A Collaboration Between Cyclone And Isotope




The rhythmic chugging of the iron juggernaut was the only sound that broke the silence of an otherwise sleepy morning. As he sipped his morning’s first coffee, the brew as black as his long beard, Imperator Geddon glanced out the train window. It would seem that they were making good time; they were already passing through the province of Qualia.

The clime was grey and dreary thanks to an overcast sky, but then again, the skies here in the Commonwealth’s industrial heartland were always grey with soot. Even now, through his window the dwarf’s wandering eye made out the outline of a dozen factories and foundries in the near distance. Some might have said that the monolithic structures and their great towers that bellowed out smoke rose from the ground like plague boils, but to a dwarf they were beautiful.

Even in the hours as early as this, Geddon knew that each one of those factories was abuzz with scurrying workers, the air within hot and sweaty and dominated by the resounding clashes of hammers and heavy machinery: the very manifestation of efficiency, energy, hard work, raw power... It was often said that the Commonwealth could produce more tanks in a day than some nations did in a year, but of course, such expenditures were unnecessary. The Moravian Army was already as glorious as those great foundries.

Hours passed by, the Imperator stopping work on his immeasurable amount of paperwork only to call the servants or glance out the window in contemplation. As the hours went on, they passed a forest of stumps. While much of Moravia was covered in lush forest, such jungles of wood and green were gradually being destroyed in the name of progress and industry, giving way to new jungles of concrete and mortar. That was the way of this new world.

It was not until late in the night that Imperator Geddon moved to one of his other personal train cars and retired for the night. Early in the next morning, after passing through what had seemed like a few hundred depots and stops they at last arrived at the Imperator’s destination. After waiting nearly an hour for his men to sweep the area and ensure than all was secure, Geddon at last clambered out of that wretched train. Luxurious as it was, the thing was still an iron prison and the Imperator had been spending far too much time withering away in that train as of late. Perhaps he would have to see about travelling by air; that seemed to be growing increasingly popular.

Taking in a breath of fresh air, the wind tasting of brine rather than soot, this place certainly felt different from his homeland of Qualia. But then again, as he entered Moravia’s largest military shipyard, he noted that this was not all that different from one of Qualia’s foundries. Massive cranes were everywhere, half a dozen depots were constantly unloading cargo shipped in by train, and everywhere there were bustling workers. Most were dwarves or gnomes, but Geddon’s astute eye noticed a few humans that certainly weren’t from the Commonwealth. These Verendens seemed tolerable at least, but Geddon was still in no way excited about this meeting.

With a few hesitant glances at the remaining soldiers still lingering to protect their Imperator one human in a particularly opulent suit exited from an office not far away and made his way towards Geddon. While he was notably taller than most of the workers in the shipyard the man was still small by Human standards, and the round glasses on his face only solidified the notion he was there for a far different purpose than the rest of the Humans. With an outstretched hand the man met with Geddon and introduced himself, “Vernon Hendsen sir, a pleasure to meet with you. I apologize for the lack of a reception but we weren’t given too long to prepare for your arrival. I trust you’re here to see it?”

Silently Geddon accepted the man’s hand, the dwarf’s calloused hands shaking with what might have been an uncomfortable grip. There was certainly a stark contrast between the two: Geddon was intimidating to most, wearing an ornate military uniform in place of a posh suit. He also had a few scars to show; in his youth the dwarf had fought in his share of wars. A look of incessant, almost withering disapproval was chiselled into his face. He was grim and humorless even by the standards of most dwarves.

After Vernon had spoken, the Imperator gruffly responded, “Yes, Caesar Thaurissan and I are very much interested in your progress. I take it that there have been no delays?”

With a small rubbing of his hand Vernon replied as warmly as he could given the dwarves demeanor, “None, it’s astonishing really! Your workers are meticulous in their work, I even went over it myself to be certain. We’ve been able to not only complete the prototype, but I’ve made refinements to the design in several areas we identified potential issues, if you sign off the production models will be a great deal more capable than what we have today. Why just yester-”

With a look to Geddon Vernon cut himself off and scratched his head before he finished, “But you want to see it, obviously. I’ve had it moved to dry dock four if you’d follow me, sir.”

Wordlessly Geddon followed, his silent bodyguards at his heels. As they went he also looked towards the other projects in the works. All manner of ships were present in various stages of construction, with a few already anchored in the harbor between testing runs. The Commonwealth’s navy was at present a pitiful husk of the nation’s potential, consisting of a few tiny fleets of gunboats that had been acquired through conquest or hastily built after the nation’s borders had recently expanded to the coast. Of course, that was going to change, and with the help of these Verendens the transition would go smoothly indeed, the Imperator reasoned.

As the two approached the dock it was clear what Vernon had been obsessing over, for there sat the first of the Commonwealth's new submarines. When Hendsen Heavy Industries had been brought on Vernon had been shocked by the crude nature of the designs being thrown around, but with the sale of more than a few technologies and a great deal of negotiating he’d finally managed to create a vessel that he felt matched, if not exceeded the standard set by the Engagement Class submarines used by his own nation. Of course there were rough edges, but the vessel before him was without a doubt the beginning of a great thing.

With a look of pride Vernon pushed his glasses into place and gestured towards the vessel, “Prototype Submarine V-221, a preliminary name of course. Fully diesel electric, and designed with the intent of evading enemy detection with its lower speed double armature motors, not that such effects the cruising velocity of the vessel. If you’d like we can board it right away.”

Geddon looked warily at the supposedly submersible hunk of metal moored at the dock, doing a poor job at concealing his concern if he was even trying to hide it at all. In a coarse dwarven tongue he called out to one of the nearby engineers, a dwarf that hastily ran over upon seeing who was addressing him. After several assurances from one of his own kind, Geddon seemed slightly more willing. Not one to look a coward, he reluctantly agreed to board the submarine. For once he found himself looking backwards into history instead of forwards to the future. He was wondering what his ancestors in their subterranean halls would think of him going into this...this...abomination of war? Marvel of new technology? The Imperator, and indeed most dwarves, had mixed feelings about the Caesar’s dreams of naval dominance.

While the Imperators reluctance, and clear misgiving about the idea came off as somewhat offensive to Vernon, he certainly didn’t voice it. Everything said and done the Commonwealth for all its power was utterly lost when it came to naval design and construction, it was no wonder their people had uncertainties when it came to ships themselves. It was to be expected of a formerly inland nation though, and Vernon had to remind himself constantly that most of the engineers and workers here had never been on a ship in their lives before they were sent to build them.

With an inward sigh Vernon made his way down the steps towards the submarine’s main deck, smiling all the while. By the time the Imperator was beside him Vernon had managed to open the vessel’s main hatch on the conning tower. With a self approving nod after the bout of physical exertion Vernon gestured to the ladder down, “Would you like to have the honour?”

The dwarf looked down into the dark hatch down for a brief moment, then bravely ventured down the shaft. His eyes widened slightly upon entering the vessel, almost as if in wonder, but that expression was quickly lost. It reverted back to his usual disapproving glare, this time muddled with skepticism and suspicion as his eyes glossed over everything in sight, trying to make sense of it all. He recognized some small things as being the gnomes’ convoluted designs and everywhere there were signs of dwarven handiwork; the Commonwealth’s factories had made most of these parts, after all. It was the way in which the thing was assembled and controlled that seemed almost imperceptibly alien, being Verenden technology.

After following Geddon down Vernon took a moment to collect himself before starting down a narrow corridor while speaking, “It is a bit cramped of course, well less so for you of course. Anyways technology has its limits, as does practicality in this sense. While it may not be the largest submarine ever constructed we’ve managed to refine a great many elements of it, as well as simplified the controls somewhat.”

As if on cue Vernon entered the control room, and was greeted by wall of gauges and wheels interspersed with the occasional lever. With a soft chuckle Vernon added, “Though simplify may be a relative term, but I assure you this is fairly conservative compared to most submarines!”

Conservative? That wording made Geddon raise an eyebrow. “What does it not have?”

With a pause Vernon added, “Oh, I mean the control surfaces are simplified to an extent, the submarine itself has the functionality of any other if not greater, but given it’s a new design and you have few experienced mariners for the moment we tried to make driving the whole thing a tad more straightforward. That said, we made certain to take no controls away, only make them more integrated and so on. Apologies for the confusion.”

“I see,” was the dwarf’s response. He had already been given basic briefing on the submarine’s armaments, but regardless he was eager to hear the results of the upcoming tests. “We shall have the tests go as scheduled, then. If the results are favorable, you will be rewarded richly indeed. As usual, you have at your disposal all the resources of the Commonwealth to ensure that development continues in an effective and timely manner.” The Imperator made a curt nod, and then prepared to leave. He had other business to attend to in the region; being the Caesar’s right hand and one of the heads of the military came with a good deal of responsibility.

Date: December 25th, 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: December 25th, 1939 C.E.
Seven Days Ago

"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 on the 31st and inevitably shake the world. She carried with her a rolled-up purple and yellow flag.

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 forty 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 world 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.

January 1st, 1940, about 8 a.m., Ilezabeta City, Kingdom of Zenovia

Sir Vali Radmridreu sat in his seat inside the second car, the first passenger car, on the train in which he took every morning. He wore a needlessly tall and large black top hat with a monocle attached to a golden wire, and was dressed in an extravagant morning coat, which he wore over his expensive suit. He walked with a cane, although it was really more of an elegant walking stick, encrusted with gold. In the seat above was his sole bodyguard. Where he was headed was the House of Parliament, where he would meet with the other cabinet members of the government to discuss the state of nation. Radmridreu felt honored to serve in the betterment of his nation in the name of the King of the people and good stable governance. It was only a small part of his job, with the bulk being the management and the administration of the Department of the Interior.

On the other side of the train sat the seventy-six year old Adrik Milesciu, the chairman and owner of Milesciu Arms Manufacturing, one of the “Big Three of Zenovii arms production,” and he certainly served as the richest. Overseeing a near monopoly on military infantry weapons, Milesciu had become the second richest person in the nation, second only to the owner of National Steel. The two of them, on one hand a ruthless industrialist, and on the other hand a personable and moderate minister, would be considered an odd friendship. Indeed, they were only truly friends due to the close proximity at which they tended to sit. Unlike Radmridreu, Milesciu held a whole pack of bodyguards around him. After sending in mercenaries to quell a strike repeatedly, he found himself unpopular with the proletariat at large. Also unlike Milesciu, he was a Centrist, a member of the pragmatic free-market-based Centrist Democracy Party. None of that was of particular importance to Radmrideru, and the old man leaned in talk to him.

“The news this morning was very dreadful,” the old man said. “I’m sure you’ve seen it, minister, advertised on the cover of that dread tabloid The Radical. It surely is a disgrace that such behavior is allowed. To show the socialists in a positive light is simply preposterous. First the Radicals advocate establishing relations, as they call it, and recognizing their unlawful usurpations, and now they smile when they see their evil socialism in action. Next they shall advocate socialism itself, or even worse, they shall ask to be annexed. We outlawed the Party of the Left, so why not do the same to these...these borderline anarchists? No party with a seat in parliament, let alone sixty, should be allowed to advocate such obviously incorrect madness!”

“Indeed, they tread on dangerous ground,” Sir Vali Radmridreu said. “To claim that such socialist policies have had any positive effects will have the same effects as if one were to advocate them.”

“Then speak on my behalf, my friend,” Milesciu said. "Your influence is far greater than you realize. Tell the cabinet what I said. And perhaps if you simply tweak the electoral booths a bit, the Radicals will find all their seats lost."

“I cannot voluntarily submit your name in my cabinet observations,” Radmridreu said. “But I will keep your words and your advice in my mind. And I cannot rig the electorate either."

The two of them talked all the way until Radmridreu reached his destination at the House of Parliament, which was indeed not too long after. The Minister of the Interior exited the train as the two men tipped top hats at each other in amiable affability, and walked out of the chugging iron machine with his lone bodyguard at his side. He only had to take a few steps with his gold-encrusted cane before he was in front of the cable car in which he had reserved. The cable car driver gave a welcoming that was full of reverence for the minister, and they were on their way after Radmridreu paid the modest sum. After driving a mere two blocks, they arrived, and the cable car driver gave Radmridreu a goodbye, and Radmridreu gave him as much respect as a father gives a child. From there, he entered the large, posh, House of Parliament. He went left from the main chamber, which lead to the two Houses, and into the passageway that lead to the area in which the ministers of the government met. He took his seat in the office of the cabinet of the government, being the third to enter.

The bespectacled Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti was actually the first to arrive but was the last to enter, as was the custom since the establishment of the premiership in 1900. All the ministers were of course there. It was said that Cinsti had established “a team of rivals,” and while Radmridreu was unsure what journalist had come up with that nice-sounding phrase, it was what the media called them, and it described them adequately. In preparation for the incoming conflict, Cinsti had chosen the most effective MPs he could without exiting party lines, with no due given to his own personal feelings on that matter. At the table sat a mix of those of both aristocratic and humble origin, and there was a difference of mannerism between them. One side was slouched back and smug, while the other was professional and well-presented. The former were of course the aristocrats, while the latter were the low-born.

Lord Dragomir Fierfa, Minister of Law, stood up as if to speak and said, turning towards the Prime Minister said, “The Honorable Nikolas Cinsti, if I may, and I think it should be proper that I do, the first order of discussion in which we shall engage in should be this downright insolent reporting from that regrettable tabloid, The Radical.”

Minister of War Adrian Brasab, with a newspaper in his hand, said, “With thanks to the Honorable Cinsti’s chief of staff for providing the effort for the ministers to attain a copy…” and he began to read the newspaper.

From the Zenovii Tribunal

Adrian Funar, writer for the Radical tabloid The Radical, returned after a long journey from the former Kataylabinsk Imperium, after having reported on the election there. He reported that “there were no electoral anomalies, no fraudulent practices” at work in the former Imperium, despite the fact that no strong candidates ran against the extremist leader of the former Imperium, the noted class traitor and former empress, Yekaterina Velikaya. Funar quoted Velikaya, citing her claims that literacy has risen from seventy to ninety percent, every citizen Katalylan citizen has access to free public education and health care,” and that “the average income across all professions has increased by forty percent.” Funar later elaborate that he is not a socialist and does not support a system of market socialism but that, “we should look deeper at the fruits in which the Katalylan system has reaped, and petition the government to create a system of comprehensive welfare, healthcare, and free education.” Upon further questioning by our reporters, Funar denied that he was a raging psychopath who hated his nation, and also denied our suggestion that he was anarchist who wanted to tear apart our society and see our wives and daughters raped by Trolls and Moravs.

The foreign minister Lord Boris Perigord stood up and said, “The Honorable Nikolas Cinsti, it is imperative that any further action taken upon this time not interfere with the current intricate webbings that circumstances has conspired to employ, and not to take any immediate action concerning the former Imperium, else progress in the region be hampered. In all likelihood, this controversy will simply evaporate, with no harm being done except to that Radical journalist.”

“Lord Perigord,” Lord Fierfa said. “The question is not how this affects our relations in the region, but what the implications are for a Zenovii to publicly praise the extremists of the former Imperium.”

“I am well aware of the question,” Lord Perigord said. “And I am well aware of its limitations, as well as the surrounding, more meaningful questions. To Lord Fierfa, we must consider the long-term affects, and whether or not we are on the verge of passing a law that has already been passed. To the Honorable Nikolas Cinsti, what are your thoughts on the matter?”

“Certainly it cannot be argued that the former Imperium has spiraled into a failed state, devoid of morality and progress,” the Prime Minister said. “Certainly these words of progress are only crude propaganda by the increasingly devious socialists. But my thoughts are with the Minister of Foreign Affairs on this one. I call for a condemnation of these opinions, which are simply un-Zenovii, and I shall hand this journalist's over to the High Court. We shall take it to a vote”

“Is that all?” Lord Alexandru Gheatu, Minister of Finance said.

“Yea,” Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti said.

“Yea,” said Minister of Foreign Affairs Lord Boris Perigord.

“Yea,” said Minister of War Adrian Basarab.

“Nea,” said Minister of Finance Lord Alexandru Gheata.

“Nea,” said Minister of Law Lord Dragomir Fierfa.

“Yea,” said Minister of the Interior Sir Vali Radmridreu.

The Ministers continued to discuss the issue, with the Ministers of Law and Finance, well known to be the conservative bloc in the cabinet, trying without success that stronger measures were necessary. Perhaps their greatest problem was their inability to articulate an actual alternative. After a while the issue died down, and the cabinet could focus on a few other issues.

“An even greater threat than the socialists is the Moravians,” the Prime Minister said. “Right above us is an enemy with greater manpower and greater industrial capacity than we do. Ministers, tell me, what is the status of our economy?"

Radmridreu leaned in and said, “Even with the tariffs, and with our protectionism, we do not have the industrial capacity to function as a self-sufficient economy. Fortunately, strikes are at an all-time low, with no small aid due to the strike breakers and spies of our trusts and monopolies. Those very same trusts and monopolies have fallen in line as we line their pockets with lucrative government contracts, and I imagine that is the precise reason why they do in fact fall in line. Although nationalism remains a dirty word, our people are more willing to coalesce in their collective fear of the Moravians. The Moravians remain a problem, as they continue to outpace us industrially and militarily, and we will be unable to fight an effective war alone.”

Lord Gheta leaned in and said, “As the Interior Minister touched upon, we depend on a great many exports from outside. We have no oil, no gas. I sincerely hope that our trading partners do not suffer economically, as that would be a devastating development. If our trade partners were to suffer from their own economic hardships, Zenovia's economy would be dragged down as well, eventually into economic depression.”

“Zenovia will endure,” Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti. “Even in times of the greatest hardship, this great nation has always come on top. If there comes depression, and I hope it does not, we will persevere and triumph.”

“Eloquently pronounced, Prime Minister,” said Lord Perigord. "And it is with my heart in which such words shall be backed by steel and iron."

“Minister Perigord,” Nikolas Cinsti said. “I hardly need to remind you, but we will need strong, dependable military alliances in the coming days. War is only inevitable, and when it comes, this great nation will need reliable allies. As much as the romantics of this nation will wish it, we no longer are a fair match against that nation up north. As Qualia became Moravia, we found ourselves outmatched.”

“You may rest your laurels, Prime Minister,” Lord Perigord said. “Strong, dependable allies will come, even from the most unlikely of places."

January 1st, 1940, about 2 p.m., Ilezabeta City, Kingdom of Zenovia

Queen Dowager Miruna looked around the gardens of the Royal Palace. She had not been here for many years, since the time of her youth, since she had been arranged to be married to a prince of a certain southern kingdom, and he became her dear Alastor. For many years she lived away from her homeland of Zenovia, and had dwelled in Alastor’s kingdom. Eventually she went from princess to queen, and became well-loved by the people for her good and kind nature. However, such times were now over. A scant three months ago, her beloved Alastor’s had died, which had left her heartbroken, and now her eldest son Barnabas ruled. People were now keen to call her the Queen Dowager, even in native Zenovia. Miruna told her children she needed some time alone, and left Alastor’s kingdom with only a few attendants to return to her homeland. It was something she needed to do in order to recover from her melancholy.

Miruna had given it quite a bit of thought, and thought she was also worried about the state of the world. Moravia had grown to a size larger than ever, and was remarkably close to reaching the size that the 1st Moravian Empire, the greatest civilization in the history of the world, had reached. Miruna had been a princess for many years, and a queen for years after that, and if she learned anything during that time, it was that everyone loves princesses. In fairy tales, the princess is always pure, or at least good. So perhaps, after organizing some peace-loving, good-will events, founding a organization made for extenuating the peace, and meeting with parliaments and senates, maybe she could play some part in edging the world towards a more long-lasting, permanent peace. Perhaps she would even meet with the Caesar. After all, he was married with two children, and who could ever dream of a family man being anything but pleasant?

Miruna had earlier today already organized a meeting with Lord Boris Perigord. Miruna was surprised that Perigord, even all these years, had remained such a prominent figure in the government. For all forty years of her life, that man had been there in parliament. He, the son of a peasant, had even been given a lordship, which was an unprecedented move. It was impressive that there was at least one thing that had remained unchanged, even if it was an MP who had reigned longer than most kings. She had organized to meet with him, as she felt a more familiar face would be more understanding of her goals.

Lord Boris Perigord entered the royal and gave Queen Dowager Miruna two bows, one as he entered her presence, and a lower one when he approached her. She gave a friendly nod of her head, indicating approval. She had a bright smile on her face as well.

“Your esteemed Majesty, Princess of the Zenovii, I bid you a congenial return to the land of your birth,” Lord Boris Perigord said. “And I read your letter written by your pristine fingers, reading with joy of which I cannot hope to express, having been blessed to be honored to receive your esteemed ideas. I must express my approval of your proposal. Your majesty, I think that with your aid our world shall come closer to a permanent world peace.”

“Wonderful, Lord Perigord,” Miruna said. “And you shall be sure to put forth this idea of mine, and support it?”

“I shall do all I can in order to progress towards the greater peace your majesty,” Lord Boris Perigord said. “I shall make all the arrangements immediately, if that be your majesty's desire.”

“Yes, of course,” Miruna said.

“Then, your majesty,” Lord Boris Perigord said. “I shall make my way."

Lord Perigord bowed to Queen Dowager Miruna, and did not break the bow until he had exited and was out of her sight completely. Miruna felt excitement creeping up on her. She felt that for the first time in three months, she was about to do something meaningful in her life.

Lord Boris Perigord had been surprised to receive the letter from, of all people, the Dowager Queen Miruna, who he not seen in many years. However, her proposal would be of some use. Life had not made her lose any of her naivety. It seemed not even the life among the court of an absolute monarch could damper her spirits and optimism. As far as absolute monarchs go, Alastor had been a good one, but he was not innocent. Of course, Lord Perigord agreed with everything he had done, and in fact thought Alastor could have done far more in his brief life if he had been willing to embrace pragmatism. Still, his wife had remained extremely naïve, but in the end it would work in his favor. Remaining pure, she kept the air of a princess, and would be useful in her own way. War was of no advantage to Zenovia at this time, and Perigord only wished to extend it. She would extend her peaceful hand, and relations would improve with the more isolated nations. He could leave Avalia to her and that heretic that had been sent as an ambassador, and he would deal with the PRK.

Some Weeks Ago

Ente Hall, House of the Noble Parliament

Standing up from his seat and habitually brushing his suit off Kenst spoke above the cacophony of voices that had filed the room,“There seems to be quite a bit of debate, but please enlighten me Harns, what would we possibly have to gain from such posturing?”

For the first time in what seemed like ages since Belvon Harns presented his bill room fell silent as the assembled looked to Kenst and subsequently swivelled their heads towards Belvon, awaiting his answer. Finally having the attention of the room the plump man took the opportunity to rise from his seat with a groan, supporting his considerable mass with a worn cane Kenst imagined was far from fit for the task. After he'd stood Belvon took a moment to gaze around the room, no doubt judging how the others of the parliament had received his suggestion. With a grunt to clear his throat Belvon began, “Posturing? Why Terou you consider all support of the military posturing don't you? I cannot recall a time you've ever agreed with our military policy. This is merely what the nation requires to maintain its sovereignty in this day and age.”

Holding back the indignant retorts sure to emerge from his own allies with restraining wave Kenst chuckled, “You'd certainly like to think that Harns, but let's not disguise the issue. Your bill would have us expand our standing forces enormously, an increase that would drain vital workers from our factories and farms, for the sake of what again? We have never expanded our military so drasti-”

Slamming his cane into the ground Belvon cut Kenst off with a shout, “For we have never faced so great a threat! The world has changed while our hair has greyed Terou! If we sit idle there will only be ruin in the future!”

In the wake of the outburst several whispers cropped up around the long hall and its many seats, some dismissive of the prospect, but most echoing Belvon's fearful rhetoric. Kenst found himself disturbed by how openly supportive the independent families seemed on the issue, but he put that thought aside for the moment. Shaking his head he replied in equal calm to Belvon's anger, “The world may have changed, but we need not lash out at it for the action. The relationship with Moravia you and your father before you pushed so hard for provides all the deterrence we need, why provoke our neighbours aimlessly?”

Belvon scowled as he shouted, “A state that cannot defend itself or act in its interests does not survive!”

With another slam of his cane he continued, “I will not allow that! This nation will not fall to foreign aggression nor will it cower in the face of foreign power! This kingdom will survive!”

At the conclusion of Belvons sentence an eruption of applause rose from his supporters, one that seemed to take an eternity to subside. When silence and civility returned to the hall Belvon collapsed back into his chair and motioned for the vote to commence, clearly finished with his side of the debate. Kenst could only sigh, he knew well his own liberal voting block would never defeat Belvon without independents.

