Morning, young and orange blanketed the sky above the tropical island in the blooming shades of a late dawn, the sleepy isle waking up from it's slumber and setting about with it's daily business. The world was not the same world it was 50 odd years ago, things have changed under the march of progress, There were new powers where there use to be old ones and old powers that withstood the test of time, all of them were vying for more land, more sources, to be on top. And the islands were one such example. Colonized on both sides by nations that wished to spread there might far form home. The Tinites and the Elves of Yllendthyr, expanding far and subjugating more lands and more peoples.

All this made Gustavo sick. He stubbed his cigarette on the railing of the balcony and looked down on the sprawling colonial town with distaste from his perch on high, jutting off of a rented room in a shoddy tenement building. He turned to face into the room, his team was inside, clueing their guns and going over the plan mentally, Gustavo just hoped that Vasili was ready, his comrade on the Elven side of the island.

"Alright, We move out now, for the glory of the revolution." Everyone nodded and readied themselves, "Go to the truck, I'll be down in a moment." they did as they were told and started to vacate the room, Gustavo, instead of following entered small side room where a Radio set sat on a table. He picked up a crowbar propped up on the wall and began to smash the radio equipment, what was to happen could not be traced back to the motherland. After finishing and throwing the set onto the floor, he picked up his satchel and headed downstairs, to the awaiting truck. The drive was a short one, tense to considering the situation, at one point Gustavo couldn't hold his cigarette straight and had to have one of his men steady it so he could light it, his tremoring too violent for him to do it on his own.

The truck squealed to a stop behind an inn, and everyone hopped off, jumping out of the canvas covered back or from the cab.

"Everyone, positons." ordered Gustavo, "Sam, on me."

Sam was a young one, only just left basic training but he was eager to support the cause of the revolution and was sent over to Gustavo to learn a thing or two before being sent back for officer training. The pair walked calmly through the winding roads of the provincial capital, Gustavo was looking for a good spot and Sam, Sam was just excited.

"What exactly are we doing here?" queried Sam, looking around the colonial town with wonder at the beautiful architecture but pity because of the chipping paint and crumbling bricks, "This place could really do with s renovation." he mumble. Gustavo snorted, of course it did, it was a neglected colony of an evil empire, why would they spare a coin to make the lives of the locals better.

"We are here to make progress." Was all Gustavo said as they entered a crowded market square, filled with busy stalls and busy people, buying and selling things that they needed. It disgusted Gustavo, the state should be looking after them, or at least subsidizing their food, it was barbaric. Gustavo turned to Sam, "That fountain in the middle, it is surrounded by stone benches, put your satchel under one of the benches and then clear off, preferably back to the truck." Sam was about to protest, wanting yo know what was gong on but knew better after realizing that was a command. "And don't look in the satchel." The boy nodded and stalked off.

Gustavo watched him for a few moments, studying his motions intently, "He'll make a good soldier." he mumbled, before turing to and walking away in his own direction. He pretended to peruse the stalls, looking at things and greeting locals and being otherwise inconspicuous, he was pretending until that is he found a delightful red scarf, he bought it form the old lady behind the counter and decided not to leave his satchel there. Instead he left it by a police box. As he walked away, he lit another cigarette and puffed it casually, once at a considerable distance he watched the square and found Sam still by the bench. The boy looked distraught and he had his hand on the flap of the satchel, Gustavo slipped his hand into his pocket and willed for him not to open it, Sam didn't, much to Gustavo's relief and the boy had retuned to a pat on the back and a cigarette.

They all bungled back into the truck and blitzed down the dirt road out of the town. Gustavo pulled out his pocket radio and slid out the antenna, "Vasili, ready?"

"Ready on my end." replied a tinny, distant voice from beyond the speaker.

Gustavo pulled a small metal box from his pocket and spoke into his radio, "contact." he pushed the button and an explosion unleashed itself in the market square, outside the governor building. Directly afterwards, another fainter, more distant explosion sounded off. Gustavo kept a straight face, "Lets go back home." he muttered.

Date: September 1st, 1927 C.E.



"Empress?" inquired the royal servant, Elena.

"Just a moment." replied the Empress. Elena departed, and the Empress continued to brush her long, flowing red hair. When she had finally made it acceptable, she took up the crown of the Imperium and placed it upon her head. She had never particularly liked it. It was far too heavy and gaudy for her taste, but she had to tacitly accept it, as it was what her people expected of her.

For one more day, anyway.

She strode out of the room in her gold and brown dress, and traveled with Elena through the halls of the Dyevlin, the official residence of the Imperial family. They arrived at a waiting ballroom, where the nobility of the Imperium had gathered in celebration of the traditional Day of Painting. On the twentieth birthday of the reigning Emperor or Empress (the prior was required to abdicate upon their oldest child's eighteenth birthday), their official portrait would be made and hung in the Hall of the Imperators just outside the throne room.

The nobility from all across the Imperium ate, drank and made merry at the feast prepared by the Imperial house for their honor, while the Empress posed on the balcony of the ballroom for an hour and a half for her portrait to be made. It was long and arduous, made ever more so by the anticipation. When it was finished, however, it was a sight to behold: demonstrating the Empress's great beauty and majesty. While she kept little stock in royal tradition, the sight pleased her: she might actually have to keep it.

When she emerged from the balcony, the Imperium nobility took notice, and all rose to bow to the Empress. The complete and utter duplicity of the gesture was obvious; the nobility knew all too well who was in charge and kept it that way by cutting short the reign of any one Imperator who might challenge their local authority. Her father had gone so far, they actually ordered him executed for "tyranny and abuse of the office of Emperor," resulting in her coronation at the unprecedented age of sixteen. While ordinarily the Empress might be irritated, at this particular instant she found it amusing.

"Nobles of the court, honored guests of the Imperial house." The Empress smiled broadly with the same artificiality they had given her, and she continued. "I have for you a special gift: a delicacy from the far south, called key lime pie." She clapped, and servants appeared from all sides bearing plates of the dessert and laying it before the nobility. "I invite you to taste the fruits of imperialism that the great and powerful Imperium has reaped."

The nobility seemed to greatly appreciate this gesture, digging into the dessert with complete and utter abandon. The Empress checked to see if everyone along the table had taken a bite, and announced with a smile that betrayed the malevolence within her, "I have made a slight adjustment I find I often prefer: the addition of almonds. I hope you enjoy it." She snapped her fingers.

There were many cries and shouting from the various tables as the doors on every side but the Empress's burst open, and a mob of people broke in, wielding weapons ranging from rifles to pitchforks. They carried with them flags stained crimson red, and waved these fiercely as they emerged into the room with a distinct order. Armed guards burst into the room from behind her, coalescing around the Empress in a defense formation. "We are here for your protection," the captain told her. "We must go quickly!"

"What is the meaning of this, Empress Ekaterina?" asked Lord Nykolai, one of the senior members of the nobility, rising from his seat.

"I have no need for protection." replied the Empress. She pushed the captain of the guard aside and strode out before them. For a few seconds in which it was silent as the grave, she reached up to the crown upon her head and threw it to the ground, where it cracked into a thousand pieces.

She announced, "The Imperium is dead. Long live the People's Republic." The assembled crowds of workers cheered, and gathered around her, pushing away the guards.

"We will fight you from every corner of the Imperium in a bloody civil war," challenged Lord Nykolai, pulling the sword from his scabbard. "You cannot do this, not as long as we are still alive."

"Exactly," replied the woman now known only as Ekaterina Velikaya. "Do hope my father forgives you in the afterlife."

The assembled nobility almost simultaneously convulsed in spasms, and the revolutionaries charged forward, firing guns and swinging weapons at those who were not already dead from cyanide poisoning. As if it were in a different world, the bell outside the palace rung.

----------------------

Date: September 1st, 1939 C.E.

"Empress?" inquired the premier's secretary, Elena. Ekaterina awoke from her nap in a comfortable chair to the sound of the palace bell.

"It's already three o'clock. They will be expecting you in fifteen minutes."

"How many times... have I asked you to cease calling me that?"

Elena covered her mouth in surprise. "I do greatly apologize, Premier." "I should have remembered by now."

"Very well." replied Premier Commissar Velikaya. "I will prepare."

She strode out of the room and through the Hall of the Imperators, pausing to smile at her portrait as she passed. Her younger self was prettier, certainly, but her present 32-year-old self retained all of its original poise and majesty.



In her dressing room she put on the military uniform and hat (emblazoned with the seal of the People's Republic, the eagle of Kataylabinsk with a hammer and sickle on its breast and a star above the heads) typical of her speeches. She tied her hair in a simple low ponytail to account for her hat. There was a little fluff and irregularity to her uniform on account of her gender and position, and her shoulders bore six stars as opposed to the usual maximum of five for generals, demonstrating her seniority as the head of the People's Army. She was preparing for the third quad-annual Day of the Revolution, where she would give a speech that would make certain her reelection the next day and inevitably shake the world. She carried with her a rolled-up purple and yellow flag.

Elena stopped her just a moment before she went out. "Colonel Gustavo reports a complete success in the Zanjir Islands operation. He says he'll be laying low for the next month or so, but will continue to arm the native resistance forces." "Excellent," replied the Premier. She was already in a good mood, but this news made her positively radiant as she opened the door and went outside. Imperialists from two sides of the world should be trembling right now.

As she walked out onto the same palace balcony to a podium very close to where she posed for her portrait, the assembled crowd in Dyevlin Square cheered with unparalleled enthusiasm and energy. She waved and smiled to her people, truly proud of the progress which she had achieved.

"Workers and peasants, members of all races, people of your Republic!" shouted Premier Velikaya, amplified yet further by her microphone and the installed sound system. A camera ran to the side, as her speech was transmitted across the nation and indeed the world by television as well as radio for the first time.

"On this glorious day twelve years ago, there was a nation called the Kataylabinsk Imperium. This nation was devoid of civil liberties, devoid of political freedoms, and devoid of equality for its noble people. This was a nation ruled not by its noble empress..." She paused a moment for effect, and there was evident laughter from the crowd. "... but by petty, constantly feuding nobles and capitalists, bent on gaining whatever they could for themselves regardless of how the people suffered." "This was a nation in a permanent state of decline, a nation predicted by Kalyrnan when he said that imperialism was the final stage of capitalism."

"The noble working people of this Imperium rose up on this day, and tore down the aristocracy and bourgeoisie of this backwards nation, and with the leadership of its new Premier, the first among equals, built a new and glorious republic!" The crowd cheered at an incredible volume.

"Since my accession to the leadership of this socialist republic twelve years ago, literacy has risen from seventy to ninety percent. Every Kataylan citizen has access to free public education and health care, so that not one of its people will be left behind. The average income across all professions has increased by fifty percent, and with our revolutionary system of market socialism, workers across the People's Republic are reporting greater satisfaction than ever."

"I have met many people from other countries who ask me what the true value of the socialist system is, and why so many people are willing to defend it here and fight for it across the world. I have always answered them simply. We have created a place on this Osetia where no person is ever oppressed by another person. A place where no person is discriminated against by any other on behalf of species or race or creed. A place where people can succeed by their own merits and not by whether or not they were born into the correct family. That is the reality that we as Kataylans believe in, and it is the reality that we will fight for, no matter the cost."

This declaration was met with the greatest cheer yet, and so Premier Ekaterina proceeded with the final part of the ceremony. She unrolled the purple and yellow flag of the Kataylabinsk Imperium, hung it over the balcony, and pulled out a simple match which she struck into flames. She lit the flag on fire, and let it fall to the empty space which had been cleared just below the balcony where its purple dye changed to the black of ash. Behind her, two guards raised on the palace flagpole the banner of the People's Republic, sparkling red and yellow in the sun as it rose.

Ciudad,Ocena

President Roman Salvatore sat in his office with a desk that was absolutely covered in a plethora of books and a single empty book that was ready for presidential-level memoirs. Elise bought me this, she's a nice girl. I hope she grows to be like her mother. Damn it Roman don't stray he thought. But again he stared off into the tan walls, day dreaming of the beaches of his childhood here in Isla Ocena, he pondered his road to the office and the country he's running. In his life he has accomplished so much, but it seemed nearly impossible to put the ink on the paper. It wasn't writer's block that was keeping the President from starting, but instead, he was afraid to realize that everything was soon coming to an end. It was a deliberate slow ending that he knew would happen ten or even twenty years ago, it was his second and final ten year term. (In Hambrian Government the President would serve one to two ten year terms, however the second must be consecutive or you're unable to rerun.)

Salvatore began looking around the room for inspiration, he chanced upon an original Keneally that depicted the signing of the Armistice between the Imperium and the colonized nation of Hambria. Something in his mind clicked and he began to envision his first chapter. "My life began like the Republic's, in a great divide. My father left my mother months after I was born leaving a single mother, Mrs. Sabrina Salvatore, on her own to fend for her newborn child." Roman penned the last word and the phone rang. Irritatedly he answered with a simply word,

"Yes?" On the other side of the line was his secretary, Linda, replied in an equally concise manner,

"You have a meeting in the War Room." The War Room was the name for the Conference room and rarely had anything to do with the Military Situations. Feeling embarrassed for forgetting the President of the Hambrian Nation sheepishly come back with,

"Thank you Linda." He pushed himself away from the chair and very carefully placed his memoirs to the side as if thoughts could spill out of it and be lost. The President walked out of his office and was immediately flanked by his two body guards while he waved thank you at Linda. He walked the distance to the War Room, which was in the Eastern Wing of the Presidential Estate. Once inside he was greeted by Mario Berziogni; Head of Military Branch, Danilo Gallineri; Head of Agricultural Decisions, Rodrigo Verde; Head of Science and Knowledge, Raefiel Gidare; Head of International Affairs, and Tim Puzo; Head of Domestic Affairs.

Mario began the meeting with talks about expanding the military and increasing border guards because he fears the People's Republic of Kataylabinsk or Tiqsimuyu might attack for reason's unknown to anybody in the room since the nations have remained peaceful for centuries. Danilo had nothing to present but unfounded research on the effects of pesticides. Rodrigo just continued with Danilo's points and advising to ask the elves. Raefiel was content with observing before he began to talk about Yllendthyr.

"The elves are very efficient and knowledgeable when it comes to these environmental issues. The down side is some view the imperialism and their elitism as a negative, obviously." Roman mulled the idea over in his head thinking through pros and cons. Eventually he came to a consensus and told Raefiel to send the word over to the Couriers' department to send a diplomat out to Yllendthyr's capital to try and open talks about gaining an Alchemist or two to help research the Danilo's case.



Katrina Claire, a Diplomat for the Hambrian government, waited patiently at the airport hoping her handler would be in time. Just in time he handed her the folder and ran off, which she thought was just rude. However she bordered the airship and began to read the dossier. It clearly stated to above all establish a lines of communication to and from Yllendthyr. Below was a secondary objective, which was establish a trade route. As she finished the airship began to lift off and head off to Yllendthyr.

Bruised lids opened to view the face of his captor, the bloodied and broken man bound before her like a beast before its master. Her bemused look did nothing to change the image, the slight smirk of arrogance twisting those red lips set against her porcelain face. Leaning forward, she cupped the man's chin in one of her small hands, it nearly disappearing in the tuft of facial hair upon his chin. Those emerald eyes peered past his bloodshot eyes, seeming as if to pierce his very soul with her gaze. With a huff of disappointment, she released him forcefully, knowing that he had nowhere to go.

