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The Progenitor – New Reema, Papal Pedria – August 14, 1868 - Response to Miklozia

Madam Claudine emerged into the sweltering heat of New Reema at midday. Clutching a package bound in brown paper and a ribbon made of twine, Madam Claudine quickly made for her handsome carriage drawn by four white horses. Once inside the carriage she hastily unwound the twine, drawing the curtains on the carriage windows for increased security as the item within the paper slowly revealed itself.

“Where to, ma’am?” Asked the driver, knocking on the carriage door.

Quickly stuffing the gift underneath her rich purple cape lined with seal pup fur, Madam Claudine then opened the door to the carriage, though only slightly. “Palazzo Pitti,” she said, her voice deep and monotonous.

Tipping his hat, the driver made for the front of the carriage as Madam Claudine slammed the door shut. Turning her attention back to the contents of the package, Madam Claudine smiled wickedly as she withdrew close to a thousand Papal Liras. “Oh,” she said, sitting back in her seat to fan herself with the money, “Gianpaolo it’s going to take a lot more than money to keep me quiet.” Cackling, Madam Claudine withdrew the curtain to the carriage window on her right as the carriage began to move. Then, flinging the wad of cash out the window, Madam Claudine watched in delight as passersby scrambled to get as much of the money as they possibly could.

Governor Gianpaolo Regio, Lord of Pedria and Conqueror of the Heights, gently poured himself a glass of bourbon, the brown liquid swelling and swirling inside of the tiny crystal glass that he had received as a gift from Pope Adrian VII the year before. Raising the glass to his lips, Gianpaolo let loose a satisfied sigh as the liquid cascaded down his parched throat. “Excellent,” he said, tipping the glass in his butler’s direction. “Once more you’ve proven yourself to be quite the connoisseur of fine beverages, d’Artello.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” d’Artello said, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “You’re too kind.”

Grinning as he took another sip, Gianpaolo turned back around, his loosely fitting silk bathrobe swaying as he approached the foot of his bed. “Leave us, d’Artello,” he said, leaning against the mahogany post that towered over the silks and satins that enrobed his wife. Checking over his shoulder to make sure that the butler had gone, Gianpaolo set the drink back down on the table before striding over to his wife’s side of the bed.

“What time is it?” She asked, barely conscious.

Gianpaolo smiled, her dark brown hair, thick as a forest yet soft as butter, was covering half her face. The other half poked up in various patches around her head, sweeping over her pillow. Her left arm lay tucked beneath her while her right was dangling off the side of the bed. Taking her dangling hand in his, Gianpaolo kissed her palm. “It’s nearly eleven, my darling,” he cooed.

Gasping, Madam Regio shot straight up, surprising Gianpaolo who tumbled forward as she withdrew her hand. Landing in her lap, the governor began to laugh as she scrambled to get out from underneath him. “We’re late!” She cried, trying desperately to unwind herself from the plethora of blankets. “We were supposed to meet with Lord Accardi fifteen minutes ago!” Jumping into the bathroom, Madam Regio launched a hairbrush at her husband. “Why didn’t you wake me? Lady Accardi is not a patient woman and I do not want to deal with her snobby attitude when next we meet.” Thumbing her nose and turning her voice into that of an old crone, Madam Regio gleefully mocked the old Lady Accardi. “‘You’re always so late,’ she’ll say. ‘The Governor shouldn’t have married one so young and so immature.’”

“Relax,” Gianpaolo said, entering the doorway to their Turkish themed bathroom. “I was up an hour ago and sent d’Artello down to tell them that you were unwell and to give them my regards. It’s all taken care of.”

Pausing, Madam Regio relished in the idea of not having to face the snobby Lady Accardi. “Well, you shouldn’t have said that. Because now she’ll no doubt think that I’m with child.”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you were,” Gianpaolo said. “That just means that we could get out of all sorts of unpleasant dinner parties, meetings, and the like.” Kissing her neck as his hands embraced her waist, Gianpaolo whispered, “Shall we try?”

Downstairs, the carriage containing Madam Claudine rolled through the north colonnade that gently sloped to the east side of the palace just beneath the private quarters of the Governor. “Driver!” Madam Claudine called as the carriage slowed down. “Do make certain that you remain nearby. I don’t have any interest in walking far should things go awry.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” the driver replied, tugging on the reins to force the four horses drawing her carriage to a halt. Stopping directly in front of the large oak door that led into the private underbelly of the palace, the driver quickly hopped down from his perch to unlatch the door to the carriage for Madam Claudine.

Stretching a long, shaven leg out from the darkness of the carriage, Madam Claudine made a show of her arrival. As her white lace-up boot hit the cobblestone, her driver watched in dismay as her red velvet taffeta dress cascaded down her leg followed rapidly by her purple cape laced with white seal pup fur. Crowning this display was a tight net that kept her sun-dyed blonde hair neatly tucked above her neck as a few ostrich plumes danced with every twist and turn of her head. The only sound to be heard as she strode towards the door was from the ten-foot strand of pearls wrapped around her neck.

“Oh God!” Exclaimed d’Artello, nearly dropping his tray of silver as he darted back around the corner of the hallway. “She’s here.” Handing his tray off to a nearby maid, d’Artello bolted upstairs, tripping on his shoelace as it came undone halfway down the main hall on the third floor.

Laughter echoed down the paneled corridor as d’Artello came down with a thud. The laughter, emanating from the top of the staircase, sent shivers down the man’s spine. “Oh, d’Artello,” Madam Claudine chuckled, “always such a clutz.”

d’Artello struggled to get to his feet as Madam Claudine, striding along at a leisurely pace, stepped over him, then on him. Releasing a crude yelp as her heel dug into his right hand, d’Artello dared to swipe at her with his free hand, only to miss and fall face-down on the green carpet.

“Stop!” He said, getting up to chase after her. “You are not welcome here! Leave at once!”

“Oh, dear d’Artello,” Madam Claudine said, her hand gently knocking against the door to Gianpaolo’s bedroom. “You will find that I will soon be a very welcome guest here.” Refusing to wait long for a response, Madam Claudine opened the door and strode into the room. “Gianpaolo,” she called, “I’m here now, darling.”

Emerging from the Turkish bath, Gianpaolo looked on in stunned silence, his hands frozen mid-motion as he buttoned up his shirt. “Wha-” he stuttered, “what are you doing here.” She can’t be here, he thought I paid her never to return.

Placing her hands on her stomach Madam Claudine smiled maliciously. “I’m here to introduce you to your child, Gianpaolo.”

“Your what?”

Gianpaolo whirled around, his wife appearing behind him.

“Gianpaolo, who is this woman?” Madam Regio demanded. “What is she doing in my bedroom and why did she just say that she’s carrying your child?”

Gianpaolo turned back to Madam Claudine. “She’s no one,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing but a liar. A common rat.”

Madam Claudine threw her hands back in indignation. “A rat? Please. Would a rat be bearing the future Governor Regio?” She turned her gaze to Madam Regio. “I think not.”

“Gianpaolo,” Madam Regio gasped, throwing her hand up to her mouth. “You couldn’t have… Did you? Have you been,” she paused, horror filling her eyes, “have you been sleeping with her?”

“No, my darling,” Gianpaolo said, turning back to his wife. “I swear that I don’t know who this is.” Taking her hand in his, the governor tried to console his wife, his efforts going in vain when the same hand tore away from his only to slap him across the face.

“Oh bravo, my darling,” Madam Claudine said, her eyes full of hate. “If only all women were that brave. No, your dear husband is lying to you.” Presenting her dress, feathers, pearls, diamonds, and all, Madam Clauding proudly announced, “I am a common rat, I will admit. But no common rat could afford any of this, not to mention my house on Dominican Street without a proper financial boost. No, darling, I’m afraid that your husband has been bribing me for my silence. Something that I will no longer stand for as I now bear his child, something that I hear you’ll never be able to do.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Gianpaolo pleaded. “She’s lying. Someone else must be pay-”

“d’Artello!” Madam Regio called, shoving her husband aside. “Did you show this rat up to my room?”