After handing in his ballot Kenst stood up and departed the main chamber of the noble parliament. He had no power to stop Belvon there, nobody in Verendes had that power anymore. Yet still something had to be done, and with a pause Kenst thought that if there was nothing else that those within the government could do, then just maybe other options were to be explored.

Terou Estate

Having arrived throughout the night the men and women now assembled around the dimly lit long table represented the core of the liberal voting block, though of late it seemed they represented its entireity.

It had started years ago, but for more than a decade the moderates in parliament were vanishing. Some had gone to the more reactionary groups within the government out of fear for their wealth when acts they helped pass prompted them to confront the reality of their supposed humanitarianism and ensure a standard of living for their workers, and others had been bought with exclusive contracts abroad.

Whatever the cause, the liberal faction had shrunk notably in the last ten years and looking upon nearly all of them Kenst could only fear for the future of the kingdom. The act Belvon proposed had passed by an overwhelming majority and now all that could be hoped for was some way to mitigate the fallout among the general populace when the conscription notices started rolling out.

Across the table a woman’s voice rang out that broke Kenst from his contemplation, “This is becoming absurd! How much longer must we sit by while that man fashions himself as Dictator?”

Looking up Kenst identified the speaker as Kaela Feste, one of the younger family heads in parliament. Across from her Simon Esden nodded and added, “I'd have to agree, a year ago I'd have called it madness but if this goes on a coup is inevitable, Harns is trying to create his own Moravia. Perhaps we could persuade the Queen to support us? It'd be a propaganda victory if nothing else.”

Kenst rubbed his short white beard and cut in, “You know she doesn't have even close to the respect her father had. Associating with political factions, especially ones on the losing side of the aisle, would be social suicide for her. If you're right Harns would use that as all the excuse he needed to seize power.”

With an exasperated sigh Kaela leaned back in her chair, “Then what? Are we damned to watch our nation descend into Harns personal plaything? Must we wait patiently until he decides a purge is in order and we get the best seats at our own executions?”

Kenst slowly drummed his fingers against the table, “That may be extreme even for him, but I can't deny you have a point. I've been thinking on the subject myself to be honest... Though I'm not fond of the options I've been able to come up with.”

With a raised eyebrow Simon questioned, “Options? Do share them Kenst, because regardless of how tasteless they may be if we don't do something within the next few months I fear it may be too late.”

Flattening his fidgeting hand onto the table Kenst nodded, “Before I say anything, I feel it's necessary to state that I've discounted any entirely domestic means of resolving this issue. I despise that we are in this position, and it goes against all we believe, but we must seek the aid of outsiders. Unfortunately... That leaves us with only two practical choices, the Communists, or the Valkyerians.”

Kaela looked ready to shout her protest, but it was clear that the harsh reality had been circling in her mind for some some time. Resigned, she managed to utter a mere three words, “Not the Communists.”

Simon sighed and nodded, “I've never felt so vile, but you're right Kenst, and so is Kaela. I'm not sure how we shall do it given current relations, but we are without choice. We must contact Avalia.”

Kenst stood, “If any of you stand opposed to this course of action, speak now.”

Of all nine people there, none spoke a word. With a nod of his own Kenst spoke once more, “Then we either save this nation or damn it to a fate worse than we are already barrelling towards. I will look into ways of contacting Avalia.”

Collab between me ad clock.

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
Admiral Torasho Yi
0030 hours

CRACK!

The storm brewed ever rougher on the waters in the Strait of Kyunshu, the waters which separated the glorious Empire from the treacherous Shogunate. There had been word of an Izuno attack group or patrol of sorts in the waters, but so far nothing transpired that would suggest otherwise. Hell, there might be a chance they'd scurried off to their docks in fear of the turbulent waves that clawed at the side of the ships, throwing salt water across the deck, blinding the view from the already violent rain. All ships had their beacons turned up to their max, piercing the shrouds of stormy nights as they crested from each monstrous wave to the next.

"Sir, perhaps we should turn back?" a young women looked to Admiral Yi, her inept feet quivered with fear of being swallowed by the waves, "The storm is getting rough and so far there isn't any sign of the enemy."

"No! The enemy is here, the man leading the so-called shogunate navy here is one who has escaped my grasp many times over. He maybe a coward who runs from a true and honorable fight, but tonight he is here, I can sense it." Admiral Yi's aged face, wrinkles chiseled through years of dedicated service, stood as firm as his resolve, his famous unyielding stance stood straight even as the bridge rocked in all directions, "Our sacred Emperor has commanded us to sally forth and destroy the enemy in his name. We shall not falter! Even if the seas open up to devour us whole, I will not end my quest and hither should all of you! For we are sailers of Fuso! There are no finer seamen and women in this world! This so called "violent storm" you worry about is merely a test of our resolve!"

There was a muttering of agreement by the Admiral's speech which soon evolved into a cheer. There was a certain humbleness for the Emperor to personally wish for their skills on the seas, a certain delight of being given divine directions by the bloodline of the Golden Emperor. The crew needed not worry about the ocean, no matter how vigorously it may shake the boat, no matter how dark and fogged the windows may become, not matter how dangerous their enemy was, they had the support of the Emperor behind them. They could not fail! There was only glory and honor to be sought after!

The Admiral's old face cracked a smile as he rested a hand on his XO's shoulder, being handed a small file. Yi had been given a force of 10 ships to erase the enemy. A carrier group of one carrier and its two cruiser escorts, a four-ship strong patrol fleet, a pair of battleships and of course the proud super battleship of the Imperial navy and its flagship, the Three mountains. He looked over the papers before handing them back to; his fine ships all ready to fight for their Emperor.


Admiral Yi looked out the windows and saw the Hibiki skipping over the rough waves, light guiding the way as its sister, the Shukari, did the same on the flagship's other flank. Soon after, there was the whirring sounds of propellers that followed them, leaving quick dashes in the sky. They were fighters and seaplanes, launched from the catapults of ships or the Yuuji, any normal pilot would say that flying in weather such as they could easily kill you from a whole slew of nasty things. Good thing Fuso didn't have normal pilots, but supberb, if not slightly insane pilots, some of which have zealotry on par with Kamikazes. It mattered little to old greyed Yi, the planes would be scouting out ahead, finding the enemy, harassing them a little and telling of their locations.

Thunder cracked as Admiral Yi sat back into his seat, he closed his eyes to invoke serenity once more as he lead the crew on a prayer over the PA system.

"My sword is valor, my armor is honor, my skill is glory and my devotion to his highness unwavering. For you have lead us to greatness, we seek to repay our debt by granting this glorious victory in you name, my Emperor."

Aboard the Izuno Flagship, TES Kaminari.
Admiral Sato Takanori
0030 hours

Around the same exact moment as the Imperial ships searched their waters for the intruders, said intruders were drawing near, both fleets unaware of this due to the storm, as the Shogunate vessels struggled against the vicious waves and winds to remain in formation, following the lead ship, the Battleship Kaminari, an rather ironic naming for a vessel in their current predicament, it being Thunder in Fusan. The Shogunate Fleet was a dozen strong, at the center of it was the Battleship, along side it were two ironclads, eight destroyers, and the carrier Su.

From the Battleship's bridge, Admiral Takanori stared intensely out into the endless, turbulent sea, ineffectively searching for his potential foe as they sailed deeper into hostile waters. This would be his fifth incursion into Imperial territory, the Admiral became a sort of legend in the art of maneuvering, or to be more precise, retreat, not something to be particularly to be proud of for most. Four times he has ventured pass the Strait, and tested the strength of the Imperial Navy, and in each attempt, they had proven to be a worthy foe, forcing him to flee in every engagement, his ship would usually be one of the few returning intact.

His survival often came at a price in that, he would sacrifice ships in his fleet to the enemy, leaving the fate of their crews to the Imperials. His deemed "cowardly" tactics are often looked upon with scorn from both his fellow officers and the enemy, for different reasons of course.

Now once again he prods the sleeping dragon, daring to awake the beast and face it head on. This incursion however will be different, he has received very explicit orders from higher up. Either he succeeds his mission and establishes a beachhead, or die trying.

The Admiral continued to stare out into the sea, feeling evermore tense then usual. His XO laying his hand upon his shoulder, "Sir, you alright?"

"Not exactly." he replied. "The damn storm makes it hard to see straight." Takanori paused a moment before turning to face the younger man. "Have our planes spotted any imperial ships?"

"Not yet Admiral, they're still....." He paused as the XO tilted his head to the left, taking notice of dim lights from afar. "Sir.."

The Admiral swirled around in the instant, taking notice in the unnatural pause. Takanori's eyes widened as he spotted the lights from the Fusan vessels, no doubt they spotted his group as well. He quickly reached out for a hailer. "Battle stations!" he shouted out over the intercom of the ship, soon the message was spread across the fleet.

Fifth Air Recon Squadron - Blue Group
Attached to Carrier HMG Yuuji
Pilot Otome Tsuya
0033 hours

"This is Blue-4," the female pilot spoke into her Kankori's radio, "Anyone seeing anything in this damn storm?"
"Blue-3 here, all black here."
"Negative, Blue-6 isn't seeing anything."
"Blue-1 checking in, we sure the enemy didn't just turn tail?"

"I'm hoping they haven't." Otome turned on the lights inside the cockpit to look at the map provided to her squadron. The navigator of the Yuuji helpfully detailed where they'd be moving and where the enemy should be. Usually this was an easy order, fly around, go see if the enemy is there, send one guy back and shoot at some ships. But tonight was different, for starters, looking for ships in this weather was like looking for a virgin in the Red Light District of Satatasuma. You could feel it there but Shohu knew how hard it was to actually see one. Second, torpedo access was denied this flight, the waves were getting too rough to aim them and there was a good chance the planes would go under from a huge wave if they got that close to the water.

"Blue-2 reporting same story- wait. I see something."
"Blue-2, this is Blue-4, what do you see?" Otome's hope jumped from her teammates' report, although there was a chance of it being some poor lost fishing boat. Emperor save them in this storm. She looked to her right and saw Blue-2 pointing down wards, downward like her jaw when she saw the fleet. Seems like the bastards showed up after all, "Blue-2, can you confirm visual on target?"
"Understood, moving to-"

BOOM!

Fire suddenly lit up the sky and Blue-2 exploded into a flaming wreckage that plummeted into the icy waters below. The night sky was pierced by lines of white and red as hostile flack opened up, the great boom of cannons soon followed. Seemed like either the Izuno finally showed up or this was one hell of a paranoid and well armed fishing trawler. Otome guessed the later.

"Alright, Blue group," the young women barked into her radio as she and the rest of her team began to take evasive maneuvers, "Begin strafing run on large target vessels. They haven't put up their full lights so go for the silhouettes. Blue-3, report back to the admiral. Tell him the show is going to start and we'd like some fireworks. Until then boys, lets get this party started."

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
Admiral Torasho Yi
0034 hours

The bridge shook once more, this time from incoming shells. The battle was to commence. The ship captains already new what to do, the destroyers where to harass the enemy while the battleships and cruisers attempted encirclement with Yi's flagship close behind them, the carrier anchored on the riding waves. Once more, Admiral Yi stood up and gave the command, "Brave warriors of Fuso, the enemy is upon us! Let us crush them under the strength of the Emperor!"

Across all ships, a wave of hurrahs and cheer washed over the crew, far greater than any wave nature could throw at them. Quickly, they showed the enemy their resolve by firing their own vollys back to meet them. The once hazy black sky soon was lit up by gun flashes and explosions, the battle was on.

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
Private Todo Hongu
0034 hours

There was a mad dash to the stations as people poured out of ever room, hallway and crack. Chants broke out in the cramped metal corridors, people yelling about dying for the emperor and glory. Hongu was more pragmatic than the rest of them as he slipped on his raincoat in the mess and made his way to the AA cannon only to find it a man short.
"Hongu! Do you know where the hell Taido is? He ain't here!" Hongu's commanding officer shouted, her hair whipping in the rought ocean winds.

Cursing under his breath, Hongu once again opened the door into the ship, dashing down hallways which people still dash about, jumping over the little lips of the doors, sliding down stair cases. Alarms blared behind him as the PA system constantly crackled on and off, Kahari ordering different people around no less. Hongu finally kicked open the door to the comfort ward to, his not-really-surprised-suprise, Taido had mounted himself on one of the remaining girls in the room.

"Oi, Taido," Hongu angrily walked over to the nude man, ignoring the comfort women who pawed at his legs, and threw part of a uniform and a rain jacket at his compatriot, "Quit fucking that girl and put something on. If you can't tell we're under attack."
"Oh, so that's what that racket was about." the older man seemed completely relaxed in the face of danger even though shells landed in the water next to the ship, visible from the windows, "Wondering what that was about. Sorry about it, this little one here reminded me of my wife when she was younger."

Hongu smacked his face, the temptation to throw something heavy at the man was building. Fortunately, Taido got the message and slipped on some clothing and the rainjacket provided before walking out the door. "You all should also head up," Hongu turned to the girls on their beds with limited amount of clothing, "Being part of the comfort corps does not excluded you from carrying out the Emperor's holy orders."

Aboard the Ironclad Dreadnought Aki
Sergeant Roman Kanadin
0034 Hours

All the while the Fusan soldiers prepared for battle, their foe would do the very same, Shogunate soldiers in the dozens came pouring out from the bowels of the dreadnought, all lining up along the deck in a rather disorderly formation, although that couldn't be helped with the ship moving against the violent currents, along with tremors from incoming shells from enemy warships and strafing aircraft.

Sergeant Roman Kanadin, a Kataylan Refugee, held onto his blade ready for the combat soon to follow, behind him were members of his squad, a group mostly consisting of his fellow humans and the boar-like orcs, their Zensen Commander, and the only Zensen to add, right ahead of him and his fellow officers. Roman turned to face his men with a wide grin. "This is what we've been training for boys!" he said in some horrid fusan. "Once we hit, give those bastards hell!" he shouted, followed by cheers from not only his men, but from other squads.

What also followed was loud horn, coming from the ship itself as they could feel the ship accelerated towards one of the fusan vessels as they cheered all the way through.

Aboard the Izuno Flagship, TES Kaminari.
Admiral Sato Takanori
0034 hours

The Bridge shook from the repeated attacks from the enemy fleet, Takanori keeping his balance but to no avail as he fell back against his command chair. "Sir, we just lost a two AA guns and a destroyer, and we're losing the sky real fast!" one of the officers cried out to him.

"Nevermind that!" he shouted. "We need to focus on the fusan battleships! I want remaining ships to focus fire on those battleships!." the Admiral gripped the pads of his chair tightly, keeping himself balanced once more, focusing his view onto the battle at hand, what little he can even see that is, he did however caught a brief glimpse of one of the ironclads in view. It was charging straight into the enemy fleet.

Takanori grinned at the sight of it. "This may turn out well for us."

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
Communications Department
0036 hours

As the battle began in earnest, the communication department was becoming a bit of a mess. Orders and transmission from all over the fleet was streaming in, tactical maneuvers were shouted and right in the middle of it all, the crew had to make sure not to fuck up. Voices piled on to each other, fighting for dominance.

"New orders! The admiral says that destroyers should screen for the battleships!"
"I'm getting reports that one of our cruisers took a direct hit in the citadel and is on fire! The captain of the Ryukari is down!"
"HMG Shinano, you are to hold out until we can redirect one of the destroyers to reinforce."
"Copy that, the Yuuji will be granted automany in regard to aircraft launching. Telling admiral now."
"AA batteries 13 through 18 have been hit, secondary cannon is down, moving damage control and medical crews now."

Aboard the cruiser Ryukari
Captain Itama Rangu
0037 hours

Captain Itama Rangu groggily lifted himself up from the flaming citadel of his ship. There was smoke and fire everywhere, his XO had been catapulted against the window from the blast as his navigator was slouched over a consul, her leg blown off to somewhere. There were bodies everywhere else, pure white uniforms ripped to shreds and blackened by the deadly barrage of shells which had hit them. Behind the metal doors he could hear alarms blaring. His ship was dying and there would be no escaping this fate.

He pulled himself up with the help of the side of his chair, hearing the moans of the crew near him made his heart drop, "H-how many... of you are a-alive?"

Three voices called back to him, three out of 9 people who were stationed here. Not the most promising of odds. Slowly the attempted to rise but one of them had clearly broken a leg and was stuck on the ground. As Captain Itama made his way to the window, banging into the walls at every opportunity. What he saw was even worse.

Looking out of the cracked and blood stained windows, he could see the deck blazing away as what little crew remain desperately tried to put it out. One of the front turrets was gone completely, its base the only thing that marked itself as a turret and the other one now sporting a large dent. While he couldn't see the other side of the ship, it was clear that it couldn't have been doing much better.

However, the one thing he could see from his position was one of those primitive Izuno ironclads charging a battleship. What he did next was something he was certain would gain him eternal honor for his service to the Emperor.

Scrambling to the controls, he set what was left of his ship to full throttle, the remaining engines chugging out what power they could to charge straight for the side of the enemy ship. He leaned over to the ship speakers system and gave what was left of his crew a final message as their spotlights went dark, only the lights of their target ironcald guided them in the darkness,

"To the crew of His Majesty's Grace Ryukari, you are undoubtedly the bravest crew I have had the honor of serving with. I thank the Golden Emperor for leading a crew so distinguished and so worthy as yourselves. As our beautiful ship lays in flames, we must ensure that our death will be honorable and not in vain. For this we must divide the heteric's ship which dare sails in front of us using the golden seal of our divine Emperor. May the heavens decide our worth as we set sail to an honorable end. TENHIKI BANZAI!"

Throughout the rest of the ship, cheers of Banzai erupted as the Ryukari's front slammed into the side of the ironclad, splitting it in two and causing it to be engulfed in flames. Soon after, fire filled the decks of the Ryukari and as the cruiser itself was about to explode, Itima smiled, "Time to serve the Golden Emperor."

On the deck of the destroyer Hibiki
Petty Officer Watashi Nosu
0040 hours

Nosu watched as a great fire ball blossomed from the seas, lighting up the dark stormy skies. The Ryukari had made a glorious sacrifice, a most honorable deed indeed, but there was still another one charging the Hibiki. He turned back to see the naval warriors of the Empire standing in on the deck of the ship, rain and storm not wavering their courage as their blades shone with holy radiance and rifles at the ready.

"Look there! The enemy dares to charge us!" Nobu bellowed, "They think that they alone can best us in the traditions of boarding, but we will show them our resolve, our devotion and our skill! Beat back the heathens who approach, show them no mercy! Show them nothing but why they cower in fear before our glorious emperor!"

Cheers bursted into the cold air as rifles began to fire. The ships had converged close enough for the true fight to begin. Grappling hooks from both sides were swung into the air, attaching the ships to each other in a deadly dance of blades. Soldiers from both sides jumped on to the other ship's deck. Swords clashed, men went flying over, rifles opened up and a fierce melee ensued. Order was lost in the fighting, it all went down the the ferocity and the moral of the men fighting.
Aboard the Ironclad Dreadnought Aki and Imperial Destroyer Hibiki
Sergeant Roman Kanadin
0040 hours
"Death to the False Emperor!!!" The Commander cried out as he leaped into the fray, soon to be followed by the lower officers and soldiers as they clashed against the imperial soldiers, blades banging against one another and firearms discharging, the once orderly formations of both forces devolved into pure chaos as the fighting ensued.

Kanadin engaged a fusan soldier in a duel of sorts, exchanging blows against the other, focused purely on the other, ignoring the chaos around them. The Loyalist thrust towards Kanadin, piercing his armor and through his abdomen. The Sergeant acted quickly and leaped back before any worse can be done, now handicapped as he placed one hand over his wound, discarding his blade as he pulled out a pistol from the left.

The fusan soldier charged once more, all the while Kanadin fired his pistol several times, but kept missing his target, before long one of his men, a large orc, rammed against the soldier, sending him overboard. They briefly exchanged nods as the orc moved hastily onto his next opponent, while Kanadin collapsed against the guard rail, providing what help he can, firing off his weapon against any enemy in view.

Aboard the Izuno Flagship, TES Kaminari.
Admiral Sato Takanori
0041 hours
The Bridge was sent into a frenzy, causality reports were unending, the Admiral forces were almost reduced to nothing. Takanori sat on his chair, hands clamped together, cold sweat seeping from his pours, his body shaking to no end, he was intensely gripped by fear, he knew what is to come, his death, and prayed to the gods for mercy.

"Admiral! we've lost all our destroyer escorts!"
"All AA batteries down sir! we're exposed!"
"The Su is taking heavy damage from air strikes!"

The fear was too much for the admiral, he remained silent to their cries, and sat there like a statue.

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
Admiral Torasho Yi
0043 hours

The waves once again tested Admiral Yi's resolve, they pounded the side of the Three Mountains to no end like the shells flying from the stormy clouds. Thunder they were, loud noises and scary to a kitten, but it was not lighting, Yi was sure nothing major was seriously hit. With his back straight up like a board, he peered out on to the stormy seas, ships appearing and disappearing at the waves' will. He could see what was left of the flaming wreck of the Ryukari sink down to the frozen oceans along with the ironclad it had split, the old ironclad design must have been older than he was, it should have been in a museum, not the navy.

"Get the ship towards the enemy flagship." the admiral continued to look out the windows, not flinching nor moving.
"How come? Wouldn't that give them a chance to kill us?" someone spoke up, noting his concern.
"I am willing to give this man one more chance to prove his honor and worth. Should he fire back, he shall die a warrior, should he retreat, he shall die a coward."
"Are you sure you aren't doing it out of pity sir?"
"There is always a hint of regret when taking life young one, but one does not win wars nor gain honor with pretty words. The shogunate will dispose of him soon after this battle even if we do not do it ourselves, by the traditions that both Fuso and Inzuo share, at least he will die a soldier and not a prisoner."

Keishu Agent Ise
HMG Hibiki
0045 hours

Ise looked down from her perch on one of many of the Hibiki's radio tower, the melee underneath her causing more and more blood by the second. Even up here, the sounds of blades and the screams of pain were louder than the storms they rode. Warriors on both sides fought hard and brave, but it was clear that the heathens would win this one, their monstrous orcs were simply too strong and brute to be gracefully cut down like humans and traitors, the Empire was loosing ground quick, Order 227 was to be invoked.

Her black cloak fluttering down, Ise jumped down the radio tower, making her way across different levels and stairs, parrying the stray strike, dodging the poorly aimed bullet and made her way into the ship. Alarms sang their loud cries, conducting the mess of movement. Reinforcements from under the ship charged up as the lucky few were being dragged to the medical center, their wounds leaving a heavy trail of blood in their wake. Ise ignored these trivial matters, in return most of the crew didn't notice her as they made her way to the ammunition cache.

The room was empty, its members on the upper decks fighting. Thankfully there was enough ammunition for the order to work and Ise wasted no time moving the carts of ammunition around to a central location.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?", it seemed that one of sailors had remained down here for reasons unknown, "You can't just move stuff aroun-"

BANG

Blood trickled between the sailor's eyes as they rolled into his head and he fell to the floor, within seconds he was no more than a corpse in a pool of blood.

"Nobody shall stand in the way of the Emperor's will," Ise scorned the body of the fool who questioned her, frowning beneath the metal mask she wore, "Nobody."

Drawing out a satchel of explosives, the agent set the clock and placed it snuggly between the shells. There was no more a chance of victory for the Hibiki and it must not be tainted by the stench of the heathens. As with all things, the ship was the property of the Emperor, and it could not fall into enemy hands.

The ominous ticks drifting through the corridors, Ise made her way back out to see that the sailors had been pushed back even further, the fools they were. Climbing back on to the highest point of the ship, her cloak produced a grappling gun with a magnet, her extraction drew near. Seeing a low flying Kankori, she fired it upwards and the head of her new toy stuck straight on to the wing of the fighter, pulling her away from the ship.

The bomb finally hit its last tick and detonated, the explosives filling the halls with fire as the entire ship was about to explode. A great boom echoed through the seas as the engines were the second to go, adding more fire to roast anyone still on board the ship. Ise had finished her job, Order 227, better known as the edict of "die for the emperor, or die trying".

HMG Hibiki
Sergeant Roman Kanadin
0045 hours
And like that it happened, the shogunate and imperial warriors were thrown upwards as the ships had exploded like a blossoming flower, metal, shrapnel, blood and bodies thrown all around the frozen waters. An unconscious Kanadin and few others were sent flying towards the Ironclad from the force of the explosion, however this was not a miracle he would awake to, the ironclad was severely damaged from the blast, a fault of it's old age.