"Do you know what my ancestor, Baldur von Eisenkern said to the council of kings so many years ago?"

Her voice was deceptively sweet, a lilting tone which would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been bound into the low stockade. There was a poison in her tone, however, one which he knew all too well. Her arrogance seeped into that sweet voice, turning her every word into a promise of death or worse.

"I will unite these lands into one, under a single banner, in the name of unity against the outsider, or I will destroy everything in order to deny them our spirit."

He struggled to keep her in focus, his eyes wavering off her face and starting to wander down her body. Of course, she kept to her form, a conservative dress shirt and slacks making her appear less feminine to her captive, though she always chose to dress as such. Rare was it for the Red Queen to be seen in something so womanly as a dress. A scraping sound from behind her drew his attention back to her face and the scowl set deep into her aristocratic features. It was then he noticed the weapon clutched in her hands before her, a stylized lucerne hammer set into the shape of an eagle's head. Vainly he tensed against the restraints, even knowing full well that there was nothing he could do to stop her.

"You." Her lip curled into a sneer, her mood suddenly shifting from the toying tone she previously held to one which openly displayed her hate. "You dare oppose your queen. I was born to rule over you and your kind, those who dare to defy me and rail against my hegemony. The Arisovians know nothing of what is best for them, all of you ignorant pigs who can only roll about in your own filth and call it life."

It was a subtle thing, his reaction of a slight chuckle, but it sealed his fate. Her eye twitched as she heard the low and brief sound, fingers going white as they gripped the haft of the hammer. "You?" He asked, daring to look up at her "You were shit out like every other human. Arisovia stands united against yo-" His words were abruptly cut off by the sound of wood hitting stone, the hammer dropped from her grasp as her eyes lit with hatred the likes of which he had never seen. She howled with rage as she stepped forward and drove her thumbs into his eyes, twisting her hands to hold his mouth shut before he could scream.

The muscles in her arms tensed briefly, her eyes lighting up with her anger, "Then I will burn them all to ash." She whispered the words into his ear just before a surge of bio-electricity coursed through her fingers and into his skull. A smell of burning flesh suddenly filled the air and the body of the man twitched violently against the bindings holding him still. She held the grip upon his skull, a sick smile spreading across her face as a tongue of electricity licked out from his smoking ears, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she finally released the corpse.

"I am your queen!" She screamed the words at the smoking corpse, her bloodied fists balled up at her sides "I rule! This is my country and I will either forge it into a perfect nation or burn it all to ash! You do not decide what is best for you!" Tears ran down her face as she continued screaming at the corpse of the man who had once been a noble of Arisovia, turned rebel when Marianna had shut down their request to become independent and followed up with sieging their capital city. One of the guards in the room stepped forward as she fell to her knees, bringing her hands up to her face regardless of the blood coating them.

"My lady." He rested his hand on her shoulder gently, kneeling down before her to help ease her into a sitting position. "My lady, let us remove this from your sight, it is not worthy to be gazed upon by our rightful queen." She nodded slowly, her entire body shaking as the rage subsided into something else entirely. Looking around, her eyes widened as they settled on the stone walls and the guard between her and the remnants of the prisoner. "Wh-where..." Gently the guard hushed her, offering her a hand that she took hesitantly.

"My lady, the Princess will be arriving shortly." Silently she nodded and accepted his help to her feet, the guard leading her through the door and into the long hallway towards her quarters.

---

A small group met in the cover of darkness just outside the border of Eisenkern on the side of Arisovia, their voices low and nothing except a few embers of lit cigarettes to denote they were even there. Their identities were anonymous, even to each other, for if any one of them knew who the other was, it could bring ruination to their entire endeavor.

"The Red Queen has moved her troops into Arisovia, likely to counter possible rioting coming up on the anniversary of the fall of Grajewo."

"And riot we shall." Another voice added to the first, the cigarette flaring as the speaker took a long draw.

"Yes, and that is exactly what she expects, and will slaughter them all where they stand. Black-Iron marches alongside an entire armored division."

The name 'Black-Iron' brings an unsettling silence down upon the group, a few of them remembering the last time that group was involved in an intervention.

"By the great serpent, the last time those animals were off their leash, they murdered women and children in the streets. Thousands died that night, many of them innocents not even involved in the rebellion. Does she really mean to keep her rule by the flow of so much blood?"

A new voice spoke up, this one clearly foreign, though her accent hinted at that of the Kzechverin people.

"I do not think you have fully grasped the full picture of what she intends. Arisovia was not a simple intervention."

Murmurs of dissent whispered among the group, along with no few comments against her even adding her voice to the meet.

"While you sit here and talk of standing against her show of force towards the Arisovians, you turn a blind eye to the changes she makes across all of the Hegemony. From the moment she seized the throne in a night of murder, to the sound of troops marching into Arisovia this very moment, the Red Queen has been changing our nation according to her whim. How many laws have been passed, slowly altering the status quo of all of our homelands? Even Kzechverin is not safe from the tendrils of change writhing across this land."

Despite their previous dissenting tone, a few heads nodded slowly in agreement as they looked back to the many policies enacted by Marianna Desrosiers. There had been subtle changes to the lawbooks of all five states over the course of her reign, and the nature of those policies ranged from repealing the ban on work during the holy day, to adjusting the budgets of each nation to allow for larger operating budgets for the state-run industries.

"Now you see why she must be stopped, and why we must not throw our lives away so needlessly in foolish last stands such as Grajewo. You brought the massacre upon yourselves by foolishly deciding to stand against her openly. To war against the Red Queen will only end in death, the world knows this to be true, for her reputation is known far and wide for being ruthless and cold towards all except those in favor with the princess Csilla."

"Then what do we do, just sit here and accept her rule over us like so many dogs at her beck and call?" The voice which spoke up was clearly agitated, his thick accent denoting him as being from the Grajewo region. "You would have us skulk in the shadows and let her tanks roll over our loved ones while we do nothing! How da-" His rant was cut abruptly short by the rapport of a gunshot, the flash of light briefly illuminating a thin, young woman in a mask and robe holding the pistol directly at the man.

"Do you think the Hegemon will listen to your words so willingly? Do you think she will simply accede to your desires for independence? You must all remember that this is the woman who strangled Isaac The Greater in his sleep with her bare hands, and stabbed her little brother to death in the halls of the castle. She does not know mercy nor restraint. If you ever forget this, you will die the same death as your martyrs of Grajewo."

In the distance voices could be heard, their tone hurried and a spotlight sweeping the hillside for the source of the gunshot. Without another word the group scattered into the surrounding brush, knowing that next they meet, it would be under different circumstances and with new plans in hand for the coming storm.

The sun's baleful glare gleamed off the beads of sweat that covered near every face. The air was stiflingly hot in the desert where this city was, but a light breeze offered some respite. The monumental sandstone buildings loomed over the streets as they had for centuries in this ancient city, the shade that they created barely enough to keep one from being baked like a mud brick left to harden in the sun.

Babur, barely eighteen years old, stood before the entrance to the first temple ever built in honor of the Dragon. Rather than in the capital, Sultans of Tin were coronated here in the once-great city that was the seat of the first Sultans. Babur turned his head and saw the robed priests approaching. They were the highest ranked clergy in the Temple, the ones that performed the sacred duty of protecting the crown and bestowing it upon new Sultans in coronation ceremonies.

Just as Babur stared intently at the crown in the priest's hands, untold thousands of eyes gazed on at him, piercing him like needles, yet he was not petrified in the slightest. Tartu Babur Mirza had fought for the right to lead Tin. He had bled for it. He would not cower or falter now. He removed his turban, and moments later felt the cold touch of a crown laid upon his head. Its weight was enormous; while it appeared a mere circlet of gold, the head that it rested upon had to bear the burden of leadership.

He was no longer Tartu Babur Mirza. He was Sultan Tartu Babur Genghis Khaghan, Caliph of the Dragon, the Firedrake Incarnate. There were thousands of nobles here to see the new Sultan crowned, and hundreds of thousands of Temple Guards and soldiers had followed the nobles, yet for such an unfathomable mass of people there was not a sound. An oppressive silence hung over the air in this solemn moment. All of the men standing in the square prepared to kneel in fealty to the new Caliph of the Dragon.

Babur looked across the plaza, into the distance where a great sandstone tower loomed over the thousands of men like a mountain. Hanging from this tower was a banner of massive proportions. The banner of Tin was simple: a red cloth, with the black shape of a dragon dominating the top with horsemen riding beneath its wings. Babur stared at the top of Tin's banner, no, his banner.

The Dragon. Before any of the people amassed before him could kneel, the Sultan was on his knees. Confusion permeated the air; the silence was broken by muttered questions. The priest that had crowned him hissed, "What are you doi-"

Babur silenced it all by merely pointing to that proud, mighty Dragon. The people understood. They too turned to face the banner and then fell to their knees in reverence. The air was silent once more, the only movement being that of the sand and dust that was swept up by the wind. As he knelt, Babur relived the memories of his rise to power, of his endless goal of honoring the Dragon and the legacy of his bloodline.





The two warriors danced in a circle around each other before suddenly closing in. In a flash of color their scimitars both whipped forward, the steel singing its song as the blades clashed with one another again and again and rang out. One of the warriors suddenly fell to his knees to duck beneath a high blow, then lunged stabbed upwards with his scimitar.

Babur knew that his uncle Nahku would twist his wrist to one side at the last moment; it was a favorite move of his. An enemy that did not see it coming would always be stabbed. The first instinct was to move to parry the point of the curved scimitar as it was when he first lunged, which meant that by twisting his wrist halfway through the thrust Nahku could duck his blade right underneath his opponent's. But Babur would not fall for Nahku's trick; rather than try in vain to block it, he began to leap backwards the moment that he foresaw his uncle's move. He barely managed to move faster than the blade. Babur danced forward once again with his scimitar, and the two Mirzas resumed their sparring.

"You fought well," Nahku admitted once they had finished. "Only a boy of thirteen, and already a master swordsman! Humble, pious, and brave, too! Were it that all rulers were like you!" he complimented.

"It is true," the duo heard a voice say. They turned to see Tsoloman, Lord Commander of the Temple Guard. The man often watched the two in their sparring; he usually offered to practice with Babur, but the Mirza was too fond of his uncle to pick any other. He went on, "He would make a good Sultan. Better than his brothers' ilk."

"You are too kind, both of you," the flattered Babur gave in thanks, his mind trying to grasp what it would mean to be Sultan. Never before had he given it much thought.





Having finished his morning sparring practice with Tsoloman and father's men, he walked across the palace compound to find a towel in the bathhouse. Of course there were servants to do such menial things, but Babur was too ascetic to accept their aid. Honor and discipline meant too much to him. The Dragon favored warriors, not decadent wretches like his brothers. Even now, they were off carousing, no doubt engaged in some drunken debauchery. Upon finding his towel, he dabbed it at his brow and neck to take away the sweat. He dipped one end of the towel in the bathhouse's coldest waters and used that to wash his face, then dried it once more with the other end.

The Mirza retreated into the sanctum of his chamber and resumed work on a painting that he had began work on three days before. To the left was a self portrait of himself, partially complete; to the right was the already finished portrayal of his mother. She had dark skin and green eyes, long locks of curly black hair, a beautiful dress. On her face was her smile, or at least what the boy imagined her smile might look like. She had succumbed to an illness long ago, and though it broke his heart, Babur could not remember what her smile looked like. He painted her often though, lest he forget anything more. He was a talented painter, able to recall a scene or person and capture its likeness so perfectly that it seemed to come back to life.

His affinity for painting was oft mocked, yet he would not stop. It was relaxing, his only vice, and Babur had always believed that a man with many talents was a wise and strong one. Tsoloman was in agreement; he compared Babur's painting to the poetry and other writing that the Temple Guard created in their spare time.

Tsoloman. The man was more of a father to him than Babur's actual one. Nahku had been indicted for treason (for some unknown reason, for the Sultan refused to speak of it to any others) two years prior and fled for his life, presumably to some land across the sea and out of Tin's reach. Babur sighed. The Mirza missed Tsoloman during the times that he had to travel elsewhere and fulfill his duties as Lord Commander, yet that was nothing like his longing to see Nahku. He had accepted that his mother was gone and moved on from her, but not yet Nahku.

As his thoughts strayed, Babur's hand did not. Delicately, precisely, he moved the brush and captured every facet of his face on the canvas, working only out of memory. He lifted a finger to trace a small scar beneath his eye. It ran down, parallel to his nose. He had sparred with real blades (albeit blunt) for a thousand times and remained untouched, save for that one scar; it was a gift from Nahku, the only one who could match his speed. With the careful concentration typical of him in all the things that he did, he painted the scar with a few deft strokes. He moved on to the other features of his chiseled visage.

Some time later, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps walking through his opened door. He turned to see Dhiyar and Khulan, his two eldest brothers stumbling in, both reeking of alcohol (as they oft did) and grinning menacingly. Dhiyar slurred some incomprehensible remark about the painting, before snatching up one of Babur's bottles of paint and pouring the stuff over the face, ruining the portrait.

Babur could only stare at the streaks of brown as they ran down the canvas, soiling the work, wasting what he had poured hours of his time into. He watched with a fave of stone, seemingly without emotion, as his mother's likeness turned into an unrecognizable smear. Hate and rage burned through him, consuming his reason, though his brothers did not know him well enough to realize.

Frustrated at their failure to provoke him, Khulan struck him. "Your mother may have been a whore before father married him, and the venereal plague may have killed her, but..." he slurred, "what was I saying?"

While Khulan went on his drunken rant, Babur clutched the spot where he had been slapped. The talk about his mother were too much. He lost his reason, all of his restraint evaporated away. With a savage yell he punched Khulan in the jaw with all his might, knocking his much older brother to the ground. Leaping on top, he proceeding to pound Khulan's face with his open palms, once, twice, and then he was kicked in the ribs. Now on his back with Dhiyar having knocked him off Khulan, Babur was beaten to within an inch of his life by his two cruel brothers. From that day forth he hated them; not even the slightest shed of sympathy or compassion for them remained in his heart.





The moon's gleam fell through Babur's open window, barely enough to illuminate silhouettes of the things in his room. Late at night, the Mirza was already deep in a dreamless slumber, though he was jolted awake by an incessant knocking on the door. He could sense that the person was anxious just by the way that they rapped their knuckles, or maybe it was just that they needed him so late at night. Irritably he rose from his bed, wrapped a robe around his naked form, and at last moved to open it to see the troubled face of a servant. He struggled to banish his tiredness and appear not so angered; he always strived to treat the servants kindly, as that was the opposite of how his brothers acted and he wanted to be nothing like them. "What is it?" he quietly asked.

The serving girl only stammered, "I-it's your father. He's with the Dragon now. He left us, but it was peaceful and in his sleep."

Dead? thought Babur, his mind racing. Just the other day he was healthy, only fifty! This was too soon...too soon for both of us.



"So you will support my claim?" Babur asked as they walked.

"Without a heartbeat, without a blink, without a doubt. The Temple Guard stand with you. The Lands of the Dragon and all the Ajdar need a great leader. There is only one such man, and that man is you. I have watched you grow, and I always knew that you would be the Sultan," answered Tsoloman.