“N-no, Madam. She seemed to know her way up.” d’Artello winced, Gianpaolo throwing him a dirty look. There goes my career, he thought.

“He’s right, you know,” Madam Claudine said. “I know my way around this palace, this room, very well, and no amount of money, not even from the richest man in all of Vranastrova, will keep me silent about this. I am the mother of a Regio whether you want to admit it or not.”

Turning to her husband, Madam Regio found that he would no longer look her in the eye, his shame overwhelming him as his dirty little secret finally came to the surface. Grief filling the void where once her heart was, Madam Regio made for the door, shoving Madam Claudine aside as she flew by in a flurry of green satin and passementerie.

“My darling!” Gianpaolo called, chasing after her. “My darling, I can explain!”

Turning back to look over her shoulder, Madam Regio misjudged the distance between herself and the staircase; terror overtaking her as her foot missed the first step. Shrieking, Madam Regio began her long tumble.

Gianpaolo followed her down the steps, taking them two at a time before coming to a stop at the bottom where Madam Regio lay, her face bruised and bloodied. “No, no, no,” Gianpaolo pleaded. “No, my darling, not like this. Oh God! Not like this!” Cradling her body in his arms, Gianpaolo wept as a congregation of maids and footmen gathered around them.

Then, from the top of the marble stairs, came the rhythmic clacking of heels against marble. “Oh,” Madam Claudine said unsympathetically, “how very tragic.” Leaning down against Gianpaolo’s ear, Madam Claudine smiled most devilishly. “I think I’ll wear green satin at the wedding.”

Miklozia, Arcadisia, Baja formosa, and Cathanistan

Question 4

The Golden Aristocrat

The history of Kalonia is filled with the stories of aristocrats and people with fortunes large enough to build kingdoms. These people of the Upper Class of the Upper Class have long been influential to the history of Kalonia, controlling the events which shape the nation. One such man is Baron Louis Pearson, a wealthy industrialist and widely regarded as the richest man in the nation.

Baron Pearson was born on October 18th 1862 and was raised in an aristocratic family, his father, Baron Archibald Pearson the 2nd, was a wealthy man who gained much of his fortune through the trade of steel and other metals. However, Louis had little contact with his parents as he was taught at a prestigious private academy far from his home, which made his childhood quite detrimental to his mental health, but since he was part of the Upper Class, this was to be expected. Louis finished at the private academy to then begin a job in management for his father, at this time, Louis had more money than most of the population; at the age of 21. Louis began to forge his reputation in his father’s company, being the first born; Louis had an obligation to help his father with the business as it would soon be his.

Louis worked for his father in such a way, he worked from a high management position to COO. Louis began to take over more and more of the business as his father began to fall deathly ill, and two days after Louis turned 27, his father passed away. Louis received 80% of his father’s assets and was promoted to CEO of his father’s company. Louis began to expand his new company further than anyone could imagine, beginning to not only trade metals, but refining metals and using them to build anything from ships to engines, and Louis changed the name of the company from “Archibald Trade” to “Pearson General Metalworks”,
The new company began to supply businesses fishing corporations, automobile corporations and utility corporations. Pearson General Metalworks began to produce more and more and eventually, started to supply the Kalonian Royal Navy, Army and Air Force.

Baron Louis began to become so widely known in aristocratic circles that he was simply known as “The Baron”. Baron Louis helped supply Kalonia through many hardships and eventually began to seek a better political standing, he joined the political field as a Liberal politician and was able to gain a seat in the House of Commons. The Baron gained much more standing in this regard and it was seen the power he held.

The Baron ordered the construction of a massive mansion in the County of Cesswoodshire to truly show his wealth. The Baron commissioned several massive statues of himself which would sit on the 30 acres of land he owned. Baron Louis Pearson was so wealthy, he seemed to put other billionaires to shame. Baron Louis Pearson still lives to this day and supplies Kalonia in the war effort at the age of 78. It is difficult to calculate Baron Louis Pearson’s wealth but it was last calculated that he had a net worth of over 307 million Kalonian Pounds.

In short, Baron Louis Pearson holds the title of richest person in Kalonia and he has made his way into Kalonian history.

Post self-deleted by Fuegrado.

The meeting on the navy

Councilor Balam would be the first to speak, "We need to fund our navy! Long ago we were attacked by the sea and it is likely the next time we are at war the sea will be our weak point!"

The councilor sitting across from him, Itzel, speaks up after he finishes, "With all do respect Balam I do agree but the problem is what do we build the ships from? Our land is full of the orange metal the traders call 'copper' but the traders use steel, so what is your plan"

Balam would quickly reply to the question, "A copper fleet! It would be a force to be feared by all! We may not have steel but we have copper. If the gods did not seek our greatness they would not bless us with this metal!"

As Balam finishes councilor Alexio, the only foreigner on the council, speaks up, "It would never work, simple as that. While I do respect you Balam a copper ship would never work, but councilor Nicte had an idea I think would work much better."

As Nicte hears her name she coughs and waits a second and says a little bit after Alexio finishes, "It would be a fleet made of wooden boats, like in the old years."

Balam laughs at this and looks at her confused, "Have you seen the foreigners ships? They shoot fire balls for miles! They would destroy a wooden ship in seconds!"

Nicte looks at Balam and answers as he finishes, "Simple really, we make the fleet but coat them in a thin layer of copper, it would be easily repairable during battle, highly maneuverable, and would work with what we have in our lands."

As she finishes Balam seemed annoyed but would drop the matter and let Ixchel speak, "And what exactly will our fleet focus on? We will never have the fire power to better deal with-."

Near the end as it seemed like Ixchel was going to continue Yaxkin would interrupt him, "Boarding tactics. We could trade for steel and have our ships all be of one class. They would be given a spike on the front that would ram into enemy ships and allow a large boarding fleet to attack the ship and capture them."

The council would soon agree to send these plans to the navy generals with four of the councilors being absent from the meeting the mentioned councilors discussing the state of the army.

The Reeman Spring – Reema, Vranastrova – October 7, 1867 – Response to Caloy

Darkness settled on the Palazzo Callixto III as men and women, clothed in the guise of a pauper, skuttled about, hurriedly stuffing valuables and ancient artifacts into crates that were methodically being moved into the palace’s vast necropolis. Outside, as panic within the darkening palace grew, churned a vast horde of native Reemans, each one wielding a torch or crude weapon. From within the cavernous halls of the palace echoed the crowd’s persistent chanting: “Viva la Repubblica!”

On the third floor, some sixty feet above the crowds, sat Pope Adrian VII, his thin, wrinkled face slumped into the palm of his right hand. Watching carefully as a servant packed a trunk full of his favorite papal vestments, Adrian lamented having ever given in to the liberal factions that plagued Reema’s hierarchy. Elected in 1840, Adrian had sat on the Throne of St. Peter for close to thirty years, his long reign distinguished by his decision to not only permit the formation of a legislative assembly chosen by popular vote, but also by his decision to promote it. At least, that is how Adrian VII began his reign as Pope of the Reeman Mother Church.

When the assembly was introduced in the fall of 1842, Adrian had believed that papal authority over the Vranan Princely Republic had been secured. His surety of Papal infallibility, later cemented in Marcelline I, a Church Council held between 1850-51, only served to groom his growing ego as God’s chosen. In his eyes, nothing that he could do or say would ever be wrong.

That was, until the assassination of his finance minister, a deeply beloved man who was seen as a balance to the Pope’s growing conservatism, on October 1, 1867. Following the man’s death, seen as an attack on liberal values, the liberals within Reema took to the streets, demanding an expansion of the democratic government and broader social reforms. Adrian, who had begun to limit the assembly’s authority following Marcelline I, quickly ordered that the Calarimian Guard and the city’s police get the rioters under control. What resulted was a disaster.

On October 5, Interior Minister Rufo Fanucchi, himself a liberal, called for the end of papal temporal authority and lambasted the Pope for his decision to use force against the people of Reema whom he had long professed to love. Despite calls for calm from other ministers, Fanucchi persisted in stoking the fires. By October 7, Reema herself was knocking at the doors of Adrian’s primary residence.