The ship slowly sank along with the remnants of the Hibiki, pulling down the ironclad to the ocean. Kanadin's slowly opened as he would soon go down with the ship, knew that it was all over for him, there was no escaping this fate, he was die in a cold death. He however, was fully content with himself, he fulfilled his duties to the Shogun, and as such, his family would no longer be bound by those horrid refugee slums, and have a relatively stable life elsewhere.

He lost conscious once more, now aware this would be his last time.

Aboard the Izuno Flagship, TES Kaminari.
Admiral Sato Takanori
0047 hours
An grim and oppressive atmosphere had gripped all in bridge, the staff and the Admiral looking out the windows to see all ships in the fleet as burning husks or sinking to the ocean, the flagship was all that remained. Worst of all, the much larger enemy flagship was closing in, nearly point blank range.
"Sir, the enemy flagship is approaching."
"No doubt what's to come next..." Admiral Takanori muttered. "But it would not matter...I die here...or back home..."
"Orders sir?"
The Admiral had remained silent once for a moment. "I'm tired of this...running...I will face them head on as a warrior, I will preserve what little of my honor and integrity I have left. We make our final stand here.."
All was silent in the bridge. "It has been an honor serving with you all." He said. "Open fire."

Aboard the Fuso flagship, HMG Three Mountains
0046 hours

The Kaminari got the fire shots off, the blowing holes into the sides of turrets, wiping out AA guns and secondary cannons, denting the armor and causing cracks. But the Three Mountains was not about to take the beating untested, it roared back back its own guns, flaunting power of its epic 500mm guns on the Izuno ship. It was a fierce, but but brief engagement, both sides knew the outcome from the start, there was no "if", only a "when".

Admiral Yi walked over to the side of the cabin, his old sight not hindered by age nor the rought currents, both ship were on fire but the Kaminari got the worse of. It was going down no doubt, even as some of the crew tried to save it. From his position her could see into the other cabin of the Kaminari and, in an unexpected twist, he pull off his cap, sling it over his heart and bowed. Yi wasn't sure if anyone over there could see his gesture, but it was his final message of respect to the forlorn captain which escaped him so many times. Beyond the zealous fanaticism of his younger peers, the old admiral had always placed honor before zeal. There was no doubt the newspapers and radios would say other wise, probably embellishing the story which tales of courage, valor and undying loyalty (The Ryukari would definitely be a huge point). Perhaps the Emperor would reward him with another metal or title, it mattered little to Yi in his old age, matured above such trivialities.

"Bowing to the heathens sir?" one of the crew questioned his superior like an Ishin-Shishi.
"No, respecting an old friend," Yi snapped back, correcting the young zealot, "When the sunsets, he is still a Zensensashi like us, just flying different colors for his own god-emperor."

Aboard the Izuno Flagship, TES Kaminari.
Admiral Sato Takanori
0046 hours
Takanori fully aware of his fate, had retired briefly from the bridge, walking outside in the rain and winds along with smoke and fire rising from the ship, not even the weather could put out the fires, wouldn't matter either way, the ship slowly was sinking in the frozen waters. Takanorai took his final chance to take in the view, the raging currents having their own beauty to them despite the death and destruction tainting it.

His wondering eyes soon gazed upon the enemy flagship, as takanori took notice of a well-dressed figure from the distance, no doubt the opposing admiral, the very same admiral who he survived several engagements for some years from. He lifted his cap, placing it over his chest and bowed to him. Takanori, offering his own final respects, did the very same, bowing to Admiral Yi. "And so the hunt finally ends, well met..." he said to himself, making a unheard compliant to Yi.

The Next Day







An epic victory to the Fusan Imperial Navy on the high seas!

As many of us where sleeping away last night, the brave men and women of the 8th Imperial Naval Group, lead by legendary Hero of the Seas, Amdiral Torasho Yi, where fighting the heretic shogunate forces in the stormy seas of the Strait of Kyunshu. Many stories of courage and bravery can be seen on page 5, told truthfully and honestly straight from the soldiers themselves!

As some of our readers may know, the HMG Ryukari and the HMG Hibiki were destroyed by the enemy. Shady, dishonorable tricks must have been used by them as their floating tin cans can't even hurt trees! But before she sunk, the Ryukari honorable sacrificed itself by ramming into one of the enemy battleships, splitting it cleaning in too before exploding, taking the filthy ship of the heathens with it. The Emperor himself has given praise to their bravery and loyalty stating that "it is what makes us the true inheritors of the divine mandate, not the treacherous heathens who dare claim the throne of my ancestors". A mass honor is sechduled in two days with the Emperor calling for all to join it. (cont. Page 3)

Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti stood completely erect, his hands respectfully behind his back, his head held high, and everything about his posture feeling of servility. That was how one had to present himself before the King. Even if he was now King of the Zenovii instead of the King of Zenovia, ostensibly a King of the people, the mannerism of addressment towards the King had hardly changed. Actually it had not changed at all. His Majesty Mircea II was actually the first to actually take that new title seriously and with honor, much to Cinsti’s chagrin. Cinsti, however, had moved passed the fact that the King seemed willing to break the neutrality of the monarch if it edged towards populism, and was now dealing with the issues of the current day. His Majesty Mircea II always seemed to be doing something when Cinsti addressed him, and he was often doing things which were quite strange. He had his face nearly pressed against the glass of his personal aquarium, where the King kept exotic aquatic animals imported from all over the world. His majesty was a bit eccentric.

“Your esteemed Majesty,” Nikolas Cinsti said.

“Yes, Prime Minister?” Mircea II said.

“It is that matter, your majesty, of great import, of consequence and importance, of your majesty’s sister, her majesty Miruna,” Cinsti said.

“Ah yes, the Queen Dowager,” Mircea said as he let odd-looking green fish food fall into his aquarium from his hand. “It is a noble enterprise which she endeavors. Give me…give those papers.”

Cinsti brought the papers, and put them on a coffee table that Mircea was standing near. Then Mircea, without ever taking his eyes off of his precious aquarium, grabbed them. He rested the papers on aquarium, and scoured the papers for anything that Cinsti had neglected to mention. Cinsti wished he could be a normal constitution monarch and just sign these things. After a minute, he did in fact sign it with his pen, signing his signature.

“I do hope, Prime Minister, that this organization is helpful for the cause of world peace,” Mircea said. “That is something I do like very much.”



Lord Boris Perigord, 1st Count of Focreguine, Minister of Finance, arrived by cable car to the Queen Dowager Miruna’s hotel. The King’s sister had realized it was easier to meet him in this setting than arranging a meeting at the royal palace. Perhaps it was a simple matter for her brother, but not for her. She expected, anyhow, that she would soon depart on her mission of humanitarianism and friendly diplomacy. The two of them met in a private lobby that had been reserved for the time for only the two of them.He bowed respectfully to Queen Dowager Miruna when he arrived, and bowed deeper and again when he came closer to her.

“With joy, your majesty, it pleases me to inform you that the Honorable Prime Minister had approved of your venture, and his Majesty your brother Mircea II, may he reign long, has signed your project. It was all reveal to me, your majesty, in a cabinet meeting this morning.”

“Oh, happy days, Perigord!” Miruna said.

She uncharacteristically grabbed the ministers hand and spun him around, making the two of them go round in circles like school children. She was certainly excited, but Perigord was so shocked and surprised that he was frozen in surprise for a moment before pulling himself back. He cleared his throat with an honorable “ahem!” sound to break the awkwardness of the moment, and Miruna gave a slight giggle.

“Well, your majesty,” Lord Perigord said. “I think we may now begin preparations. In mere weeks, your majesty, I have arranged for there to be a full-fledged humanitarian organization.”

“Oh, I can hardly wait, Perigord!” Miruna said. “Oh, but I suppose I will have to.”



@Skepic

Serghei sat in a car, driving his way towards the embassy. This gentle old man, adorn in a quaint-looking suit, did not have the air about him of an outstanding or impressive man. In truth, this unassuming figure was Serghei Blocare, now ambassador to Avalia. Born the son of a country lawyer, he fought in the Great War and, after returning as an artillery officer, was able to get into Ilezabeta Divinity University. In 1896, he published his magnum opus On Liberalism, when he was only 29, for which he was called “the most dangerous man in Zenovia,” as his writings were used as an intellectual manifesto for the Liberals, but then only four years later was called “the greatest man in the nation,” after Liberalism became the prevailing thought. It is a philosopher that history remembers him, both for his political theories and for his thoughts on metaphysics, epistemology, and ethics. Religiously, he was a Aeonist Universalist, who denied He refused a county when the King offered him one in 1912, and has always been a staunch monarchist. He was Professor of Politics at Ilezabeta Divinity University from 1901, where he wrote most of his major philosophical work. He has had a long and venerable political career, but has never been a moving force in parliament. He served in a rural, strongly Conservative (later Patriotic) constituency near his home town from 1914 to 1919, where he opposed the Little War, and returned as MP when he was drafted for nomination and returned to office from 1930 until his resignation in 1937, during which he wrote an essay that thoroughly disproved protectionism, but was ignored. Facing increasing hostility all around him, he left political life and returned intellectual life.

Three months prior he had been given the quite large surprise of the appointment to the ambassadorship of Avalia, and humbly accepted. A minor scandal had followed, especially from the aristocrats, for appointing a radical, as the Patriots had made it their position to not appoint a Radical to anything. Many suspected it had been Perigord who had arranged the appointment, but Serghei knew better, and knew that Cinsti was far more pragmatic than the Patriots were keen to accept. He had been appointed because he had a plethora of experience and because he was comfortable in Avalia. On account of their atheism, some Zenovii were uncomfortable around the Valkyria, but he had no such qualms, having spent extended periods of times within Avalia in the past, and not regarding such things as very important. Whatever the case, the ambassadorship was not considered in itself very important, and at the time people thought this would simply be Serghei’s last act of governmental service. Many people had served as ambassadors to the past, later going on to do nothing with their civil and political service. Serghei, however, had been informed by Cinsti that the role he was to play was indeed important. Serghei only hoped that something would be accomplished, that the world’s two premier democracies would form closer ties, and that war with Moravia would be avoided.

“Many thanks, boy,” Serghei said to his driver in Valkyrian as he dropped him off at his location.

Awaiting at the embassy were a group of people standing in front of him, clearly waiting for their new ambassador to arrive. The last ambassador had been compelled to resign after being embroiled in scandal, but thankfully it was nothing that would affect relations with Avalia. Still, they were likely eagerly awaiting their new ambassador. All of those in front of him were Zenovii, like himself.

He was helped to ease into his position and shown his office, which looked quite comfortable. He had brought along only a few possessions, but they were quickly carried into his office by his companion. He allowed his driver to be on his way, as Serghei felt that he had done enough. After a few clear minutes, he was leaning back in a comfortable leather chair at the head of a desk, with a bottle of wine next to him, and a smiling aide asking to make sure everything was alright.

“Arrange a meeting with the President of Avalia,” Serghei said.

“Sir, you’ve only just arrived. Don’t you think that you should wait a while longer to settle in before engaging in diplomatic discourse?”

“With all due respect, I will have to disagree. While on my way here, I had much time to think. As you may know, I have the ability to think quite a lot on things. I have decided that I have been given enough time to think, and I would now like to start acting.”

“Very well sir, I shall arrange everything.”



Lord Boris Perigord, Minister of Finance, was once again meeting with the Queen Dowager Miruna. This time, however, it was in a different place, and the circumstances were different. She had instead come to the House of Parliament herself, having arranged a meeting here. However, she had become excitable after reading the paper. Along with her and himself, Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti was there as well. She had a certain naivety about how the world worked, and was surprised to hear about what had happened. The paper had read:

The National Neutral Observer

Receiving reports concurrently from both the Empire of Fuso, of which the Kingdom of Zenovia extends diplomatic recognition to, and the Izuno Shogunate, of which Zenovia does not extend the same honor, it appears that a naval skirmish has yet again occurred on the seas between the two. Many brave souls perished from the conflict, and reports of honorable patriotism, death for one’s nation, and reports of ferocity, honor, and valor come from both side. Analysts report that that Fuso may attempted to gain on this recent victory, but that remains to be seen.

“Oh, how horrible it is!” Miruna said. “And yet the two of them have fought for as long as I can recall. Longer, in fact. This has given me the greatest idea. Prime Minister, Minister, I believe I can help. If I go over there, perhaps my organization could have its first victory.”

“Your majesty, I must advise against it,” Lord Perigord said. “Fuso and the breakaway faction of Izuno have always warred, and have fought so long that survival is in fact a synonym for cowardice. As they say themselves, ‘die for the emperor, or die trying.’”

“I cannot agree with you,” Cinsti said. “If her majesty’s organization is truly for world peace, and be given the chance to succeed, we cannot pull punches. Let her majesty go to Izuno and Fuso.”

“I believe that human nature is inherently good, and people are always willing to prefer peace over war,” Miruna said.

“Your majesty, the honorable Nikolas Cinsti,” Lord Perigord. “I would never attempt to impose on either of you. Instead, the honorable Cinsti, I would like to inform you that only conquest will satisfy either of those far northern state, and as a statesman of fifty years, I would like you to only inform you of my own opinions.”

“It is I who am prime minister,” Cinsti said. “Not you.”

“Is politics always so stuffy?” Miruna said.

Cinsti coughed. “I would recommend, your majesty, to begin your touring at once. Whatever path you wish to take is entirely up to you, your majesty. Of course you will be able to go to Fuso and Izuno. The ministry of foreign affairs will help organize your speaking tour, isn’t that right, Minister?”

“Of course,” Lord Perigord said.

“Oh, how many new people I shall meet!” Miruna said. “But it is for world peace! I hope I do make much of a difference. Perigord, I don’t know much about the ministry of foreign affairs, but as queen I did organize many things. I would like to oversee at least, what you are doing for this.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Lord Perigord said.

In the capital there was a crisp, comfortable air, with every small eddy of wind whispering of the sweet smell of flowers. Gardens and fountains were everywhere to be seen, as were the ancient and monolithic buildings of marble that still stood as a testament to the renowned masons of the Old Moravian Empire. It was easy to see why the Qualians had moved their capital to these lands; it honored their heritage and legitimized their claims as the successors of the great empires before. Such a beautiful and regal land was fitting as the face of a nation and a seat of philosophy, art, and government.

As Stefan Thaurissan stepped out from the entryway of the palatial capitol building, moving between half a dozen colossal arches and columns, he finally found himself upon the raised tier at the building's foot. The capitol was on a small hill of its own; numerous stairs were cut into the side of this hill, leading down to tier after tier of plazas and squares below. All were utterly crowded with people, and Thaurissan stood above them all in plain sight. It was humbling, but in a way empowering as well. For every thousand people that came to see his inauguration in person, there would be another million reading about it on newspapers or listening to it on radios. Granted, there would be no surprise: everyone had known that Thaurissan would win his second election as easily as he had the first.

At this moment, however, the attention was not upon Thaurissan. Countless other important figures were present, convened in groups on the highest plaza or in other prominent locations: there were the nine High Justiciars in their black robes with bearing the aloof and stoic faces of the law, dozens of High Magistrates and lesser legislators, and a fair few Imperators and military officers. Needless to say, the area was filled with countless soldiers as well to maintain security.

Right now the attention was on none of these people, though: instead it was the Divine Prefect of Qualia that the people fixated on as he gave a long-winded speech. Normally this speech would be given by the one of the Caesar's closest friends and highest officials, but Imperator Geddon was still preoccupied with his tour of all the nation's military installations. So while the Divine Prefect had no true power and seemed a strange choice as speaker, as the de jure religious leader of the country his name was respected and he made a suitable substitute.

In the way of most clergymen, the Divine Prefect spurned prose in favor of flowery and inspirational, albeit empty language. The elderly man's soft voice expounded on microphone, "...along every hill and vale, across these wooded heaths and golden plains, between the highest clouded crags the deepest jungles, this land is blessed! Peace, prosperity, and good rulership have left us with much to be thankful for, and I bid that all of you praise our noble Caesar in your prayers tonight..."

Certainly, this man was smart. He could appeal to the crowds and put on the facade of being a wise and respectable father-figure, but in reality he was still a mere puppet. Granted, he at least made a better puppet than his quarrelsome predecessor. The man had openly spoke against the government and longed for a restoration of church rule, so it was fortunate that this one was more passive and agreeable. Thaurissan would not have wanted to see to the assassination of a second Divine Prefect...

As the Prefect's speech continued on, the Caesar stood silently in background atop the steps of the grand capitol building, lost in thought. For the time being, the horde of onlookers and throngs of journalists sprawled out before him were all invisible. Thaurissan's eyes looked only at the larger-than-life statues that loomed over the plaza below. Once there had stood marble statues of pagan gods and later Qualian kings; now, there were only statues in the likeness of the Commonwealth's two gods: the Heavenly Creator and the Caesar.

A small smile came across Stefan's cold face as the statues brought back a memory of his youth. "Father, why do all the streets have statues of you?" he had once asked as a small boy.

His father had answered, "I'm personally against seeing my picture and face everywhere. But it is what the people want."

Indeed, Stefan now mused to himself. That was what the people wanted: a great and strong man as their leader, his presence and likeness larger than life and everywhere to be seen, immortalized in stone and nearly worshiped like some sort of pagan idol.

By now, the Divine Prefect's speech was drawing to a close. "...and lastly, my fellow countrymen, I would remind you that it is fortunate indeed that you were born into this glorious Commonwealth. By merit of that alone, we are greater in the Creator's eyes the heathenish fiends that we call Zenovii and Kataylans. I would remind you, too, that only upon the anvil of honor and piety is greatness forged, both in this life and in the next. I bid you love your fellows, love this great nation, and love the almighty Creator!"

What had merely been the occasional polite applause erupted into wild cheering at that last part, while the Divine Prefect made a show of bowing and slowly walking away to his seat. Now it was the Caesar's turn to speak. As Stefan stepped forth, the people quieted down. After a pregnant pause, he at last began.

"Esteemed countrymen all, it is with sincerity that I thank our Divine Prefect for his kind and inspiring words; I shall always strive to live up to the praise that he has bestowed upon me, and follow in his example of temperance and wisdom."

There was much applause and cheering, but also an air of anticipation as he moved past trifling formality and onto the true body of the speech.

"It is with honor and integrity that I accept this mantle of responsibility once again, and will continue to serve as Caesar and High Imperator.

But above all else, it is with pride that I look out and see what Moravia has become, and what lies in our golden future. Economic growth continues exponentially; our manufacturing capacity is already surpassed by none, and the gap between Moravia and her competitors only grows. Our intelligence agencies and strategic analysts report that national security is the best that it has ever been. Never again will our people suffer as they did in the Great War, for our valiant army stands strong. Only in on the open seas does our influence wane and our adversaries claim dominance, but I assure you that steps are being taken to eradicate this weak point and all others."

The vast hordes of people were beginning to go wild, with even the dignified and upright government officials standing to applaud and cheer. His subtle references to the situation with Kataylabinsk did not go unnoticed. It was enough to create pride and a sense of security in the people, but not enough to be construed as a threat or tell foreign intelligence agencies anything that wasn't already blatantly clear.

"A new golden age dawns upon the entire world, and Moravia will be at its heart, driving forward! Each year our inventors and scientists make countless new discoveries that usher us into the new era. Izuno and Verendes have already joined us in this partnership, and many others will follow. Petty and ancient conflicts will end by the turn of the century: the age of freedom, science, and progress draws near! The rest of the world will abandon their backwards, barbaric, and erroneous ways and join us in the future, or be crushed beneath the wheels of change!"

This drew applause and cheering of such fervor that it was thunderous. The sound roared out from the sea of people below, recoiled upon the capitol hill, and echoed back over the surrounding city for all the world to hear.





Within the labyrinth of monolithic concrete buildings there were two cities. Soaring above all else and ruling from a world of their own that brushed the clouds, there were the rich who lived in great apartment complexes. Their skyscrapers were a comfortable distance away from inner city. In this world, a man's status only depended upon his money. As one metaphorically rose up through the ranks of his peers and accumulated wealth, he too rose in a literal sense. The richer a man was, the higher his abode in those towering skyscrapers, so as to distance himself even further from the slums below and spit upon the poor from all the higher.

Beneath the shadow of the smokestacks and factories that dominated the sky of the inner city were old, crumbling tenements. Here was the second world to be seen: the city of the downtrodden. The air on this particular day was stiflingly hot and choking, even in this time of year. The equatorial sun and the haze of soot that filled the sky made for a foul air.

The horrendous hours, meager pay, poor housing, and poorer still outlook made for a foul life. Though many of the pomp and high officials called this the Age of Industry, the Age of Prosperity, or the Age of Commerce, it had another side and another name: the Age of Oppression. There was only so much that a man could take.

What had started as drunken banter in a bar between one nameless worker and his fellows quickly turned into complaints of work, but then took a turn towards speech that was treasonous. With courage fueled in part by their desperation and in part by alcohol, they went to their fellow coworkers that very night, all that would listen, and created a petition. Their words fell on deaf ears. Next they held a strike at work, but alas, it was to no avail; all those that attended (a fair many less than expected) were fired on the spot. That initial spark had lead to a flame, and that flame had just been fanned to the point that it became a raging inferno. A riot broke out, lead by that one faceless worker that refused to be silenced.

With hammers they smashed the factory equipment, the mob overpowering the surprised security with sheer numbers alone. One of the security guards struck a man upside the head wit his baton, and from there all hell broke loose. That guard was beaten to death with the hammers. The homeless, the desperate, and the wretched exploited the chaos and robbed from any storefront in sight. The chaos spread to other factories and soon there were hundreds out in the street. Their conscience lost in the bestial cloud, floating away to muddle with the soot in the sky, several workers murdered their former overseers and employees, while the first factory and half the block were set aflame in the riot.

It all came to a sudden end when the distant wailing of sirens became audible. Instantly the bloodlust transformed into terror, and the mob began to surge down the streets. Some of the more clever ones managed to escape into narrow alleyways, but for those trapped in the middle of the panicking mob there was nowhere to run. The sirens soon became heard from all directions as the police encircled the block, cutting off all avenues of escape. When the trucks and cars finally drew into sight, hundreds of armed soldiers and police officers stormed out, all wearing masks. The reason for that became quickly apparent, as tear gas was unleashed into to indiscriminately subdue the crowd. Some wildly surged forward, attempting to break through the line of police officers. Their futile attempts ended at best with being beaten onto the ground, and then beaten into the ground by the stock of heavy rifles. In the case of a few, they were simply gunned down.

Over the next several hours, every last member of the crowd was rounded up, arrested, and packed into trucks to be taken to detainment facilities. All save three or four, that nameless, faceless man included. After asking who had started this rampage, who were the leaders of this riot, who were the terrorists, communists, and anarchists responsible, they had been given the same few names over and over. The leaders were betrayed and pointed out by their own friends, and then they too were arrested and found themselves brought to a separate place.



"...but never take for granted our happiness and prosperity, for it was blood and sweat that built all three of the Great Moravian Empires," Thaurrisan continued, "and we must continue to shed blood and sweat to preserve this most sacred of things that we have built. It is through the honest, willing work of every Moravian that this nation has achieved such heights and will continue to rise further! Remember, our Creator's grace goes to the industrious and noble, the pious and brave, never to slothful and heathenish. That is why our State stands high, above all others..."







Prisoner 743130 had once been a man, but already those days seemed like distant dreams and the precious memories that he clung to were slipping away. He had slipped let slip his radical ideology to one set of ears too many, and the tyrannical fascists had arrested him. His trial in the People's Court had been a joke; when all of his neighbors were asked if they knew of any antisocial, unpatriotic, or otherwise troubling behavior of his, most had feigned ignorance. One of his neighbors, though, told them of every last statement he had heard that could possibly be construed as against the government or the status quo, and then made some absurd claim that his family had been threatened and he was too scared to inform the police until now. Naturally, the word of that man had been enough. The sentence was indefinite forced labor, to "suitably purge his mind of such evil beliefs" and "earn him a place back in the society that he had sought to betray", and thus one citizen had died and Prisoner 743130 had been born.

Prisoner 743130 had been assigned one job, one singular purpose in life. Day after day, he stood between a great heap of slag and half a dozen chutes, each one leading down to a great crucible below. It was his job to keep all of the furnaces filled with the right amount of slag to process, and so he and the other prisoners shoveled and operated the machinery for upwards of fourteen hours each day in a desperate bid to keep up with the near impossible task of maintaining so many furnaces.