"I thank you. But the nobles would not have heard of me. I will need help garnering their attention and their support."

"You would be surprised," Tsoloman responded, "You know that your father's first son drank himself to death, and his third died in some tavern brawl. Your others are no different. The nobles demand more than some drunk to lead them in war and guide them in peace; the Dragon and the people demand more as well. You have more supporters than you might think."

Babur allowed a small smile to appear on his stoic face. He saw a servant hurrying by and stopped her, "Where will I find my brother?"

"Which one?" she irritably asked.

"My eldest brother, Dhayir."

"I cannot say," the girl said as she began to walk away.

Tsoloman moved to block her path. "Answer the Mirza's question," he commanded.

She swallowed. "He is in his chambers. He ordered me to bribe the palace guard to arrest you."

Tsoloman nearly burst out laughing. "The palace guards are my men. The finest Temple Guards. They would not sully their honor, no matter how much your master pays."

Two of the palace guard came down the hallway. How convenient. "Lord Commander!" they both acknowledged, saluting as they walked by.

"Wait, I have a task for you," Tsoloman said. His two men stopped dead in their tracks. "Arrest this servant. Seize the money purse that she carries, and do not allow her to so much as have a note sent to her master."

At once the two men complied, the hands hovering over their blades when she resisted with kicks and screams. The mere threat was enough to pacify her rage. When Babur arrived at his brother's chamber, he knocked. There was no reply, nobody came to answer. No noise came from within, yet the door was locked. No doubt his brother was cowering inside.

"Dhayir, we know that you are inside," Babur softly spoke, somehow knowing that his brother's ear was pressed to the wooden door.

"Who is there? Why do you trouble me?" came out Dhayir's voice, now that he had been caught.

"It is Babur. Open the door."

"You said 'we'. Who else is with you?" Dhayir demanded, refusing to open it.

"It does not matter, does it? You do not even trust me enough to open this door," answered back Babur. He would not name Tsoloman; he would let his brother think that his treacherous bribery had worked and that the palace guards had taken his side. In any case, resigned to speaking to his cowardly brother through a door, Babur continued, "I claim the throne."

"You will not have it! I am the eldest son, and our father favored me!" Dhayir spat back.

"That may be so, but regardless, I must take it. You are not fit to rule. If you do not surrender your claim, then I must formally challenge you to a duel, Dhayir. To the death."



Babur stood alone in the city's old arena, with hundreds of nobles in the stands to watch the spectacle. The Sultanate had outlawed slavery, and with it the gladiatorial arenas had been shut down, but the old colosseums were still used as dueling grounds. He spat into the sand beneath his feet as he remembered how Dhayir had accepted the duel only after being called a craven and told that the nobles would never respect him if he did not fight for what he claimed. Of course, Babur suspected that Dhayir was more convinced by the inevitable realization that this was any was a ripe opportunity to rid himself of his younger brother.

The doors at both entrances into the fight pit were suddenly thrown open. Lines of armed soldiers marched out menacingly, with Dhayir at the head of one of the lines. Of course he had brought with him soldiers that were no doubt ordered to simply butcher his opponent; if he was too fearful to open the door and face his brother, he was far too cowardly to fight a duel fairly and honorably. Fortunately, Babur had foreseen this possibility and prepared for it.

Suddenly, in a dozen places the sandy ground went flying into the air as buried trapdoors were flung open. Out of the cells beneath, where animals and gladiators were kept before the fights, a hundred masked Temple Guards climbed up. They outnumbered Dhayir's soldiers by three to one, and were far better equipped.

Dhayir was bewildered, his eyes darting back and forth from the Temple Guards to Babur. He didn't expect Babur to have brought men of his own, and he had thought that the Janissaries were his, since they had seemingly accepted his bribe without objection. Babur remained where he had first stood, unblinking, unfazed, the eye of the storm that was this arena. Already the people in the stands were murmuring; this was more than they had bargained for!

His eyes glazed with hate at being outsmarted, Dhayir frothed, "What is this treachery?!"

Slowly, Babur's stony, chiseled features molded themselves into a sly grin. "Treachery? These men merely came to watch our duel, just as yours no doubt did. A duel must have witnesses, you know this." Or were you surprised that your little bribe didn't have me in a dungeon cell by now? Babur thought, almost saying it aloud but then stopping himself.

Dhayir spat. He had no choice now; but he had received a noble's training with the sword. He was bigger, less toned for sure, yet still no doubt stronger. His little brother was a mere worm, this would be an easy fight. Dhayir began to grow intoxicated by his own arrogance. The soldiers that Dhayir had brought backed away to offer the duelists room, now unwilling to intervene. The Janissaries did the same.

The two Mirzas approached one another. It was obvious that Dhayir was a noble, for his skin was pale, his belly noticeable, his face and hands soft and pampered, and his pride so pungent that you could smell it. The faint scent of alcohol and perfume showed his impiety. Babur was the opposite, his skin burnt tan from training in the scorching sun while his brothers drank wine in cool baths, his body lean and muscular from countless hours of exercise, his face hard like that of a warrior, or perhaps even a stone statue. His eyes burned with religious fervor.

Without another word the two drew their blades. Dhayir held an arming sword, while Babur wielded his uncle's favorite scimitar. Both had only the traditional dueling garb: hardened cotton armor, just enough to stop a weak slash, but if Babur put enough strength behind his scimitar it would cut through.

For Nahku. For my ancestors. For the Lord of the Eternal Sky! Babur leapt forward and unleashed a flurry of blows. Dhayir barely stepped back in time to dodge the first one, the parried the second and third. Babur tempered his anger, he had to be cautious to not open his guard. Taking advantage of how his brother was now on the defensive, he fell to his knees to duck beneath a failed counterattack at his head, then thrust his scimitar upwards, twisted the blade at the last second. Dhayir screamed as Babur successfully performed Nahku's signature move, though the scimitar was a rather poor stabbing weapon and Babur only managed to put a small gouge in Dhayir's left arm, what with the surprising effectiveness of the cloth armor.

Dhayir stabbed his sword straight for Babur's heart. The younger and more agile Babur gracefully twisted away, his scimitar raking across Dhayir's ribs. His blood staining the ornate cloth armor, Dhayir clutched his side and howled in pain. Another hard slash and Babur eviscerated his brother, his arming sword and his entrails both falling into a grotesque heap of gore.

Babur unsheathed a dagger. This is not how it is supposed to be. He is of my own blood.

End his suffering, resonated a deep, ancient, fiery voice in Babur's mind. The voice of the Dragon. Without hesitation, Babur plunged his dagger into his brother's eye, instantly killing him. Blood spurted out of the gouged eye's socket and cascaded like a waterfall from the dead man's mouth, before his corpse collapsed. The surviving Mirza looked down to his hands and shirt, both caked with the warm blood of his brother. The first man that he had ever felled was his own brother.

Babur fell to his knees, not out of despair or weakness, but out of thanks to the Dragon. After a long prayer for Dhayir's soul, he was once again at peace. He would be able to look his brother in the face when they met again in the afterlife. Steeling himself, Babur at last spoke, "You who are his men, who brought him here, must bring him back. He was a Mirza, and so he must have a proper burial and funeral as such."

Babur fetched his cape from the corner where he had left it upon arriving at the arena that morning. It was an outrageously expensive thing, easily Babur's finest article of clothing: fine silk with beautiful patterns woven into it. Yet the Mirza did not like it. It was too soft to be real. Nahku would not have worn it, and neither would Tsoloman or any true warrior of the Firedrake.

Babur draped the cape over his slain brother, so that when the men carried him back to the palace his hideous wounds would not be seen. All had expected Babur to leave his brother for the crows or else have a simple pyre, but true to his word, he saw to it that a royal burial and funeral would be arranged.



The next day, Babur once again found himself with Tsoloman, his friend, his advisor, one of his childhood heroes. In the light of the duel that had only just happened, they were did not speak much to one another that morning. The two had only walked to the palace's entrance, to prepare for an important man that had sent word of his impending arrival.

There man was Baktu Khaghan, a khan of khans, a powerful sheikh. With no Sultan on the throne Baktu was also the highest ranking military officer in Tin, being the senior-most of all the khaghans. Such was his power and renown that the khans obeyed and respected his will; with a few words Baktu could deploy millions of soldiers and sailors.

"I came to the capital as soon as I heard that your father was dead. I had planned to swear fealty to Dhayir, your father's favored son," the khan of khans spoke, breaking the silence after several uncomfortable moments.

The three were walking down the hall. Casually, Babur stopped in front of a tapestry that depicted the likeness of his father. He ran his finger across the cloth, rubbing the grey beard and aging features of his father. He had looked robust enough, but now that he was gone it was easy to look at his face and see the signs of old age and poor health. Babur spoke, "My father was fond of him, yes, but he was fond of us all. He did not declare a new heir after Khulan drank himself to death. In any case, Dhiyar was not fit to rule."

Baktu nodded. "I know what Tsoloman sees in you. Wisdom, strength, but more than that...you have a fire in you. I will support you. When will you deal with your other brothers?"

Babur replied, "I offer my thanks for your loyalty. As in for my brothers, they have already been dealt with. I had the palace guards detain them all; they are locked in a tower as my prisoners until I am proclaimed Caliph of the Dragon."

Baktu only gave Babur a sad look. The boy did not understand. There was a pregnant pause, with Tsoloman at last breaking it to say, "They have not been dealt with; not as long as they still live. You don't need to do the task personally of course, not aga-"

"I refuse to butcher them like that, for they now pose no danger and they might find one day find redemption for their decadence."

Irritated by this boy's insolence and foolishness, Baktu spat, "They will escape, or find a way to contact their pawns. They will see you poisoned or stabbed to death. As long as they breathe, your claim is weak."

Babur stopped dead in his tracks, and the other two followed suit, no longer walking through the palace halls. The Mirza intently stared at Baktu, thoughtfully, for several moments.

Baktu started, "Well? Where is your ton-"

Babur interrupted him, "I heard your counsel, and I chose to set it aside. I am Mirza, I will be Sultan! If ever again you so much as suggest that I kill them..." The Mirza suddenly unsheathed the scimitar that was always at his hip and pressed its honed edge against Baktu's throat, pinning the man against the wall. Fear crept into the Khaghan's eyes. "...then I will hack your head off," Babur finished.

He pulled his blade from Baktu's throat. A small cut had been left; in his anger he had perhaps dug the edge into the man a bit harder than he meant to. Still, it had put Baktu in his place and instantly won Babur more fear and respect than his father or brothers could have ever commanded. Never again did Baktu foolishly think of him as a boy.

Changing the subject, he asked, "Baktu, how long would it take for the khans and noyans to ride to the old capital? I would be coronated there, before the first temple."

"Perhaps two months. It is tradition to bring their men by horse, and some have a long journey ahead of them."

"Very well," answered Babur. "Announce your fealty to me, then have the Temple make preparations to coronate me in three months. That will give the nobles ample time to prepare; I will expect to see all of them, save those that guard the borders or our holdings in the Zanjir."

T'was winter, snow fell lazily on the grounds of the royal palace, a thin powder that betrayed the coming of short days and long nights. The capital was quiet, the weekend had taken hold and everyone was indoors, spending time with their families, so was the Tsar.

The west wing of the palace is considered the private quarters of the royal family, only a select few are allowed in, trusted servants, guards who had proven themselves to be loyal to the throne and visiting guests whom the sovereign trusts enough. It is also the smallest wing but by no means does that mean it is small, The wing has one hundred rooms, of which eighty are guest rooms and ten chapels, the remainder being two great halls and seven living rooms, the final a massive library and the sovereign's personal study.

The living room was warmed by the crackling embers of a blazing hearth, the amber light dancing on the gold painted ceiling and refracting splendidly through crystal chandeliers. The furniture was heavy and substantial but still comfortable and cosy, made of solid oak and smooth, soft-to-touch silk. The living room in question was known amongst the palace staff as the sanctum, as it was the farthest living room and the one most frequented by the royals, for its comfort and decadence, as well as relative security.

The Tsar was sprawled out on a chaise-lounge, his thick black hair in disarray and his formal clothes cast into a corner so he was just in a linen undershirt and his underdrawers. He lay behind his wife, the pair cramping themselves on the seat that was only meant for one to rest on. The Tsarina was resting her head against her husband's chest and was reading a book, flipping the pages ever so gently and murmuring softly to herself the words from the page.

"Chto eto govorit, dorogaya? ^[1]" she asked, pointing at word in her book. The Tsarina had difficulties reading Ventian, she came from a northern tribe where they spoke and read a different language all together. She had never taken the time to learn to read Ventian, she never realized that she might marry a king though. Voltus kissed the base of her neck, gently and she broke into a fit of blushing and giggling, before she smacked his shoulder lightly, "davay, chto on govorit? ^[2]" The Tsar smirked and leaned in over her head so he could read the word she pointed out, his smirk turned into a smile.

"Quintessential," he said with ease, much to his wife's bewilderment, "If you want to get better at Ventian, endeavor to speak it as much as you read it, only a handful know some of the northern languages and it's safe to assume that even less can speak Tzan ^[3]." Marie frowned.

"You know... my speaking isn't best." she replied meekly and it was true, she had a heavy northern accentuate made her speak from the back of her mouth, making her have to form words slowly and carefully to avoid making embarrassing mistakes.

"It can only get better, dorogaya." he teased. Marie smacked his shoulder again.

"eto udivitel'no, chto dazhe tsar' mozhet byt' mudak. ^[4]" Retorted Marie, as she snuggled further onto his body.

"But you still love me." Voltus began to kiss the queen's neck and her urge to resist slowly weakened. She closed her book and threw it into a corner, instead grabbing her husband's head and pushing his lips onto her's. Even though she instigated the move, she gasped and for Voltus, it was nice to know he could still take her breath away. In the midst of the heated kiss, someone knocked on the door and great reluctance, Voltus pulled himself away from his wife's lips. "I'm a bit busy!" he called out to whom ever was interrupting his time with his wife.

"It's 7:30, Your majesty." Replied muted voice from beyond the heavy wooden doors. Voltus checked his watch and sighed, it was 7:30. He looked back down at his wife and called to the man.

"Give me a moment." Voltus planted his lips heavily onto Marie's lips and yearned for more but puled away as abruptly as he started, "I must go my love, but when I return expect more then just kissing." His wife grinned.

"Sounds... Nice." she said. Voltus clambered clumsily out of the couch and the queen returned to her book, he quickly dawned his clothes and threw over them his trench coat and emerged into the bright, electric lit hallway.

"I'm sorry if I intruded on anything," said the man as Voltus shut the door behind him, "You might want to wipe the lipstick off your face before we proceed." The man laughed and Voltus smiled as he wiped it off with a handkerchief. The man who dared talk to the Tsar in such a way was Petrov Zamili, a talented communications specialist and close friend of Voltus. The pair had first met when Voltus decided to start a project that required Petrov's certain skill set, the Tsar wanted to have his own radio program for some reason. The program started at eight and carried on to eight-fortyfive, it was basically him talking, nothing patriotic or speech but more conversational, talking with people about his childhood and his life in general and his opinions on things that should have not even mattered to him but did, like a play or a book. It was an opportunity for him to connect with his people that no other Tsar or Tsarina had before. He accepted calls and read letters, it made the people think him not so much as an imposing figure but more as a tangible person that they could relate to.