Adrian’s eyes flicked to the window, an orange glow from the many hundreds of torches brandished by the crowd filling his room with light. Standing up slowly, Adrian then turned his gaze to the servant who was still packing his trunk. “That will be all, Helene,” he said. “There is no use in trying to take anything else. Inform Captain Natsuki that I am ready.” Or at least as ready as he could ever be.

“Yes, Holiness,” the servant said, bowing her head as she made for the door. Within moments, Captain Natsuki, lacking all the color and pomp of his office and ceremonial armour, appeared in the doorway flanked by four other guardsmen.

“Holiness,” Captain Natsuki said, his Vranan heavily accented, “get away from the window!” Dashing across the room, Natsuki only narrowly saved Adrian from being clobbered with a piece of the cobblestone roads that covered Reema. “The crowd has begun to throw stones at the palazzo,” he said, aiding the old pontiff back to his feet.

Adrian, finding it difficult to keep his balance, held fast to Natsuki as the four other guards hauled his trunk out of the room. His face twisting with disgust, Adrian turned his attention to Natsuki’s attire. A green tunic, leather boots, and a wool vest, stained for effect, had replaced the bright yellow and red costume that the Guard traditionally wore. Permitting himself a smile, Adrian said, “Well, Natsuki, it looks like you’re not the only one who will look ridiculous tonight.”

Natsuki let loose a hearty laugh, drawing His Holiness to the other side of the room away from the shouting crowds. “No, but at least I almost look normal!”

“Holiness! Captain!” Shouted one of the servants. “The crowds have broken through the Porto Pio and are pouring into the Sacred Hall. You must leave. Now!”

Adrian’s face turned to horror as the cries of the crowds began to fill the ancient halls of his palace. How very unfair it all seemed to be to the old pope, the final years of his golden pontificate marred now in the dust of revolution. His aching joints urging him to sit back down, Adrian forced himself on as the palace was overrun. Escaping through the Porta Nord, Adrian and Natsuki, followed closely by a group of disguised Guardsmen and servants, quickly made for the city’s eastern gate.

“Get to the Via Etrusca,” Adrian begged as the company that he was trying so desperately to escape with lifted him onto a hay wagon. “Hurry!” Placing the Pope and the servants onto the wagon, Natsuki and the Guards ran alongside, their swords hidden beneath their wool vests and cloaks, ready to fight to the death in defense of the Pope if need be.

Inside the Palazzo, Fanucchi, surrounded by the mob that had stormed the palace, began his search high and low for the Pope, eager to accept the man’s surrender. “Well?” He asked one of the mob’s chief instigators. “Is he here?”

The man, no more than 30 years old, hadn’t heard Fanucchi, his eyes drifting about at the frescoes, crystal chandeliers, and porcelain vases that dotted the room. “And to think that the rest of us live in huts,” he said, though his voice could not hide his amazement at it all.

Grunting, Fanucchi stepped forward, grabbing his tunic near his neck to get his attention back to the here and now. “Listen to me! Did you find Adrian?”

“N-no, Minister Fanucchi,” the man whimpered. “He’s not here.”

“Not here? How could the Pope not be here?” Fanucchi released the man’s tunic, his mouth quickly shifting from a scowl to a wide smile. An opportunity could yet present itself. “People of Reema!” He called out, gathering the mob’s attention. “His Holiness, Pope Adrian VII is gone. Fled no doubt. He must have seen the power and might of the people of this city and run.”

“What about the republic?” Shouted a man from the crowd. “What does this mean for us?”

Fanucchi smiled wider, satisfaction settling on his lips. “It means, my dear people, that we have won! Reema, and indeed the whole of the Princely Republic, belong to us! So come, put forward your chosen candidate and vote! Vote tonight for wrath, for ruin, and for the end of kings!”

____________________________________________________

Reema, Vranastrova Proper – April 14, 1868

In the following months, Adrian began to make appeals to his powerful Reeman neighbors, calling upon Aucerosa’s pious monarchs to restore him to glory in Reema. “It is your moral, Christian duty,” he would declare in his countless statements, “to restore Us to Our rightful place in God’s holy city.” Able to do nothing but helplessly watch as the Princely Republic was transformed into a land full of anti-Church policies and godless figureheads, Adrian VII grew bitter in his lament, vowing to wipe clean the earth of the immoral stench of democracy.

Then, on December 21, 1867, messengers from the Empire of Miklozia brought news that their king had, in keeping with not only his pious devotion to God and Papacy but also to the ancient bonds that bound Vranastrova and Miklozia together, sanctioned an army to attack Reema. The news, coming on the tail of a slew of excommunications as Adrian sought to dismantle the Republic through use of his own authority – something that was now greatly ignored – brought great relief to the aging pontiff.

To Adrian’s dismay, however, the army would not arrive on the shores of Vranastrova until early April of 1868. Landing near the town of Santo Celestino, the army marched quickly though the chilled countryside to assault Reema. As this was happening, men from within the ruling classes of the new Republic began to panic.

“How dare they!” Bemoaned Vitore Barbetta, a professor who had been elected to serve in the nation’s first triumvirate in October. “The audacity of it all! Surely the nations of this world, the people of this world, see that religion is nothing but a backwards invention, something meant to oppress all progress and civil prosperity. How long have the Popes led Vranastrova? How long have they had to prove that their faith is more than just dark age mysticism?”

Holding his hand up, Fanucchi, elected as the triumvirate’s predominant voice the night Adrian fled Reema, called for the man to be silent. “Your fears are well grounded, Vitore,” Fanucchi said, his voice clear and calm. “But mocking the Holy Father’s faith in the halls of God’s greatest house on earth may prove to be more fatal than you realize. We are at war with the Miklozians, yes, but there is no need to panic. I say that we make for the hills of Janicula where we will be safe.” Fanucchi strode to the center of the room, ignoring several men who dared to call him a coward. “Janicula is full of ancient grottos. We will be able to regroup with others who survive the coming war. Then, when the time is right, we’ll reemerge and take back what is ours.”

Vitore, taken aback by the inconceivable plan, stood silent for a moment. “No,” he bit out, spittle flying from his mouth as the veins on his face began to bulge. “How dare you suggest such a thing. After all the trouble we’ve been through! The horrors we’ve endured! And you want to turn tail and run just like that? How dare you!”

“Now, Vitore,” Fanucchi calmly replied, “there is no need for name calling.”

“Name c-, name calling?” Vitore’s voice quieted to a whisper, his body trembling with rage. “You finally show your true colors at the last, the moment when this republic, the one you gave life to, enters its death throes you turn tail and run for the hills.” Raising his voice, Vitore turned to the other men gathered in the nave of St. Patrick’s. “Is this the man who will lead us to victory? A coward! Someone who would sooner sink the very ship he put to see as captain than to patch the holes and sail ever onward.”

“But who will lead us?” Asked one of the men gathered, his question echoed by countless others.

“I will lead you!” Vitore answered. “I will lead you through the storm and we shall emerge on the other side with our dear Republic intact.”

Just then, the great bronze doors that separated the assembly from the rest of Reema swung open, a boy no more than 17 bolting across the marble floors to reach the back of the crowd. “They’re here!” He shouted. “The Miklozians have arrived!”

Vitore smiled. “Our time has come.”

Fanucchi, forever erring on the side of caution, saw the way the wind was blowing and followed it out of Reema. His departure from the city mirrored that of Adrian six months prior. As Vitore rallied hundreds of men to his cause, Fanucchi and his closest friends and family made for the Black Gate along the Via Gregoria, Reema’s primary artery to northern Lerizia. As cannonballs began to rain down on the Republican strongholds, Fanucchi made his escape into the hills of Janicula where he intended to send out a call for aid to other republicans across the Princely Republic.

Vitore, charging head on into the Miklozian lines as the Republicans met them in the Piazza del Popolo, was mortally wounded, shot in the left eye as he barked orders to his men on the third day of fighting. Disheartened, outnumbered, and without a leader, seeing as the third member of the triumvirate had departed with Fanucchi on the day of the assault, the rebellious Reemans began to wave the white flag of surrender across the city. Hours later, the Reeman Republic was ended.