The stony, half-depleted ore was smelted into a glassy, impure metal that was worthless for creating anything of value. So instead, it was shattered into small pieces by heavy machinery, and then other prisoners further down the assembly line packed it into grenades or shotgun shells as shrapnel. Their tired hands worked endlessly to power the very war machine that had enslaved them, and if they ever faltered, the cruel overseers had all manner of ways to 'motivate' them.

Day by day, shovel by shovel, he worked in a desperate attempt to buy back his freedom. This hell went on for six months, though it felt like a decade and took a great toll on his body. He tried once to make a hasty escape in the dead of night, but his pitiful attempt only resulted in a horrific beating, his next day's rations taken away, and his hours somehow stretched even further. So then he decided to bide his time. He planned his escape for weeks, and when the time came it was a success. He ran and ran once he was out, but he was weak. So much weaker than he had thought... It all ended with him hearing the baying of bloodhounds, and then he was arrested once again. But as he was told by the guard that caught him, there's only one place that fugitive prisoners can go.

His back against the wall, he looked to his side. He saw just another man, though this one seemed like his life had been better off. He looked to have been just another faceless, nameless worker. Perhaps the man had resorted to thievery to get what his wage couldn't, or made the mistake of rebelling against the oppressors. Prisoner 743130 squirmed, pressing further into the cold wall at his face. He looked up at the smoke-filled skies. He looked anywhere but forwards. The next moment, the firing squad took aim and carried out the mass execution. The repeating clicking and thunderous bangs of semi-automatic rifles firing filled the air while bullets tore through Prisoner 743130, the leaders of the recent riots in Staban, and the other two dozen criminals lined up against the wall.



"...while the Divine Prefect's wise words on the blessing of peace rang true through all our hearts, remember that peace and liberty, precious as they are, must be defended with blood and steel. To the man that says, 'Let there be peace in my day!' I proclaim that no true Moravian should suffer such cowardice in his heart! If we shy away from defending our great nation and the tenets that it was founded upon, in the name of having peace in our day, then we will be condemning our children to live with the cowardice of our generation and fight the battles that should have been ours. That, my countrymen, is why we must not grow too fond of peace! Never shall we look for needless war, but we must always stand strong and ready to fight, less the barbaric States that have long been our anathema reduce us to ashes that they might be kings of a ruined world.

That having been said, we must not resort to barbarism. While the Kataylans use the substance known as fyrurok to incinerate and suffocate the brave men that their own soldiers are too cowardly to face in a battle of men, and the insipid Fusonese send women onto the battlefields as soldiers, we must always stand with honor and dignity. To do anything less would make us stoop to their level, and bring shame upon our great legacy."






"General, they have entrenched themselves one mile away. We await the order to charge their lines!" the courageous Forward Commander said.

"No," General Geddon answered gruffly. "Why bother throwing away our lives fighting the likes of them? Artillery Commander, advance the gun batteries. Bombard them with everything that we have. Blast them into oblivion."

"Of course. Insects deserve to be crushed," another officer laughed. "Why afford them the dignity of a real fight?"

The command was quickly relayed. An hour later, the Moravian batteries were in position and they began to open fire. Valiantly, the enemy suffered and died in those trenches for nearly half an hour, their resolve showing no signs of breaking. At last, the Moravians grew tired of wasting ammunition.

The command was relayed for the guns to switch from explosive to chemical rounds. First, they unleashed volley after volley of shells containing white phosphorus. The chemical burned and produced a haze of white smoke so thick that one could hardly see his own hands. The stuff burned the flesh and eyes of the defenders, and left them helpless to even spot, much less stop the Moravian tanks that began to advance their way. But that wasn't all. Among the hail of shells that had unleashed phosphorus had been a few filled with a far more potent toxin: phosgene. Helpless t communicate or even run in the fog created by the phosphorus, the extremely toxic phosgene condemned at least half of the entrenched men to a tortuous death of suffocation before the phosphorus even rolled away.

What ragged, broken remnants of a fighting force remained began to retreat from their trenches. They were annihilated by the Moravian tanks that took up pursuit. Those that were taken prisoner were loaded onto trains and sent into the heartlands of Moravia, to be exploited as forced labor. On that day, not even a dozen Moravian soldiers were killed, but the combined deaths of the enemy from that battle and the subsequent occupation of Lusitania numbered in the hundreds if not thousands.

General Geddon would go on to become one of the highest ranking Imperators, and one of the foremost faces of the Commonwealth.



"...and to those who question why we would speak of peace, yet support Izuno and fight a battle that is not ours, I would answer: because that battle is ours, and in a way, we are Izuno! Like the Kataylans (who betrayed our ancient empire and act as its legitimate successors when they are more akin to its deformed, bastard offspring), the Shogunate of Izuno fights an ancient war against the Fusonese traitors that tore their once-great empire in twain in a petty attempt to merely seize power. Izuno stands in a similar position to us. Their government and people are agreeable and brave, and their land has much resources that they have offered to us, as I am sure you all know.

So ask not why stand with our ally Izuno, and ask instead why we do not do more to aid them! In light of their recent defeat against the Fusonese Fleet, I hereby make a commitment on behalf of the Commonwealth to double the quantity of all military supplies and armaments being shipped annually to the Izuno Shogunate. May they find victory, and the solace in the peace that will follow!"

What had started as confusion with no small amount of grumbling transformed into cheers from the crowd as Thaurissan continued. The Caesar imagined that this would end the fierce debates regarding the Commonwealth's continued support of Izuno, at least until the next major battle brought that nation into the news and people began to care about it for a week or two before forgetting about it all again. That was the way that the cycle worked.

"But as trying days come, we must keep an open mind and look to other countries that might not resemble us so much. We stand strong with Izuno and Verendes, but we must too look for friends in other places to find a place of maximum security and influence over the world's doings. To that ends, I will take the unprecedented step of attempting to establish closer relations with the Heavenly Empire of Yllendthyr. Long have the Moravians and elves kept to their own, but no longer; in my visions of the glorious future, I can see what greatness would come about for both parties were we to pursue closer delegations. That is why I would like to publicly extend to the Prime Minister of Yllendthyr an offer to visit our Grand Commonwealth and speak with me, on behalf of his emperor and his country. Already, our embassy is proposing the details."

Thaurissan's speech continued, the Caesar brushing on all topics from increasing employment rates to modernizing the rural, outermost reaches of the nation. It was not until many hours later that he retired, only after he felt utterly exhausted and the crowds' throats were hoarse from cheering. For all the facades of friendliness and being a peoples' man that he put on, Thaurissan hated addressing the public; he would look forward to a restful next few weeks before he anticipated needing to give another speech.

The cold morning wind of Myrmidarium in winter was forming a thick blanket of fog, now reaching over the docks ocean-current warmed water. The coastal cities usually bustling harbour was empty and the city eerily quiet. The great monuments and statues of the cities mighty Abyssiasist temples obscured the morning light, casting shadows over the city. Through the fog, a line of stately, gloss black automobiles of foreign making were parked within the naval base adjacent to the city harbour, and a small crowd was gathering as they exited their vehicles with the help of guards and chauffeurs. Of the group of automobiles, one remained unopened, its occupants remaining inside.

“We have arrived sir, you wish to watch from here right?” The chauffer asked the passenger, gesturing to the naval vessel floating in front of them, beside the dock.

“Indeed, until the Abyssinite Guard comes” Jean-Baptist Etienne de Richelieu replied.

He was to remain within his automobile even as the other foreign advisers emerged and mingled outside. Richelieu had come to this country without the sanction of his government, so when considering his reason for being here and his position on his homelands blacklist, he kept his figurative head down, and stayed in the car. Today was to be a remarkable one, despite the dour mood nature wished to impose upon it. While the group of men and a few women outside the car was only a few dozen, many thousands of people were gathering along the harbour outside the base, clearing the rest of the city and now waiting in silence; gathering to watch the maiden voyage of the HDS Sylvia XVII.

The vessel was to be the new flagship of the Sacred Empire and the Siren-Empresses personal vessel. Richelieu was very much eager to see its sailing, considering he helped design it. While Minister Kerensky and his cohorts can be given the praise for the creation of the original Argonautilus, the HDS Sylva XVII was more than simply a warship; it was a piece of art. Looking to its final form now, Richelieu could see just how more impressive it was than the designs, sketches and even model figure that Kerensky had him work on previously. Gleaming white, the dreadnought submarine was adorned with decorations, statutes of ancient Mesulid warriors, creatures of the deep and religious icons. It was a fine side-project.

Still, he wasn’t here to marvel at his earlier work, as much as it was enjoyable and as much as he wanted to have the time to do so. Marian aristocracy had it rough these days with many families now impoverished due to revolutions in Vinculi. While his homeland was now once again under the right and proper rule of the Marianne Empire, most of the aristocracy got the short stick with losing nearly everything but their titles. So here he was, illegally selling his designs and inventions to a foreign nation on the off chance that he could restore some form of reasonable living standards for his siblings and mother, and to perhaps one day show his homeland the significance of his ideas.

In short, like quite a few foreign advisers who shared similar stories, he was an exile; an exile with very valuable schematics and ideas, ideas worth the time and effort to seemingly betray his country to see them put into action.

Richelieu continued to watch the ship until a new line of glossy black cars arrived. Among them was a porcelain white vehicle bearing flags and the imperial regalia that could only belong to the Siren-empresses own; the vehicle also positioned in between two armoured cars. The foreign advisers had since been moved to the side, a small army of black long coat wearing Abyssinite Guard (Secret police) and armoured Myrmidon Honour-Guards forming up around the base as the convoy of vehicles stopped. Siren-Empress Silvia XVII and other Mesulid ruling caste members slithered out of their automobiles then, followed by more honour guards wielding tridents, spears and SMG’s. The Siren-Empress was mostly obscured by gaudy, oversized feather fans and tailed by various servants carrying containers and other objects. She was to be taking part in the launching ceremony of the vessel and from there would speak of the matter that truly concerned Richelieu; his work.

“She’s smaller than I imagined” Richelieu said to himself, wondering how someone who may well be the youngest state leader in the world continue ruling with such clout. He knew the answer of course, but it was still so strange. The religious fanaticism here was very, very real, as he had learned as such in his short year-long stay in Ceresia. The claim to godhood made by this girl was taken very seriously by even the lowest denizens of this nation, quite a feat, considering how his homeland has seen kings and emperors repeatedly overthrown by the commoners.

“Sir, please avert your eyes” the Chauffer said, his politeness having an edge to it; it was a warning.

Richelieu had near forgotten an essential rule of this land. Under no circumstances may you draw eye contact with the Lamia Mesulus without proper cleansing, as well as the more important corollary to this: Looking upon the Siren-Empress without purification in the Cleansing Ritual or by the unfaithful is punishable by death. Worried, Richelieu figured that due to either the distance or the various fans and other objects obscuring a real view, he was still alive.

I really need to hire my own Chauffer Richelieu thought.

Sitting there and waiting as the Siren-Empress went through the fanfare of boarding her namesake warship, Richelieu waited until an anonymous Abyssinite Guardsman arrived and knocked on his window.

“It is time” Richelieu declared before opening the door, taking a suitcase out from below his feet and giving his farewell to the driver.

“Master Richelieu, we of the Abyssinite Guard assume you have completed your assignment?” The guardsman asked as they walked towards the ship. Richelieu simply nodded in response, more concerned with using the line of cars as concealment as they neared their destination.

It was not until they had arrived aboard the ship that he finally responded. “I have the plans completed. Schematics, cost estimates, required resources; all I need is time and the base product”.

"When will my audience with the Siren-Empress begin?"

“The Siren-Empress will be pleased; your audience will begin within the hour once we have dived” the guardsman said, now leading Richelieu inside the submarine-battleship. As they walked, the vessel moved from the dock and the Siren-Empress was finishing the ship launching ceremony. Instead of the usual cheering Richelieu had seen in his homeland when a notable ship launching was underway, the Ceresian’s begun to sing. While he couldn’t understand the archaic wording of their already complicated language completely, he knew it was a religious hymn, a hymn towards a holy war against something about the sky. After the singing, Richelieu ignored most of the ceremony and the event itself passed by him entirely. Focused now entirely on his audience with the Siren-Empress and the implications of the contents of his suitcase, the all important assignment that Ceresia gave him. Pacing back and forwards he for long enough and he did not feel the time pass or even the vessel diving, so concerned with his sole purpose here.





He knew the time had come once two servant girls arrived and were ushering him down the submarine-battleships ornate halls, and eventually leading him to a room divided by a decorated semi-transparent wooden screen, once again covered in religious icons. The Siren-Empress was sitting immediately behind said wooden screen, Richelieu seeing only her and another figure as silhouettes. Richelieu bowed immediately after handing the suitcase over to one of the guards, and remained doing so while what he the Siren-Empress and the other figure behind the screen were whispering something he could not make out. After a length of time he could not determine and growing pain in his back, a man’s voice spoke from behind the screen.

“Typically speaking Master Richelieu, It is advised to build a new vessel from scratch than to constantly repair and modify an existing one, considering the costs of doing the former. Why would you suggest these modifications?” The voice inquired.

Richelieu could tell from the man’s tone however that he was not questioning him, but was checking to see how much of the situation he understood. Richelieu was perceptive enough to see the direction of where this was heading, they wanted to know if he had figured out what they had already knew.

He did.

After some thought and a brief pause, Richelieu figured he’d be honest with the depth of information he possessed concerning the current state of the world: A war was coming, a war of unprecedented scale and ferocity. It was inevitable; but more importantly it was coming fast.

“Sir, if I may speak frankly... it is to my understanding that anywhere between five years from now and tomorrow morning, the nations of the world will be at war. It is also to my understanding that this war will be a conflict of such size that its costs will be enormous and will only grow the longer the war lasts. Those costs will be payed despite this, because defeat would mean total destruction” Richelieu said after the brief pause of silence.

“So, you understand we are not merely modernizing, but are mobilizing the military and yet you are still willing to take this project for Ceresia. Why?” The unseen man’s voice replied, now leading to the genuine question.

It was now the time to bring the core reasons for his actions into the open.

“I believe that, even if my government may or may not disagree, Ceresian military interests are Marian and possibly all of the Vinculi’s military interests. If our nations are to survive, it is imperative that we are prepared, nothing else matters”. Richelieu said, before turning directly towards the figure where the voice was coming from.

“With this in mind, I would like to point out that you sir had over fifteen years to prepare this nations navy”.

Richelieu was making a risky guess here, however he suspected the man he was talking to was none other than Minister Kerensky, a fellow foreign adviser.

“If I am to reform and modernize the nation’s air force as you have the navy, I must do it within a significantly shorter time span. It is with this in mind that I would retrofit all existing airships within the Ceresian air force first before attempting to build new airships, as we do not know how long we have and her divine majesties air force must be ready to fight at any moment” Richelieu said, finishing his speech.

There was more silence followed by yet more whispering, Richelieu was certain that the empress had finished skimming over his designs after being handed to her by Kerensky. A verdict was coming.

...

...

“The project is approved Master Richelieu. Her Divine Majesty commends you for your so far stellar work in the name of peace and the continued security of the world. She would name you Chief Minister of Aeronautical Reform”. Kerensky said.

Richelieu had achieved what he had come for.

“I am humbled by Her Divine Majesties trust placed upon me. I, Jean-Baptist Etienne de Richelieu and once of the Richelieu March, with great gratitude hereby acknowledge my responsibilities as Chief Minister of Aeronautical Reform".

"Long live the empire”.

"Long live the empire" Kerensky said in turn.

Richelieu then finally stood upright and was given back his suitcase of schematics and plans. He could not leave the vessel yet as it was still submerged; its maiden voyage was to stop at a nearby port where he would be dropped off while the HDS Sylvia XVII then left for its proper maiden voyage across the globe.

As he left the room and walked down the corridor, he steeled himself with knowledge that his understanding of the world was correct and his actions were justified. His actions would save Marianne and the entire world from either the tyranny of fascism and communism... or both. Even if he had to work with such a brutal theocracy, even if he was called a traitor, his ideas would save the world.

“And so begins the long road... to the end” Richelieu whispered to himself.

And so he prepared for war.

Massacre at Staban
The second election this year occured in the bordering nation of the commonwealth of Moravia, suceeding the election in the PRK. There has been international speculation, including in this nation, as to the fairness of both of these elections, as both incumbents were elected without any real opposition. However, while talk of the national elections of these nations is certainly at mind, what has not been discussed is the massacre that occured at roughly the same day. When the Caesar of Moravia's second inauguration was to take place, an uprising by the workers in the city of Staban, an industrial city in Moravia, occured. This had been preceded by petitioning and labor strikes, which only brought the ire of industrialists and the disapproval of the ruling government. They were fired on the spot. The workers then rioted against the security forces of their workplace. Only moments later hundreds of armed soldiers and military vehicles arrived at the scene, tragically killing hundreds of laborers. Through intense coercion, the ringleaders were found and given cruel punishments. Only the Liberty Times has given mention to the massacre in proper fashion. The incident has gone unreported by the Zenovii press, and seen as a minor strike breaking. This is not proper treatment a tragic massacre of such a scale should be given.
-From the Castelul Tribune

Sir Vali Radmridreu was uncomfortable with the situation. Although it had always seemed so, he was not much of a moderate in regards to his political party. While he had been friendly to labor, he had not actually compromised towards any of their demands. He was the perfect example of style over substance. However, when hundreds of people die, that was where Sir Vali drew the line. The event had gone unreported, while those who heard of it had supported the actions of Moravia. It seemed tragic to Vali that his fellow party members were so cold. Sir Vali was now going to argue on behalf of labor honestly for the first time. He was going to become the moderate everyone thought he already was.

When he exited the train he was alone. There was not anyone hounding him for recent events. Not a single one. He hurried over to the tram that took him to the House of Parliament.

Sir Vali entered the chamber of the cabinet. The mood in the room was normal. Sir Vali was not a man with a "bleeding heart" and did not rush to go into the issue. For most of the day they discussed the daily issues of economics. Then Sir Vali went into detail about the massacre at Moravia, so who had not heard of it.

"I think we must speak on the issue of what happened in Moravia," Sir Vali said. "It was a great tragedy."

"It was a labor riot in another nation," Lord Alexandru Gheata, minister of finance, said. "Moreover, it was in the land of those whom we call the enemy, if that can still mean something after a long and tedious sixty years."

"I can only see it as a tragedy that ought to be acknowledged," Sir Vali said.

"It is a dreadful topic, yet far too common of a topic," Lord Gheata said. "Yet if we must be serious, I simply do not see what all the fuss is about. For sure it is an ugly topic, but you have overseen many ugly topics, minister."

"We cannot attach our name to the issue and give the issue domestic political legitimacy in regards to actual politics," Lord Boris Perigord, minister of foreign affairs, said.

"I must agree with the foreign minister, Sir Radmridreu," Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti said. "We will only be harmed by making decisions towards it, and it is not our place to deal with. We were not elected on the backs of labor."

Although Sir Vali wanted the government to acknowledge that there had been a massacre, there was no other among the cabinet that would move towards it. Sir Vali found that even compromise towards the issue impossible. Against Vali's wishes, the cabinet moved on from the issue.

A major issue looming for the cabinet was the election. Later this year the general election was coming, and before that nomination for the leader of the party. Whoever won the party leadership would go on to be prime minister, if their party won enough seats to form a government, or leader of the opposition, if they got second. Currently, Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti was preoccupied with regaining his party's nomination. It seemed to be that the only serious candidate to challenge Cinsti was the young and charismatic Inclestare Lewin, Head of the House of Lords. With his charisma, his wit, and his natural oratorical ability, his popularity among the party machinery was growing. Adrian Brasab, frontrunner last time and eventual runnerup, still had a powerful conservative base to draw on, but he had adamantly refused any attempts to draft him and supported Cinsti.

Currently, it appeared that the Zenovii Patriotic Party should win reelection. The economy had improved since 1935, and the military buildup promised had been somewhat delivered. However, Sir Vali couldn't help but feel there was something major the whole of them were missing, which would land them in political hot water.



Princess Miruna was standing in the center of Capital Square. In terms of where society was concerned, she was standing at the center of the nation. She stood in front of a giant platform in front of a gigantic crowd. The only crowds she had seen that were bigger were the coronations of kings, such as her brother and father. There was a microphone in front of her, and this would be her first live speech.

"My people, I come before you with a declaration. It is a humble declaration and a simple one, yet it is a declaration nonetheless. I come before you with the meek declaration of peace. Yes, it is only peace that I speak of. I speak of peace, not only of our nation, but on behalf of the entire world. I am not asking you of disarmament. I do not ask of you to put down your rifles, dismantle your tanks, and decomission your destroyerd. That is not what I ask of the nation of Zenovia. For I know that the reason that for which we desperately build machines of death is not because we crave war, but because we love peace. It may sound paradoxical, but I know it to be true. I have seen it in the eyes of the Zenovii, as I gaze through this beautiful city. We are afraid. We have been afraid. And we remain afraid. Since the time of the last conflict we have feared that we may once again have to jump back into the battlements and sound the drums of war. It is not something we want. It has been sixty years, and the number of those who can remember the war grows shorter and shorter each year. Yet we remember the lessons well. We all know what the effects of the war were, and I shan't repeat them. I will only tell you that in that war, well over two million good Zenovii men died. They died bravely, but that is not the point. I will not disrespect their memory by saying they did not die in vain. Those men shouldn't have died at all. But there is nothing I can do about that now. Now all I can do is offer my own solution, to maybe stop future tragedies from occuring. I propose peace, like I said before. It cannot be only one nation that desires peace. In order for peace to work, it has to be desired by both sides. My people, I announce to you the commencement of two things. From this day forward the Organization for International Cooperation and Peace, the OICP, is formed. We are an organization dedicated to the idea of peace, an eternal peace, a lasting peace, which shall be formed by the creation of constructive dialogue between nations. Secondly, the OICP embarks on its first mission. I embark on a goodwill tour. I shall travel to the lands of all the nations of the world, and I will speak on behalf of the OICP and our mission. I firmly believe that if I speak to them with respect, if I listen to what they are saying, and I agree to compromise, then good relationd can be established. As scripture says, 'To do unto others that which you would have done unto yourself shall be the golden rule.'"

From that day forward no one again treated Miruna as a naive little princess who was sad her husband died. They would say she was overally optimistic, but now she was a force in her own right. The speech Miruna gave in Capital Square, on February 4th, would be recorded as one of the nation's finest and most famous in the modern era. When the speech was finished, there was an uproarious applause and sounds of sobbing and tears.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Miruna said to the crowd.

The Cabinet approached Princess Miruna. After giving the archaic niceties that her positition as princess required, she met the cabinet not as a princess, but as head of OICP. The photo of Miruna and Cinsti shaking hands was the front page on all the newspaper, and soon became legendary.



In the Trollish district of the city, there was a textile factory where trollish girls, most too young to bare a child, worked for ten hours a day for menial pay. Moggana was one such girl. She continued to work despite losing a finger in an accident, for which she received no compensation and no work leave. Despite her situation, she kept smiling. She used to have plenty of friends, but they were all gone now. Hagina had lost a finger in an accident and succumbed to gangrene. Throgga caught pneumonia in an outbreak and perished. Now Moggana only had Thaggalia. Thaggalia was unlike Moggana, and was much less cheerful about her abysmal situation.

"Heard the princess Miruna 'as in t'day," Moggana said. "Wish'd me could've gone."

"Shut up 'bout da damn princess," Thagallia said. "She no care 'bout yah. We jus' Trolls. Humans say we dumb as rocks 'cuz we ain't ever invent mathematics. She no different.

So Moggana did. Even if Thagallia didn't like to talk much, Moggana was still her friend, and she made sure she knew it. Although she never said much on it, Moganna knew that Thagallia valued her as a friend.

Then there was a sound, and there was a loud commotion coming from the other girls. It began to get so loud that Moganna, who was normally dilligent, stepped away from her machine. It was not until someone yelled fire did she understand.

Everyone rushed to the door, trying to get out. They would have enough time to get out. However, that would only have been the case if it was unlocked. The supervisors, to prevent anyone from taking breaks, had locked the doors. They tried to push down the doors, but they could not even dent the iron doors. All the girls could do was panic and scream, and keep trying. Thaggalia got on her knees, and started to pray to the spirits.

"I didn"t know ya to be the pious sort," Moganna said.

"Y'all got many sides," Thagallia. "Moganna...I want ya to know...I always valued ou' friendship."

"I know," Moganna said. "Least we got to know eachother."

The fire killed all two-hundred and thirty-nine girls. At the time, the press would remain nearly silent on the incident. However, the Troll community mourned them heavily, and it was not the last time this tragedy would be heard from.