7:59PM (0 VMT)

The broadcast room was in the attic of the west wing, along with all the broadcasting equipment and an archive of previously broadcasted segments and music disks. At the heart of the system was a small, cubical like room the size of an elevator, it had plush walls to stop echoing and a comfortable chair sat in front of a microphone. After such a long time of doing this, Voltus still had butterflies in his stomach when he sat in that chair, waiting for the red, 'On Air' light came on, he knew that millions of people would be tuning in to listen and he didn't want to slip up.

The red light slowly began to blink, counting down from ten to zero, from beyond a pane of glass Petrov had put on his headphones and had started some soft music to play in the background. Voltus put on his headphones and the light stopped blinking, he was on air.

"Good evening, friends," he began, "You may have noticed form the lead in but if you haven't, listen closely. Yes, We've changed the music. Special thanks to Skya and The Wayside Bunch for sending me their record, for the listeners at home Skya and her gang operate out of a garage in Dovostok province, they are relatively new to the music scene so bid them good luck..."

As the Tsar spoke almost everyone in Ventium was tuning in, listening intently to his words and the way the music complimented how he spoke. Even in their far flung colony, people were listening in, Voltus wanted to make sure that no Ventian was missing out or anyone for that matter.



8:44PM (0 VMT)

"Alas dear listeners, We've come to the end of our little conversation and I'm sad that we have to part so soon..." He paused and poured himself a cup of water and he did, a call came in, he picked up the receiver and spoke around the cup, "you're on the air, this is Voltus." a tinny voice came from the beyond the speaker.

"What is it that you drink at the end of ever segment?" asked his son, Ampov. Voltus was struck to hear the boy's voice, Ampov had left the palace at fifteen to pursue a life serving God and had gone to a monastery to become a monk, Voltus wasn't aware that they had phones in monasteries.

"Water," replied Voltus, grinning, "Shouldn't you be studying?"

"Shouldn't you be governing?" retorted his son light heartedly.

"Touche."

"In all seriousness though, I've got to go. See you in the summer father." Ampov put the receiver back into it's little cradle and the line went dead, Voltus clicked the phone back in in place.

"Well friends, I bid you all goodnight and sweet dreams, and remember to head down to Davostok this winter, where Skya and The Wayside Bunch will be preforming all season long in Le Grande Hotel. Night all." Voltus looked up at the light as the music in the background slowly faded, when the music had stopped, the light had switched off and Voltus sighed. He missed his son.

"I'm going to go get a drink your majesty, care to join me?" asked Petrov, as he turned off the broadcasting equipment, Voltus shook his head and took off his headphones.

"Unfortunately not. I've got a flight to catch soon and I have to get to St. Azure to pick up Felicity." Petrov nodded in acknowledgment, and gathered up his hat and coat.

"Well then, until next time Voltus."

"Until then." Replied the Tsar, he had a long night ahead of him.



3:32AM (-4 VMT)

The flight had been long and boring, unfortunately Voltus couldn't sleep through it as he would have liked to, even if he were traveling, he was still Tsar and he had work to do. He spent the twelve hours of flying hunched over a wooden desk, reading and writing and ratifying laws and legislation suggested by various members of the government. He would have had the help of his daughter, but unfortunately her conference had been extended for the foreseeable future as debates became tense about management pay.

However, he must have fallen asleep, as he woke up face down on his desk, the cabin announcement pinging, the pilot's voice spoke through the p.a.

"Good morning your majesty and crew, We are making landfall in Eisenkries. Please proceed to the departure bays and await until we are fully moored." Voltus felt the Zeppelin descend beneath his feted he made his way to a rest room to freshen up, he didn't want to look like a fool in front of the Hegemon.

Voltus stepped out of the departure hatch and stretched a bit, his black trench coat flapping in the light dawn breeze. 'This is Eisenkries then?' he thought to himself as he found himself gravitated to a bench, plonking himself down, he picked up yesterday's news and began reading, his guards standing nearby just in case.



Footnotes:

[1]. "What does this say, darling?"
[2]. "come on, what does it say?"
[3]. Tzan, a language belonging to a minority Ventian population who live in the far north. Not a commonly spoken language in the south.
[4]. "it's amazing that even a Tsar can be an asshole."

The weather was normal and serene , today is the military parade in Tiqsimuyu in which most of the goverment is present , for weeks the miltary had been preparing for this day and this parade was made to show the new Tiqsimuyu a Tiqsimuyu ready to enter in the world affairs . All the important people is present , the king family , the first minister , the nobility and the bourgeoisie . All of them in one place waiting for the start of the parade , A brigade of "Purix" walkers will lead the parade with tanks and some of the airfleet present.The Sapa with pride started his speech

"Greeting to all my subjects , today we celebrate the day of the creation of Tiqsimuyu and the people who defend it, they are very proud by serving the military voluntarily , time ago our military was nothing compared to other nations and we was weak but not now , this day is to demonstrate the rest of countries that we are at the same level as theirs , this was achieved thanks to friendly nations that helped us in this specially the Republic of Avalia , we expect prosperous years and progress , now the parade will start "

After the words of the Sapa the applauses and cheers could be heard in the plaza , with that the parade started and everyone maintained in their place amazed by the Purix walker , after that the airfleet made present with a carrier and a dreadnought .The parade ended normally with all the people returning to their homes , evem the Sapa was tired after that and he decided to finish everything as fast as possible including the permission for the first minister to travel into Eisenkries capital to renovate the treaty between them .

After a long time the first minister Walkakuq was going to visit Eisenkries again , when he visited Eisenkries in that time everything was normal but now it could be totally different , rumors about tyranny made their way towards the Tiqsimuyu but that was only rumors and the military was happy to have a modern equipment in their hands. Walkakuq started his travel with only one thing in mind , "I have to maintain the treaty ". It was for him , his oil enterprise and the kingdom.

Ubileel Frostcutter was in his office and going over reports from across the nation, the frown on his face growing ever deeper with each one. He was afraid to even touch the one on foreign affairs, lest he fall into a blind rage and break something in the process. Let’s see here, Navari rioting in the City-forts, again, more Navari caught trying to lead raiding parties to the East, again, more Navari engaging in illegal Na'hada tournaments, again, etc, etc, etc. Ubileel had been elected to his new position only 3 years ago, and yet he already felt like he had aged another fifty years, making his already lengthy 275 years feel even more oppressive. He was almost positive he would die in office if this trend contained, which it likely would knowing those damn savages.

The only thing in the report that had surprised him was that a group of Khoren had been caught trying to sneak past the border with no small number of explosives. When they had been asked the purpose, they responded with as blunt a response as one can expect from the Khoren: 'We intend to take back the Lost Mountain and end the defilers who would disrespect the Spirit of Earth with their unlawful presence.' The Prime minister set down the reports and pressed a button on the dashboard. Seconds later, his secretary came in with a headache pill and some High quality wine, his favorite combination ever since taking this office. As he popped the pill and had the wine chase it down, he couldn't help but remember how much he used to despise alcoholic beverages. After a year in office,however, he was a borderline alcoholic and that had only gotten worse as time went on.

The Khoren were not an impulsive people, they did everything methodically and after a lot of time thinking. This was likely the first of a series of similar attempts. Ubileel could only count himself lucky that his troops had caught them, and not those of the Heavenly Empire, or else they’d have a war on their hands. Doubling the border guard would be a temporary fix to the problem, hopefully able to prevent trouble long enough for him to discuss things with the Tsardom of Ventium. He had racked his mind for days, but he couldn’t think of any way to deal with the Navari in a way that wouldn’t lead to open civil war, something he wasn’t willing to do, less another country take advantage of the resulting chaos that would assuredly follow. He hoped the Tsar of Ventium, a nation that devoted itself to the idea of peace, would be able to assist him in the matter, or at least give him some ideas.@Voltus_Ventus

A sigh escaped the old elf’s lips as he consider the future. If I had any hair left, I’d be tearing it out right now. The perks of old age, they never cease to surprise me. He poured himself another glass of wine, taking a long sip, before sliding back into his chair. After a short amount of contemplation, Ubileel’s ears picked up as he heard the sounds of little feet running down the halls.

"Marissa, do I have any visitors today?"

"Only one for today sir, and I must say that you'll be quite pleased. A beautiful young woman has come to profess her love to you." Marissa was a human immigrant from Ventium, and was quite the gentle beauty. If only I was 50 years younger . . . oh, who am I kidding, 100 years would be more appropriate. Shaking his head from his previous thoughts, he gave a soft smile at her words, already having a good idea of who that might be, but willing to play along.

"Ohhh, well send them in. The company of a beautiful woman is exactly what I need to ease the pain of these old bones."

Marisa nodded with a smile as she walked over to the door, a silver haired blur bolting through it the moment she opened it, running straight into Ubileel as he stood up and wrapping him in a loving hug. His smile widen as he found that his guess to be partially correct.

"Like mother, like daughter I suppose, always playing on an old man's hopes." The girl, no, the woman embracing him was his granddaughter, Aurora, who had just turned 30 years of age last month. She released her grandfather with a playful smile before giving him a kiss on the cheek, which cause him to chuckle. "So then, Aurora, where is you mother, her . . . partner, and your father." Ubileel hesitation at mentioning the oddity of his daughter's family was ignored by Aurora, who simply made a few more gestures with her hands to communicate that they were on their way. She had rushed ahead to see her favorite person in the whole world.

“You flatter me, my dear,” Ubileel chuckled, turning soon as he heard footstep coming down the hall. Celese walked in first, looking so much like her mother. Sometimes it hurt to see his daughter, so greatly did she resemble his late wife, it was almost as if the Great one was punishing for some past transgression. Following shortly behind her was Navaea, Celese’s partner and a Navari-Elf Half breed. While Silme had nothing against half-breed, he had very much problem with his daughter’s chosen being half navari, especially after the ordeal the savages had put her through. Just thinking about the event caused him to shake with rage, but he quickly calmed himself. Finally, following behind with his usual submissive manner was Silus, the only reason that Celese and Navaea could ever be together. While not as attached to tradition as their southern cousins, Silme were very strict on things involving marriages and procreation, as the low birthrates that plagued the elven species was a particular problem in the north, where death was not a rare occurrance. One such law was that if two persons of the same gender wished to be together, they must have what is known as a Su’dati.

A Su’dati is a mate chosen by the couple to sleep with one or both of them in order to insure that offspring are to be had. Opinion of Su’daten varies depending on class and the way they are treated by the couple varies as well, as while the couple is supposed to choose them, it’s usually the head of their family that does it. This is to avoid having the couple choose a person who will have no inclination to carry out their duties. Su’daten are still able to marry, though it’s uncommon for such unions to exist, mostly because the idea of Su’datens themselves is very antiquated. Many Silme simply decide to either not be wed and live together in secret, or try and fight the system that prevents it without some third party interference to make sure that a child is born, but until the birth rate of elves becomes more stabilized, it is unlikely to happen.

Ubileel had been at war with his daughter for years over the subject, and while it had hurt to deny his daughter, it had hurt even more to imagine her in the arms of some half Navari whore. The Su’dati gave him a hollow feeling of victory in the end, and while it had estranged them for some time after, the birth of Aurora had remedied that. Celese adored her daughter with a passion, and she knew that if it wasn’t for Ubilel’s stubbornness, Aurora would’ve never existed.

“I hope that Aurora didn’t bother you too much while we caught up, she’s always in such a rush, it’s a wonder she’s never broken anything.” Celese chuckled as she motioned for her daughter. Aurora pouted and hugged Ubileel tighter, sticking her tongue out at her mother, only for him to give her a tap on the head.

“You’re an adult know, Aurora, and you need to start acting like it, and sadly, part of that means respecting your elders and not sticking your tongues out at them.” His scolding was light and without any true anger, as their was no way he could be angered by anything his granddaughter did, not truly.

Aurora looked a bit upset, but a call from Silus brought her over, and within minutes, she was clapping happily as Silus began to play with her a little, both being silent as mice. Silus had some sort of genetic disorder that made it so that his vocal chords didn’t form properly, leaving him a mute. Aurora also had this disorder, but given current medicine and how long elves live, their may be a way to heal them both in the near future.

While Silus kept Aurora busy with games, and tall tales, Ubileel turned to face his daughter and her partner. “So Celese, have you come to visit your father, or is there something you need from the Prime Minister?”

“While I came to see how you’re doing, . . . . it’s Navaea who needs something.” Celese stated with slight hesitation, and for good reason. Navaea and her father had never gotten along, the arguments sometimes even becoming physical at times, especially when it came to matters over the treatment of Navari. She believed that they were being treated like second class citizens and were treated with great prejudice, and while she wasn’t wrong, her father retort was always the same: ‘If the Navari want better treatment, then they should get rid of that savage religion of theirs and join the rest of the civilized world.’ Navaea had no rebuttal for that, as even she saw the problem with her mother’s race when it came to their beliefs, but still thought that the Silme and Khoren attitudes were doing nothing but escalate things. It was a long and bitter feud, and Celese was afraid that one of these days, they’d end up killing each other.

“I see,” was Ubileel’s cold response, his eyes turning to look at the Navari-half breed with thinly veiled anger, a look that was gladly returned by Navaea. She sidled up closer to Celese, putting a hand around her waist and pulling her closer, as if to say:’She’s mine and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ The flames that raged in his still seeing eye grew with intensity, and his face slowly began to contort into a fierce grimace, his hands tightening into fists. “Tell me what you need Navaea, and I’ll do my best to fulfil it.” If only to get you out of my sight

Navaea’s gloating grin only served to fuel the flames in his eye, but she quickly wiped it off her face. “What I need is for you to stop persecuting the Navari like they’re all mindless savages, starting by calling for legislation to stop the banning of people from establishments solely based on their race!”

“I see nothing wrong with the bans set in place, as the Navari have a general precedent of violence and disorderly conduct, some even pride themselves on it. Why should I put up give them special privilege?” Ubileel furrowed his brow at her proposal, already digging in his heels. Celese rolled her eyes and walked off to join Aurora in partaking of Silus’ stories, which are very intriguing despite his inability to speak forcing him to have to tell his tales using only gestures to tell the tales. She could easily hear the hushed argument of her father and her wife in the background, knowing for certain that they’d be at this for awhile. Why can’t they just get along? She lamented to herself, sitting behind her daughter and holding her close, which Aurora showed slight annoyance towards, letting out a depressive sigh. Sometimes, she really wished that her father could let go of his prejudices, but with his old age, she knew he’d probably remained set in his ways until he was laid down in his grave. A depressing thought, but a likely one.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------


@Alfhedil

“You think we lost them?” A feminine voice whispered in the darkness as a figure crouched in the darkness of an alleyway, red eyes peeking out from behind a dumpster to witness the backs of troops as they walked away. There were a few tense moments of silence, followed by many minutes of inactivity to make sure no one was lying in wait for them, before two figures rose from the shadows. One was a tall, red haired man in a dark, tight-fitting shirt, black pants, and a similarly close fitting jacket. He had a long scar on his face that reached from left temple over his eye and to his chin. His partner was a woman dressed similarly and also with red hair.

“God dammit, what was the point of holding a secret meeting if someone’s going to fire of a gun. It’s so fucking stupid, and for what, to scare that other guy into silence? There were many quieter ways to have accomplished that.” The man complained, causing the woman to roll her eyes.