Miklozia, Arcadisia, Ashdia, Baja formosa, and 1 otherCathanistan

Post by Tarmoon suppressed by Miklozia.

Central aucerosa

Central aucerosa wrote:Question #2

Chasing

October 7th, 1940

Alcatz

As the sun set over Alcatz, the fall chills had begun to set in. It wasn't snowing quite yet, but it was noticeably colder than it was just a few weeks ago. It was at this time when the factories began to close, and the workers, covered in grime and sweat, left the building, and one of these men was named Lucien. Lucien was a Mozakan immigrant, having fled across the border as Mozaka proper fell to the armies of Miklozia, his only help having been that his wife is Mu'yan and that her family was willing to take them in for the time being. Many other men, however, were not so fortunate. As Lucien walked home, several of the streets by the factories were lined with homeless men, many of whom were refugees from the countries around Central Aucerosa, whether they be Mozakan, Hundslandic, Peskrian, or Matsraks. Even those in the factory whom he worked with were from those immigrant groups, as they were willing to work for less than their Central Aucerosan counterparts. Even then, the complaints about the mounting refugee crisis, and the job crisis that emerged with it, have fallen on deaf ears as the government remains eternally deadlocked, stuck talking about nothing as the Emperor continues in his months long attempt to deadlock the government into giving him power. Signs litter the streets, many of which asking for the basic necessities to live, others denouncing the government and the last few being propaganda papers of old.

As he approached his home and the side streets of the factories turned into the townhouses of the city, the homeless moved from the street into the alleys, their words drowned out by the shadows of the well-off, and their problems cast aside like the rats that filled those alleys once before. Lucien himself chose never to look into those alleys as he wanted to keep those issues away from home... Away from his family. As he arrived at the steps of his mother-in-law's house, his son swung open the door. "Papa, papa!" The boy yelled as he flew into his father's arms.

"Ahh, Remi, it is so nice to see you again! How has school been?"

"It's been hard, still can't really talk to anyone or my teachers since they don't speak Mozakan and I still get bullied a lot... At least I still have my friend, I can talk to him just fine."

"Well that's good at least, now let's head inside."

The townhouse was small, but big enough to accommodate his family and his wife's parents. By then, his wife was nearly finished making supper, and his parents-in-law had already seated themselves at the table. As Lucien sat down, his wife emerged from the kitchen with soup in hand. "Nira! I see you've made dinner while I was gone?"

Nira nodded, and set down the soup. Remi sighed and spoked in a dragged out tone. "Mama, soup and bread again?"

"Yes Remi, that's all we have right now."

"But what about butter?"

"We don't have that either, now eat."

"Aww..."

Lucien spoke up. "You don't have to be so tough on the boy, he's still young."

"But that doesn't change that we still have no butter or any other foods. The war... It's brought with it a lack of food imports, and the constant fearmongering by the news about food shortages has lead to actual food shortages in the markets as people buy more than they need. Doesn't help that the government won't do anything about it either..."

"Calm down... I'm thankful at least that I can come home to a loving family and a dinner table with food on it, and Remi, you should always be thankful for what you have, like your friend for example, wouldn't school be a lot harder without him?"

"Yeah..."

"Yeah... Now let's eat, I'm starving!"

The family ate and settled for the night.

The following morning started with a bang... Literally. Lucien and Nira jolted out of bed, the memories of the war in Mozaka replaying in their heads. They looked outside and could see a plume of dust rising in the distance. Before they could do anything else, they began to hear Remi begin to cry in his room. Nira ran down as Lucien continued to watch to his horror. He in continued disbelief ran downstairs after Nira. When he got downstairs, Remi was in Nira's arms, having mostly calmed down. Remi looked towards Lucien. "Papa... Are the Miklozians bombing us again?"

"No, son... Don't worry, the Miklozians won't bomb us here..."

The ground began to shake as the sound of an engine could be heard approaching their house. Lucian ran towards the window to look outside, and outside were several Mu'yan soldiers walking down the road, a tank accompanying them as they went through the neighborhood. Lucien swore under his breath. Nira walked over towards Lucien, Remi still in her arms. "What's happening?"

Lucien looked back. "I don't know..." The house fell silent, the tank having left it a while ago. As they began to settle down, a man began to bang on the door. A voice was shouting on the other side of it, Lucien recognizing it as his neighbor. "Lucien! Get out here, there's something important on the radio!" Lucien and Nira got up, and went outside, where several of their other neighbors were huddled around a radio. They went over to the radio, pushing through the small crowd to get to the radio. Lucien looked to the neighbor that banged on his door. "What's happening?" At that moment the radio began to talk, and the crowd fell silent.

"To the citizens of Central Aucerosa: my name is Iem Ain, Chief of the Army. This morning, at 08:04, there was an explosion at the Congress building. In the wake of this explosion, President Shiem Sao... was killed. This explosion has been linked to traitorous elements in the military, Congress, and Emperor Mara himself. As such, effective immediately, I shall be placed as the provisional president of the country, the nation shall be put under a state of martial law until all traitorous elements have been removed from the country, and the title of Emperor shall be stripped from Mara... And Mara, if you're listening, we have besieged your residence. You have 30 minutes to surrender to us peacefully or we will be forced to take drastic military action, and to the people of Central Aucerosa, do not fear, for today, you have been freed from the imperialist shackles that once corrupted this country. Today, Central Aucerosa will be reborn! Vevə Ọcŕroza Səntral, Vevə lə Rəpubləka!" The radio fell silent, the the crowds, shocked, began to head home in silence.

Nira looked over towards Lucien. "Do you think things will get better now?" Lucien looked back at her before turning back towards home, not having said a word.

Fading

October 8th, 1940

Alcatz

"You have 30 minutes to surrender to us peacefully or we will be forced to take drastic military action." Mara polished his gold-plated revolver as the royal guard began to barricade the palace. Since the explosion that rocked the Congress building that morning, he had been trying to reach his generals, but got no answer back with the telegraph lines being cut that morning. He looked outside for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, seeing the tanks parked outside of the gates, the planes flying overhead, and a large group of soldiers outside of the building. A guard ran up behind Mara, who turned around almost with glee. "So the catacombs are clear?"

"No your highness. The four guards we sent down there were shot and the door has since been barricaded off. It looks like we are indeed trapped here."

"Damnit... And of course, we still haven't been able to reach General Razrim either... But I'll tell you now that if General Ain thinks this will be easy, then he'll be in for a treat."

As the next 30 minutes passed, 15 minute and 5 minute warnings were issued as the doors were blocked shut and the windows were covered save for a few holes for the guards to shoot out of. At last, the final demand was issued, and the palace fell silent, the guards waiting for the next move, and the Emperor loading his revolver. Then, at once, hell broke loose. The gates to the palace blown open, and from there a tank strolled to the front doors as a battalion of soldiers charging into the building, with the guard firing on them as they charged in, only to be met by the army firing back and the most unfortunate getting blown apart by the tank. The door was blown open, the guard setting up a machine gun behind it, ready to tear down anyone who walked through the door before the army flushed them out with grenades. The guard affixed bayonets to their rifles, and as brutal close quarters fighting erupted in the building, the Emperor with his escort found themselves moving to another part of the building, their old location about to be overrun by the army. At once, a grenade landed in front of them, one of the guards attempting to jump in front of Mara before it exploded, that guard being killed instantly and Mara falling to the ground, having been hit by some of the shrapnel of the grenade. The two soldiers rounded the corner before getting shot by the guard, before they looked down to see the Emperor badly injured and unable to get up. More soldiers rounded the corner, shooting the guard before they could flee. Mara raised his revolver at the soldiers approaching him before blacking out.

Mara came back to to the sound of gunshots going off outside of where he was. By then, he was in a hospital bed, but one of a prison. He couldn't move his left leg without his hip giving him great pain, and he couldn't see out of his left eye. He was alone in the room, unknowing of where or what day it was, and only hearing the noise of footsteps approaching him. He heard the noise of a gate opening, and before his bed stood General Razrim.

"Good to see you're recovering, your highness."