Serghei Blocare sat at his desk, with a piece of paper on it and a pen on his hand. He began to write to the Chancellor of Avalia. No doubt relations would be somewhat awkward at first, but that early contact would have to be done.

Dear the Esteemed Chancellor Helena Vortzeria,

As you may be aware, her Majesty Miruna, princess Miruna, is to eventually arrive here in Avalia after an initial trip to a land south of here. In order to better prepare the coming engagement, I would like to better clarify the positive feelings Zenovia has towards Avalia and establish links between our respective nations. In other words, I would like to set up a treaty of mutual trust and defense, in order to foster even greater goodwill between our nations.

-Sincerely, Serghei Blocare, Zenovii Ambassador to Avalia

Then Serghei handed the letter to the Valkyrian aide. The letter should arrive to the Chancellor later that day.

The howl of the wild wind, din of cogs and machinery, and steady chugging of the airship's engine all came together as one melodic cacophony for Imperator Geddon's ears. The dwarf stood atop the deck of a spacious, commercial-class luxury airship. Airships in general had not taken off in the Commonwealth near so much as they had in other countries, maybe because of the excellent railroad system or the fact that the nation had no true overseas holdings. In any case, gnomish airships certainly existed, but they were not a common sight and almost exclusively manufactured for the military.

Still, on a whim Geddon had managed to pull the necessary strings to get this new toy of his. It was of foreign making, one of Avalia's more expensive and better built airships. Naturally procuring such a thing was complicated due to the poor trade relations between Avalia and Moravia, but with enough money and a few contacts anything was possible. His people had contacted some elven lord and acquired this second-hand airship from him, if the dwarf recalled correctly. It had cost a pretty penny, but then again, what good was money if it couldn't buy nice things?

Still taking in the novelty of his new private flying machine, he strolled onto the top deck with a pair of binoculars to enjoy the views below. Heading from the coastal regions of Moravia further inland towards Capua, they were soaring over verdant green hills, mighty rivers with their sapphire waters shimmering in the afternoon sun, and even the occasional ruins of a castle or ancient town.



After some time, he heard the sound of a gnome's light but fleet footsteps against the deck. He didn't turn, thinking it just another one of the crewmen, but then he heard the all-too familiar voice of Mechgineer-General Whitefuse, as well as the usual griping that accompanied the gnome's presence.

"I have to wonder how it is that the Avalians manage to make their coffee in the mornings! One must be amazed at how their airships can even lift off the ground! This floating hunk of metal looks more hazardous and poorly built every time I blink, Imperator! I took the liberty of inspecting the engine room, and the gyro technology is outdated, the boilers have an issue with..."

Geddon sighed as he suffered through the gnome's ranting, knowing better than to interrupt him lest he start an argument that would keep that insufferable voice going on for another hour. The gnome was important enough to the Moravian Air Force and weapons research programs to warrant some respect, hence why Geddon hadn't snapped his neck by now, but that didn't mean that Geddon liked him.

Only a few more hours before they would land on the airstrip on the outskirts of Capua, Geddon thought to himself as he suddenly wanted nothing more than for this journey to be over. It was amazing how quickly the talk of gnomish engineer could turn a relaxing trip into torture.



After the harrowing flight it was with a sigh of relief that Aron Meste found his way down the stairs that led from the plane and onto the solid and static land of the tarmac. As he took a moment to breath he reflected that for most flying was an inspiring and often eye opening experience, a sentiment that at least in part he agreed with. Yes flying certainly inspired terror, though he imagined his eyes were clamped shut for the majority of his voyage.

He occasionally wondered if Admiral Spren sent him on these trips as some sort of cruel and unusual practical joke, given only the high admiral truly knew how much Aron despised aircraft. As an admiral himself he was aware of the military benefit and was well antiquated with the integration of aerial forces into the fleet, but that didn't make the damned metal deathtraps any less unnatural nor did it change the fact their movements constantly threatened the integrity of his stomach.

With a hushed curse towards Spren and his sick jokes Aron straightened out his uniform and loosening his grip set the cap in his hand back onto his head. He had been told there would be a wait but from the looks of it the Imperator's curious airship was already nearing its mooring tower and Aron had to admit he was morbidly curious about the things, in part due to his suspicion they were a great deal less stressful than their winged brethren. Looking back to the tarmac he realized that the ambassadors antique car was already waiting for him.

As he made his way to the car one of the back doors opened and the portly ambassador beckoned him in with one hand, the other no doubt on a sandwich. Once Aron was in the seat he pulled the side door in and nodded to the ambassador as the car started moving, “My thanks for coming Hese, I hear you're quite the busy man these days.”

Finishing whatever he had been eating with a lick of his fingers Hese chuckled, “You know I'd come at the drop of a hat if it was for you Aron, you are my brother after all. Speaking of, how is mother these days? Has the move improved her condition?”

“Somewhat,” Aron spoke discouragingly, “I fear that while the cough lessens the damage is done. Moving her back to the old estate in the country was the right move, but we may have been too late. I am loathe to admit it, but so long as she remains weak I cannot see her lasting another year. Not that she despairs of course, but even I can see she hides the truth behind her smiles.”

With a downcast look Hese sighed, “We always knew that may have been the case Aron, though I wish you'd come with better news so we could speak to the Imperator with some peace of mind.”

With a look out the window Hese continued, “We shall speak more of this later, but for the moment personal affairs may wait. We're at the checkpoint, from here on the soldiers will escort us to the meeting hall. I'd make a note to inform them of your sword.”

Aron nodded and putting on an impassive look opened the car window for the approaching soldier and greeted their escorts. The hotel and the meeting was a short drive away, and there was much to be done when they arrived.



The rather extended trip from Izuno to the Capital City of Moravia was both relaxing and exhausting for Ishida Hoshi, Admiral of the Fifth Fleet, suffering from what one might say...an "environmental" jet lag. After all, it isn't often a Zensensashi to leave the comforts of the cold weather, much to the shock for a none-zensen to hear no doubt. It is not uncommon for his people to venture as far as he has, their close relationship with the Moravian Commonwealth a testament of their willingness and openness.

But that doesn't he can be fond of the rather drastic change of temperature, however, the beautiful and serene landscape that was Capua was just about worth the trip and and tolerated the weather for now, this meeting was after all vastly more important then his comfort.

Ishida's plane had just arrived and slowly made it's descent onto the landing strip, slowing down to a complete stop as he finally reached his destination. Before the Admiral could even take one step, a small cadre of eight Ashigaru warriors marched down the stairs, their unit splitting in two lines as they awaited for the Admiral's arrival. Shortly after they departed the plane, a convoy of Moravian designed automobiles quickly approached the plane, two military jeeps and in between them was a black car carrying the Iunzo Flags on the front. The convoy came to a stop, the Izunese Ambassador to Moravia, a well-dressed human emerged from the side door of the center vehicle, walking towards the plane.

Before long, Ishida stepped out of the plane and was met with the furious glare of the sun, the heat becoming worse then it was in the plane. He shielded his eyes from the sun's glare, and stepped cautiously down the stairs, passing by his guards as they stood in attention and was met by the well-dressed man. "Admiral Hoshi!" he exclaimed, raising his arms in excitement right after a respectful bow. "Welcome to Capua! It's a honor to be in the presence of a distinguished man such as yourself!"

Ishida bowed back to the Ambassador. "The honor is mine, Ambassador Tash." He replied.

"Thank very much, I do what I can!" he replied happily. "I do however apologize to rush the pleasantries, sir, but we must be on our way, the Imperator is waiting."

Ishida nodded to Tash. "Yes, of course, lead the way." Before the two leave, the admiral looks back to his guards, pointing to one pair of humans. "You two shall accompany us." he pauses, looking to the others. "The rest of you are to await my return in the Embassy."

"Yessir!" They all replied in unison, the two guards leaving with the Izunese Delegates, while the rest were climbing onto the escort jeeps as they made their return to the city. The Ambassador's car speeding towards the Airport. For the short while they were in the vehicle, the Admiral took in the sight, looking to the distant landscape. "Beautiful isn't it?" The Ambassador asked. "Truly a site to behold compared to back home....no offense of course, I do miss it quite dearly."

"No, you are correct." The Admiral replied. "One can tire of the dreary winters, this is something of a pleasant change, excluding the weather that is."

A pause fell into the car as they approached close to their destination, the Admiral thinking about the Meeting ahead and it's results, the weapons to come forth from this meeting could turn the tide of the war against the False Empire, all it'll take is time, and patience.



"They should be arriving any minute now, Imperator," an attendant informed Geddon, the dwarf having arrived to the conference site early as befitted the host.

The dwarf stood to his feet and walked over to the great glass pane that was both a window and half of the wall. Gazing outwards, he could see the cars outside. The distinct, antique car of the familiar Verenden ambassador was pulling in, as well as another unassuming vehicle of Moravian build. That one would be the Izunese admiral Ishida, the dwarf reasoned.

While the other two nations' delegates found their way into the lobby and were escorted to the meeting room in the upper reaches of a skyscraper, the entire hotel building having been rented out for the purposes of this meeting, Geddon and the several other Moravians present began to talk amongst themselves. A few cigars were lit, much to the distaste of Mechgineer-General Whitefuse. The gnome professed indignity at having to tolerate the tobacco's smell, and so the other begrudgingly put out the cigars. It would not do well to rile up the gnome during the talks.

Otherwise present amongst the Moravian representatives were several major officers of all branches of the armed forces and a few important figures in the intelligence agencies. In other rooms of the hotel waited more than a dozen different engineers and scientists, all ready to present various schematics and technical plans when summoned. Overall, the Moravian attendees were both far more numerous and diverse in appearance than those of Izuno and Verendes; there were a dozen individuals present, with gnome, dwarf, Morav, and even one Machakan represented amongst the mix.

It would be a long day, but hopefully a productive one. That hope would be enough to see Geddon through this. A security guard entered the room and announced that the delegates would enter imminently, and so all the Moravians stood to their feet and prepared to greet their guests. Geddon shot a look towards Whitefuse, the glare in his eye saying all. The gnome could not be allowed to commit some sort of diplomatic faux pas.



Ishida and the rest of the Izunese Delegates, the Ambassador, and a small entourage of Izunese scientists, engineers and military officers, all of whom had arrived beforehand to later meet up with the Admiral, along with bringing their own set of schematics and plans as arranged. The Delegates soon scattering as they said their hellos and took their seats on the Izunese portion of the conference table, all the while the Admiral and Ambassador approached Imperator Geddon, Ishida moving forward of tash and extending his hand towards the dwarf. "A good afternoon to you Imperator." Ishida said, with a light grin. "My thanks in taking the time in arranging this conference, I pray that fortune and the gods smile upon us in this meeting's aftermath."

Geddon moved to meet the admiral and take his hand with his signature uncomfortably tight grip. His dress and wording may have been formal, yet for all the warmth outside the Imperator's demeanor was icy. "My salutations," the dwarf answered. Though Ishida might not have even noticed, the air amongst the Moravian delegates grew tense the moment that the Izunese man made mention to 'gods'. They did, after all, only believe in one true god. Geddon however retained a cool demeanor; he was not an overly religious or prickly person like some of the others, and what did these people expect an Izunese man to say?

Geddon took a moment to introduce each of the Moravians present, one by one. There was Mechgineer-General Whitefuse, the tiny gnome not even four feet tall but his research and inventions in the fields of aviation and armored vehicles made him famous throughout the world. There was a man introduced as Director Warren, one of the masterminds behind the Commonwealth's intelligence agency. The biggest surprise would come in form of the youngest attendee; a seemingly ordinary fifteen year old that was casually introduced as Anton Thaurrisan, the Caesar's son and most likely successor for rule over Moravia. It would seem that the boy had grand ambitions just like his father.

With the meager formalities quickly finished and the introductions done, the Moravians moved to their area of the room. A massive table dominated the room, with the back end having Moravia's iconic banner of the lion placed behind it. The other two nations were each given their own side, represented by their own colors. The fourth side of the square table had clerks already furiously at work recording what was said, as well as servers and pitchers of some drink. In what would doubtless be to the disappointment of the other nations further along the talks, the drinks were not alcoholic.



After arriving at the hotel Aron had spent some time in talks with those present of the many Verenden officers and engineers that had been stationed in Moravia, unfortunately at the cost of his small party being the last to march through the conference rooms doors. In most cases he reasoned a price could not be put on punctuality, but today Aron was willing to make the sacrifice. After all only so much could be ascertained from reports and given the momentus nature of the meeting ahead only a fool would walk in without knowing all their cards.

It was with those cards in mind that he put on a smile and greeted Geddon with an outstretched hand much as Ishida had done earlier, “Imperator, excellent having the chance to meet you after hearing so much from my men.”

With a look around and an interested glance towards the Caesar's son Aron continued, “It seems we're all gathered then, shall we begin?”

The light banter that had taken place during the prolonged wait subsided, and the Moravians once again were at their feet to greet the foreigners and introduce themselves. Geddon similarly took Aron's hand with a firm grip, albeit this time consciously. He was not pleased that the Verendens had thought themselves so important as to make the others wait on them, though he attempted to stifle these thoughts from creeping into his expression or tone. He was a calm and rational enough mind when it came to negotiations; else Thaurissan might have sent some pompous fool of a magistrate to lead these negotiations and talks. Still, his words might have betrayed him.

"Indeed, we must begin. Time is ever so precious..." the Imperator answered. With a gesture towards the empty seats reserved for the Verendens, he continued, "Please."

Once all were seated, he began, "Esteemed friends, I would bid you all a warm welcome to Capua. The Commonwealth is grateful for your attendance and a wonderful opportunity for a great many mutually beneficial things to come out of these talks. First on our agenda would be plain and open talk about relations. As you know," the dwarf said, briefly glancing between the two sides of the table, "both the Kingdom of Verendes and the Shogunate of Izuno share an ally in the Commonwealth."

A small smile crept onto Geddon's normally implaccable face. In his business-like manner, he continued, "The next step, then, is of course to establish relations directly between Verendes and Izuno. Doing so can only solidify our mutual power, and forming such a bloc would be a fitting means of keeping the Kataylan and Avalian threats in check. In the face of those issues as well as a growing need for industrialization to expand and maintain our global influence, it is only logical that we begin to trade resources and technologies on a scale greater than ever before.

So, our first proposal: the two of you will agree here to establish embassies with one another, or at least petition your governments to do so if you do not act with that authority. The Commonwealth has already declared its friendship towards Verendes to the public and recognized the Shogunate's sovereignty and claims over Fuso. To cement a base of good relations, as much would be required between the two of your nations as well."

Hushed whispers dominated the Verenden side for a time before Hese finally perked up and silenced them with a wave. With a nod from Aron he started, "I must find myself in agreement with many of your points Imperator, as you say the next logical step is undoubtedly formal relations between my nation and the Shogunate. Indeed, Verendes recognizes both the utility and strategic benefit that you speak of in a closer relationship between our three nations, and necessity of recognizing Izuno's sovereignty. So to that end the establishment of sanctioned embassies and recognition of Izuno as a nation state is certainly something that can be done, and something I have been granted the authority to agree to for the duration of these proceedings.”

Hese paused for a moment and drummed his pudgy fingers on the table, “However, it must be noted that your Commonwealth has been at greater liberty to support the claims of Izuno. While I have the authority to recognize the sovereign nature of Izuno here, what I lack is the power to legitimize the Izunoese claim over Fuso in the eyes of my government. As a matter directly concerning the national security of our northern colonies it is something that that must be brought before the parliament. That said, I do see the potential for value in such a recognition by my government and will ensure the issue is considered.”

The Moravian side of the table was quiet while the others whispered to themselves. When the Verendens offered an answer, Geddon nodded and then glanced towards the Izunese to gauge their reaction and see how they would respond to the proposal.

"We see plenty of benefits in cementing relations with Verendes via Embassies." Ambassador Tash replied, met by approving nods by the Admiral and other members of the Izunese delegation. "After all, an Ally of Moraiva is an Ally of Izuno." Tash paused a moment as he cleared his throat. "As for our claim to the Fuso Isles..such an issue can be discussed much later in the future. It pains my heart knowing Verendes' stance on the issue will put her colonial citizens at much risk." He paused once more. "And as such, it is not a priority at the moment, best left for when we all of course are in a much more....advantageous position."

"Taking the stance publicly could indeed pose problems, and prompt our rivals to seek closer relations themselves. There is merit in coming to agreement now, but not acting or speaking upon it for some time. Which brings me to my next proposal..."

On cue as if rehearsed, an attendee of one of the Moravian admirals called in several engineers and naval scientists, each of them carrying portfolios filled with maps, schematics, and detailed plans. "I am not so naive as to think that the world is unaware of our shipyards and supposedly secret naval projects, or the Commonwealth's ambition to create a fleet that could make its influence over the seas as thorough as its power over the land. However, you might not have known the full extent of those projects."

Several of them began to go through brief presentations and showings of prototypes for potential aircraft carriers, dreadnoughts, and even amphibious assault ships. Signature dwarven, gnomish, and more familiar human technologies were merged in those schematics to create some sort of bastard product that was near impossible to discern, being nothing like what already existed. Still, it was all impressive, even if the feasibility of some parts was questionable. Beyond that, in a display of trust one of the admirals outright showed maps of the Moravian naval facilities and read a few recent reports on various projects, to demonstrate the progress that was already underway.

The Military portion of the Izunese delegation, Ishida being no exception, were quite impressed by the designs presented to them by the Moravians, the formerly landlocked nation now pursuing a rather ambitious project for their new navy. However, the Moravians wouldn't be the only ones of course to dabble in experimental designs. For a good number of years, the Izunese had worked behind the scenes for a new weapon that may tip the balance in the war against the False Empire of Fuso. Despite the generous aid by the Ceresian Empire in supplying ships, the Shogunate has had great difficulty in breaking through the Fusan Defensive lines, going deeper into their Empire, and were eventually beaten back.

This new weapon may perhaps finally be the answer for the True Inheritors of the Empire. Wielding over the power of the Gods themselves, lightning. To make this weapon a reality, better equipped shipyards and superior materials are necessary.

Soon the Izunese followed suit in presenting their own future plans for the military. Their own engineers and scientists pulling out portfolios for various weapons and even blueprints for what appears to be a bulky war machine of humanoid shape. However, Ishida and the rest of the delegation had a focus for one particular blueprint, Spherical objects which were titled "Storm Caller". The Admiral then stood up to bring it to the attention of all. "For years, our Government has worked tirelessly in the creation of these weapons which we have identified as "Storm Caller", a device of great power that generates and focus' the fury of the gods themselves in a focused beam of light." He paused, scanning his surroundings of all the eyes laid upon him.

"We have yet to aquire a working prototype unfortunately...and for this conference, If our allies are willing, the Storm Caller Project would be based in Moravia. With your industry and materials, we may yet reach our goal in producing this weapon and with it, vessels and war machines capable of wielding it."

While he carefully considered what the Izunese said, he left those with more technological knowledge to examine their schematics thoroughly. About every minute Whitefuse had been bursting at the seams looking like he wanted to say (or rather, criticize or complain about) something, but each time a glare silenced him. Geddon eyed the Verendens, gauging their reactions throughout. He had not yet mentioned their secret involvement to the Izunese, and he was cautious to not do so in a way that would breach their trust, but at the same time the Izunese would have to become aware of the existing deal at some point. How could they be invited to join a partnership that they didn't even know to exist?

Aron caught the Imperators gaze and nodded, it had been clear the Moravians intended to bring Izuno into the partnership since the moment the conference was proposed, and it was not a notion the Verenden navy was adverse to. The additional technical expertise of another seafaring nation was valuable, doubly so if the weapon the Ishida spoke of was what Aron imagined it was behind the religious rhetoric.

Running his thumb along the rim of his glass Aron eyed the Izunese delegation and spoke up himself, “A very interesting proposal indeed Admiral Ishida. Though before we progress further I do believe it necessary to disclose the nature of my nations current partnership with Moravia. You see for all their ambition and strength, or perhaps because of it, our common allies came to an unfortunate conclusion when they first set their sights on the open waves: they lacked the experience and technical ability necessary to seriously contest them.”

With a soft smile Aron continued, “Of course you would never imagine that was the case from the plans that have been presented to us, and I humbly suggest that the tireless efforts of my countrymen are responsible for that. From the moment that first problematic reality became clear to our Commonwealth allies my nation offered its aid, and for several years now we have sought to ensure that Moravia, and indeed now this burgeoning alliance, make their debut under the shadow of none.”

After the presentations continued for some time, Geddon finally spoke again, "Indeed. Drawing schematics alone yields nothing; it is only with Verenden expertise that we have been able to refine our models and accelerate the development of new and working shipbuilding techniques. But equally, you will know from the maps and statistics that we have shown that we have been able to pour endless resources and manpower into these projects, working on a scale that even the most industrialized of other nations would be hard pressed to compete with.

So yes," Geddon continued, glancing towards some of the naval engineers and admirals on the Moravian panel, many of whom were still somewhat engrossed in the pictures and schematics of the Storm Caller Project. He looked towards the Izunese delegates and addressed them, "we would be glad to assist you in this Storm Caller Project. But I would take this one step further, with an even greater proposal: Izuno should join with our Joint Naval-Development Project, as a full-fledged partner and supporter. Let us be frank with one another, Ishida; Fuso and the Kataylans both have a great technological advantage over you, and if you wish to defend your shores you will need to close this gap. This partnership is the best means of doing just that; by joining together the most skilled hands and most brilliant minds of our three nations, we will be able to modernize and expand our naval forces rapidly."

Ishida nodded to Geddon in agreement. "You aren't wrong, Imperator. For generations our conflict has waged, and we unfortunately haven't much progress in the matter. Our enemy, the False Emperor's bloodline has had the technological advantage over us. And despite our best of efforts...we fail to gain a foothold...." He paused as he took a deep breath. "And as such, I, and no doubt even the True Emperor and all of the Shogunate will be most honored to join your Pact, together we can...no we will accomplish many great things!"

A smile suddenly erupted across Geddon's normally immutable face. "Indeed, much progress will come out of this partnership to our mutual benefit. It is likewise an honor to accept you into this pact." Servants came carrying drinks of tea, water, various juices, and now even some alcohol (albeit weak). Geddon accepted a glass of something and raised it, saying, "To a lasting and profitable agreement!" Already clerks were writing down the details of this agreement into a treatise for the delegates to later sign, but in the meantime, there were other topics to venture into.

Now turning towards the Verendens, Geddon went on, "But beyond mere cooperation with trade of raw technology, it is also prudent to share knowledge in a more general form. Specifically, you will know that the Moravian people have never been known as seafarers. We lack a maritime culture, and that carries the problem of us lacking any skilled marines, admirals, navigators, captains...Ships will do us no good without skilled sailors. For these reasons, we find it necessary to ask that the Kingdom of Verendes open her naval academies to Moravians in greater volumes that ever before. We recognize that trying to train an entire navy is a daunting task; and so in exchange for your aid in that matter, we would be willing to return the favor in kind, should you have a proposal."

That long spiel done, Geddon relaxed back into his seat a bit more and waited for an answer.

Arons toothless smile transitioned into a grin as he heard the Imperators proposal, though it may have upset the Moravians some, his brief discussion before the conference had certainly yielded fruit. He'd been lucky enough to learn the Imperator was likely to request an increase in the number of Moravian trainees, and as a result Aron had been able to rush a call to the high admiral, one that had allowed him authority to suggest an idea of his own. His hand ceased the robotic tracing of his cups rim as he spoke, “Its certainly a prudent idea Imperator, but that said while our current academies have been able to take trainees at the previously agreed rate many more could result in overcrowding and an increase in unfortunate clashes of culture we have seen on occasion. So it is with this in mind I do have a proposal for you, Imperator.”

Aron revealed a small contract he'd had hastily drafted and still grinning handed it to the Moravian side of the table, “With your consent we would like to establish a vast new joint academy not only fit for the immense number of recruits your navy is sure to see over the next few years, but one staffed with our finest officers. I have a location on the Verenden coast in mind, and if you agree we could break ground within the week and have the first facilities operable in a months time. Even more, a month after that with your aid in construction I imagine we could be finished the main base and prepared for further expansion.”

Taking a sip of his drink Aron finished, “So Imperator, what say you?”

The Moravians whispered to themselves for a short time about this. Doubtless the Verendens wanted to only segregate the nationalities of their cadets, so as to prevent their own people from being a minority in their schools. It wasn't ideal, but it was an understandable position; what made the deal acceptable was the promise to have actual naval officers as staff. That would ensure that the Moravian cadets were given a training on par with what they were currently receiving, so it was an acceptable state of affairs.