“Stop complaining and focus, we’ve got to make a report to send to Representative Vaal’Naveros. This situation is a lot more volatile than first suspected, so our usually tactics may not be as effective.”

“True, though I have to say, this Red Queen sounds so viscous and bloodthirsty, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that she has some Navari deep down within her if some of these stories are true. Sounds like quite the woman, if only she didn’t sound like such a nut case, she’d be a woman after my own heart.” The final remark caused the woman to scoff, running a hand through her red hair in impatience.

“The only way that would be true is if you meant that literally, damn Navaerus-Ulundi. Is there never a time when you and those like you aren’t thinking of only themselves.” The woman proceeded to spit at the man’s feet, as was custom, growling at the satisfied smile the man gave her after the supposed insult.

“Nothing wrong with looking out for yourself, Navade, it’s all in service of Navarus, may his blood wash away my sins.”

“Hearing an Ulundi speak the oath make me sick, go to your bakery and wait for further orders before any other activity. As it stands we must keep a low profile and take minimal actions, Understood.” She stated with a piercing glare that only grew sharper as the man continued his serpentine smile. He only gave a quick nod before he quickly headed off down another alley, his form disappearing into the shadows of the night. She clicked her teeth in annoyance, before reaching for her hip and making sure her mask was still there. She had decided to play the part of a believer of the strange faith in this country, though she loathed the feeling of restrictiveness and conformity that wearing the mask placed upon her. There were many times where she wished to rip it off and smash it into a million pieces, but her training in keeping her temper in line helped in reducing her frustrations.

She would make a quick, yet careful transition to her home, where she’d sneak in, undress, and discard of her clothes in the laundry bin for now. She quickly wrote down everything she presently knew in a coded journal written in Ancient Navari, a staple code for all Blood Priest and impossible for anyone to crack without the help of a Navari in a high position of power within the Navari inner circle, something she hardly had to worry about in Eisenkriesis. After she finished writing down what she knew, she placed the book in it’s hidden compartment and went to bed, deciding that it would be best to send the message tomorrow when she was better rested. She took a final look out the window of her home, looking at the stars and making a silent prayer to Naverus, begging his forgiveness for worshipping another, even if it was all a falsehood. She felt sullied by this mission and when she returned home, was determined to cleanse herself as soon as she could in a Na’Hada tournament, to let the lord of victory and blood to re-annoint her in the holy liquid and cleansed her soul. She made another prayer of forgiveness, then finally fell asleep, the last thoughts in her head being how wonderful it would be to feed the Scarlet Dragon the blood of this Red Queen one day, performing the old rites over her to enlist her in his army. The Ulundi was right, she would’ve made a good Navari, perhaps even a Blood Priest. Not in this lifetime, sadly, but there is always the next. Good night, Red Queen, and let us see if you’ll prevail in this civil war or fall into madness.

-----------------------------------------------------------



A young teen was sitting in a relatively lavish waiting room, drumming his fingers against the arm of a sofa as he looked around the room. It looked nice, but he prefered the hut he had shared with his family before his adoption by the church of Navarus. He was wearing the traditional garb of the blood priests, black leather underarmour with ivory plates of bone covering his vital areas, a wooden mask set to resemble a mouth full of snarling teeth was in his free hand, covered in black lacquer with the teeth also being made of ivory as well.

I hate how this stupid mask itches Na’daevus thought as he put it back on, clearly bored out of his mind waiting for the diplomat. He had been given this mission to test his skills, and grave consequences would be applied to him if he failed to confirm something. Normally a youth such as him would not be given such an important mission, but the priest who had been meant to handle this mission had been slain in a duel with another over a land dispute, and he was the most qualified person around to handle the mission on such short notice. He had only just become a Blood Priest and he was already put in such an important position that it made him want to throw up, yet he couldn’t look anymore confident from an outsider perspective, a part of final training is being able to separate what one felt from their outward appearance.

He was supposed to be meeting with the Intelligence Commisar, whose name he couldn’t remember at the moment, about plausible assistance to the Navari people to rebel against the oppressive Silme regime. The thought of those fragile twigs of a people caused a growl to escape his throat, remembering at how so many of them looked at him like he was nothing more than an animal. While he would admit that the navari traditions were brutal, they weren’t all that way, it depended on the individual and what path of Navarus they followed, but it was always easier to paint them all with a single brush. Pulling the hood of the cloak up over his head and his face mask down, Na’daevus made a quick prayer to Navarus to assist him in his endeavors and give him the strength to persevere, biting his thumb until it bled, then made a small offering to the Scarlet God by dripping a few drops into the dirt of a nearby planter, commencing in a voiceless prayer for a few minutes before he sat back down on the sofa, his fingers once again set to drumming a beat into the arm as he waited.

@Mihndar

A storm is coming.

The twilight sun's brilliant orange light flowed between the clouds and onto the sands of Tal-Ve beach, casting the whole evening a gentle golden shade. It was deceptively calming when experianced alongside the growing sound of grey-blue water pushing for the shore, and then absorbing into the soft beach sand. The shore was directly to the south of a great city, but you wouldn't know that from looking at it; it was entirely deserted.

It was almost insidious how the beach could seem so warm and inviting, but the icy-gray clouds shadowing the earth from above promised those loving waves would soon turn hostile, and the peaceful light of the beach would turn to the starless black of a storming night. If you were to listen closely you could hear shallow winds funneling through the clouds with a whistle and a out-of-place chill to the usually temperate shoreline.

There's no time for staring at the weather now, another storm is brewing; a more terrible and permenant one, out in the world KalSol Mulspan thought to himself. He had just recieved frightning news of riots in Virs City, apparantly there was yet another terrorist attack by the Temple of Kal's Passion about a week ago. It seems a member of the same extremist group- this member named Vilo Sukila- was inspired by the Mik Town Incident and decided it was a good idea to shoot up a random town of humans, so he had travelled to the mankind-infested slums of the city, withdrew a gun he had hidden in his robe (the exact same kind used by Mi Xula, a Colt M1911) and begin to fire without descrimination on the fleeing innocents.

The original Mik Town Incident had only resulted in three deaths, but it seems that Vilo knew what he was doing: twenty-seven injuries, nine deaths, and a suicide on behalf of the shooter. They say the street will never be clean again; that even after you've washed it all up and painted over the stains, the memories will always remain. With their obese, grotesque egos, it would only require one real event to anger some of the divided and greed-ridden politicans of KalMea and lead to a civil war that could shake the foundation of the earth. They were all sitting around in one gigantic powder keg, and they were all pretending like nothing's wrong until it goes off.

The riots had began directly after the terrorist attack. As soon as word got about that more Tinite humans had been killed by a Kal Extremist, the human population had gone mad. It began as simply protests- signs being waved, marches held, and so on- but then the Ajdar of KalMea activism group stepped in. Once AoK got involved, so did a few of the anti-Ajdar politicians. Because there is no such thing as Freedom of Speech in KalMea, the Govenor of Virs Province ordered aggressive action against any protestors. Tear gas, Riot Police, trained dogs...everything you could imagine was utilized to arrest or scare off anyone who would stand in protest against the current balance of power between Kallabs and Mankind.

That's when the first shot was fired. An Ajdar relative of one of those killed aimed and fired on a Riot Officer who had just launched tear gas into an unsuspecting crowd.

Mulspan wrapped his plainly black wool coat tighter around himself. As moderate as the shore was, those winds could chill him to the bone. Looking up one last time at the storm he knew was coming, he whirled around and fled for the reletivly safe interior of his palace. Maybe he was just being melodramatic, wars don't start just because a few rebels and activists who couldn't tell a gun from a stick set off a started rioting.

He sighed a long, exasperated sigh. That was wishful thinking: it wasn't the rebels he had to watch out for, it was the politics. Some of them, like Mulspan himself, saw human's as equals in the eyes of Kal- both being his creations and beign subject to his flame-, whereas some remained close-minded and extreme in their views, refusing to accept Tinite humans as little more than animals so long as Tin itself did not accept the Flame of Kal. If these riots over the terroism continued, it could lead to a true conflict between those who would have the law change in favour of the human minority, and those who would have laws stay as they are.

The KalSol had no way of being sure if Tin had heard the news yet, but they would eventually. He didn't know how the recently crowned Sultan Babur would respond when he was finally told, but Mulspan could only hope to Kal that he didn't see this as an oppurtunity to prove his devoution to Tinites abroad- with luck, he would be more prudent than to tear appart relations with their closest technological and military ally over a simple dispute.
---===---===---
"Welcome back home, sir, I hope you thoroughly enjoyed the water's edge", a very articulate and proper servant named Kamr was holding open the door to the palace for Mulspan. "The weather is wonderful on days such as this, is it not?"

"I guess, until you look up" replied the KalSol in a much more casual tone. "A storm like Tal-Ve hasn't seen in years is gathering up right over our heads"

"A thousand pardons, your majesty, no time to appreciate the clouds. I've been rather distracted with my duties of late. Ah, that reminds me, there's someone here to see you..."

It seems nobody had time to look at what was brewing right in front of them anymore.

"Who?"

"One Mr. Kulsan Hamry the Ninth, a direct descendant of Prophet Kulsan and Lord Hamry the Liberator, if my memory serves." The servant's words were humble, but his voice was confident. There was no mistaking a descendant of Kulsan, the three-thousand year old necklace eternally hanging around their throats and the mad spark in their eyes warned all approaching of exactly who they were speaking to, and that they should watch their tongue.

Aristocrats had a way of sickening Mulspan- especially considering he had not had the pleasure of being born into a wealthy family- but he loved Kal and His Flame, so he stomached the arrogant, entitled Kulsan family in the name of pleasing his god.

He would not, however, tolerate Mr. Kulsan Hamry IX charging into the KalSol's Presidential Palace without some type of appointment. This is not a plutocracy, the Kulsan's can not be afforded better treatment than anyone else who has not earned it. It was unfathomably rude the way Hamry decided to hold council with real leaders before even considering that the near-absolute ruler of all KalMea may be just a tad bit too busy.

"Tell him to go home and make an appointment, we don't have time to deal with his foolishness." Mulspan commanded his servant politely but firmly, the way he believed all leaders should.

"Should I mention the part about his foolishness, sir?" Kamr's eyebrows perked up.

"No!"

"Oh, very well, sir." He sounded almost disappointed "One moment, please"

As Mulspan traversed the intricate, winding hallways on a mission to find his private study- after two years in office he could still hardly find his way around the three-hundred room palace- he removed his dark wool cloak, revealing shining sapphire-coloured robes with gently laced golden tasles that held an overall silky appearance. His silver, braided hair reached down to the floor and dragged behind his thick dolphin-leather boots. It was a uniform fit for a Kallab King.

Almost as soon as he reached his private study, however, there was an abrupt and impatient knock on the mahogany door.

"What is it?" Mulspan sighed.

"Kulsan Hamry the ninth, descendant of the sacred Prophet, holder of the Ancient Amulet, witness of Kal's Glor-"

"Come in!" Mulspan shouted over whatever else the voice was saying. Normally he found it childish but amusing when Hamry attempted to invent titles for his self, but, considering that he had asked his Kamr to chase the "holder of the Anceint Amulet" off the premises almost a half-hour ago, he know found it only childish.

Hamry intered the room with in what would be identified as a humble modern suit, were it not for the three gold watches, the old bronze-gold amulet, and the mannicured nails the wearer also displayed.

"Greetings, almighty KalSol!" Hamry bowed low to the ground, but Mulspan was certain he caught something sarcastic in it.

The 'almighty KalSol' wasn't giving this man the satisfaction of being treated formally; "What do you want?"

Hamry's teeth ground together, but he made no complaint. "I wanted to you speak to you about the astonishingly high human immigration rate this past year. Recently, we- me and my personal researchers, I mean- have noticed a 300% increase in the numbers of mankind taking up residence in this fine city. I understand their desire to live in such a glorious place, but I contest that Tal-Ve has been and is a primarily Kallab community. Much of our fine history has began in this area- my own name reminds me of two momentous events immediately- and I for one consider this, of all places, to truly be the seat of Kallab culture. Furthermore, I sincerly believe, with all my heart and soul, that Ka-"

"-You can stop there. I get your point." Mulspan cut him off before he could continue his clearly rehearsed speech, "I know of the riots, and I know those are clearly what moved you to bring this to me."

Lightning struck outside, and thunder quickly followed.

Hamry's eyes glared with fire "This is about more than riots, this is about our culture!" His voice was uncharacteristlicly raised "The humans came here without our permission, muckied our holy land's with their heathen religion!"

It was at this point that Mulspan turned on the recorder underneath his desk.

"They do not contribute to our society, they only feed off of us like tapeworms, and that's all they have ever done. This city is a safe-haven from their kind, and I won't allow you and your backwards policies to take that away from me. You think this city is yours? It's mine! I am the descendant of Kulsan, I am the holder of the Amulet, you are nothing but a passing wind. My family was there before you, and we will be here long after your maggot-ridden corpse has rotted away."

Mr. Hamry grew more subdued now, his anger seeming to turn to ice rather than fire "You may call me a madman, but some call me a prophet. The truth is, I am both!"

"Oh, don't make me laugh" Mulspan replied without a shade of humour, "we both know you're just desperatly trying to make yourself seem as great as your ancestors. I've read the Book of KalMea, I know our history- repeating what Hamry and Kulsan once said won't make any difference, you're not even a shadow of your glorious ancestors."

It began to rain heavily outside the windows.

"This means war, you know" Hamry was calm once more. "I have great influence over those true children of Kal. If I so much as speak the word, I can have a movement to bring the Kaliabs to power once more. Kal will guide me." He rested his hands upon the amulet around his neck.
Mulspan responded in a growl, "Get out of my office. Get out of my office and don't ever think of stepping in here again."

And with that, Kulsan Hamry the Ninth turned and left without looking back. Mulspan was left with his head buried in his hands, knowing that Hamry would be true to his word down to the letter.

Lightning struck once more outside.

The storm had begun.

2nd of September, 1939
Yllendost State, Imperial Castle of Yllumírë

Yllumírë, the Shining Star of Yllendthyr. Walls plated with nothing but perfectly polished Mithril, shining dazzlingly within the morning light. A spiraling giant tower which served as the foundation of the entire city, a landmark that could be even seen from a hundred miles away. Yllumírë, the ever known home of the Ymherodre en' Yllendthyr (Emperors of Yllendthyr), the famous symbol of the Empire's might. No matter how many times he visits, Prime Minister Radidnahr en'Lóthien Gosodnelh watches Yllumírë in near-religious awe. As the leader of the Chymanfa (Parlaiment) he is effectively in control of the Empire. Yet whenever the esteemed high-noble visits the Castle, Radidnahr realizes just how insignificant he is compared to the Creator's chosen.