"Razrim..? What are you... Doing... Here..?"

"Isn't it obvious? Getting you out of here, your highness. Ain may have secured Alcatz, but many of us aren't accepting him as our leader. In the last 5 days he's suspended Congress and-"

"It's been 5 days? Have I really... Been out for that long?"

"...Yes, and from what you're saying you're sounding like you've been in comatose in that time, so let me sum it up: 5 days, Congress suspended, the signing of a ton of executive orders and promising a return to democracy once we've been dealt with."

"Ain... The motherf***er's gonna get what's coming to him soon... But where... Am I?"

"We're south of Alcatz. The army found you after their assault and put you here, but we encircled the prison before they could get you out. In two days you're supposed to be in Alcatz to stand trial for what you've done... But they've been unable to secure the countryside, and now we're ready for a counterattack on Alcatz proper. I was thinking that we indeed be there in Alcatz in two days... Not for your trial... But Ain's."

Mara grinned. "Of course... We shall be there..."

Miklozia, Arcadisia, Ashdia, Baja formosa, and 1 otherCathanistan

"Teutonic"
April 1st, 1941
The Alpine Mountains, Exoa

An aged, 1930 Reichsland co. phone began to shake against the wall, ringing incessantly. Exoan machines were always designed to be efficient, and the nation's telephones were no different. Finally, the ringing ceased, and a crude voice muffled by the smoke of a cigar began on the other end.

"Today is the day, my friend." The voice said. "For so long we have waited to exact our revenge against the United Alliance, against those who doomed our nations in the last war. I know you are proud of the empire I have crafted, the war I have waged and will win. Finally, revenge."

The voice became silent for another moment, a huff of smoke in between rushed breaths. "But... I only wish you could be here to guide me along. You were always a far better leader than I." If anyone had been listening to the call, they would've been able to hear the man's growing grin from the other end. "But today... our ultimate revenge will finally be enacted. Goodbye, Frederik." The man said, before hanging up the phone, the old Reichsland model becoming silent once again within the ruined estate, struck with thick layers of snow.

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The Parliament Building
Mikhaelia, Miklozia

The roaring of the crowd dominating his ears from the other side of the curtain, the atmosphere was almost palpable. Eternal Leader Jan Boross always had a proclivity for public speaking, but now, as the nation was engulfed in the cleansing fire of war, he could almost say he was being outmatched by the number of agents of the United Empire Ministry of Truth, who now danced around the country to preach his dark rhetoric, each crowd always gripped by every individual world, and this was no different. These agents didn't dare share their names. "My name is unimportant, friends." Each would declare at the start of their speeches and rallies, which were mandatory for the United Empire's citizenry. "For I have devoted my life to the truth of our great and glorious Eternal Leader." Prompted by the roar of the crowd.

Now, this "Agent of Truth" was concluding his remarks, and a soldier perched out to motion for the Eternal Leader to enter. He slowly took a step up, and then another, drawing a long breath as he did. As his foot creased upon the hard wood floor of the high stage, the crowd went wild. For all the rhetoric, all the propaganda, nothing could fire a crowd up like the sight of their Eternal Leader.

Stopping at his high podium, Boross turned upward, above him hanging the large, pure-gold Pendent of the New World, which soon would hang over the entire continent. "I come to you with good news, dear friends." Boross began, his booming voice filling the ears of each member through a dozen microphones strung to the stand, each belonging to the same, government-run broadcasting monopoly. "Some have pre-emptively declared that our United Empire has already emerged victorious from the 'Second Great War' if it can be called that."

"They may be right." He said, causing the crowd to cheer with continued patriotic enthusiasm. "But still, one great threat survives on the continent. The Tsardom of Kyivska." Boross's wicked smile grew, imagining the Tsarina's imminent demise. "This threat must and will be destroyed." The crowd goes wild once again.

"But we must be fearful, friends!" Boross declared, causing many in the audience to raise an eyebrow. "For we must be fearful of... The Federative Republic of Caloy!" The crowd began to chuckle at the mere mention of the Atarisian republic's name. "Whitmore and his ambassadors have demanded that we pull out of several nations!" The crowd's chuckle intensified. "They stand with the nations of... Kriegerin, Peskria!" The crowd's chortling morphed into wild laughter as the Eternal Leader continued. "Matsrakia, Maksvorkia, Hundsland and Mozaka!" Becoming serious, the crowd quieted themselves to let Boross conclude. "I will say this, 'Mr. President,' involve yourself in Aucerosan affairs, and you will have Hell to bear!"

"With the stroke of this pen..." He said, bringing an ornate black utensil down to a paper laid against the podium. "We launch... Operation Teutonic! By the end of the year, the United Empire's flag will wave over Kyivska City itself!" As the crowd stood to give their Eternal Leader a standing ovation, he swooped in to sign the order.

In the crowd, Grand Admiral Konig, who himself had been caught up in the affairs of the Adrantic Theater, turned breathlessly to one of his subordinates. "The Eternal Leader has either made the most brilliant strategic decision of a generation, or he has doomed us all."

Vranastrova, Arcadisia, Iserk, Caloy, and 4 othersKalamvir, Ashdia, Cvcp, and Cathanistan

Don't mind me ISP

Mark Watson drove his car into the city, his headlights were turned on as the visibility was lowered by heavy rain. He stopped behind a Calian car, he was lucky. Only the rich could afford it, his car was good, but it was not as good as the one in front of him. As it turned away, Mark guided his car into the neighborhood where he would meet someone.

Mark parked his car in front of the house, he got out and walked through the gardens. The house was not as big as his, only a single story. But he could tell whoever built it, was rich. The gardens were keenly looked after, each blade of grass looked equal. Each bush was cut the same length. And the trees were all the same height. Mark walked up the gravel path and knocked three times on the door. It opened slowly and a servant peaked out. Mark looked back at her and she opened the door. Mark stepped inside.

A man watched from a car, he watched Mark get out of his car, walk up to the building knock three times and then step inside. He started his car and drove of immediately. The man drove away, the car pulled up to a building. It was guarded by two Royal Guard. They saluted and let the man through. The building was erected snugly between the National Naval Museum and the Anvictus Dictus bank. The outside of the building was drab and boring, it was originally designed for the bank to store unused and seized items. After that it ended up in the hands of the Iserkian Special Police or ISP for short. The building had a small wooden door, with two columns that support a balcony that no one has figured out how to get to. The building was three floors high, at the top, the officer could see two more guards watching the tightly packed rooftops. The man walked into the building. Two more guards, in different uniforms met him, the man handed his identification over - "Lt A Orion, come on through." Orion stepped through the final checkpoint and entered the main building. Unlike the outside, the interior of the building was sleek and modern. Four corridors turned away from a central desk where to receptionists and four guards kept watch. On the ceiling, the ISP logo stayed. The eagle looking over the national crest the motto and ISP written in bold text and Pine Leaves capping the side. Orion was gestured down he third corridor.

He passed more guards who checked more papers and identification and ended up in the Internal Affair Office. "Orion!" Orion turned his head to face the voice. It was Micheel, he was brand new to the Internal Affairs Office and was assigned to watch the movements of one Mark Watson. He caught the attention of ISP after meeting with several people who have high positions of power, namely Lexter Herring. "Got anything yet?" Micheel nodded, "Yeah, the polling so far.." Orion walked over and read the paper. His eyes fell out of his sockets as he read the polls, UNF lead while Hans JF Rowzer sat at 49%. But Mark Watson and Conservatist sat at 38%! "This is... is.. what?"
"Yeah, at least they have the senate" It was true, the UNF lead the senate at 96 seats, the Conservitists were at 56 and the Liberals sat at 19. "The senate won't do, unless the UNF have a extremely large majority then Mark Watson can swoop in and take over the country as a dictator." Micheel creased his face, "Possibly, he would have to have a rather large military backing."
"Which Lexter has, most soldiers in the army do like him as a person. I don't know as a commander, however UNF popularity in the military has skyrocketed after the Hans slit his wallet." Micheel nodded again, "Well, there hasn't really been any other party at the head of government. UNF is all the country has ever known, any other party will look a bit odd to them." Orion looked confused, "Take Caloy, every president since the first time another party took control had a real chance of losing the election unless they were to do really well. UNF have been in power since the fall of the Crown, Iserkians have not known anything else other than UNF policies, and after a suppressive government previously. A democratic one does sound nice. The UNF have done all that and more. So another party might seems like a big risk for them as they are scared that it might return to previous times." Orion nodded, "That is true, and it might possibly be a reality very soon unless we can find something, anything to pin on this guy. Because once you go behind bars, then you won't be sitting in a seat power any time soon." The two men agreed, the would try find something to pin on him or something evidence that will reveal his plans and the fraudulent election.