The Imperator at last gave his answer. "A robust plan. I'll sign an executive order to have the Commonwealth handle its share of the costs and lend its aid in construction." The contract was passed down the length of the moravian table, each man glancing over it before passing it on, until it reached Geddon. The dwarf quickly read through it before scrawling his signature. An attendant stamped the Moravian seal onto the paper to make the thing officially approved, and that was all that there was to ratifying it on the Moravian side; perhaps this glimpse of autocracy would seem strange to the Verendens with their own parliament being so much weaker than the Moravian magistrate.

"This will be welcome news for many of our young minds. One sits right before you," Geddon said, looking towards the quiet Anton Thaurissan with the smallest hint of warmth on his stony face. "Master Anton has expressed interest in receiving a military education just as his father once had." Anton gave a small smile and was met with approving nods from the Moravian delegates. The attention unnerved him slightly, but he didn't flinch from it, and the conversation soon moved on while he was forgotten once more. Silently, the boy listened.

For the next few hours the meeting progressed much as before, proposals were made by all sides, agreements were reached on all manner of technologies, and trade deals were cemented. As all the assembled began to tire it became clear the conference was nearing a point of some importance as discussion among the Moravian delegation reached a high point before the gnome burst out, "I'm hungry!" Without warning, half the delegation erupted into laughter, especially after the gnome pulled out a dried orange from the lunchbox that had supposedly been his suitcase full of important schematics and papers. He looked up, seemingly confused at what the tumult was about. After swallowing a piece of orange, his tiny hands reached back into the lunchbox and found a fried mango.

With a chuckle at the sudden break in the tense atmosphere of anticipation Aron opined, "Perhaps we should recess for today, I must say my stomach is feeling rather empty as well. We can finish our discussion another day."

As it was whatever the Moravians may have meant to say Aron was somewhat relieved he needn't fret over its implications today. There had been enough discussed for him to worry over, and there was much more yet to be done.

Overlooking the sprawling metropolis that made up the mighty capitol of Brusaleye, sat the Lord General, President Sydney LaChance. It would've been a simple scene, the President of such a nation sitting openly upon a balcony however the immense presence of military guards snapped those ideal thoughts back to reality. "What beauty." Sydney said while slowly raising his cup towards his mouth. Just as the brim gently touched his bottom lip, his little finger raised.

"Oh Sydney.." came a feminine voice from down the halls. With a gentle creak, massive doors opened into the room that Sydney was residing. A crimson haired woman dressed in a flowing pink gown moved in wearing a pretentious smile. Her beauty was far beyond the grasp of a man such as he without the excessive titled. Her body swayed gently through the room before she arrived at His majesty, Sydney.

"Yes Lucia?" he said, seemingly uninterested.

Her annoyance at being ignored was hidden behind the snow white smile and fair skin. She gently brushed aside her flowing crimson hair to reveal striking blue eyes. With a simple flutter of her faces most powerful weapons, Sydney was brought to attention.

"Sydney." She said, but was cut off by Sydney raising his right hand. "Sorry, Lord Sydney, Anyway. So I have a present for you." She said, showing a gentle smirk across pale pink lips.

"Oh?" he said with a piqued brow.

She smiled once more and grasped one of the two chairs at his table. She slowly dragged it over, doing her best to make no noise in the process. After she placed the chair next to Sydney, she gently sat down into a feminine pose. "I have a surprise."

He ran his right hand through his hair while setting his cup upon the table. "I cannot wait to see what this surprise is."

She placed her hand on his upper thigh and began strumming her fingers. His eyes opened wide and a smile crossed his mouth. "Oh, I thought you had enough this morning." Sydney said softly.

Lucia leaned in and spoke into his ear. "I'm always ready for more. But I want a favor of you."

Sydney closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Ok, what do you want from me?"

"Oh.. this and that. You know that man who gave me that dirty look last wekk?"

Sydney rolled his eyes, "Yes Lucia.. I know who you are talking about."

"Do you now. I had some agents follow him. Turns out he is a Sadarhideem."

Sydney's annoyance turned to concern. These Sadarhideem's have been an insurgent group from the southwest for a time now. Many of them have passed his judgement throne, all condemned to die. Strange though, one so close to home. "Alright, if you're sure-" She cut him off and gave a gentle nod.

"Alright, Let General Abrodgee know where." he said gruffly.

She smirked and leaned back, "What of the village he went to?"

Sydney gave a smug look and spoke firmly. "Let it be known that to harbor warmongers, is to die."




Sydney's heavy boots clambered down the hallways of the nations palace. There were people all around, bowing before him at every opportunity. He paid this no mind as he held his head high while walking through the crowd. As he entered the ever growing majesty of the palace, he could only show anxiety at the events to come. A new law, a new position.. new rules and a step into the new world, a senate.

His entry to the newly built senatorial chamber was intense. Color guards and soldiers marching as elaborately as possible marked his lordships arrival. All at once, the dwellers stood up and bowed before the Lord General, Sydney. To his left was a movie reel camera, the first time one had been used on an occasion such as this. His brazen steps and gentle beating drum in the back portrayed a man of elegance and honor, strength and temperance.

"All hail Lord Sydney!" they cried out before standing at attention, all were dressed in their best dress, ironed pants, straightened and perfectly tucked shirts. "Tools.. all of them." Sydney said under his breath. His disgust with this new proceedure was masked with a winning smile and graceful, welcoming posture.

As Sydney sat upon the throne at the head of the room, he motioned his hands down and on cue the entire room took their seats. "Let it be recorded that this first session of the nations senate has begun. This is a position of respect and privilege for the local leaders of this glorious nation." He took a deep breath, "There will be no disrespect from I, nor my new senators, towards each other or the nation. We are not here to argue politics or my policies but rather address the nations issues as a community, a family."

When Sydney said family, that single word, the whole room burst into cheer. The false sense of equality was further exemplified by Sydney's creation of a for the people, by the people election system to voice their concerns. This was by far, the most boring event he had ever sat through. Listening to people compliment and complain, offer ideas and solutions. It was almost as if the civil part of his job was done and settled. Perhaps his fathers written, yet not executed ideas had paid off. This would surely make him even more popular. The living god that let his people speak.

Surely make him more popular.





"alright, now ease up on the throttle." Said a gruff voice over the radio. It was hard to hear him over the loud engine roaring in front of him.

"Ok, now, pull back on the stick. Push that lady high into the sky!" The voice said again.

Outside, the glare from the canopy was dimmed slightly by tinted glasses. They were snug, as well as his planes seat harness. There for protection they say, a faulty ejection system first of its kind! And such a failed concept.

It didn't matter, this plane was a Garret A-f47 Corsair, one of two fixed wing predators that could keep up with the mighty Saber Tilt rotor.

After buzzing over the airfield, two planes landed. As their craft slowly rolled up to the hangar, two corsairs buzzed them. "Man, I'm so happy to be here!" A young voice said. As the two departed their craft, the opened canopy's revealed a young man with bright blond hair and a large man with plain short brown hair.

"Nice flying 'ace'. I figure before long you'll be as good as Brooke."

"I hope so." He said enthusiastically, but in his head all he could think of was Brooke's fair face.

The young man's dream was quick to pass as the base commander called them to the base of an overlooking tower.

"Alright airmen, we just got word from the top. Got an order for an attack on those bastard terrorists. We must be quick yet thorough, precise yet merciless."

The two men gave a salute and turned towards the hangar. The gruff man smiled and placed his hand upon the young mans shoulder, "First strike eh? Should be easy. Just some foreign pricks."

Within twenty minutes, the two joined up with the two fighters from earlier. On they went to blindly carry out the will of men they would never meet.

Mircea II was sitting down in his chair, near his aquarium. The lights in his aquarium never ceased throughout the night, never even dimming. Mircea thought that something might happen to the fish in the darkness. It didn’t bother him anyway. He couldn’t even see the light from his bedroom. He sat in a beautifully crafted mahogany chair with a cushion comfy enough for royalty, with a table covered by red cloth holding in unlit candle only a feet away from him. He looked onward at his aquarium, thinking to himself that the many types of exotic fish swimming in there looked so peaceful. He thought of what a serene existence they must have in there. Life was completely meaningless for them, and there was worry about the looming threat of war. If he was a fish like them, he would not have to worry that perhaps one day countless good Zenovii men would be conscripted to fight in a war they never asked for, and millions of them would never return, their precious lives needlessly cut short.

He held in his hands a book with a preciously handcrafted red cover. It remained closed on his lap, as it was far too dark to read, but Mircea knew what was contained in it. Within those words was the holy wisdom of the one true God, Aeon, and his prophetess Ilezabeta. Collectively, the books written by Ilezabeta under the guidance and inspiration of Aeon were called the Holy Scriptures of Aeon. Within those words was the wisdom needed for your entire life, as Mircea’s personal priest, the Bishop of St. Augustus, had always said. He had read through the scriptures in their entirety, and reread many sections and chapters of it many times. And from that sage of the 5th century, Saint Augustus, Bishop of Marina, and the scholastic academics of old – Saint Toma Miazazi, the Venerable Prost Hostius of the North, and Lord Angelus Pithy, he had learned the philosophy of the sacred. Yet still, he did not the answers to his questions. Was it simply to endure, and God would provide as a shield in times of hardship. Perhaps it was not his place after all to make the decision, but he could not simply sit back without a care if he thought that one day his people would start to die by the millions.

Mircea felt two familiar arms go around his neck while he was deep in thought. It was the arms of his wife, Nikoleta. She was wearing her nightgown, waiting for her husband to come to bed. When he did not come, she came to get him from wherever he was. They had been married for many years. Betrothed since he was thirteen and she was eleven, they married in Zenovia when he was eighteen and she was eleven, and there was an elaborate royal ceremony. That was a long time ago, in 1916, and now they had been married for 24 years. She had originally been obstinate, and had been opposed to an arranged marriage, but she saw as what she observed as Mircea’s gentle heart, his strong spirit, and the fact that they were kindred spirits. Now they had been happily married for decades, and she had given him many children, who had now grown up into men and women. She had always had incredible beauty. Now she showed signs her aging, and her beauty had begun to fade, but Mircea did not see any signs of faded beauty, and never would.

“Darling, come to bed,” Nikoleta said to him.

“I’m not tired,” Mircea said. “Look at this fish. Don’t they look so peaceful? They are free of all worries. What a sublime existence they must have.”

“Even so, you need your sleep,” Nikoleta said. “And you wouldn’t want me to sleep alone, would you? Without you at my side, it grows cold.”

“I can’t sleep,” Mircea said. “It seems so odd, to stay awake so late at night. Yet my heart feels heavy. I dread the thought of Moravians, in a moment of fervor, declaring war, and dooming millions of good men. Good men on both sides would die. Why? Why did the Moravians not learn? Why did they not learn? Did they learn nothing about the war? Revanchism and nationalism have only lead to the deaths of good men. We’ve tried to reconcile again and again, but it has been of no use. We’ve apologized again and again for our unnecessary transgressions, we’ve expressed our regret for our mistakes. Those responsible were ousted from power, and it’s been so long that they’re all long dead.”

“I know, darling,” Nikoleta said. “But you cannot stop the way they think. It was not so long ago this nation thought the same.”

“If I could go back in time and kill my great-grandfather, I would do it,” Mircea said. “No, I don’t mean that. That would mean I kill my children as well, and I would sacrifice the world for them. But the Caesar is relentless. The Thaurissans have always been so.”

“But Mircea, the prime minister can deal with the politics, can’t he,” Nikoleta said.

“I do hope,” Mircea said. “But I don’t think so. From day one, he has been preparing for war. I cannot like him, even as a man. He has always addresses me as if I were a public meeting. Yet it is no longer the place of Kings to dictate the fates of men in the modern age. But I can’t do nothing. Sister, she does everything she can. I feel such shame when I look at her. I can tell she feels nothing but shame towards me, since I am so useless.”

“Come now, you’re not useless,” Nikoleta said. “She can vote because of you. And she loves you as well as likes you.”

“You make me sound like I’m wallowing,” Mircea said.

“Yes, your just musing over the path that history will take,” Nikoleta said. “Will it take the path of Aeon, or of Monad?”

“And Miruna, she works so hard. Even if she is so optimistic, so naïve, she believes so strongly in her ideals. She would spit in the devil’s face if someone told her that it would help world peace. Perhaps she already has, as she sent a letter to the Caesar. She thinks he will actually read it, and he will respond well to it. She actually wanted to meet him in person, but we needed to keep her away from the lynch mobs, so we denied that. She’s going to travel the entire world.”

“Do you feel better, now that you’ve gotten all your words out in the open?” Nikoleta said.

“Yes, very much so,” Mircea said. “Thank you, Nikoleta. You always have your ways of making me feel better, even with only a few words, or none at all. I’m feeling rather tired now.



There was a lavish party being held at one of the houses of Grand Duke Radislav Calinescu, a very rich man with nothing at all to do. So he spent his time marveling the newest modern devices of entertainment when he wasn’t throwing parties such as these. The room was filled with smell of wine and small sweets and snacks that would make one gain quite a bit of weight if they were not careful. The room was filled with socialization and small talk between aristocrats of both sexes. There were only infidelities within the nobility as often as men of power and wealth tended to be involved in such things, which is to say every day.

Radislav Calinescu was looking over the party with a glass of red wine in his hand, slowly sipping it as he talked with the few guests who he had the patience to talk to. Calinescu was an impatient fellow, and grew bored of all except the most interesting of fellows. Currently, he was talking with Inclestare Lewin, Head of the House of Lords, as well as Lord Alexandru Gheata, Minister of Finance.

“Can you name anyone among society than the middle class?” Calinescu said. “The middle class air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, whispering strange ideas and sophistries of puritanism and piety. They so wish to be like their betters, yet only make themselves prudes of the most unfathomable kind. They have in them the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

“And the worst of all is the philanthropist,” Gheta said. “There is one of that ilk among the cabinet, and his attitude is simply intolerable. Why speak of ugliness. It is better to cast such things from your very mind.”

“And that is why I cannot stand realism in art,” Lewin said. “A writer who writes of a table when he refers to a table deserves to have his pencil and paper taken from him. But enough of the middle cast. They are even uglier than the poor, and I do hate to speak of them as well. It can be said that there if something just so charming about the girls of the poor. There is something so utterly exotic about them, and so wonderfully delightful about them. They give themselves up so easily for the highborn, making all the more tragically romantic when we break their hearts and throw them back to the streets.”

“How utterly scandalous,” Calinescu said. “And how awfully intriguing. You are simply one of the most charming men ever to grace these eyes, Lewin. I do not see how either of you can stand to exist within the realm of politics, with those mutts of the middle class, who can never emulate their betters, no matter how hard they try.”

“It is the power it offers,” Gheta said. “No matter how muted it may be, it seems absolutely necessary to me that I grab onto the power that our ancestors had.”

“How utterly boring,” Calinescu said. “I could never serve in such an unexciting climate. I have a seat in the House of Lords, but I never actually attend.”

At that moment a Morav went and approached them. It was odd seeing a Morav in Zenovia, but he had his reasons.

“Ah, what a sight to see,” Lewin said. “Calinescu, have I told you about this wonderful man, Lord Dardan.”

“No you have not,” Calinescu said. “You never said anything about you knowing a Morav.”

“Ah, Grand Duke, it is an honor,” Lord Dardan said. “I would tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“He’s wanted for treason,” Lewin said. “And for piracy. For the same crimes, as well.”

“Impossible,” Calinescu said. “You committed piracy against your own nation?”

“I do not like Caesar Thaurissan,” Dardan said.

“And that is all?” Calinescu said. “You must definitely have spunk.”

“Indeed,” Dardan said. “Who knows when I will face him again?”

“Oh, it may be sooner than you think,” Gheata said.

“Ah, what a dreadful topic,” Calinescu said.

“But is anything more romantic than war?” Lewin said. “People die in vain, millions of men die, their mothers, sisters, and daughters lament heard. It is the most epic thing of all.”

“I am more interested in who our allies will be,” Calinescu said. “What a shame it is that our nation is so far north. We could have conquered the world with Moravia.”

“But then, Great Duke, where would I be?” Dardan said, and they all laughed.

“Perhaps the Elves in Yllendthyr?” Lewin said. “I say that would be the most satisfactory alliance.”

“And not Kataylabinsk?” Calinescu said.

“I would never allow it,” Lewin said. “I follow my beliefs, even if I do not believe in them very strongly.”

“I think the day when I present myself to Cinsti is coming soon, however,” Dardan said. “I do hate to submit to the will of my peers, but it seems that in every year it is the norm in more and more nations. When war comes, I am sure that they shall will want a pirate of my skill.”


In the darkness of the Trollish district of Ilezabeta City, thousands of Trolls marched solemnly across a long street, in memory of the young girls who had died in a textile factory. In a way, they had been murdered, killed by the negligence of unwary and uncaring industrialists who still walked free. At the head of the parade of Trolls stood the priests, who were solemnly leading the trolls with their heads turned sadly towards the ground. Among them was Throgg Magog, the head of the National Trollish League.

At the end of the street, the walking came to an end. The priest turned, and he addressed the crowd.

“There are no words that may truly comprehend the sorrow we feel. Those one-hundred and sixty-nine girls, whose lives have been taken, prematurely. No words can describe what we fill. So I recite. I recite the only words I can, to speak my sorrow. How blind ye be, ye who treads down the settlement, ye that cast temples to desolation, ye that lay waste to tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where the ancient dead lie.”

How blind ye be
Ye who treads down the settlement
Ye that cast temples to desolation
Ye that lay waste to tombs
The untrodden sanctuaries where ancient dead lie

These words repeated fifty times by the mourning crowd, like a mantra. From these words written in an ancient text, written not by a Troll, but a sympathetic elf, they expressed their sorrow. These words, hailing from the ten-thousand word-long short epic poem The Trollic, were said in the most intense times of mourning. It was all they could do to express their sorrow.


Princess Miruna had been disappointed that going into Moravia would be impossible after all. However, she did not allow it to put a damper on her mood. She was now in Ventium, and she was sure they would be more accommodating. Now she was traveling in a train, near the capital. She looked over some paper work relating to the OICP, then she handed it to her chief lieutenant, the Executive Secretary Cladiu Puturea. She was impressed that he had worked his way up at such a young age. He was only twenty-nine, yet he was recommended as the top choice for her chief lieutenant at OICP.

Cladiu Puturea took the file of papers from Princess Miruna after giving the princess all the niceties that a princess was needed. He realized that she was highly naïve, and she was a poor administrator, so he took over in the departments in which she did not excel in. Despite the princesses naivety, Puturea thought that what the Princess was undertaking was not only a noble endeavor, but one pivotal for the future. When Zenovia, Kataylabinsk, Avalia, and Fuso defeated Moravia, Verendes, and Izuno, the world would need an organization that would serve as a face for international cooperation.



Throgg Magog sat at a chair in his house, looking at his fireplace. Although a Troll, he had been spared of the worst effects of the inequality of his people, as he had been raised in the priesthood. However, he was far from ignoring the plight of his people. Indeed, he was the farthest from that that was possible. For years now he had lead the National Trollish League, the NTL, which was dedicated to the creation of equality for the Trollish people.

He had arrived at the home of MP Stefan Lupul, a Radical member of the House of Commons. It was a modest house, as Lupul believed deeply that he must engaged in modest living for as long the poor among his nation continued to suffer. Throgg knocked on the door, and Lupul himself opened the door.

“Mr. Magog,” Lupul said. “Please come in.”

Lupul prepared some tea for the both of them, which Magog was happy to accept. However, he did not come over to enjoy tea with a friend, but to discuss serious and dire events. Also in there was an elder man, the elderly Latcu Dragnea, a seventy-four year old Radical MP who was influential in the Radical Party. Together, the three of them took their respective seats around a small, burning fireplace.

“I am sure you both know why I’m here,” Magog said. “With the current situation, I say we must stick together. The NTL will endorse the Radical Party as long as the Radical Party will endorse us.”

“You have my promise,” Dragnea said. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that the Radical Party will endorse the plight of the Trolls. I can offer no promises, however.”

“And you have promise of support, Mr. Magog,” Lupul said. “I run for my party’s nomination, hoping to achieve that coveted position of party leader, but my campaign is centered on greater things than partisan politics. The people have risen up, and have petitioned for their restlessness to be answered. Neither the Patriots nor the Centrists can offer anything close to an answer.”

“I thank you both utterly,” Magog said.

“I will get to work immediately as well,” Dragnea said.

“Please stay for just a moment for the tea,” Lupul said. “We must take this one step at a time. There is much to discuss. We may not leave for even an hour.”

“Yet we are agreed of our endgoal,” Magog said. “With cooperation, we shall gain strength. Organization is needed for victory.”

“We may not win enough be able to win a majority,” Lupul said. “Or even a government. But I am optimistic. This is the beginning of a new era of politics, and a new, better chapter for the proletariat may open up.”

“But first comes your battle for nomination,” Dragnea said.

“Incumbents have always been popular in this nation,” Lupul said. “But the party is split over who should lead. I believe I have a good chance at victory.”



There was a ruckus in the House of Commons. Sir Vali Radmridreu had brought up the topic, with much passion, of the “incident,” he used the word calamity, in the factory, when 169 young Trollish girls died. However, a fellow Patriotic MP had rebuked him, and Radmridreu replied fiercely. Adrian Brasab tried to quiet his fellow cabinet member, but Radmridreu did not wish to let this issue go. He had realized that something had obviously gone wrong here. He no longer cared about touting the party line, and did not care if he caused the party to factionalize.

“I will not retreat,” Sir Vali Radmridreu said. “I will not be hushed. I will not be silenced, either for party politics or to not offend my beloved peers. I will not abandon this issue. I will not ignore the plight of my constituencies, or the plight of the constituencies of my fellow MPs.”

“But to the honorable Sir Radmridreu,” a Patriotic MP responded. “By empowering the powers of labor, the unions shall inevitably rise up, and infiltrate the government until their power is unstoppable. The economy shall come to a standstill, and the workers shall become lazy.”

“As a man nominated for his work his work in bureaucracy and governmental service,” Sir Radmridreu said. “And given by his Majesty, God rest his saintly soul, the honorable knighthood, I would like to ask my junior how he came upon these conclusions, as he must have access to information that I. Please, my peer, tell me of this trove of information that I am unaware of. For all my life, I have been a dedicated conservative liberal with a firm grasp on the economy. And I do not see how allowing our youth to work their jobs without fear of death is a threat to the economy.”

“Well, they are not really our people,” Adrian Brasarab said.

“To the esteemed Member of Parliament, Adrian Brasarab,” Radmridreu said. “I cannot find myself agreeing with your statement. Although I have always regarded you as a courageous and praise-worthy individual, I can only see you now as being betrayed by your own tongue.”

As Radmridreu continued to talk, he continued to speak of the calamity at that factory, where 169 Trollish girls died. The leader of the Radical Party, Vlad Craiovesti, stood up, and clapped loudly for Radmridreu. It was followed by the entirety of the Radical Party giving Radmridreu a standing ovation. Radmridreu was a bit hesitant to accept the praise of those he saw as the far left, but he soon accepted it.



The city of Numa had stood for thousands of years, before the Zenovii had even inhabited the lands that now were called Zenovia. Of course, that was now deep in the past, and now it was inhabited largely by Zenovii, the others being the Trollish immigrants. This ancient city was beautiful, yet there were also ugly districts. It was one of the first Zenovii cities to industrialize, and dirty and dangerous factories were aplenty in the poor West District.

In a textile factory, over a hundred years young girls were hard at work. Here they worked about eight hours a day, and received only menial pay. Adriana was one such girl. To her, work was monotonous, soul-crushing, dangerous, and hard. Yet she got her motivation from the fact that her pay, menial it may have been, helped her family. Ever since consumption had taken her father, her mother and two brothers had a hard time making ends meet.

Working next to her was Anca, a fellow young girl who she had befriended in the factory. Anca was more gentle than her, so Adriana felt protective to her. Yet it pained her that she could help her in her greatest struggle. She could not even help herself.

“Do ya think they’ll be another fire?” Anca said. “Liken to the Trollic gals?”

“Ah, nah,” Adriana said. “No way. How’d ever thought of the same thing happenin’ twice, and in a weeks time?”

“Hope yer right,” Anca said.

Then there was a loud commotion from the other girls. It began to get so loud that Adriana and Anca stepped away from their machines, and stopped working. As if she was in a nightmare, she heard someone yell the word fire, and then she felt the heat start to rise.

The doors had been locked, to prevent the girls from taking unauthorized breaks. The girls rammed against the hard steel doors in vain again and again. Anca felt herself full of fear, and tears wailed from her as she broke down.