Radidnahr's chauffeur stopped the car and along with his escorts the Prime Minister walks through the pure white marble streets which seemingly spiral up for eternity. A hour later they almost reached the top floor when they saw a familiar gate guarded by golden soldiers. They were Heruntirith (Royal Guard), the Emperor's hand-picked personal soldiers widely recognizable for their armor layered with beautiful sun-bright Orachaldyn. Also called Anorhaud (sun-metal), Orachaldyn (meaning: Superior) is a rare metal alloy praised for not only its beauty but properties which surpass even the Mithril. Their creation is secret to any but a select few alchemists in Yllendthyr who work exclusively for the Emperor. Orachaldyn is the universal symbol of the Emperor of Yllendthyr. Even though the Ymherodr's power had been reduced to a shadow of its former heights, his glory and opulence remains untarnished. Radidnahr is a fearless and prideful elf who triumphed in several battlefields in the past. Yet no matter how many times he approaches this gate his stomach aches with a burst of nervous feelings.

Radidnahr left his escort at the gates and entered the Holy Gardens alone, lead by one of the Emperor's knights. As its name suggests the Holy Garden is a beautiful sanctuary, an unique paradise formed on the top of this artificial mountain. A lush almost forest-like garden filled with plants and flowers from across the Empire or even beyond. It's a man-made paradise collecting all wonders of the nature. This is the world where the Emperor of Yllendthyr resides and spends most of his life. Radidnahr's entire castle could not measure up for a square inch of this beauty!

Radidnahr was lead to a different route than usual. He and his Royal Knight guide took a detour and instead of the Imperial Palace they visited the large artificial pond in the back, Menael. Statues and many of the greatest pieces of art decorated what is obviously the greatest attraction of the entire Holy Garden. If one stretched his neck high enough even somebody from Radidnahr's spot could see the view down to Yllendthyr's most famous sea, called Gaeargiliath. But Radidnahr didn't care because his eyes were fixed on the radiant figure in front of him. Here he was, Ymherodr Ilehnaed IV en'Yllendthyr, a young elven ruler who just recently passed 96. He sat on his modest chair made of 8 kilograms of Orachaldyn. Since this was an irregular meeting the Emperor only wore his common clothes yet the vision that bombarded Radidnahr's eyes was simply overwhelming.



"What brings you here, Hîr Gosodnelh en'Lóthien? I do not remember we had a scheduled meeting."

Emperor Ilehnaed IV en'Yllendthyr asked his prime minister in a commanding yet melodious tone. Of course he spoke in Old Elvish, a language known for its complexity. The ancient elven language of Yllendthyr is infamous for the lengths they go to describe all details. By the time the Emperor had finished his sentence over 2 minutes had passed. The mention of the Prime Minister's full name in Old Elvish alone took 27 seconds. For the record with the same tempo saying the current emperor's full name takes 187 seconds, 19 seconds longer than his father's. This clear acknowledgment of respect and accomplishments at such youth makes Emperor Ilehnaed the Fourth supremely proud.

"I have important news, your highness! The situation on the Zanshir Islands grew tense. Unknown elements planted bombs across our borders. Dozens of dead, including Hîr Esnathemar en'Brascad, esteemed high noble and one of the Cyngorgad."
Because the Emperor was irritated he talked fast. In comparison Prime Minister Radidnahr en'Lóthien Gosodnelh used a respectful tone and he spoke for almost half an hour.

"Did that old fool also grew senile? Dying like a commoner to a mere indiscriminate attack."

"Indeed, Hîr Esnathemar was a living legend and one with legendary count of enemies. For him to die should not be a mere coincidence."

"I agree."
For the record in Old Elvish this took the Emperor 15 seconds and almost 10 times as much syllables to say.

"It goes without saying that investigations are already underway. Suspects are to be found both inside and outside the borders. Yet there's an even more pushing issue regarding esteemed Hîr Esnathemar's replacement. He was a great man and his loss would be felt across the Empire."
Actually the Prime Minister's last sentence in Old Elvish took more than the rest of his line combined. His respect for the high-noble was coming from such depths.

"His age was long past, Hîr Gosodnelh. In this era we have plenty of ambitious nobles to replace him. I'll submit you a list of approved candidates within the next week. I'll leave the final selection to you and the Ministry of War. Either way, the great accomplishments of Hîr Esnathemar should be remembered for eternity. I approve a national day of mourning in his honor. I'll leave the organization to you. Speaking of which, make sure that Hîr Esnathemar will be remembered as someone who died befitting a hero of his caliber!"

The sun was beginning to set. Indeed, the Prime Minister knew what to do. The truth about Hîr Esnathemar's death should not be revealed. Instead the official story will be that the aging noble sacrificed his life to save elven youths from the bombings. His honor should not be tarnished!
It was 18:30, thanks to the ceremonious and complex nature of Old Elvish they spoke for 5 straight hours. With his duty done Hîr Gosodnelh was free to go. Yet something was bothering him.

"Your highness, if you may. Are those intelligence reports I'm seeing? I don't remember receiving any from those countries today."

Yes, with his sharp senses Prime Minister Radidnahr en'Lóthien Gosodnelh can easily see the same envelopes that were used by the Central Intelligence Agency on the Emperor's 'modestly decorated' solid Orachaldyn table. He can also see that they came from the PRK and the Tin Sultanate, it even included photographs of the latest rulers, Premier Commissar Yekaterina Velikaya and Sultan Tartu Babur Genghis Khaghan. The latter was the first ever time the Prime Minister ever saw the face of the new Tinite Sultan.

"Don't worry, these are just part of my collection. I enjoy watching children playing house with the fate of entire nations."

The sky was blue, the air was crisp and the sun was shining gloriously at the city of Imuhari, the most prosperous city in the entire First States. It was only past ten o'clock in the morning and the streets of Imuhari were already crowded with people from every walks of life. Tall buildings, signboards, different kinds of vehicles and people can be saw in every corner of the city. The deafening sounds of horns honking, people chattering, and footsteps hitting the pavement lived up the whole city. It was nothing but a usual day for the people who were living here, but not for everyone. Today will be marked as a beginning of something new, something big that was never seen before in the entire Kingdom of Man Hu.

A dozen guys with big build appeared on the street of Imuhari, and which two of them were carrying a large crate on their back separately. They came out from a back alley and was leaded by a guy walking in front all of them. The leader turned his head to both side every few seconds to find the place where he was supposed to go or do something. Nobody bat an eye on them as they were not suspicious enough to attract attentions. The leader of the group stopped in front of a building, while the others that followed him did the same. They gazed at the tall building stood before them, and the leader gave a small nod to the followers which signaled them that they reached their destination. The crates were put down on the side of the road and the followers started to smoke while squatting on the other side. The tall building was built few years ago, which served as a meeting hall for government personnel and royal family members to meet and discuss matters with each other in Imuhari.

The leader pulled out a pocket watch from his black jacket, and observed the handles of the watch closely. The handles of the watch pointed at both the number "9" and "10" separately, represented the time 10:45 a.m. The followers looked at their leader excitingly as they were excited for what they were going to do later. A few seconds later, a group of people with police bodyguards around them walked pass them and entered into the meeting hall, as expected by the unknown group of people. Most of the polices entered the building with the notable people while only six were left outside to guard the front door of the meeting hall.


The leader of the group put his pocket watch back into the jacket and pulled out a small gun from his back, a M1903 pistol to be precisely. The gun was fired while aiming at the sky, a loud thump sound can be heard instantly followed by a small hissing sound. Everyone on the street stopped what they were doing earlier when they heard the sound and looked up at the man who fired the gun, shocked and confused. "FOR THE NEW EMPIRE!!" Shouted the leader of the small revolutionist group. The polices guarding the building were caught in surprise which allowed the protesters to have enough time to kill every single of them. The crowd on the street began to run away from the scene, causing the air to fill with only fear and panic. The front door was breached and the protesters spent no time sweeping the whole building for their targets. The revolutionists only target government personnel and the royal family during this assault, while other people were spared. Two men were killed by the police on the staircase to third floor, but the rest of the protesters still managed to kill the rest of their targets.

Sirens can be heard from a far distance, indicated that the reinforcements of the police force finally arrived in front of the building where the assault occurred. The protesters set the whole building on fire before they went back down to the front door for their escape, but all of the protesters were shot on sight by the police outside the building. The assault ended right here, but it was a beginning of a something big, the whole nation will soon engulfed in the flame of revolution!

To Helena Vortzeria, Chancellor of the Greater Republic of Avalia

I extend my thanks for your compliments and inspiring words. I agree that Sultanate of Tin, and indeed all autocratic and imperialist monarchies, poses a threat to our existence as democratic nations. We must commit to solidarity with one another if indeed we are to survive.

I greatly appreciate your invitation, and I have already begun preparations to depart. I intend to arrive soon after you receive this letter and will gladly celebrate with you this festival of freedom, with the hopes of restoring our positive relations.

-Premier Commissar Yekaterina Velikaya


September 3rd, 1939

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting its amber rays across the horizon, when Premier Velikaya's airship arrived at the city of Valkalia, the capital of the Greater Republic. Greater than what, Yekaterina mused. However, she was certainly impressed by the splendor of the industrial city that lay before her. Seemingly hundreds if not thousands of airships and airplanes either lay on the ground or were docked in the air to the many skyscrapers of the Avalian capital, the glass on which beautifully reflected the sun. As they descended towards the building where they were designated to land, Yekaterina gathered up her staff and personal guards. As the small group waited at the docking bay, the Premier glanced around for one particular man whom she made sure to keep close at all times. She made eye contact with him, and drew closer.

Nahku looked every bit a Tinite: his skin colored like teak or that of the desert sands, and his eyes and hair black like coals or moonless nights in the steppes. He was son of a Sultan and brother to one too, a lordly Mirza, and looked the part of that too: his gaze was long and piercing, he radiated an aura of authority, his face one of power, and his poise revealing confidence and pride the likes of which few know. His garb was magnificient and also unique: blue robes and a matching turban. Outwardly it seemed simple enough, but with a touch the softness of the rare fabric showed its value. From close up one could also observe the fringes of dull, yet real, gold leafings were embroidered in as decorative fringes. The look suited him: mysterious and yet revealing, aging and somewhat decrepit yet still powerful and imposing. Ekaterina disapproved of the richness of his garb, wearing one of her usual officer uniforms, but respected him far too much for that to tarnish him in her eyes.

Nahku noticed her approach and nodded. When she arrived close enough to be heard, the doors began to open and light began filtering in from the outside. The Premier's guards formed behind her, and when the door was about halfway open Ekaterina asked him, "So, how does it feel to be so close to home?"

Slowly Nahku turned to acknowledge Velikaya, for the Mirza did not bark so quickly to the wants of any person. His face was engaged in amused thought, before it was at last molded into a playful smirk. In a deep and musical tone, the Tinite responded in the Premier's language with a richly accented voice, "I do not know whether crossing this border puts me into any more danger than when I was in your capital. Avalia have quarreled with us for centuries, so I do not feel like an 'esteemed guest' here quite so much as I did in Kataylabinsk."

He walked the remainder of the space to the Premier's side, perhaps closer than her bodyguards might have liked. "I do miss the warm sands and dry air. Have you heard that my nephew Babur has claimed the throne? Perhaps under his reign, they will allow me to return again."

The Premier smiled. "Perhaps. The question remains whether his reign will be as stable as he might wish. Undoubtedly he has cultivated many enemies for himself through his actions, and he must be careful to not traverse too close to the edge of his ship, lest it capsize on top of him."

And with those words, the Premier adjusted her collar and they strode out of the ship into the land of Avalia.



A few seconds after Na’daevus finished his prayer and began drumming his fingers again, the nearby door to the Commissar's office opened and out strode a tall elf wearing the uniform of an operative of the Kataylabinsk Commissariat of Intelligence. He cocked his head slightly upon noticing the waiting Navari, and nodded as if he had concluded something. He strode out without a single word.

Following him to the door was a woman who seemed quite out of place in Kataylabinsk, short, with Yamataian features and long, bright orange hair, who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She beckoned the Navari Blood Priest to enter her office, and when he did she reflexively looked in both directions and closed the door silently.

When Na’daevus arrived in her office, he would immediately notice that in her darkly lit office, behind her desk, was a wall of screens rising to the ceiling that showed video feeds from various offices, many of them evidently not in Kataylabinsk. The Commissar settled into the simple chair between her desk and the screens. "Do you like it?" she inquired. "I of course have operatives monitoring all these feeds constantly, but I like to keep myself up to date just in case."

"My name is Anjelika Adraneda, and I am the Intelligence Commissar of the People's Republic." She leaned forward across her desk slightly as if she was studying him intently. "I am aware of the general details of your situation with the Silme, but feel free to... enlighten me further."

Babur's ship forcefully glided through the water and the choppy waves just like a saw through wood. Back and forth it rocked, slowly making its way to the capital. The young Sultan sat near the bow of the ship, at work with his paints, capturing the familiar image of the soaring towers and palatial temples rising from the sea as the city came within sight.

In times of antiquity the island that was now the capital had been home to none save corsairs and their slaves, a wretched port ruled by a dozen great Pirate Kings in its time. It was from the great port on this island that reavers set sail to terrorize coasts hundreds of leagues away. With their growing power and infamy also grew an unholy mixture of arrogance and pride, and there came a day when these pirates turned their backs on the land of their ancestors and spat on the Sultan's laws. Indiscriminately, they began to raid every vessel and village that they came across, Tinite or otherwise. They spat upon the Lord of the Eternal Sky, proclaiming plunder and gold their only gods.

Of course the great Pirate King did not fare so well when the Caliph looked towards that isle, his eyes brazen with the burning gaze of the Dragon, his wrath indescribable. The Tinites left the mainland and landed upon that island in the dead of night, and for three days after there was no night on that island. The Sultan's army had set about razing the entire port and fires raged, banishing the darkness and holding the cold nights at bay. At last, after those three days, the sky began to weep over the isle of the dead and snuff out the last flames. Nothing remained of the great pirate stronghold save ash and bones. As in for the Pirate King, the tales said that he was scourged as an infidel and criminal; brine rubbed into his bleeding wounds after every ten lashes so that the salt might seep deep into his body and burn away the impurity. After ten thousand lashes, it is said that his lifeless, broken husk of a body was at last cast into the surf. Atop the cinders of the ruined port and the bones of slain pirates the Sultan built his palace.

It goes without saying that there were many scholars that questioned such stories and declared the city's legendary past to be just that: legend. In any case, the Pirate Kings would have existed centuries ago, far too long of a time for archaeologists to ever be able to know for sure. But regardless of whether there had once been a great port that was the seat of Pirate Kings, the city was known to have had its origins as the palace of the ancient Sultans. That part was known to be true. Saroy was the Tinite word for 'palace', and the capital was called Saroy City, after all.

For many decades the great palace on this island was simply a vacation home for the Sultans and an isolated redoubt made defensible by the fact that it was cut off from the mainland. But the palace complex was expanded and expanded until it became like a small city. Eventually that small settlement of sorts, consisting of a small garrison and the palace servants, turned into an actual city.

The Sultans began to spend an increasing amount of their time there. Other nobles began to build villas and palaces of their own, bringing servants and retainers. A larger port was constructed in order to facilitate so much travel to and from the island, creating a healthy fishing industry and a hub of trade. So as to avoid having to import goods like clothes and weapons from the mainland, tailors and blacksmiths moved to the island and set up shop. In this manner, the Saroy Palace became Saroy City, and eventually the city grew to carpet the entire island.