Mark stepped inside the house. Inside were soldiers, or rather, Guardsmen. They weren't part of the army, more like people who didn't want the UNF in power but liked there policies. They wore a dark blue uniform with white buttons and black gloves. Their guns were standard issue Iserkian Patrol Rifles. Mark's plan were that these men would be the replace the Royal Guard as the military police of Iserk. They were trained men, no to the level that the Royal Guard were trained to, that would draw to much attention . But they had to do. Lexter walked out from the kitchen holding a mug of coffee. He raised his eyebrow, "We have a problem,"
"No problems is to big." Lexter handed him a mug. Mark took a sip, "ISP are onto us." Mark spat out his coffee. "What?"
"The ISP are onto us, well, I think so anyway. One of my commanders was approached yesterday. He told me that they asked him questions about my loyalty to Iserk's democracy. They also asked if I kept a private army." Mark scoffed, "A private army, they had the audacity to call this a private army." Lexter shook his head, "Well, the money to train them and buy rifles from Allied Industries did come out of our pockets." Mark nodded, "Well, the ISP is a real threat, they have access to my items. But not yours, so if all else fails. Then you take your men, and flee to, I don't know. Miklozia or Axalonia." Lexter nodded, he would only be able to take his bodyguards and a small number of troops with him. Lexter stood up and nodded to Mark indicating to come with him. "We do have that fail safe at least. But we should be more worried about how we head about taking our control over the country after Hans and his UNF are gone." Mark smiled, "That my friend is the easy part, what we have to do is simply... Remove our opponents from the picture." It was Lexter's turn to spit is tea, "What? It is bad enough to fraudify the election, but then turning Iserk into a vile and dangerous dictatorship is.. is.." Lexter paused, "When I was in the Military College in Gatrea, the civil war broke out. I was on a mission to Salon when it happened, as Red Terror unit captured my unit and gave us a choice. To join their side, or die. We all joined them, when the war ended I learned that everyone in that unit died. When I dreamed of leading Iserk into a brighter future I did not think it would involve overthrowing the democratically elected president." Mark rolled his eyes, "Anyways, if the ISP are really onto us then I might have to skidaddle out of here." Lexter looked at him. He watched Mark drive of in his car. He told his 4 most loyal guards to follow him, he then called up a group of 10 soldiers that he knew were closer to Mark than they were to him. While he was deciding what to do with them, his phone rang. Lexter picked it up, "Hello?" Hans replied "Lexter, I haven't heard from you in awhile, how are you?" Lexter stumbled, he hadn't expected this, was the president onto him? "I am feeling as fit as a fiddle Sir, what could I do for you?"
"Good, good, can I ask a favor from you?" Lexter told Hans to keep going, "Recently the Axalonian government requested my presence at our new embassy over their. Their leaders are saying that it is a matter of... Independence." Lexter was perplexed and Hans kept going, "I am asking you to come with me in case they require military assistance. It will most probably be defence, their jungles and terrain are incredibly humid, their armies are used to it. But they could use a little nudge." Lexter agreed then looked at the ten soldiers. "Alright, you lot, your coming with me. But, you'll have to change your uniforms, don't think Hans would like these." The soldiers saluted and marched away. Lexter flapped down into his chair. He needed an action plan. He couldn't turn himself in to the authorities in Iserk. He would be killed almost immediately by some of Mark's insiders. He would have to wait until they landed in Axalonia before spilling the beans to Hans. Lexter was also 75% percent sure that whoever the ISP had put onto him would also be on the plane that Hans would be on. So that would also be a good time to tell what was happening. The last thing that Lexter did was call Mark's home and inform him of Hans's request. He was partly happy that Mark had decided to take the Coastal Road back to his home or else Mark would ask him to kill Hans or someone on the plane.

ISP building

Orion and Micheel were pouring over documents about Mark and Lexter, so far they have learnt that Mark was a school prick but had good grades. He attended Dacton University in a course of Politics where he did a two seperate research reports on Military Lead Coups, and The Corruption of Private Armies. Lexter on the other hand, was an average student at school until he reached Gatrea Military School. He succeeded in the areas of Defence Command, especially using Armoured Vehicles and Guerrilla warfare. He also ranked high in Avial Defence and Marines. "Huh? No wonder he's Defence Commander, there is no else better than him. After him it is the Admiral, the only reason he didn't make it into the navy is because of The Admiral's astonishing ranks in Naval Command, Assault, Defence, Fleet Command. Basically everything he needs to be the top of the Navy." Micheel nodded, he opened his mouth to say something when their commander appeared in their office and told them that they were on a plane with Hans JF Rowzer. "Why?" The commander shook his head, "To go on a holiday.." Micheel said "Really?"
"No you stupid idiot! It's because Hans has gotten into a deal with the Axalonian government, and for some reason decided to ask Lexter to come with him." On that day three different coffees were spat, "What?" The commander shrugged and walked of. Micheel looked bubbly, "We get to meet the president haha, suckers." Orion looked at him. "Our goal is to get Lexter alone and to talk to him, try get him to spill the beans. Remember, on the plane, you call him Colonel. You understand?" Micheel nodded, "He'll probably bring soldiers with him so we'll have to be careful. I think the only time we can catch him is when he's just scotted of the plane." Micheel nodded, "How are we going to get him aside without his soldiers noticing?" Orion sighed, "We'll figure it out."

Imperial Ambitions
Recent news of the expansion of the second great war both scared and delighted the millitary leadership of Fuegrado. More resources would be poured into the fight while little Fuegrado went by unnoticed as it expanded it's sphere of Influence in southern Pedria. Millitary advisors pointed out that the small primitive nation to the north, Axalonia may be a prime target for conquest. However there was also talk that helping Axolonia modernize, and remove class barriers may make them a valuable ally for the future. Even further north the small nation of Dutchland may also be a place where an alliance can be secured freeing even more world populace from the capitalist tyranny. Comrade Torres will be penning an invitation to the leadership of both nations for a summit in early May at the El Dorado palace complex. Planning would begin on numerous milltary parades and feasts during the four day summit to show both prosperity and millitary prowess. Great care would also be taken to hide the less savory parts of the nation, like the harsh conditions for the average worker. Nevertheless hopefully a secure Pedrian alliance may prevent Fuegrado from being dragged into the ever growing conflict.

Dutchland
Axalonia

The preparations

The council would be meeting in the palace where they have their daily meetings. As the councilors tour the palace Balam would stop and look around a luxurious bedroom meant for the leader of Iserk when they would meet. "I don't know why the hell we are doing all this for a foreigner."

"You really need to be more friendly Balam." Said Nicte who was going to investigate what Balam was doing. "The leader of Iserk is coming here to discuss treaties with us, you of all should know that not all foreigners are cruel. They seek trade with us to help us stay free."

The feast's menu

Balam would glare at the young councilor and soon leave without a word. Soon Nicte would meet with Itzel who was helping design a menu for the leader of Iserk. "Hmm... soft skin sea bass, fresh mangoes, and jaguar meat. I think that the Iserk leader will be glad to sample our culture, do you not agree Nicte." Nicte would hear the suggestions and soon spoke up. "I would think that he may like some of his own nations foods since he is coming a long way to meet with us. Where is Yaxkin at?". "I suppose you are right. He is preparing the military escort." Would say Itzel before Nicte leaves to meet with Yaxkin.

