshal Lysette, please do not tell me that you think sending an ARMY REGIMENT with a diplomat is a good idea!” His voice has raised to a shout at this point. “I don’t need to care what you think, they are my soldiers to do with what I please. I am sending them to protect our diplomat, and to measure up the military capabilities of the Red Dragon. That is all you have to know. Any other reasons are mine and mine alone.” The Consul sighs, used to the pig-headedness so pervasive in the military. “Fine”, he says dejectedly, but the Marshal has already left, leaving him standing alone in the long, wood-floored hallway. A few hours later, two women in uniform, one clad ostentatiously in epaulets and gold braid, one in the plain blue, marked only by the silver eagle of Colonel. They talk casually, despite the difference in rank. “Remember Colonel – you are not to make a scene. Bow, courtesy, do whatever they ask of you. Fetch and carry if you have to, and whatever you do, ensure you give a good first impression to their leadership. This mission is of the utmost importance, and with this trade deal millions will benefit. Once you have established diplomatic talks, and ONLY when you have done so, open this.” The Field Marshall hands the young Colonel Lea MacAlistair a large envelope, sealed with the army insignia in deep red wax. The Colonel salutes. “Yes ma’am. I will do you proud.”. The Marshal returns the salute as the Colonel walks off to board the train that holds her new command. The Consul and the High Justice glare at each other in a wood-paneled private room of their particular favourite club. The Justice smokes a fat, cheap cigar, while the Consul drinks some inexpensive brandy in unhealthy amounts. The Consul speaks first. “The dispatch from the Red Dragon was not the only missive I received. The other was one of particular interest to Luminor, and their opposition party. Our informants tell us that the tensions between the protectionist government and the more favourable opposition party are growing, and our spies tell us that we are in a position to influence policy. I propose we send a somewhat more subtle representative to speak with this opposition party, and try and earn trade rights. I need your help.” The High Justice looks pensively at the wall. The Consul knows this is a contentious issue for his opposite, and expected a long deliberation. What he did not expect was the High Justice responding “Proceed with caution, Consul, but do what you think is best”. Hiding the surprise, Montefleur nods and moves for the door, satisfaction overtaking him as soon as he is out of sight. The train to Foiture is loud, foul-smelling and uncomfortable. The military line is built to speed and efficiency, though why someone would ever choose to build it like this momentarily escapes Colonel MacAlistair. She sits in the officer’s car, alone but for a pair of midshipmen in the white-and-blue of Naval officers. The two young men chat eagerly, a game of cards ignored on the table in front of them. Lea holds a tattered paperback, all the rage in Lutte but lost on her She stands up and looks out the window, a blur of green and brown meeting her as she brushes the remnants of a pie from her untidy uniform. The Midshipmen glance over, and casually salute before turning back to their banal conversation. After straightening her uniform, Lea walks back into the rear carriages, surely full to bursting with her Dragoons, happily parted from their horses until Foiture. 800 soldiers in a group with a storied history, it was daunting for inexperienced Colonel MacAlistair to walk through the doors into the first of the soldier’s carriages, but one did not become a Colonel without a generous serving of determination, and the door swung open at her touch. The noisy locomotive drowned out the sounds of the soldiers in the front car, but upon opening the door Lea was assaulted by the noise. The familiar sound of fighting men singing fills the car, one of the seemly endless songs every enlisted man picks up when joining the Army. “Let every young bachelor fill up his glass! Vive la companie!” Colonel MacAlistair walked down the center aisle, “inspecting” her soldiers. She saw people of all stripes, the Dragoons being a professional regiment. She saw older men with large grey beards, mottled with the scars of battle. She saw young men, some little older than schoolboys, eager eyes and clean features animated in song or chat. She even saw several women, volunteers like the rest, looking hard and stern, eager to prove themselves the equal of their male counterparts. Women have been allowed in the armed forces as volunteers since the Revolution, and can be found serving in most every branch, with the exceptions of Grenadiers and other regiments that require a great deal of physical strength. “And drink to the health of his favourite lass! Vive la companie!” Soldiers lounge about in various poses, in various states of undress and preparedness. The soldier’s cars have moveable stools as opposed to upholstered seats, and soldiers gather in circles to socialize. Many of the soldiers attend to their rifles, mostly the veterans to whom maintenance has become instinctual. War is mostly walking, followed closely by waiting, and marked occasionally by extreme terror, and veterans only become so by being prepared for the latter during the former. So, they sit in silence or in conversation cleaning barrels, checking box magazines for fault or crack, checking or oiling receivers and sliding bolts back and forth. “Let every old married man drink to his wife! Vive la companie!” The deployment was highly irregular, and Lea lacked a Major as second in command. The 5 captains were given space in the caboose, but lieutenants sat either in small groups of other officers or were seen occasionally mingling with the men of their platoon. As she walked, she drew salutes like a wave of respect, quickly moving on and leaving the soldiers to their revelry. It is never good form for an officer to stay with their command longer than necessary – the enlisted can never relax around their superiors, and carousing officers are left guilty at the end of the fighting, or worse, incapable of doing their duty. Lea leaves the car, and continues through several more on her way to her HQ “The Joy of his bosom and comfort in life! Vive la companie!” The music faded away as the final door closed, leaving her in the tense quiet of her Captains. Uneasily, she settled down to work. She never would get used to authority.