“Adriana will protect me, right?” Anca said.

“That’s right,” Adriana said.

The fire eventually consumed all one-hundred and fifty-six girls. As the fire began to wash over them, Adriana was holding onto Anca. She never gave up trying to escape, but there was none. She died, feeling deeply unfulfilled, filled with the great regret that she could not save Anca.

Light from the new moon filtered weakly though the windows, illuminating the room with a nearly imperceptible glow. In the dimness the space’s normally vibrant rug looked pale as the faces of the dead, and upon it tread skippered feet. Though the rug covered the floor in its entirety the gentle steps seemed to echo in the room.

Tap… Tap… Tap…

On and on it droned, that soft report of her restlessly pacing feet, the one noise she held a truly ineffable hatred for. In her mind it wasn’t that she loathed anything as simple as the sound itself, nor was it that she was even adverse to the tension that brought out the habit—in fact, of that tension, she relished every moment. No, what she truly despised was what the maddening patter meant behind all of that, idleness, inaction, and her own powerless insignificance.

In name she was a queen, the sovereign of a nation and heart of its people. In other lands the title meant everything, yet the very word had felt dry in her mouth since she was eight years old. It was meaningless here, where she was the sovereign of a palace outshone by the abodes of the most modest nobility and the heart of a small few whose true loyalty even she was unsure of.

Most would have resigned themselves to a life of comfort so long as it lasted, taking whatever opportunity they could to reap the last withering fruits sown by their ancestors so long ago. Under the conditions it was the logical choice, why rally and fight against a fate so tightly sealed? She wouldn't have even blamed herself had that conclusion been the one which took root in her mind, but still it was one she could not abide.

For her there could be no humble submission to fate, such ignorant pleasures had been forgone when the weed of defiance took hold of her mind. When it had sprouted could not be said, but it had thrived in the confines of her psyche; the unseemly plant tended by her hatred, her smoldering desire for vengeance on those who'd reduced the very name of her line to its pathetic state. True, for the moment she was content showing the world a demure lady resigned to the truth of being the last queen, but that was all it was, a show. She had resolved to resist fate, to stamp upon eventuality, and laugh to in the face of inevitability. Her mind was set to do this no matter what it cost her, and even as she paced the work she so longed to participate in was ongoing. It was work that might restore her position, her birthright—work she lamented not being able to oversee herself. In spite of that a jagged smile stained her perfect lips as she thought, so what if she was insignificant now? What did it matter that she could not bloody her own hands as she ought to? She would see that the time came when she could.

Even if she was left to meaninglessly pace waiting for it in short time there would be word of her unlikely supporter’s fortunes in the task she'd given them. Yes she was idle, yes she was powerless, but soon enough she would be able to move herself without the crutches of support others provided. Soon enough she would be able to avenge her father with her own hands. It mattered not what was logical, it mattered not what realities had been handed down; even if her nation was reduced to ashes and her people to ruined husks Sanvila Aluven, the Queen, would have all the shining glory that was promised in the days of her youth, and all sordid darkness she lusted for.



For twenty nine years it had been spoken both in the darkest alleys and the highest houses of the nation, a name even the most righteous of officers knew to forget and the lowest criminals endeavoured to avoid. To most it was 'Kerosene' and to the very few who were permitted to dig deeper, it was Lenst Mercon. In nation where millions knew at least the former the astonishing reality that only fifty, perhaps fewer, could assign a face to the odd moniker made 'Kerosene' the greatest enigma to ever beset Verendes.

It was that enigma who watched patiently from the second story window of an ancient and derelict warehouse, unconcerned by the dust that settled over him in his unnatural stillness. Below and concealed by the darkness of the night twelve masked figures moved slowly through the docks, each one vigilant and constantly scanning for any sign of detection, unaware of their impassive observer. Minds set to their goal the figures located their destination behind the barbed fences of the military dock, taking care to avoid the static beams of searchlights forgotten by their supposed attendants. The silent clinks of wire cutters made work the fences side, one of the masked men keeping the silhouette of a G.SG22 trained on a nearby guard tower even as it was illuminated by the cigarettes of heedless soldiers enthralled by their game of cards.

One by one the men made their way through the hole in the fence, the rifle eventually disappearing into a coat as the last man vanished behind the crates of the armies dock. With a slow shake of his head Lenst spoke regretfully, “They make these things too easy.”

Beside him sat another man, dim light only illuminating the top of his greying hair and the slightest features of wrinkled face, “You shouldn’t curse your own fortunes Lenst… Still, I agree one can tire of such easy victories. That said, this may well be the last of them.”

Lenst nodded, “I imagine so, but perhaps that is for the best. Despite all we’ve taught her the young mistress still holds the arrogance of a child, and why would she not? What has ever come to challenge such misguided thinking? You’ve spent your life at her side my friend so tell me if I'm wrong to say this, but I feel even if she knows what lies ahead, I can’t help but think she lacks a vital understanding of it. At the very least the realities to come might to provide that.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” The other man sighed, “Realities… Such ugly things aren’t they?”

At that Lenst gave out a low chuckle that sent the moonlight suspended dust spinning in intricate swirls like smoke exhaled by some ancient dragon, “Truly, but they remain something we must all confront at some point my old friend. Fate has conspired so that our Queen will learn them as we did, all we can do is hope the lesson to come doesn’t break her.”

A thoughtful hum was the only reply the other man could give to that.



Slicing effortlessly through the infinite blue she moved silently in the night, behind her the brilliant lights of Destun growing distant and heralding her departure into the open ocean. Solidly in the middle of her life the Darling Fisher was a freight vessel who’d sailed the journey ahead many a time, and it was with a relaxed confidence born from familiarity that her crew ensured she would make it once more.

From the day she’d first set sail fifteen years ago Rede Aesnes been her captain, and looking down from the bridge he could only smile at the rusty blemishes left by years of loyal service that mottled her deck. Whenever they left port he was like this, as if he’d been reunited with an old flame and was taking in the sight of her at every spare moment.

The crew had seen it as funny in the beginning, but as time went on many found themselves looking at the freighter the same way. Built in a small order she had but a handful of existing sisters, and it was a point of pride that none of them had a record so spotless as the Fishers. No matter how violent the storm, or how enraged the port authority, the old girl had kept them safe.

With a glowing smile Rede walked to his chair, the helmsman giving him a nod as he passed their station. Night shifts were an oddity for him, but he was insistent upon being there for every launch, even if the military decided to make him set off when he ought to have been sleeping.

It was a hassle, but he supposed the brass had a valid reason to rush the shipment after the last riots in the Xien colony. Most of the time the ridiculous insurrections were put down quickly, but word from his friends in the Atlantic Fleet was that in the last one a gang of natives had managed to break into an arms depot and scatter before the army could apprehend them.

If that really was what happened Rede could see the logic in shipping so many new weapons out there, even if having that amount of ordnance in his holds made him nervous. Then again, the Darling Fisher had never let him down, nor had his crew (the occasional night of drunken whoreing aside). Letting his concerns fade away as the last lights of Destun vanished in the ocean mist Rede leaned back in his chair; it was just another hop across the pond.



He waited restlessly in the darkness, clutching a small timer with a feverish anticipation. Around him he knew the others waited in much the same way, surrounded by their kin, fellow tools of death in the crates of rifles. They had snuck into the cargo before the ship was loaded, and with a dead stillness each one had endured the rough process.

Now though, the time had arrived. Without a word of planning or confirmation he and the men around him smashed the wooden boards that confined them in unison, those who reached fresh air quickly freeing those trapped beneath heavier containers.

The commotion had not gone unnoticed, but by the time a guard made it into the hold his fellow intruders had finished their assembly, and the hapless soldier’s shout was cut off by the sputter of a G.SG22. Breathing in the smell of gunpowder and death he donned a feral grin, now a new clock had started ticking.

Room by room they went, never sharing a word save the singing of their guns. Every second counting he made his way higher and higher in the ship, killing with a joy he never felt outside of combat. A burst there, a grenade here, the crew and their mostly drunken marine detachment fell like grass to deaths scythe.

It was five minutes later that they reached the bridge, and it was a bare second before they tore through the pitiable barricade the defenders had erected.



In his life Rede had never fired nor owned a gun, it wasn’t a fact he boasted but one he felt a silent pride in. So too was it a fact he cursed with the whole of his being as the door to the bridge erupted in an explosion of splinters and metal, sending the chairs propped against it flying across the room.

It was a moment later and with horror that he watched through a veil of dust as some sort of demon plunge a wicked knife into the heart of the helmsman. Rising out of the smoke filled room the aberration approached Rede and he stammered, “Please no! I’ll let you have it, just take it! Anyth-”

With an echoing thump he was cut off. Grasping his ringing ear in shock Rede looked at his blood soaked hand in a daze before glancing up to identify the rifle that had hit him by the crimson stain on its stock. Two of the creatures that slaughtered his crew grabbed him by the arms, and he was only faintly aware of the ammunition box one tied to his waist as they dragged him painfully down stairs and across cold metal to the deck railing.

As clarity returned he was struck with horror at what was happening, but his swollen mouth refused speech as one of the wicked men hefted him over the side. As the brisk ocean air ran over him and the deep blue drew near the last horrid words he ever shared the displeasure of knowing emerged from one of the grinning beasts that had raped his Darling, “Gods save the queen.”

It was a cold day in the northern capital of Kataylabinsk, and Premier Commissar Yekaterina Velikaya sat by the main fireplace in the Dyevlin in a reclined chair reading the People's Daily newspaper, the main newspaper of the land and the unofficial outlet of her Kataylan People's Party. She even occasionally offered to provide input for the occasional editorial in the paper, and today was one of those days. Across the front of the paper splashed the words "Zenovian Factories Continue to Burn Their Workers Alive."

It is with great regret that the People's Daily reports the second major factory fire in the Kingdom of Zenovia. So far, almost four hundred young girls, mostly Trollish, have perished in these fires due to the extreme carelessness of their owners in safety regulation and because of the abhorrent policy of leaving the doors locked from the outside to prevent them from sneaking out. These incidents have remained utterly unreported in the Zenovian press, showing the incredible disdain that the Zenovian government appears to have for its Trollish citizens. The Premier Commissar, when asked for comment about these events, replied with the following:

"It is truly a sad day for workers around the world, that so many of our fellows, innocent young girls as they are who had entire lives ahead of them, have perished. I would ask all Kataylans to pray, or give a moment of silence, in memory of them. I would finally urge the Zenovian government to take action as soon as possible to address this problem and prove that they do in fact represent all of the working people of their nation."

These events prompt the editorial staff to ask a question. How many people have to die, how much suffering can the Zenovian people endure before the government takes action? It appears that only the Zenovian Radical Party is willing to address this problem, which is the saddest story of all. Is it really so radical to want to prevent hundreds of deaths?

Yekaterina chuckled. That would hopefully send the Zenovian government running and maybe even prompt more of their citizens to vote for the Radicals when the paper gets smuggled in, as it always does.

"Elena?"

The Premier's secretary rushed into the room, but then quickly adopted a dignified pose. "Yes, Premier Velikaya?"

"Is Anjelika by any chance in the Dyevlin today?"

"Why of course, she's upstairs signing some paperwork. Should I ask her to come down for a moment?"

"Yes, please," replied the Premier.

A few moments later a woman who seemed quite out of place in Kataylabinsk, short, with Fusan features and long, bright orange hair, who appeared to be in her mid-thirties came in and bowed to the Premier. The look in her piercing blue eyes suggested a painful history, but her enthusiastic face suggested her spirits had improved from that time.

"I maintain you don't have to do that, Anjelika." Yekaterina's clear, beautiful laugh rang out and the Intelligence Commissar smiled.

"Force of habit, I assure you, Premier. What can I do for you?"

"Have a note included in the folds of the paper that usually gets to that one Radical Party MP. Offer his party any support we can provide, though of course it would have to be subtle, probably simply money. As much as I'd like to start another factory fire, albeit one with a door that's unlocked so they can actually escape, to convince Zenovia of the gravity of the problem and of the ease of fixing it..."

"I understand," replied Intelligence Commissar Adraneda. "As soon as possible."

"Thank you." Elena emerged back into the room carrying a letter as Anjelika bowed and departed.

"A letter from Chancellor Vortzeria," the secretary announced as she handed it to her. The Premier Commissar read it with great interest, and smiled as she approached the end of the letter. Elena left and returned with a pen and paper, which she handed to Yekaterina.

A Reply to the Chancellor of the Greater Republic of Avalia, Helena Vortzeria

Chancellor Helena, I greatly appreciate and welcome the letter, as it has been far too long.

The apparent military buildup of the Kingdom of Verendes has also been an unnerving subject in my cabinet of late, both as you have found from border reports and from our operatives inside of the country which we have made an effort to increase in number. It is regrettable that both they and Moravia seem so deadset on war and aggression.

All the information we have received so far seems to suggest great instability in Verendes, so I am glad to have confirmation from another source. We are reluctant to contact such a liberal faction, as understandably our political position would scare them off, but we hope for the best in your efforts and assuredly our intelligence agencies could collaborate on this effort if you are willing. Ensuring the creation of more democratic governments is surely one of the most important goals our countries have in common.

I have no objection to aligning with Zenovia in principle, but I must note that my party and furthermore my people will not accept an alliance with a nation which allows its workers to burn alive without any thought to resolving the problem. You may have seen my comments in today's People's Daily, and I would ask you to stand beside me in at least asking for some purely humanitarian concessions for the time being. I know that Zenovia cannot become a democracy overnight, but surely we can ask for them to have some concern for the welfare of their citizens.

And on a lighter note, of course you may have some more Haraschor vodka, it is also one of my favorite brands. I wish you well in your endeavors.

Signed,
Premier Yekaterina Velikaya

The Premier finished writing, read over the letter, and nodded. She handed it to Elena.

"Could you ask the Foreign Commissar to write a letter to the so-called "socialist republic" of Brusaleye? I think it's about time I find out what sort of a nation this is, and what exactly their intents are."

---

Dear Lord General and President Sydney LaChance of Brusaleye,

Greetings and salutations from the People's Republic of Kataylabinsk. The Premier Commissar, Yekaterina Velikaya, has expressed a desire to make a state visit to your young nation to both learn more about it and to meet you. If this would be acceptable to you, please reply with an appropriate date, time and location for her to arrive. We hope for cordial relations and prosperous cooperation to be had between our two great nations.

-Foreign Commissar Miroslav Yerkhov of Kataylabinsk

-accidental double post-

Sir Vali Radmridreu stood in front of the town hall of Numa. He did not really have anything to do with this place, but he decided that this was an apt place to make his appearance in Numa heard. Truthfully, he did not like all the attention he was getting. He did not mind a bit of attention, and some money, but now people were looking to him as a leader. Yesterday, he had met with the families of those who had been killed in Numa. Before that, he met with the Trollish families in Ilezabeta City. He tried to put on a smile for them, and tried to find some comforting words, but could not come up with anything spectacular. There was really nothing that you could say, when someone had lost a child. Now, however, Radmridreu did have a few things to say.

“This is not a speech,” Radmridreu said. “I just wanted to make a few things clear. My sympathies are with the victims of the horrifying industrial fires of our nation’s factories. Unlike some of the others who utter these words, I fully intend to do something about it. Not long ago I introduced a bill, demanding sweeping and comprehensive reform for factories. Needless to say it failed 161 to 342. However, I intend to reintroduce it. I do not think the Commons will be so opposed a second time around. I will take any questions you have.”

Near him were several reporters, one of which was Milos Prodanic. A thirty-two year old reporter, he had originally been a lawyer, but a bad economy and his lack of seniority led him to be out of a job in the 1930s. Fortunately, he had come across the skills needed to be a reporter and journalist on accident. Upon discovering he was good at it, he was hired by the Zenovii Tribune.

“Sir Radmridreu,” a reporter said. “What do you think this statement will do to your political career?”

“Well, I do not think my constituency will mind,” he said. “And I have already made as many enemies in the House as I think is possible, so I do not think it will harm me in any degree.”

“Are you aware of what the PRK press has been saying?” another reporter said.

“Yes, I am aware,” Radmridreu said. “The press of the socialists who run the area known as Katablyansk is simply the mouthpiece of the ruling party of the socialist usurpers. They seem to think that we, the mainstream parties of Zenovia, do not care for the masses. On the contrary, the party platform of the Zenovii Patriotic Party is clear of the role of the low classes, being as they are such a large part of society. Society is organic, and is made of many different elements. If these elements are not working together in harmony, then society will cease to function properly. This was seen in the previous administration, when the Centrist Democracy Party’s gross negligence saw both the economy and the military arrive at a decrepit state, which has since been rectified. But back to the main point. We have not abandoned the poor; far from it. I tell you, these tragedies should never have happened, and I will do everything which is in my power to make sure it does not happen again.”

“Are you worried about how well the Radical Party will do in the upcoming election?” the reporter said.

“Not at all,” Radmridreu said. “I do not see them as any great threat. I think they may even lose some seats. When it becomes apparent, and it will, that the Zenovii Patriotic Party shall give the working class the legislation they require, the working class shall send their votes our way. Any support that the socialists up north have to offer will be a hindrance rather than an aid to the Radical Party.”



Tihomir Odescalchi was a forty-four year old MP of the Centrist Democracy Party. Currently he was in Saint Radmi’s Hall, an old and prestigious meeting hall. Although many of the affluent held meetings and gatherings here now, what the public would remember it for would be when, in 1900, the leaders of the Liberal Movement met here, and announced to the public that they would not retreat from their struggle to achieve freedom of speech, conscience, and of the press, to create a government of and by the people, and to create the first government in the history of Zenovia that would be limited by a constitution that declared the rights every sentient being was in possession of. Serghei Blocare himself had been there, and showed The Declaration of Universal Rights in Zenovia to the men there, who found its words inspiring. Although he could not recall, he had been told many times that his mother had brought him to here when that historical event had took place, and his father and grandfather had been there as well. Tihomir had chosen this place to holds his meeting for its symbolic meaning, for that event had so attached itself to the national conscience. Soon afterwards, the parliament and the King gave in, creating a new type of government in Zenovia. The King was no longer King of Zenovia but King of the Zenovii, as he was now the spiritual father of the people and not their owner.

All his life the Odescalchi name had been with him, almost haunting him. It had, in a way, carried him, and had allowed him to have the popularity to gain the position of MP. It was not the name of his father, but his grandfather. Milosz Odescalchi, the fierce and independent man, with such a strength of spirit he could dare to defy kings. Against the bold and intelligent revolutionary, he and his father could not hope to compare. People always told him that he would become a man Milosz could be proud of, and had told his father Anghel things similar. His grandfather’s intense and maddening pride had not helped. Even when he became MP, they congratulated not him, but congratulated Milosz that his line had stayed so prestigious, even if not as great as it once was when he lived. Milosz had died in 1917, aged seventy-seven. His father Anghel died but six years later at the age of fifty-seven. Father had always been so bitter. So Tihomir had grown closer to his mother Paraschiva, who was not embittered by a family line. She had died as well, in 1930 at the age of sixty. Paraschiva had grown Tihomir into a good man. It was his mother’s doing and his own embittered life of living in the shadow of his grandfather that made him the man he was today. He would making Milosz lived in the shadow of Tihomir, and reverse the legacy.

Today he had organized a gathering at Saint Radmi’s Hall, which was filled with like-minded Centrist politicians. The tragedies had struck all in the nation hard. The current leadership of the party, however, had already decided on doing nothing in the name of the free market. Tihomir could scarcely believe this, and he opposed this all the way. However, Antonescu did not seemed to care much about listening, so Tihomir would so him he was not to be ignored.

“My friends, my esteemed peers,” Tihomir said. “With great lamentation I extend my sorrow, for I so do mourn for the fallen, who have burned from dust to dust, life cut prematurely, in the factories of our nation. And what is it that our proud bearers of political arm, our men who preach our platform with sanctimonious gusto, articulate? They say to do nothing at all, and let the free market to its due course. From my words, I think I shall need no further elucidation – Antonescu no longer deserves his place as leader of the Centrist Democracy Party. I shall oppose him henceforth in his quest for utter complacency. In order to reinvigorate the Centrist Democracy Party, I propose a dosage of liberalism. Our roots are liberalism, and our founders were the liberals who formed this nation into the body politic under which it has grown and thrived. I seek the position of leader of the Centrist Democracy Party, and should anyone oppose me and feel that their own candidacy be better suited for the good of the party, and should I see that they are correct, I will step aside. Otherwise, I will seek the nomination of my party in order to the preserve the Liberalism of my party and nation.”



It was quite early in the day of the House of Commons. All the MPs were there, sitting in their seats. They were all anxious, and for good reason. Soon they would make a decision that would inevitably alter the course of the nation, and it was not what the decision itself would actually do that was groundbreaking, but rather the reaction of the masses. It was near Election Day. The party nomination process was now a scant two months away, and the general election a mere six months away. Things tended to get done when elections were near, as their seats were at stake.

Prime Minister Nikolas Cinsti was sitting in a prominent position. His chair was not any higher than anyone else’s, and was not exactly in the middle, nor was it in any way distinct from the rest of seats, but it simply seemed prominent somehow. He got up from his seat, and walked to the center of the Commons. Now he would have to speak. He had organized a reform bill, intended to prevent things like the recent tragedies and things similar to them from every happening again, as well as to provide greater relief for workers in general, especially children. It was actually far more extensive than the bill Radmridreu had proposed, although Cinsti already knew that the stupid and illiterate would assume it was a compromise bill, simply because it was not the original bill.

“My esteemed peers,” Cinsti began. “I know that all of you are aware of what happened. Two tragedies, equal in scope, occurred within days of each other. This is unacceptable. You cannot expect for hundreds to die in a week and for us to do nothing. As you are all honorary gentleman, it is obvious that none of you are of that opinion, and those of you who vote against this upcoming bill that I am about to propose of course wish for something more radical.”

There were murmurs among the Radical MPs. They were not tense murmurs, but rather sounded instead like amused voices. Of course, the last part of Cinsti’s statement was something he did not believe; a rhetorical strategy used to display universal friendliness and shame his fellow MPs into supporting his bill.

Then the voting began. There were two ballots, one for yes and one for no. Cinsti, since he was up in the center, was the first cast his vote. He, of course, casted it for yes. Hundreds of men went up there, and casted their vote. After a long while, all the MPs had voted and the votes were counted.



It passed by 347 to 156, which was over a three-fourths majority. The Centrist Democracy Party had been split among themselves. The leader of their party and Leader of the Opposition, Frederic Checescu, had rallied to vote against the bill in the name of the free market and the rights of the individual to run a business any way they like. However, Tihomir Odescalchi had rallied to those within the party who still clung to the ideals of the Liberal Revolution of 1900, and he had brought roughly half the party to support the bill. The Radical Party, of course, supported it. Although they believed that the bill did not go far enough, they were fiercely dedicated the democratic process, and would vote towards anything that would improve society. The Zenovii Patriotic Party, as the majority party, had been the true deciding factor. Radmridreu, with his talk of liberal reform, had managed to get the liberals and reformers in the party on his side, and Cinsti had been supportive. The party’s ideology for domestic affairs was called political organism, and was the belief that government should be paternalistic, and that society works best when all elements in society are harmoniously working together. It had been a very useful ideology, always offering moderate solutions, stemming the popularity of more radical ones. Brasab had voted for the bill, and had taken a fair amount of party conservatives with him as well. A bloc of conservatives, however, consisting of a quarter of parliament and almost half of the Patriotic conservatives, had voted against it.



Colonel Ivrea Perigord, a young officer twenty-seven of age, had just returned covertly from Moravia. Ivrea had had just enough of these diplomatic missions. Boris Perigord, Ivrea’s father, had been somewhat disappointed that Ivrea had chosen the military as a career instead of law or politics. Boris was always trying to edge her towards the political side of the military, and had of late been sending Ivrea to Moravia in covert missions to try and form ties with certain individuals and organizations in Moravia. So far, no contact had really been made, and Ivrea had ensured that none would ever be made. Ivrea had now been in Moravia long enough that the only way that the only way they would see reason again was when Zenovia had kicked down their door and the Caesar had his nose bloodied by a squadron of Zenovii soldiers.

Having returned from Moravia, Ivrea was glad to be back in a place that was not totally suffocating, although it could be better. Ivrea always voted Radical. The Military Headquarters in Ilezabeta City looked more like a luxurious government monument than the metal standard military bases that Ivrea was used to and preferred. There were guards all around, looking alert. However, Ivrea was unsure how battle-ready they truly were. After sixty years of peace, the soldiers had become compliant. The men saw the insignia denoting the rank of a colonel on her uniform and quickly went out of the way, and Ivrea went inside.