Eventually Saroy City grew so large that it was officially proclaimed the new capital of the Sultanate. People flocked to it in droves. They built towers, great and slender spires of stone and brick that reached up like bony claws of the dragon, rending the fabric of the clouds and sky. Ostentatious temples were built; massive complexes that were the size of castles and decorated with countless murals and statues. The markets and bazaars were seemingly endless; one could walk past the merchant stalls and shops until their legs collapsed and their ears grew deaf from the sound of incessant haggling. Nearly the entire island was transformed into one sprawling, densely populated city, though at least a hundred square miles were still reserved for the Sultan and left largely undeveloped: those spaces consisted of firing ranges, hunting grounds, riding grounds, gardens, and such. Worth noting was that there were also no slums; living expenses were much higher than on the mainland, and so all the homes were beautiful and comfortable, and nearly all the inhabitants wealthy by Tin's standards.

Just as he finished his painting and his musings came to their end, the day began to draw to a close as well. When evening's shade became noticeable, the Sultan's gaze drifted upwards. Once again he beheld that image with wonder; he had seen it a hundred times before, but it never lost its brilliance. The image was that of the two cities in the distance: one was Saroy City, the pride of Tin and jewel of the world, rising from the waters. The second city was the twin of the first; every magnificent tower and temple, every street light by the seawall, they were all reflected in the serene water that lapped upon the island's shores, the seas calm and dark at dusk.



When the Sultan and his entourage disembarked, a car was waiting. Bulletproof, a luxurious interior, discreet. A fine way to travel, to be sure, but Babur dismissed the driver. He and his men would observe Tin's traditions by riding on horse to the capital, and so it was that perhaps five hundred horsemen cantered lazily down the streets. It was a strange sight, for it had been many years since a Sultan had last been seen atop a horse rather than in some posh wagon or car, but it appealed to the masses. In his own way Babur always managed to make clear his strength and reverence for the past, and this was a fine example. Respectfully and silently the people on the streets parted to the sides to make room for their Sultan and his men, kneeling to the ground and bowing their heads once they were safely out the way. Even the most despised and worthless of Sultans were given this respect, for it was the Tinite way.

When Babur arrived in the palace, he had a surprising amount of work before him. He had never been taught how to rule; as the very youngest son of his father, the quiet one that never got any attention, none had ever thought it necessary to teach him of law or governing. So left to his own devices, his childhood had been spent training with soldiers, painting, reading tomes, and learning exotic languages. Sure, reading had taught him much about theology, science, history, military tactics, and the infidel realms. Learning the language of the Kallabis, the Ventians, and so on would no doubt prove useful in the future. But none of that had done anything to prepare him for what he should do now.

It was odd that the most powerful people were those that had the least obligations and responsibilities. Over the next few days, Babur quickly found out that as Sultan he could do whatever he liked; if he chose not to govern, there were few that would dare to tell him he must. Still, he did not believe in staying idle. In his youth many had japed that he worked like a Kallab, but that was not far from the truth. Sloth was heinous in his eyes, and so he was diligent. With only the prodding of his conscience, he declared that his father's advisers and council would retain their positions, unless he found their help unsatisfactory. He also ensured that the preexisting bureaucrats would retain their positions throughout his reign, as replacing the current administrators would lead to instability and Babur knew better than to think himself capable of ruling alone. He would need their help, at least in the beginning.

Spymasters, diplomats, and various nobles all sent letters and telegraphs to the royal palace to keep their central government aware of their internal dealings, to bring foreign issues to attention, and more often than not to request troops, money, or some other form of the nation's resources. With his father's council and some of his own trusted men (Tsoloman in particular), each day Babur set aside several hours to sift through all these messages, delegating some of the less important ones to the bureaucrats to handle, and personally responding to the others.In particular there two issues that stood out to the council and triggered much debate.

The first was a festival taking place in the wretched infidel nation of Avalia (cursed was their blood and their very name, for they were enemies of both the Sultanate and the Dragon himself) with the Premier of the near-equally appalling so-called People's Republic of Kataylabinsk rumored to have declared her attendance as well. The rats were breeding, or so it would seem. Several High Shamans of the Temple (many of them powerful sheiks and military officers in addition to clergy) argued in favor of arranging a bombing or other form of attack in response to show the world that the Sultanate would not suffer such deplorable gatherings. Of course, Babur was not so eager to potentially spark a war within days of being declared Sultan. For the sake of honor and caution, Babur did what his father would have done and sided with those who advised merely ordering Tin's spies to keep a close eye on what happened at that festival.

The second issue was that of growing unrest in Tin's neighbor, trade partner, and close ally: KalMea. Many people (mostly human and adherents to the Ajdar) were in open protest with some committing violence, in response to an even more extreme lash out from Kal extremists. The misguided heathens were generally peaceful and their religion was close enough to the True Faith to warrant cooperation and tolerance, but it would seem that there were some that were true infidels; these wayward souls were no better than the vile nations to the north.

No doubt that the entire train wreck of a situation in KalMea had been created by a combination of poor leadership and their strange and backwards system of 'democracy', but Babur was not about to point fingers at the KalSol. The problem had deep roots and to Tin's knowledge the extremists had existed for many years and only grown in power. The fault lied in the previous KalSols, for not obliterating the Temple of Kal's Passion while it was in its infancy and did not hold the influence that it now did. In any case, Babur's council was for once in agreement as to what would be the best way to proceed: KalMea was too important to risk alienating, and so the best response would most likely be no response.

Babur's father certainly would have been meek enough to do just that and turn the other cheek, but this Sultan was not. Many in his own nation were calling out for him to publicly demand the extremists be executed and the rights of KalMea's minority Tinite and Ajdar populations be guarded much more fiercely. While he was not about to issue a threat, he would write a letter to the KalSol, who seemed to not be taking the situation with the grave seriousness and steely resolve that it deserved.



The letter was written by the Sultan's quick hand (in the alphabet and tongue of KalMea, too) before it was signed in the traditional manner: the Sultan used a small blade to prick his finger, then smeared a thin line of the blood across the bottom of the page in one long stroke. At the end of the line, he pressed his thumb down to stamp the page with his fingerprint, using the blood as a form of macabre ink. Such traditional signatures were not normally used when writing letters to other nations, yet the KalSol could be sure that the letter was truly from the Sultan, as the letter was sealed with an ornate black dragon. That wax seal was only for use by the Sultan, with the punishment for its forgery being death.

The walls were a pristine white color and the floors were a dark wood native to the elven country. A dark haired, rather beautiful women sat on bench, along with a pungent half elf, that seemed to have been molded out of the floor. That women was Katrina Claire. When she arrived in the capital the oddest thing happened, she was declined entry and was forced to sit with other undesirables. This is my first assignment and its screwed ten ways to hell. "Ugh." She released all of her frustrations aloud and it even made the hybrid vagrant to her left move off the bench and mutter,

"What the hell is her problem." Now Katrina, a native Hambrian had to sit, embarrassed and very pissed off, in this foreign country waiting for her all-access diplomatic passport to be cleared from the hell hole that was Yllendrian Customs.



The climate of San Barbaria was much like the rest of the Hambrian Republic, it was hot and dry in the summer and cool and wet in the winter. currently the hot summer sun's rays beat down upon Tim Puzo's back. He just got back from an hour lunch in this Podunk diner in this Podunk town waiting for the Podunk inhabitants of the main Census office of San Barbaria to return from their lunch. The town in question wasn't really that "Podunk" he just really hated the San Barbarians. Tim almost began to walk to his car then a lady in a pencil skirt being flanked by business men unlocked the front doors. So Tim followed and had a brief meeting with Derrick Brown the manager of the building, who by the way was a total and complete ass.

In the car on the way to the airport Tim read through the finalized results of the census results. One question, that was a new addition, it asked if they felt secure in their country and 64% felt they did not. The recent attacks in Don Wei and KalMea seems to have struck chords within the common man. Tim rushed the driver and in an hour and a half he was in Ciudad in front of the president of Hambria announcing the news. After several moments of thought Salvatore called in his advisers and pushed his memoirs aside. Within ten minutes two plans were proposed either expand the military or help the freedom loving nations.

If we expand our military the citizens would grow even more scared, they'll fear that the government isn't telling them something. If we try help KalMea some citizens probably wouldn't like it either. Rather than scaring his people more President Salvatore began to ask his advisers the best way to deal with this issues, surprisingly Mario, the Military adviser, and Raefiel, the International diplomat agreed that sending over troops to cooperate with the other nations could prove beneficial to the domestic security of Hambria. Salvatore adjourned the meeting and began writing letters to the KalSol.

KalSol, KalMea

Mulspan Kilb, KalSol of KalMea,

I have heard word of the terrorist attacks by extremists and of the riots. I offer my deepest condolences as well as, if you so need, an attachment of soldiers unto 100,000 led by one of our generals from the Nation of Hambria. I understand that you if may not need them however I extend this courtesy as to strengthen the relationship between our two nations.

Sincerely,

Roman Salavatore

It had been three days since the might of Eisenkern had begun marching into Arisovia, and three days since the people of that abused land had known peace, even if it was under the thumb of a despised ruler. State troops marched up and down the streets of each city in the region, their weapons held across their chest and ready to use, the faceless helms scanning every individual they passed and almost looking for an excuse. Even under the increased presence of the Queen's army, rebellion festered among the populace, in Grajewo most of all as those who had before feared adding their voices to the rebellion, now did so in secret. As if insult to injury, foreigners had just landed upon Eisenkern soil, without even a word given to the council on whether or not the Arisovians agreed to allow them.

This was all until her enforcers made their arrival in Grajewo. Marching in lockstep, the hiss of servos wheezing underneath their armor plates black as the dead night, those creatures called Black-Iron made it clear that Marianna Desrosiers owned Arisovia. Each one bore the markings of the serpent upon their shoulders, etched in acid into the armor and spiraling in complex patterns that differed from every other soldier. Hideous serpentine faces sat upon their necks, the helmets they wore showing clear their allegiance to Kohryillios and the Red Queen, and unlike those of the state-troops, solely created to strike terror into whatever dared oppose the will of their patron. What's more is that each one bore a strip of parchment affixed to their left shoulder, a single red mark from where they swore their blood-oath to their queen.

These were the monsters who were said to have been forged of the blackest iron, deep in the pits of the Queen's own withered heart. Each one held his own sins that would have been tantamount to treason in any other country, punishable by the most painful death. Gathered from those who dared to defy her to begin with, each prospect was once a murderer, a thief, a criminal of the most profane crimes. She broke them all to her will, forced them to live only for her. Forged anew, these men and women were now more terrible than anything they may have been before. Now they lived and breathed only for her love, and killed any that dared to defy her will. Whether it be an armed man, or a terrified child in the embrace of a weeping mother, if they did not bend their knee to their beloved queen, then they would be purged. Most terrible of all, however, was one who had been born and raised in this very city. A child of Grajewo, one who had before loved his city and the people of his nation. This man had once been a prominent figure among the community, one who bore the charisma of a leader, but the modesty to remain among the poor. He had been among those in the city when Marianna rained fire and lead down upon both innocent and guilty alike.

From the rubble of the city-block he lived, the man lay broken and burning in the fires of hatred that he had so desperately tried to stay. In his last moments, he watched everyone he loved burn to death before his eyes, powerless to help as his fall from the third floor of his home had broken both legs. Consigned to die along with them, the man closed his eyes and embraced death, only to open them to find a beautiful woman kneeling down over him, striking emerald eyes set in a face that seemed to be of the finest porcelain. Even as he became enthralled by the woman who slowly dug him out of what should have been his grave, he knew there was something else entirely behind her beauty. It was a poison, one that even as he greedily took it in, he knew was worse than death. So terrible was her poison, that when she told him she was Marianna Desrosiers, and that he would give himself fully to her will, he did so. That woman who had seen fit to order the murder of everyone he had ever known, she who had pulled him from death's embrace and spit in the face of the reaper himself.

Now the creature that was Gailestingumas stood idly by the throne of Eisenkreis, ready to give its life for her if she but asked, for she was now all he knew. Arisovia, his friends, his family, and even his childhood sweetheart, they were all forgotten. The mass of scarred flesh and steel that stood by the Red Queen's side was her mercy, a pet that needed no leash as it existed only to serve her. Truly if a being could have a blacker heart that Marianna, it was this one who had lost everything and knew only hatred. So it was that he did not even flinch as his queen began the address to the Arisovian people from the Tower of Eisenkern.

---

Sammael Kzechverin awoke with a grumble, a hand raising up to scratch at the ragged growth on his chin, wondering if today was the day that he would shave that beard. Looking over at the mechanical clock on his endtable, he decided that today was not the day, and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. Slowly he raised the shades in his modest bedroom that was his entire house, and swore as the light of the sun hit him directly in the face. "What the shit is this." He gruffly mumbled as he dressed himself and walked over to the kitchenette that had seen better days likely a century ago. Dishes sat piled in the sink and left out food and discarded casings lay strewn across the counter-top hiding what could have been innumerable species of mold gaining sapience in his laziness.

This laziness was not something the twenty-eight year old noble of house Kzechverin had always known, however, and in many rights it was a way of solace in a life destroyed by political maneuvering. He chuckled to himself as he looked back on his prime, when five years ago he was next in line to become Stadthalter of the nation bearing his namesake. All ruined by a puppet without strings. The thought came bitterly as he remembered how his own dear little sister had stolen the throne from him by what had seemed at the time being perfectly inept. She had never known the rule of even her own house, always at the will of others, about as close to a servant one of noble blood could ever truly be while still holding a title. The perfect puppet to place at the head of their beloved country.

Until she cut her strings. They saw too late the cunning of a princess that had always been pampered and looked down upon by the nobility, treated as a doll and made to dance for their amusement. He was there when she laughed at them when they asked her to take war to Eisenkreis, to finally take battle to their enemy of nearly two centuries. The look on the faces of the nobles was that of utter shock as they found the delicate princess had spine enough for the army, her look of amusement as she told them she fancied the woman known across the continent as The Red Queen. Fucking sapphic. Again bitterness filled him as he looked over to the time and realized that he was required by his queen to escort foreign guests.

His queen. Those two words brought hate to the forefront of his mind and without even being aware of it, his fingers flexed tightly around the metal cup in his hand, the flimsy sheet metal bending in his grip. To be reduced to being a slave of the bitch queen, he was her puppet and nothing more. A toy paraded out to greet diplomats and brought back to the castle when the mood struck her to be amused herself. Nevertheless, it was not within his power to deny her, and he knew she would just find another to break.

An hour later he found himself on the tarmac of the parade grounds exclusively given over to the landing of foreign airships, that of the nation of Ventium squatting its bulk currently and the diplomat said nation sitting upon a bench nearby awaiting escort. To either side of Sammael marched guards in the regalia of Eisenkern, their dark armour and flowing purple capes denoting their importance, but not entirely to the foreign diplomat. They were there by Marianna's orders namely for Sammael, to reinforce that he belonged to her, and that he was to serve her utterly in this endeavor. Resisting the urge to spit upon the ground then and there, he checked that he was appropriate and approached the group at the bench.

"My lords." He began, keeping to as best he could a common language between the two. "I am Sammael Kzechverin, Consort to the Hegemon, and I am to escort you to the Tower of Eisenkreis if you would accompany me."

The sun now shined brightly in the middle of the sky, the clear blue skies assuring the people below that the festival shall commence. Today was a very special day for the people of the Greater Republic, specifically those of the Valkyeria. Today was September 4th, the day that the Liberian Wars finally came to a close and all of the lands of Avalia were freed from the tyrannical, theocratic rulers. However, today was extra special for the nation.