The throne room of the King was like nothing Helmi had ever seen. Its ceiling reached so high that she could imagine a cloud forming inside the room, and there was enough gold to provide for an entire town for years. Before the war, she would have seen it as a waste, but the savior of the North knew what he was doing. He would never waste anything, so there was surely some reason for his extravagance. Likely to impress diplomats, something he seemed to be quite obsessed with despite withholding the Vanjanan Elan. "Your Majesty!" She said, curtsying in her dress uniform. It was essentially a normal Airborne Corps uniform, but with significantly more gold highlights, not to mention her many medals. "Ah, Miss Lisbet." Responded the King from his throne, his white royal robe tucked behind him. "What a pleasure to meet you." "The pleasure is all mine, your majesty! It is an unspeakable honor to speak with you, liberator of Nordsted, king of the one and only Holy Empire, chosen of the Goddess!" Kalle chuckled quietly at the titles, standing up from his throne and walking towards Helmi. She stared at him like he was from another world, which wasn't far from the truth. At least, the Church's truth. Being the Church, Kalle had little opposition to the idea. Once he was quite close to her, he stopped, letting her continue to stare in silence. She was obviously in suspense, wondering what he had summoned her for. He was surprisingly thin, nothing like his portrait that was painted just five years ago. Back then, he had been quite heavy, though nobody ever had the courage to admit it. Apparently he had decided to lose weight, which would have made sense simply for appearance reasons, but he had obviously gone too far. Instead of the... round man he had been, he was now as thin as a twig. After quite a while, he finally spoke, breaking the silence. "What? Did the titles tire you out?" He said slowly, obviously tired despite having done barely anything for the whole day. "Y-your majesty?" Said Helmi, her face twisting into a look of confusion. "Tell me." He said, quickly turning to face towards one of the many windows in the room. "You are a Soldat av Stjärnan Ljus, are you not?" Thinking she knew what he was building up towards, she chose to voice her suspicions, hoping to gain respect by not playing dumb and letting him tell her. While Kalle was an arrogant and self-absorbed man, she had been told that he valued foresight. "Yes, would you rather me refer to you as Chosen of the Goddess, your majesty?" The King smiled broadly, turning back towards Helmi to look her in the eye. I must have done something right. She thought, returning the stare of the King. "That comment just earned you the right to call me whatever you wish, Miss Lisbet. Mathias did not recommend you lightly, I shall reward him for this. Now, on to business." "Business, your majesty?" "Yes, tell me, which is the more valuable life? That of a King, that of a soldier, that of a factory worker or that of a peasant?" "The King, obviously. Without the King, the nation would fall apart." "Yes, but without the soldier, the nation would succumb to its foes. Without the factory worker, the soldier would have no rifle. Without the peasant, the factory worker would have no food." "The King is still at the top of the pyramid, is he not? Would he not be more important?" "What pyramid? The dynamics of a nation cannot be expressed though height, width, and length. If any one of those four is taken away, the nation falls. Your pyramid analogy is flawed for other reasons as well, I mean, the bottom of the pyramid supports the top, but that's no important right now. What is important is that you learn that all of the classes are equal." "Then why do the peasants and factory workers have so little while the King has so much? Would that not imply that the King is more important?" Immediately after she had spoken, she knew she had made a grave mistake. It sounded like she had accused the King of greed, something that could earn her countless punishments. Accusing an entrepreneur of greed was one thing, but accusing the Chosen of the Goddess? The Church would have her head if the King did not choose to punish her himself! "There is only one King." He said, not even showing a tiny bit of offense. "There are millions of factory workers and peasents. I said the classes were equal, not the people." Even as he spoke, she sensed a "however' coming, but it never came. The King briefly looked down at the floor as if sad, but regained his usual posture before anyone but her could notice. It was so strange, everyone had said that the King was arrogant and cruel, this man had made a joke about his abundance of titles. At this point, she didn't know which was the real King. "That... that does make sense. But why did you summon me here? Surely it was not to discuss such things as the worth of different people." "No, it was not. I need to know one thing." "I don't know much about things other than machinery, but I'll try my best to answer your majesty." "It is about you, Miss Lisbet... erm... would you be so kind to return the favor? Of me letting you call me what you wish, I mean. Titles only get in the way of communication." "You didn't need to ask, your majesty. I am but a soldier, you already had the right." "Perhaps, but I hate to be called by my given name without having given permission, I can only assume the same would go for most." He's right, She thought. I wouldn't have liked it if he ignored my title without asking. "So, Helmi, would you do anything for the Goddess? Even give your life? Even abandon your hopes and dreams to serve good?" "Of course, your highness." "What if... what if the Goddess was flawed? What if she was not the perfect being the Church says she is?" The question was asked in an almost mournful tone, which caught Helmi completely off guard. The King was never said to show any emotion but pride, and yet here he was, clearly sad about something. What was more, he blamed it on the Goddess, and the Goddess never interferes with mortal affairs on a level personal enough to cause sadness for one of her followers. "Something doesn't have to be good to be perfect, if things did, then nothing would be good. That's what my mother always said." Oops. She thought, immediately realizing that adding 'Expect for you" would have been a much better choice. From what she had heard, the King didn't like being called imperfect. Surprising her again, the King teared up, somehow touched by her comment. Nothing that was said about the King was true, he wasn't arrogance incarnate, he was a person. A person who felt sadness and happiness, excitement and boredom, maybe even love. "A yes would have earned you my trust, a no would have earned you my respect, but that... that earned you both. Captain, you may go now." "With all due respect, I must correct you. My rank is Machinist-" "Not anymore it isn't. I'm giving you command of the royal dreadnought. Use it as you see fit, as I said, I trust and respect you." "The royal dreadnought?! Your majesty, why?" "Do you not feel comfortable with it?" "No! It's just... how can you feel comfortable with it?" "It is what my heart told me to do, and my heart is the only part of me I trust. The Goddess speaks through it, and she says that you are worthy of this command. You said you would obey the Goddess, did you not." "Yes I did, your majesty." "Then go and get ready to speak to your new crew. They'll be looking forward to being under the command of the legendary Helmi Lisbet."

