ZB1996 — Roleplayer Guild

Numa, Kingdom of Zenovia

 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.”

Ilezabeta City, Saint Radmi’s Hall

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.”

Ilezabeta City, House of Commons, Kingdom of Zenovia

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.

Yes		No
Zenovii Patriotic Party		197		65
Centrist Democracy Party		90		91		
Radical Party				60
					347		156

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.

Ilezabeta City, Military Headquarters

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.

In Far South Zenovia

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.”
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