Visiting the nation, were both the Prime Minister of Yllendthyr and the Premier Commissar Yekaterina Velikaya of the PRK. The leaders of both nations had stayed the past two days in a wonderful old hotel. It was much like most of the other governmental and administrative buildings, impressive, but not extravagant. The rooms were well decorated and comfortable, but lacked that older, royal finesse that so many other nations still carried. Instead, it was much more modern in its style, more clear cut and straightforward. Both leaders had been told by attendants that the Chancellor apologizes for not being able to meet them right away, as she has been incredibly busy with the preparations for the festival.

However today, those great leaders of their nations sit in front of the Senate at the entrance to the pentagonal shaped building that housed the legislative branch of the government. They sat atop the many stairs and in front of the towering white columns. Before them was the large strip of clear space, flanked by various administrative buildings. The open area was dotted with parks and monuments to fallen heroes. The roads on the two sides of the area were crowded with people, vendors, booths, and otherwise, all waiting patiently for the festival to officially begin.

At exactly 12:30, the rumbling hum of aircraft engines could be heard. In the sky flying low above the capital, the 1st Airborne fleet made its way over the clearing. It consisted mainly of five Destroyers, two Battle Cruisers, and most notably one single Fortress Class. The massive airship caste a great shadow over much of the square, confetti rained down from the bomb bays as they flew over, the people cheering. Once they passed, flights of fighters flew over, then the most anticipated fighter group of them all, Strike Witches, came diving out of the sky. Everyone at first was shocked to see who led the flight, but then cheered even louder once it sunk in. The Chancellor herself, Helena Vortzeria, was flying lead for the 506th Strike Witches flight. They preformed great aerobatic maneuvers before the Chancellor in a spectacular landing, looped once then touched down on the ground in front of the steps of the Senate Building. People whistled and cheered as she approached the stand, all amazed by her feats.

She raised her hand for silence, and eventually she was given that silence. The Chancellor began. "People of the Republic, honored guests, and members of the Senate. I see before me a strong, young nation. A nation not ruled by tyrants, by Emperors, by kings, but by people! No matter where you live in this world, the people always hold the most power for change, not the person. I live in a nation, where a little young girl, with no parents, and not a cent to her name, can rise to the level of Chancellor in this nation. Where hard work and drive make the difference, not birthright. Today, on this fateful day, the last shot was fired in defending the freedom of this nation. Today marked the day that our nation truly stepped onto the world stage and told everyone that we, people of Avalia, will not go quietly into the pages of history! We are here to stay, to prosper, to live out lives to their fullest! We now have control of our natural domain, our true home! The sky! Today, is the greatest day of our history!" she paused as a member of her cabinet approached her with a glass of beer. She thanked him and turned to the ground, holding out the glass to the crowd. "May the Festival of the Sky begin!" With that, the crowd roared with applause and cheers, the band began to play the songs of Avalia, and the festival was finally underway. The Chancellor drank from the glass and then came down from the podium, shaking hands with the members of the Senate, before finally approaching the Prime Minister and Commissar. There was an obvious contrast in their dress, as she wore a more rugged pilot's outfit as opposed to a suit or military uniform.

"Friends of Avalia, please, let me welcome you my nation! I must once again apologize for not meeting you both the moment of your arrivals, but as you can tell now, I had to brush up on my flying skills for today's events. Come now, let us head inside and begin our discussion." As the leaders entered the building, the parades had begun in the main mall. Unlike other nations, the parade only consisted of one military unit, the local army unit, while the majority of the parade was made up of civilian floats.

Both the Festival and opening talks with Avalia's prospective allies were now underway.

Hasun rose up in the morning earlier than most, getting out of a small bed in his equally small bedroom. As a captain of the Janissaries and the commander of this garrison, he enjoyed the privilege of having his own room within the barracks. The tiny cell even had a window; as he rose to his feet, the veteran soldier gazed out to enjoy the view. The glistening ocean was gilded with the brilliant amber of the dawn's first rays of sun.

With a yawn, the Hasun prepared for himself a similarly amber colored drink: a sweet and savory mixture of the juices of several tropical fruits native to the Zanjir. He preferred such juices in the mornings over the more popular, unnatural narcotic known as coffee. Such drinks weakened a man's resolve and fortitude, and it was said that soon enough a man would become dependent upon the coffee in order to even feel alive in the mornings.

After eating a light breakfast, the still dazed commander donned his uniform as he had to appear in that outfit everywhere except for the room that he was in now. A minute later, Hasun left his room and walked through the barracks, careful to not wake his men (these were the night shift, of course, as the day soldiers would have been awake long before dawn) at such an hour, for they needed their rest. After a brief trip to grab the day's newspaper, Hasun returned to his room feeling less fatigued. This newspaper was called the Truth of Tin. Some things in it were reported truly enough, such as the status of ongoing military conflicts and new laws. The rest was little more than propaganda, as this particular newspaper was written and printed by the government itself. Still, Hasun read the paper because it was provided to freely to any who cared to take it.

He read the newspaper. From it he learned rather little about the new Sultan, much to his disappointment. Perhaps he would learn more about the new monarch as time went on. When he finished reading about the status of the realm, the commander walked to drill his men. Granted, he had sergeants for seeing to such things, but the men appreciated a leader that they could see and know. Besides, Hasun needed his practice too.

The moment that he was out the door he suddenly found himself on his back: the entire central square that he had stepped into violently erupted into flames. As the bomb went off, its concussive force knocked the commander down and showered him with splinters of burning wood and pebbles from the pulverized cobblestones. Some of those that had been closer to the blast were in blown into pieces or set aflame.

His ears ringing and his eyes blinded by light, Hasun tried to cry out, "Fire!"

All that came out was a hoarse croak before he swallowed a mouthful of smoke and erupted into a fit of coughs. All around, the soldiers on patrol were rushing to the scene. With no visible enemy, all the wounded were evacuated. The city was promptly put under martial law, and soldiers detained everybody that they caught near the square or trying to leave the city. In the chaos, Gustavo and his men slipped out.

At a desk, the Premier was writing a letter. "Hmph. If I had known I would be spending two days in a hotel, I would have arrived two days later."

Elena, the premier's secretary, replied "Of course, Premier Commissar. You are an extraordinarily busy person, and it is simply not right that they keep you here unnecessarily."

"It only goes to show that the Avalians have not yet quite dropped the pretense of decadence, I suppose. But it can't be helped." replied the Premier, as she signed the bottom of the letter and handed it to Elena for mailing back to the PRK.

There was suddenly a knock on the door.

"Madam Premier, the festival is now about to be underway." Yekaterina glanced at the clock, it was 12:15. "Your presence is requested in front of the Senate building. Oh, and the Prime Minister of Yllendthyr will be there as well."

The Premier grimaced, then quickly regained her composure. "Very well," she replied. Grabbing her hat, straightening her hair, and shaking her head at the thought of diplomatic congress with both an enemy and a friend, she strode out of the door.

---

The Premier watched the display of air superiority, and was quickly impressed. Her own nation's air force was mediocre at best, lacking proper airplanes and instead relying solely on airships. The maneuverability of these craft was a sight to behold. She slightly glared at the Prime Minister of Yllendthyr, almost too quickly to notice before gazing ahead again.

However, when it became obvious that the leading fighter was piloted by none other than the Chancellor herself, Premier Velikaya distinctly reevaluated her opinion, appreciative both of her flying ability and of the fact that she chose no formal or ceremonial way of entrance but instead flew in alongside her fellow Valkyeria. She politely applauded at Vortzeria's speech.

The Premier caught a whiff of spice, and instinctively smiled as she looked over at Nahku standing on her left, who spoke not a word but quite evidently radiated disapproval at the Chancellor's speech.

When Helena approached, Yekaterina firmly shook her hand and watched as she did the same for the Elvish prime minister. She nodded at the Chancellor's proposal, and followed her inside, Nahku and Elena remaining outside to watch the rest of the festival.

5th of September, 1939
Valkalia, Greater Republic of Avalia
Cyntwleidyddion Hîr Radidnahr en'Lóthien Gosodnelh

It's been a tough week for Prime Minister Radidnahr. In spite of the fact he was already busy with several internal and foreign issues he was also invited by their long-time trading partner Avalia. Given the distance and the already tight schedule he was lucky to have made it by the night of Domhnaigh (Sunday) on the 3rd of September. Even during the hours of journey aboard his luxurious private airship Celeir Artefanyír (Brilliant Noble Cloud), he spent the day working, reading/writing telegraphs and issuing commands to multiple branches. The life of a Prime Minister was never easy and he didn't choose to attend the Liberian Festival out of mere whim.

Soon as he arrived the Chancellor's representative apologized because Lady Helena Vortzeria was busy and could not welcome him in person. Radidnahr unconsciously raised an eyebrow hearing that, as far as he knew these two words were almost mutually exclusive. Of course she's still the leader of an entire country so perhaps the Chancellor has urgent duties. See, at least by elven standards, Radidnahr was a very understanding person. Following this he was invited to live in Avalia's most renown hotel. It was quite spartan in appearance, focusing on practicality over fanciful features. Radidnahr could only compare it to a lower middle class lodging from Yllendthyr. Still, this obviously wasn't his first visit in the Greater Republic of Avalia so Radidnahr knew that's just the way it is in the country. He kindly accepted the room but not after he made the servants clean it three times in a row. Even then Radidnahr was not satisfied so he called up his own servants. They tidied the room so it shone brilliantly even to the sensitive elven eye. After which he brought some spare furniture to make the room livelier and also carried a few tools so he could continue his work while in Avalia.

4th of September, the ceremonial opening of the Liberian Festival. How many decades had it been since Radidnahr saw it? He finished most of his work for the day and along with his Aramegyr they enjoyed the sights of the festival. Being an elven noble, his presence was far from subtle although Radidnahr took care to never disrupt the proceedings. By his high-class elven standards the celebration was fairly unimpressive but he was perfectly aware that Yllendthyr's extravagance is anything but the norm. Radidnahr's only issue was that he failed to meet neither Chancellor Vortzeria nor Premier Velikaya. Aside from that he enjoyed himself for the first time after the strenuous last week.

And now it was the 5th of September, second day of the Festival. As Radidnahr heard this day was typically reserved for air shows. Avalia was one of the leading nations in aircraft technology and their society was practically built on living in the skies. Naturally, the prime minister of Yllendthyr had great interest to see some of Avalia's advanced aircrafts in action. On his route to the Senate the prime minister could finally meet the Premier for the first time. Premier Commissar Yekaterina Velikaya, former empress of Kataylabinsk who reformed her dying nation just a decade ago. Her feat was impressive but obviously not the most beneficial for Yllendthyr that just began colonizing the far edge of the continent. The two nations are now in a several years long feud over the borders which obviously doesn't help their relations. Radidnahr saw photographs of her but this is the first time he actually met the Premier in person. For being barely 32 years old the Prime Minister expected to see somebody young. Even though he works with humans on daily basis it's always so easy for him to forget how rapidly they can grow. This aspect of humans is what amazes the Prime Minister the most.

Another person Radidnahr was surprised to see was a Tinite, and not even any random citizen. He was Nahku Mirza, descendant of the royal house. According to just the latest intelligence reports the current Sultan denied the classic Tinite tradition to brutally murder anyone else claiming the throne and was satisfied to only order their exile. Nahku was supposedly one of the exiled former royals but this kind of development is the last thing Radidnahr would expect. The prime minister took a long look at him. Obviously the man had seen better days, the time spent in prison was still cast its shadow on him. Just like Velikaya, this was the first time Radidnahr met Nahku in person. Still, it wouldn't be hard for him to guess that the prime minister of Yllendthyr is aware of his identity. Not long after this Nahku was led away by Velikaya's men, probably because they realized having a Tinite ex-royalty during the meeting is a seriously bad idea.

Exactly at 12:30 the airshow began. Several airships belonging to the 1st Airborne Fleet flew past the skies. They looked like warships that denied the laws of gravity. Radidnahr saw many photographs about these vessels but observing them with his own eyes was obviously a whole different experience. The air acrobatics show began with the performance 506th Strike Witch Flight. For a long time Radidnahr was intrigued by what sorts of genius created these machines. Unlike typical aircraft the Strike Witch was effectively just a soldier with two aircraft engines strapped to their legs. By common sense such design would be impossible yet Avalia's engineers made it viable. The Strike Witches performed deft maneuvers on great speeds. Their performance may not be exactly on par with fighter craft but their mobility and field potential was amazing. What surprised Radidnahr the most though is the person who led the Witches. His sharp elven eyes could immediately spot that it was none other but Chancellor Helena Vortzeria. Radidnahr knew she had military background but her skill managed to surprise him still. After her unit finished their performance the Chancellor went straight for the Senate and descended next to the great steps leading to the building. People whistled and cheered as she approached the stand, all amazed by her feats. Radidnahr also welcomed the Chancellor with applause. When in Rome do as the Romans, they say. In his country this kind of display might be course and even a bit ungentlemanly but Radidnahr was never reluctant to adapt. Besides, he was indeed satisfied with the Chancellor's performance.

She raised her hand for silence, and eventually she was given that silence. The Chancellor began. "People of the Republic, honored guests, and members of the Senate. I see before me a strong, young nation. A nation not ruled by tyrants, by Emperors, by kings, but by people! No matter where you live in this world, the people always hold the most power for change, not the person. I live in a nation, where a little young girl, with no parents, and not a cent to her name, can rise to the level of Chancellor in this nation. Where hard work and drive make the difference, not birthright. Today, on this fateful day, the last shot was fired in defending the freedom of this nation. Today marked the day that our nation truly stepped onto the world stage and told everyone that we, people of Avalia, will not go quietly into the pages of history! We are here to stay, to prosper, to live out lives to their fullest! We now have control of our natural domain, our true home! The sky! Today, is the greatest day of our history!" she paused as a member of her cabinet approached her with a glass of beer. She thanked him and turned to the ground, holding out the glass to the crowd. "May the Festival of the Sky begin!" With that, the crowd roared with applause and cheers, the band began to play the songs of Avalia, and the festival was finally underway. The Chancellor drank from the glass and then came down from the podium, shaking hands with the members of the Senate, before finally approaching the Prime Minister and Commissar. There was an obvious contrast in their dress, as she wore a more rugged pilot's outfit as opposed to a suit or military uniform.

"Friends of Avalia, please, let me welcome you my nation! I must once again apologize for not meeting you both the moment of your arrivals, but as you can tell now, I had to brush up on my flying skills for today's events. Come now, let us head inside and begin our discussion." As the leaders entered the building, the parades had begun in the main mall. Unlike other nations, the parade only consisted of one military unit, the local army unit, while the majority of the parade was made up of civilian floats.

The Chancellor made his opening speech then shook hands with both Radidnahr and the Premier of PRK while inviting them to the Senate building to continue their talks. Looking over the two leaders again, Radidnahr seemed almost ridiculously overdressed. In retrospect he could've chose a less extravagant outfit for the occasion. Problem is these were already his common clothes. Aside from his military uniform which by rule could only be worn at war this was his least flashy outfit by far.
Radidnahr politely accepted the Chancellor's invitation and followed her to the room where they can start the negotiations.