The security

Nicte would go to the military barracks to meet with Yaxkin. When Nicte arrive Yaxkin would be interviewing the soldiers who are clad in fine cloths with a gold tipped spear. "You men will be assigned to protect the leader of Iserk. If any of you fail you will be executed and if any of you are found of trying to harm the Iserk leader you will suffer a fate worse than death!" With seeing this Nicte would nod it being clear to her the preparations to meet the leader of Iserk were ready and that soon their treaty could be designed to protect Axalonia from foreign enemies.

"Defying Mars I"
March 10th, 1941
Mirobein, Miklozia

There it was. Seven P.M.'s supply truck, right on schedule, exotic and luxurious foodstuffs packed in tight on the back, juggling ever-so-slightly with every rock of gravel. It came to a screeching halt, its tires breaking against the disorderly road as it came upon the guardhouse. "Now, Junior!" His father's voice called from behind him, and he silently moved forward, crouched as to be under the sight of the truck's passenger window, his movements camouflaged by the rough roar of the vehicle's engine, tchuck-tchucking in rythym. He fell as he reached the side of the truck, rolling beneath the truck and grabbing it from the bottom as the Wilmosian Palace's gate was opened, and the vehicle began again.

He dropped as it reached the back entrance to the palace, his body falling against the rough ground below. He rolled out, and the truck's lone driver stopped, spotting him. As soon as the man looked like he was about to speak- to yell for help, Erich moved forward, smashing the man's face against the truck's wheel. "Good work." Senior said from behind, and Erich turned to meet him. "Remember your target, my son. Mikhael Clement must die." Erich's eyes narrowed as he motioned to his pistol. "No, no." Senior said as Erich did. "Don't use that, too much noise." He brought his hand to his son's waist and pulled out a sharp dagger, dark in its application. He placed it in his son's hand. "You know what you must do. Mikhael Clement is a criminal. He allowed Boross to take power and to start this war, partying and drinking along the way. He has allowed the people of Aucerosa to suffer and now he must face justice."

Erich stood silent for a moment, and then blinked, his fingers tightening around the knife's hilt. "Yes father."

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King Mikhael Clement's head was perched at the door of the nursery, his eyes gazing down at his two sons, Jan Peter and Janoz, quiet as anything in their collective slumber, huddled up together in peace like two eggs nestled in a nest. A smile couldn't help but grow over the young King's face, before he slowly pulled the door back, quiet as anything as not to wake the sleeping princes, the light which so delicately poured into their chamber leaving them in peace. Sighing in the hallway, he thought of going to check on Catherine. She was a night-bird, always staying up to read her picture books. He slowly walked through the ornate hallway, his feet tapping against the intricate red-and-gold Vranan carpet beneath his feet. He peeked now into little Catherine's room, and found himself surprised. The new ray of light seeping into the room revealed the girl was fast asleep, a picture book hung over her face unceremoniously. He moved in slowly, and peeled the book from her face gently, failing to keep her fast-asleep.

"Daddy?" The girl called out quietly, still half-asleep.

Mikhael Clement placed the book atop the end-table adjacent her bed, before leaning back in and patting her on the head. "Yes, sweetheart. Go back to bed, now." He said, before placing a kiss onto her forehead and moving out once again.

Pulling the door to little Catherine's room closed, he cleared his throats as he basked in the silence and warm lights. Yes, he would hang up his hat for the night, and head to bed. Perhaps Helene was back from wherever she had gone. No, a voice inside Mikhael Clement's head said. She won't be, and you don't want her to be either. Swallowing, he arrived at the King's Quarters and placed his hand over the knob, turning it and pulling the aged-oak door open. Nope, he said, a half-genuine smile appearing over his lips as he saw that Helene was, indeed, still gone. What am I to think? He continued, his worst fears overtaking his mind as he moved forward, before turning to face a large painting of Andreas Alscher hung open the wall.

"You always knew what to do." He said quietly.

He was so focused that he failed to notice the click-clacking of high-heels against the carpet outside the open doorframe. He turned as he finally did, seeing the image of his wife, Queen Helene, Duchess of Kolone. She moved in slowly, as if she was a tiger about to strike her prey. "Where were you?" Mikhael Clement said, the lamb standing his ground as the tiger turned, making a sharp left toward her wardrobe.

"I was with a friend in Mikhaelia." She said after a slight pause.

Mikhael Clement stood for a moment, staring toward her. "Just leave me alone." He muttered, defeated, and she did, mouthing "Fine." before departing. He turned his gaze back toward Andreas, and began choking back tears.

Suddenly, more muffled footsteps. "I said to leave me alone, Helene." But the footsteps simply stopped in place, slowly swinging the door shut, and locking it. Breaking out of his gaze, Mikhael Clement turned toward the door, his eyes quickly raising in shock. It was a stranger, one dressed in a dirtied Exoan soldier's uniform, a mad tuft of jet black hair over his head. He seemed focused, but his eyes told a different story: they were those you would expect from someone crazed. His hands were gripped around a dark pistol, a steel knife glistening at his side.

"Don't say a word." The dark man said, before moving forward and forcing Mikhael Clement onto his knees, pulling a layer of duct tape around his mouth. Shaking with deathly, fear, as the King's hands were tied his mind couldn't help but focus on his children.

Suddenly, as the assailant moved forward, he stopped gazing at the portrait of Andreas Alscher mantled on the wall with a strange fixation. The man's bottom lip quivering for a moment, he suddenly moved in toward the King's face, his eyes meeting Mikhael Clement's. "Yell for help, and I'll kill you." Mikhael Clement nodded, or it could've been his still roughly-shaking expression. "Who is that?" The man said, peeling the tape off and pointing to Andreas's round face.

"Th-th-that's Andreas Alscher..." Mikhael Clement said, still shaking, before blurting out a plea. "P-please, don't hurt my children... please."

Narrowing his eyes, the man turned back to Alscher. Then, he moved into his coat pocket, pulling from it a lone photograph, and showing it to the King. The image was of a man's round face, laid in a pool of blood, a bullet hole punched through his head. "This is him, right?"

Mikhael Clement blinked, his shaking ceasing for a moment as he took in the image. "No..." He muttered, "That can't be true. He-he died of a stroke, he wasn't-" then, the ugly truth flashed across his mind. Andreas Alscher was murdered. His shaking resuming and now struck at the same time with tears, built by a new, profound sadness, he began to crack. "I... I didn't know." He said, as though the silent assassin was judging him. "I can't believe this... I can't believe it." He repeated, the face of Boross flashing across his mind. "That damned maniac." He said, his bottom lip quivering with sadness and anger, before his mind fell upon his present situation once again. No matter how upset he was, there was nothing he could now do. "Just... please..." he pleaded once again to his assassin. "I see that I have failed but please... don't lay a finger on my children. Please. I'm begging you."

Staring down at the King, the dark-haired assassin nodded, before stretching the tape back over the King's mouth. As the King continued to break down, tears jetting down the side of his face, the assassin moved behind him. He holstered his gun, before pulling up from his waist his glimmering steel knife. Drawing it upward, he was poised to strike. Pausing for a moment, he hesitated, before taking a sharp breath in, and threw it downward, the dagger flying through the air rapidly toward the King, it's steel thirsty for regicide.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A Final Farewell – Asadal, Archuko – January 3, 1941Miklozia Collab

Light mist covered the surface of Asadal’s harbour as the HHS Empress of Pedria slowly came to a halt by one of the piers. Sounding her horn, the gargantuan ship announced that His Holiness, Pope Michael Gregory I, had arrived in this godless country. Within moments, the gangplank to the first-class promenade deck was lowered and the Pope began his descent. Bundling himself up, Michael Gregory appeared to be the pinnacle of Papal tradition. His white cassock was crowned with the winter mozzetta – red velvet trimmed with white ermine fur. Underneath was his elaborate rochet, the same rochet worn to the NWO Council meeting only a week before. His red shoes, a staple of Papal attire, patted softly along the metal grating as Michael Gregory neared the dock.

Hesitating on the final step, Michael Gregory paused to reflect on the last Papal visit to Arcadisia. Failure was the only word that he could find to describe it.