At least the inside weren’t as opulent as the House of Parliament, Ivrea thought. Ivrea was going to meet with General Karescu, necessary to report, as well as an opinion on a few things. Then Ivrea saw Colonel Dragusin, a forty-six year old officer, pass by. Ivrea was willing to let the fellow Colonel go, but he approached Ivrea.

“Colonel Perigord, you return to Zenovia from Moravia?” Colonel Dragusin said.

“Yes, Colonel Dragusin,” Ivrea said. “And I was going to be meet General Karescu. On official business you see, as I want to make it clear that these little spying trips to Moravia are quite useless.”

“By chance, I also happen to be meeting him as well,” Dragunsin said. “In fact, Colonel, I think it a very good thing that you happen to be here. There was something I was hoping to present to the General a new battle strategy.”

“Minor detail or overhaul?” Ivrea said.

“Overhaul, actually,” Dragusin said. “While it’s not the first time I’ve ever mentioned it, I think, considering the circumstances, that it may be due special circumstances.”

Then Dragusin told Ivrea all about it.

“Interesting,” Ivrea said. “Revolutionary if it works, hard to implement either way. You were hoping you could convince the General to implement this strategy?”

“Or at least begin to,” Dragusin said. “A second opinion, especially one such as yourself, could be helpful.”

The two Colonel walked in together to General Karescu’s office. He was busily working on some paperwork, something that could probably wait a moment as they talked about something more important. As the General’s guard opened the door and let the two Colonels in, General Karescu put down his pen and looked up at the two. The Colonels were at a respectful salute.

“At ease,” General Karescu said. “How may I help you both? Something to report?”

“Sir,” Dragusin said. “If I may, I cannot help but notice that Moravia’s military has something of an edge.”

“Yes, I think we’ve all notice, Colonel,” General Karescu said. “Decades of build-up and conquest have created a formidable army. Only in recent years has Zenovia had the proper amount of military funding.”

“So, sir,” Dragusin said. “Moravia has quite a numerical, economical, and technological edge over our own nation, so perhaps the edge our nation needs is a new overlying tactic. Colonel Perigord will vouch for me.”

“Well, what is it?” General Karescu said. “Does it have a name?”

“I call it Lightning War,” Dragusin said.


Otton O’Guiges was a young man of the Southern People. His people had lived in this land for many centuries, longer than the Zenovii had in fact. In those times, the Southern People had been nomadic, and even now many of those customs persisted. The Zenovii had always treated the Southern People as strangers, as outsiders, and as strange and perverse beings. They had called them heathens, and they made their lives harsh and uncomfortable, keeping them around for only as long as the Zenovii wanted the goods of the Southern People. However, that was all ancient history now. The Zenovii still looked at them with suspicious eyes, and an air of heated prejudice could be felt, but ever since the Revolution things had been looking up. He could even go to all the stores now without receiving a beating.

Otton was like the rest of the young, and cared more about getting some money for food and housing than bickering about things that involved a bunch of dead guys. However, Otton could not say the same about the old people. Anyway, Otton was now going to the recuiting station, join the army, and get a stable living. The rumor was that things in the world was heating up fast, but Zenovia hadn’t been involved in anything for some sixty years. Even if there was a war, Otton wasn’t a coward, and he’d endure. He could see it in the distance, the recruiting system. It was a plain building, grey and plain, and was only attended by the corporal. A lot of the youth of the Southern People were joining the military nowadays, especially the navy for some reason, although Otton was joining the army.

“Hey there,” a familiar voice said to him as he was making his way to the recruiting station.

It was his friend, Aron Randonescu. Otton was one of the Southern People and Aron was a Zenovii, so it was a fox and hound situation, but in the end it had not stop them from having a strong friendship. Strange looks and disapproving frowns did nothing to stem the tide of the modern age.

“Well, if it isn’t my dear old friend, Aron,” Otton said. “You come to see me off? Like I said, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stay. Things change and times change.”

“Oh not at all, friend,” Aron said. “I’m going to join along with you. Now I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve got my own reasons for this.”

“Aron, this is a serious proposition,” Otton said.

“That’s so swell comin’ from you,” Aron said. “Let’s not be late.”

“Well, if I can’t convince you otherwise ‘might as well get going,” Otton said.

The two of them headed towards the recruiting station. The two of them went up to the recruiting station. There was a man sitting there, who was in uniform and had the emblem of a corporal on him. After the man in front of them was done and shown inside, Otton and Aron went up to the corporal.

“Hello sir,” Otton said. “Ahem. We would both like to join? Are those the right words? No? Well, um…We would like the honor to join his Majesty’s glorious military.”

“Are you two together?” the corporal said.

“No sir, we are strictly heteronormative,” Otton said.

“I mean are you two joining together?” the corporal said. “I doesn’t matter. Look, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I expect you to answer honorable.”

“Fire away,” Otton said. “Sir.”

A telltale creak rang out through the bar and the piano stuttered and ceased. The room, now much more quiet than it had been a mere a moment ago allowed the clacking of new shoes to be heard by all. From the entrance a man in an extravagant red suit made his way in, the piano quickly resuming in his path regardless of the hushed whispers that followed him.

Inconspicuous was hardly the word a foreigner would have used, but in Verendes the coming and going of eccentric nobles in search of new servants or merely novel forms of entertainment was hardly new. For their part the patrons of the bar either resumed their old conversation after a curious word or eyed the black haired nobleman appraisingly, judging to see if he was the sort that might be looking for workers. A few even tried to approach, but for their efforts a sneer and disdainful wave was all that could be gained.

Before he was even halfway through the room the few that had approached him had been dispersed by his attitude and the bar seemed to become totally unaware of his presence. For the commoners gathered if nothing could be gained from the rich, then it was best to forget they existed entirely. Beyond that, while the nobleman here was draped in rich color and fine clothes, nothing about him screamed power or authority. To the lower classes he was only a step or two above them and looking to show off, nothing worth the effort to remember.

Wordlessly the man slipped into a seat across from Harken, looked over to him nodding and questioned, “How was your trip to the Ventue festival?”

Harken tipped his hat up to reveal his face, though he kept his shades on to conceal his true origins. Was this nobleman his contact? He said the code phrase, but let’s see if he understood the confirmation phrase. “Quite fine. Was a lovely event for the most part, though a bit too extravagant for my tastes. How goes that little gentlemen’s club of yours? I hear that you haven’t received many customers as of late.” he replied casually.

With a tightly held smile the nobleman leaned back and checked a small pocket watch in his coat before relying warmly, “Ah yes, but you know how it is these days; it becomes harder every year to find folks with an appreciation of the finer things. Why, if you’re that interested you could always drop by and see for yourself how the business is doing.”

Harken sighed, slightly relieved that this was, in fact, his contact. Though he remained on guard, just incase this was some sort of set up. “Well, I am fairly weary of my travels, perhaps that club of yours might relax me a bit more, if anything, provide me with a bit of a distraction as I pass through.” Harken stood and gestured with his arm. “Lead the way sir.”

With an affable grin the man in red wordlessly stood and gestured for Harken to join him. Straightening and dusting his spotless suit he led the newcomer to Verendes behind the counter of the bar, an act none of the patrons nor the staff commented as they went about their business. The smooth music of the piano faded and the lights dimmed as the pair made their way into the ancient and dusty storeroom of the pub. Either to Harkens anxiety, or to his relief, the noblemans meaning in bringing him here was soon revealed when he opened a back door the gloom had rendered near indistinguishable from the walls flanking it. Outside and reflecting the sparse light of the new moon a genuinely modest black car waited for them.

Extracting a handkerchief from his his pocket and wiping his hands of whatever imagined filth had been on the alley entrances handle the nobleman took a short bow and introduced himself, “Apologies for the necessity of meeting you in such a place my friend, my name is Tese Vunde and it seems I’m to be your host for the time being.”

With that the car’s driver stepped out and held open the rear door for the two, Tese politely gesturing for Harken to enter before him, “We have much to discuss, but I fear those at the club are expecting our presence.”

Well, it was all or nothing for Harken. He knew what awaited him beyond that car ride will either mean success or failure. “Of course, I look forward to meeting the patrons.” he replied as he stepped into the back of the car. In contrast to the nobleman’s attire, this was a very discrete vehicle, hopefully one that will be inconspicuous enough.

Tese followed Harken into the vehicle and with a soft set of thumps the driver closed their door and his after entering, his own. Tese gave the driver a simple nod and as soon as the engine revved to life they were on their way.

Leaning back in his seat the smile vanished from Tese’s face, replaced by a pensive expression. Looking idly through the doors window as they entered the sparsely populated main street he began, speaking as much to himself as Harken, “How peculiar… I seem to remember it was just last month that the streets were crowded here, even at this hour. Hardly ideal for those trying to blend in, but I suppose it can’t be avoided can it? The town folk must be too busy spending what little time they can with their families before the draft finds them.”

Unconsciously drumming his finger against the window Tese glanced at Harken, “Though I wager it’s a sight that can help you understand the state of affairs these days, had it not been for this I can’t imagine you’d ever be here.”

Taking the time to reguard his guest more closely Tese brought his hand back to his side and reached into his coat, extracting a small folder and handing it to Harken, “Hmmmm… I can’t say you look terribly Avalian, but you answered everything correctly, and I suppose I’ve no reason to mistrust you. You’ll find a summary of the situation there, I suggest you read it before we arrive.”

Harken took the folder and began to read over it. As he did, he responded, “Well, that is why I was chosen by my country's government. My father is actually from Verendes, though I assure you…” Harken took off his tinted glasses, revealing his bright, orange eyes. “I have Valkyerian blood running through me.” he put his glasses back on and went back to reading.

The folder briefed him on the current political situation of both the noble house and the very jeopardy of the monarchy. “Well now… Your voices of reason has most definitely fallen on deaf ears sir. From what this folder tells me, the planned expansion in the Kingdom’s military will put it at serious odds with Avalia at best. This will confirm the suspicions of my superiors of a rapid build up happening in this country.” Harken turned to Tese. “We started noticing that the border forts of the Kingdom were starting to expand. As they did, patrols, convoys, exercises, everything has started becoming more frequent. However, we were still on the fence as to whether Verendes would hide behind its large ally or try to reinstate its presence.” Harken explained. He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “And with the current state of said neighbor, things aren’t looking good.”

Tese gave a short snort, “Not looking good is it? You Avalians seem to have a talent for understatement. The situation has been left to develop for too long and now it seems to me that utterly desperate is an optimistic projection.”

As the car pulled into another alleyway he looked up and with a nod from the driver motioned for Harken to follow him out of the car. A scant second after the doors closed behind them the vehicle was off once more, to any onlookers a taxi merely taking a shortcut.

Approaching a seemingly unremarkable wall of naked brick Tese knocked on the surface, and moments later it pulled back to reveal a small corridor ending in a thick iron gate, a tired guard posted beside it eyeing pair suspiciously. Flashing the guard some thing within his coat and glancing over his shoulder Tese spoke, “Come on now, I’d rather we not loiter in the open too long. The others have schedules of their own you know.”

Once the guard hefted the heavy iron gate to the side Tese led the way down the candle lit spiral stairs, only stopping for a moment when the vibrations of the gate slamming shut reverberated through the ancient stone walls. As Harken followed his peculiar host into the belly of the earth Tese offered some insight on the seemingly unending staircase, “It’ll be a few minutes yet my friend, after all when they built this place the superstition of the dead rising was taken quite seriously. I imagine they felt safer interning corpses a few hundred feet under.”

On the descent a good deal more disturbing anecdotes were offered, often with conflicting details between them. Still, the history of the crypt below became clearer as the pair neared it, inconsistencies giving way to greater truths. Built in the days of the old Verenden Empire the labyrinth below housed the noble dead, war heros, kings, those whose legacies were feared and admired. Since then it had been lost and discovered a half dozen times, with each unearthing turning the underground fortress to new purpose. Slave pens, torture chambers, pleasure pits, the varied history spoke of a place few would ever want to enter; that suited its current occupants perfectly though.

As the two neared the proper main chamber the air started to smell cleaner, a paradox considering one would have imagined even ancient decaying bodies weren’t like to give a pleasant aroma. It was an enigma quickly dispatched though, as the moment Tese reached the final stone door and pushed it inward the sound of rushing water filled the air.

Before them was a vast circular chamber, easily the size of most ball rooms. Above a number of crudely installed electric chandeliers lit the space as best as such piddling lights could, revealing the underground river that ran a ring around the rooms borders. The torrent was held back by stout marble barriers long blackened from smoke, though from their rounded edges it was clear the bulwarks had failed at times in the distant past.

The room proper had blackened floors that revealed ancient tiled artwork where use had worn away the coating, all around could be seen desks and people working on any number of tasks. Yet for all the grandeur of the place Tese skipped not a beat in leading Harken away from the main chamber and towards one of many small bridges on the edge of the great room, each jumping the imprisoned river and leading into the long tunnels whose walls were lined with plaques commemorating the dead within.

Once more they ventured into areas lit only by the scant light of candles Tese navigating the branching maze with practiced ease, eventually bringing the pair to a simple rotted wooden door. A simple kock from test was answered by the muffled voice of a woman, “Come in then, we’ve been waiting.”

Tese pushed the door open to the sound of grinding hinges and gestured for Harken to enter. Within sat a woman and two men at a long table, each in equally flamboyant and unwaveringly immaculate suits that set them apart from the many others Harken had seen on the way in. The woman took the lead as she stood and gestured for the pair to sit, “It’s good to see all went well Tese,” with a pause she regarded Harken and with insincere smile continued, “And better yet to see our… Guest has arrived as expected. My name is Kaela Feste, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same to you Miss Feste.” Harken replied he entered the room. The long journey down the labyrinth of stairs and passages had finally assured Harken of what he had originally feared. This so called liberal party had been driven to a point of utter secrecy. This, on top of the current situation, made Harken feel uneasy to say the least. His ultimate objective was to bring Verendes into the fold, to make it an ally to the Republic and the PRK against their autocratic enemies, but now it seemed he would be working tirelessly just to keep the nation from going to war with its neighbors. He stood before this band of political elite, and sighed, taking off his glasses and placing them in his coat pocket. “Well, I never was really one for grand introductions, so I’ll keep this short and to the point. I am agent Harken of the Avalian Intelligence Agency. Not too long ago, one of your members made contact with us via airdropped message into our borders. I’ve been sent here by my government to evaluate the situation at hand and provide you with the necessary resources and counseling to historically change your government for the better, allowing peace between our nations. Which, I would like to add, means peace with our close ally, the PRK.”

Harken finally took his seat, taking off his hat and placing it on the table.

Kaela sat herself and maintained her facade of amicability even as her displeasure seemed to bleed through, “Change indeed Agent Harken, you are here after all, but before we go any further I must make it clear… We will not bind ourselves to the will of the PRK. Your nation is one thing, but we have no intention of allowing the communists to install a puppet government in Verendes. Not that you would allow such, of course.”

Looking at Tese she continued, “As for the situation I do hope my cousin provided you the basics, but to recap at current our Liberal party exists in parliament, but only so long as Belvon Harns permits it to. Most of our members of parliament are tracked to ensure we stay docile, though as you can see the hubris of old men has allowed some of our younger members the ability to organize what you’ve seen so far, and more.”

On Kaela’s left one of the other nobles, a thin and pale man, took over, “As you can imagine any real change has been difficult to enact legally as a result of this. The most recent laws our party can be held responsible for came under the rule of the last king, since his death Harns has undermined us to the point of irrelevance. We suspect the only reason our party, as well as the noble parliament, continues to exist is to fool the public into thinking they have some level of representation.”

Picking it back up Kaela went on, “A strategy that has made harnessing public discontent difficult. If we act outside of legal means and go to the people directly we’re the enemy and Harns has legal authority to deal with us, if we act within those means we are powerless. This has been the case for several years now, but it seems the situation has changed. Recently arms shipments have gone missing, the military is being bolstered, relations with Moravia are solidifying. We predict the government is on the verge of a coup, and that it will come within the next several months.”

She sighed and finished without any of the faux kindness she had displayed before, “Which brings us to today, reaching out to foreigners and inviting their interests into our nation because we’ve failed to master the situation on our own.”

Shaking his head, Harken pulled from his coat a couple of items. First was a deck of cards, which he began to lay each card out in a certain pattern. After he was satisfied, he pulled out a handkerchief from his front pocket and set it on the table next to the cards. “Well Miss Feste, it seems your nation seems to be screaming towards its own destruction. You’ll likely be either absorbed by Morvaria, destroyed by the PRK, or perhaps even worse, have the people of the ocean take a healthy bite out of your territory. Things are bleak, and you turn to Avalia at what could not possibly be anything but the last minute to try to turn things around. Hmph, well, let us both hope you’ve made the right choice.” He gestured to the items before him. “We will help you and your liberal party in whatever way we can. Avalia will also protect any foreign incursion on your sovereignty as a nation, including the PRK, and promise to ally themselves with Verendes if the government successfully adopts a more representative stance. But that is for later. As they say, you don’t give a man a peanut and expect a farm the next day.”

He began to carefully peel away the surface of each card. “Excuse me, but could you get me a list of these chemicals? Fairly common household things, nothing hard to find.” he said, placing a small piece of paper with the list. While the items were being acquired, he finished his work on the cards. Placed back together, it revealed a map of the border shared between Verendes and Avalia marked with locations of natural and artificial tunnels, hidden border trails, and other various concealed crossing points. “Of the past four or five months, my nation has begun to mark smuggling routes used by both Verendes and Avalian merchants to smuggle goods from my nation to yours and vice versa. Originally, it was to stop such activities, but the AIA saw a great opportunity. So far, these various routes work fairly well. Even I took this one right here near Firebase Echo.” Harken said, gesturing to one particular point on the map.

A small bowl and his requested list of chemicals were soon presented to him. “Ah, thank you. Now, this handkerchief has a list of various weapons, goods, and whatever else you need that can be transported on these routes. To sum it up…” Harken mixed the chemicals then began to soak the handkerchief in the solution. “.. it will be mostly small, easily transportable goods with a few heavy items available depending on the season and time of the month.” As he talked, his plane white handkerchief began to turn brown, revealing it to be covered in text. Gradually, it became legible writing.

“Well then. Shall we begin?”

After looking it over Kaela felt the faintest edges of a genuine smile form, “I suppose we shall Agent Harken, I suppose we shall.”

7:30AM (0 VMT), Royal Palace Complex, Verveaux

Overcast, winter's promised snow had not come to Verveaux and winter would soon come to an end, it was grey outside, the color that characterized most of that winter and rain fell steadily, with little hope of relenting. Voltus was never really perturbed by the weather, he spent most of his days inside, regardless of what was going on weather-wise, too much work for him to go out and enjoy himself. He sat at his desk, framed by clouds that forced their way through the massive window behind him, rising like towers on either side of him, stacks of paper work stood unending, it seemed that no matter how many papers he went through, the stack didn't get any smaller. Voltus yawned, leaning back into his seat and running a hand through his white hair, the leather seat rose around him as he sunk into it; he spent another night with minimal sleep, ever since he was coronated it seemed that it was all he got.

As his eyes flickered shut, a knock came form the direction of the door, annoyed, he opened them to see the door creaking open, through the small gap his wife poked her head through.

His wife was a northern princess, she was the youngest daughter of one of the chiefs that stirred The Frost Wars of the previous decades; at first he never intended on marrying her, mostly because he had never met her. A few days after his coronation (1937) he went to the north to oversee disarming the rebels and finding peace, he and his envoy toured the northern towns and cities, negotiating with the tribal leaders in power; though it seemed that everyone had different criteria for peace. It was on the last of these diplomatic meetings did he meet Marie, after another stalled meeting, he decided to step out of the venue for fresh air and there she was, returning from wherever she was. At first sight his heart had stopped, he was taken so violently by her that he had to force himself to breath; she was without a shadow of a doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was skinny, even that was clear from under the furs she wore, her arms and legs were long and fit perfectly with her spindly body, her hair was as black as pitch and her skin was pale and translucent, most would have thought her sickly but when she walked past him and smiled her pearly smile at him, he knew he was in love.

So he came to visit the chief at an almost weekly basis, at first he only saw Marie briefly but as negotiations carried on and he spent more and more time there, he got to know her and by the time the anniversary of his coronation came around, he had married her; in the end, the marriage seemed to be what everything was waiting for, stalled negotiations installed and reached conclusions with such brevity that they were all rapped up within a time most politicians thought impossible. But most importantly to him, he had gained the object of his desire.

Marie pushed the door and it yawned open effortlessly, she stood in the doorway, wearing a plain, white dress. She leaned against the door frame and folded her arms across her chest, giving him a small smile, "Ustala?^[1]" Voltus nodded, drained, and sat up a bit straighter, his wife crossing the room to his side and planting her bony self onto his lap, she sighed into his chest. "Mayhaps, if you stay bed more, you would not as tired be, no?" Voltus snorted in amusement.

"Dorogaya..^[2]" he mumbled, resting his chin on her shoulder, "If the opportunity presents itself I would surely take it unto myself as an obligation to spend more hours in bed, however such an opportunity has yet to make itself known." he placed a gentle kiss on her jaw, "Now go and enjoy the day, do not feel compelled to remain cramped in this room among the papers and I." Marie reached behind her and squeezed Voltus' arm, before levering herself off his lap and heading to the doors. But as she approached the large oak doors, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"Just.. Do not work yourself to bone, if you need me, I in drawing room." With that, Marie stepped through the doors and clicked them shut, Voltus leaned back into his seat and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Back to work."



7:30PM (0 VMT), West Wing - Royal Palace Complex, Verveaux

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 Nest, as it was the farthest living room and the one most frequented by the royals, for its comfort and seclusion, 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? ^[3]" 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? ^[4]" 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 ^[5]." 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. ^[6]" 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 far flung dominions and colonies, people were listening in, Voltus wanted to make sure that no Ventian was missing out or anyone for that matter.



8:45PM (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."

The first thing Voltus heard was a gaggle of tinny, high pitched giggles, he cringed and raised his headphones off of his head, turing around to see Petrov doing the same from beyond the window behind him. After a few moments a little voice peeped through the speakers in his head set. "Hello?"

"Hello to you too," replied Voltus, grinning, the voice seemed to belong to a little girl "What's your name sweetie?"

"Claudia." She said, provoking titters from the other little girls around her.

"So what is your question, Claudia?" Voltus asked, leaning back into his chair and taking another sip from his cup.

"I don't have a question your highness, I just wanted to say hello." Voltus chuckled softly and put his glass down.

"Well in that case, Hello Claudia, and sadly bye bye."

"Bye!" she called though the phone, shortly after Voltus heard the receiver click back into it's holder, ending the call.

"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 let out a long, tired sigh.

"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 I'm preoccupied with other things, I have to rendezvous with a foreign delegation at the train station soon," Petrov nodded in acknowledgment and gathered up his hat and coat, looking a bit disappointed. "You know I would if I could, Petrov."

"I am aware. Well then, until next time Voltus."

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



9:30PM (0 VMT), Imperial Rail Terminal, Verveaux

Tick. Tick Tick.

Voltus sat at a bench under one of the station clocks, taping his foot in time with the strokes of the clock. The rain had not let up, it poured and poured and was relentless in it's efforts to drench everything, though thankful the interior of the station was dry. Dotted along the length of the platform were members of the royal guard, dressed in full uniform and fully armed, their steeds neighing and strolling around the open interior of the station, eating potted plants and otherwise being polite, or rather as polite as horses could be. Voltus himself was wearing a white trench coat, looking a bit drenched from riding in the rain, his white hair was plastered to his face and an uncomfortable amount of water had gathered within his boots; though he didn't let how water logged he was deter him and as he heard the nearing whistle of the train, he rose form the bench.

"Gentlemen, mount your steeds, the Princess is here." he himself had arrived on horse back, but as tradition dictated, he would have the guest of honor ride his horse back to the palace. He produced a wide black umbrella from where it was tucked under his arm and as the train pulled into the station, smoothed back his hair, "Formation!" he barked and they formed two rows on either side of where the door would be. Though on the outside he appeared calm, inside anxieties bubbled, the princess would be his first visiting dignitary and he wanted everything to be perfect. "Just be yourself." he mumbled as the train ground to a halt.

Footnotes:

1. "Tired?"
2. "Darling..."
3. "What does this say, darling?"
4. "Come on, what does it say?"
5. Tzan: An archaic Ventian dialect, considered to be a precursor language to Ventian.
6. "Who knew a Tsar could be such an asshole?"