Nicoli Vacialtali, the Dracos Inqiusitos was stuck dancing with some rich daughter who's father hoped to gain power through her. As the music died down again he made his excuses and left to sit back, he liked women and he liked dancing but, he didn't like dancing with most women. They were always after money, power or both. There was never anyone good enough for him, the Dracos Inquisitos of the richest land on the southern continent and likely the north one too. His family had been running the land for three hundred years and here he was, dancing with the daughters of mere merchants. Admittedly that was better then he had expected to be some years prior when his older brother was lined up for the throne, when the best he could hope for was a mere merchants daughter. Then the day came, his father died and the council had to vote on their new Inquisitos, Nicoli knew then he had a small chance for his brother was taught in finances while he was taught in the arts of war and the north was becoming increasingly likely to invade the south. He knew then that some on the council would be looking for someone to bring them military security rather then the economic prosperity they already had but he was shocked then he was voted in at an eighty percent majority. He walked up to the large seat that was at the end of the hall and sat down, wearily. The seat was not a throne as such, since they had no 'king' but that was still the purpose it served as the ornate carvings, engravings and other such finery that adorned it stated proudly that this was a seat of power. It was only moments before he was joined by Lucius Medici, the official diplomat of the Kingdom and, unofficially, its spymaster. "Dracossss....." he started, trailing off as he remembered Nicoli's recent rant about being called Dracos by his inner circle, "sorry. Nicoli, I want you to know I have sent for dispatches for new trading partners and, more importantly, allies among the northern nations, perticularly the ones who have recently grown and are likely looking for new sources of power and trade." "However?" Nicoli responded knowingly to which he got a pained look from Lucius. "How. Ever. Your idea of looking at the feasibility of arming the locals has been met with some opposition among some in the council and... apparently some of the possible allies don't like the idea of trade tariffs." "Then he look at offering them reduced trade tariff between us or perhaps even negating trade tariff between us and our more trustworthy allies all together." He added looking dismissively at an approaching lady. Lucius looked up at the Dracos Inquisitos and took a deep breath, "You know as well as I do the council will not like that, but.. well I shall speak with Giuseppe about such ideas and how we can supplement the loss of income." He said, bowing as he left. "Income we dont exactly need" he muttered with a chuckle before Lucius's brother, Flavius, aproached determindly. Flavius was a man with whom the Dracos got along well with for they both had military mindsets and their families have ad a long history of alliances, thus why Lucius is trusted with many of the Kingdoms secrets. "Ahh, I see your not with some woman or other tonight, no guild masters or major merchants wanting to marry into your lineage today?" he chuckled, knowing that Nicoli didn't enjoy such things "Regardless, I am here on business, a shipment of AA guns and some more of those Gatling turrets you want fixed onto the walls." "Thank you Flavius, I appreciate the escape from all this.. politics" he said with a smile "Can you get your men out to test the Gatling things and to see if they need training with the AA Gun." he then went out to observe, four guards falling in step behind him and three more, one with the Kingdoms flag on a standard taking place in the center. This was normal practice for the Dracos Inquisitos when he is moving throughout the city. As he left the sanctuary of the upper levels of the mighty floating city and force of nine men in a three by three formation took place in front of him and another to the rear. This was to keep him safe from the common populace of the city with whom he is not the most popular, since he sees the locals as equal trade partners to those in the north and seems to be too distant from the people, always playing with his guns and not so focused on the trading of the kingdom like his predecessors. Because of this there are some in the city who would actively act against him, even if most don't care for the actions of the upper classes for there will always be the few with the illusion that they, with their lack of power and nobility, can make a difference to the world.