Touching down on the cold cement, Michael Gregory grimaced, the stench of the harbour and of a failed people singeing his nostrils. “Tell me again why I agreed to come here?” He asked Cardinal Lucchesi, the old man leaning heavily on an ivory cane as he came off the gangway behind the Pope. “Not even Innocent XIV in all his madness came here.”

Lucchesi sniffled, the cool, crisp air nipping at his nose. “The College agrees tha
t the land is ripe for the Harvest, Holiness. There are many souls here that need saving. As Holy Father it is your duty to promote and uphold the Faith.”

Grunting, Michael Gregory turned his attention to locals, their status as inferiors to what Boross deemed to be an inferior race conflicting with his office’s prescribed duties. “Are you sure?”

Soon-to-be former Governor-General Erwin Ostfeld sighed against the cold wind of the Arcadisian winter, a light coating of snow beginning to form even in the usually-warm waters of Asadal harbor. He narrowed his eyes, before turning to adjust his monocle, and then his cap. He watched with mild interest as the gargantuan Vranan ship finally began docking.

"Sir," the voice of a tall commander within the Expeditionary Force tugged against Ostfeld's ears, the one who would be replacing him as General, another Exoan named Markus Hurzog. "Your orders have been executed."

"And the inferiors?" Ostfeld said, speaking of the locals.

"How they usually are, sir." Hurzog said, a grim smile breaking through his professionalism. "Quiet and complacent."

"Good." The Exoan who had led Arcadisia for the last year said, waving the man off. He sighed once again as the Pope descended onto the harbor. I'll miss you, Arcadisia. He thought, but dared not say. Arcadisia was a nation of inferiors, after all. Nothing less, nothing more.

Ostfeld adjusted his monocle a second time as he greeted the Pope. "Your holiness. Such an honor to see you again. I hope, by the end of this meeting, you will have an understanding and an appreciation for the great work we've done here in pacifying and controlling this formerly unruly colony."

Michael Gregory smiled wide, his excitement at seeing Strain’s ideology in full effect causing his race to begin racing. “I’ve heard that Arcadisia was once as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Ostfeld,” Michael Gregory said, pulling on his mozzetta for warmth. “It was only after the Calarimian failed to take Xian that the issues began to arise.”

“Which only shows that one should never leave conquests and subjugations to an easterner,” Lucchesi snarled before promptly sneezing. “Were it not for Ostfeld, the Calarimian Empire would have broken long ago.”

Michael Gregory raised his hand, silencing the unruly Cardinal. “Forgive him,” he said, though more to the Calarim Guardsmen flanking the two men than to Ostfeld. “Age tends to play tricks on the mind.”

"I see..." Ostfeld said, his eyes gazed toward the aging Cardinal, before turning back to the Pope. "Your esteemed cardinal is being generous, but is unfortunately not far from the truth. Our first week in the city almost a year ago we were flanked with a terrorist plot: a man was shot right beside me. I have great respect now for the Calarimian Empire, but the people who were running this colony were... subpar, to be liberal."

He sharply turned, mouthing "Walk with me, if you will." as he began toward a nearby Exoan jeep, pulling the backdoor open for Lucchesi and the Pope.

The two men crawled into the back, Michael Gregory going last in order to help his aging counterpart into his seat. “So,” the Pope asked before Ostfeld had the chance to close the door. “Where are we heading first?”

Ostfeld slithered across the front of the car and then looped to the front-passenger seat, but as he settled in, the open-top jeep remained stalled, the breeze of snow continuing to fall in. A great rumbling could be felt, the roaring of a nearby engine filling their ears. "Ah, that must be our escort." The beast crawled through on its long tracks from a nearby enlarged ally, the infamous Maus. "The largest tank ever built." Ostfeld said, turning back at it. "Three exist in the world, one is here on the peninsula. A testament to the Eternal Leader's resolve to end this colony's ills."

Michael Gregory stared on in awe, his jaw dropping at the sight of the behemoth. I'm glad that tanks were only just beginning to plague the battlefield when I fought in the Great War all those years ago, he thought, fear briefly gripping his heart. "I was not aware that the situation here was so terrible. For the Eternal Leader to invest so much into this colony speaks to its plight. But I am curious, just why is the Eternal Leader so invested in Archuko?" Those two words, 'Eternal Leader,' rolled off the Pope's tongue about as well as a cactus would. The title was foreign, just like the Arcadisians.

Ostfeld raised his eyebrow at the Pope's apparent apprehension over Boross's God-anointed title. "The continued existence of the Calarimian Empire is paramount." Ostfeld said, as the jeep finally began its slow crawl, the tour of the city officially beginning. "When the Eternal Leader initially offered me this position, I was skeptical myself. But now I understand why - he is a real genius you know" Ostfeld adjusted his monocle as the once-scorched and now snow-coated ruins of several homes began to appear on both sides. " - The freeing up of Calarimian forces from Arcadisia allowed for their swift and triumphant conquest of Augisnacov. Ingenious."

"August cow?" Lucchesi asked, his hand cupping his ear in a futile attempt to make out what the man had said. "I didn't know that the Calarimians were in the habit of conquering seasonal bovines."

Michael Gregory gently put his hand on the man's forearm. "Augisnacov," he repeated loud enough for the Cardinal to hear. "The Calarimians conquered Augisnacov because of the Eter-" the word stuck in his throat. When Lucchesi threw Michael Gregory a curious look, the Pope cleared his throat and continued, "Mr. Boross' brilliant planning has permitted the Calarimian Empire to use its forces elsewhere." When the Cardinal nodded in understanding, Michael Gregory turned his attention to the passing houses, their ruined status reminding him of Miklozia in the years following the Great War. "What happened to the people who used to live here?" He asked. "There seems to have been no effort to rebuild the houses here."

Ostfeld narrowed his eyes further at the Pope's continued hesitation to speak Boross's true title. "Hrmph." He muttered, his smug smile evaporating as they continued. "Their inhabitants should be just past this next corner." He said, as the jeep slowly continued.

Making the turn left, they came upon an old, ruined square, surrounded by road and homes. At its center, a great ancient tree had grown from the ground, maintained over the years by the Arcadisian Empire and the Calarimian occupiers. The Exoans, however, had found a much more appropriate use for it. Several Arcadisian men, branded with "TERRORISTIN" stamped against their chest, hung from its branches, tight rope gripping them to the tree by their necks. Ostfeld's smile returned wickedly, as he spoke: "Arcadisian fruit for Arcadisian trees."

Michael Gregory's heart sunk at the sight, visions of the Great War returning as the Arcadisians morphed into Matsrak, Exoan, and Miklozian soldiers. Unable to bear the image any longer, the Pope forced his gaze away towards the homes that sat nearby. Is this display really necessary? He asked himself as he considered Lucchesi's earlier words: "It is a land ripe for the Harvest."

"What did those people do to be strung up like that?" Lucchesi asked, his eyes still glued to the tree. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Terrorists, my friend. These aren't just inferiors, they're inferiors who dared to threaten the colony's law and order under God." Ostfeld struggled to force his tight, wicked smile away. "A strong example must be made if peace, justice and security is to reign."

Lucchesi smiled approvingly, tapping the top of his ivory cane in excitement. "Excellent, Mr. Ostfeld," he said. "It seems that these methods have proved effective. We've been in this country for about ten minutes now and I've yet to see a single dissenter."

Ostfeld's smile grew as his gaze turned back to Lucchesi. "Precisely." He said, as the jeep finally moved out of view of the grim square hung with bodies. "We also have instituted a rigid schedule in an attempt to civilize the uncivilizable." Ostfeld continued, as they came upon a white chapel, one of the few buildings so far untouched by his terror. "They work 16 hours a day, but are guaranteed Sundays off, with mandatory church attendance. I only hope that some of God's words can pierce their souls, as His mercy clearly has not." His devilish grin grew as he turned forward once again.

"Mandatory church attendance," Lucchesi repeated slowly, his smile only widening at the thought. "You know," he said, leaning forward towards Ostfeld, "we in Vranastrova don't even have that. Church is encouraged and is, in many ways, mandatory for those of us who are in the government because, well," he glanced down at his red cassock, "we're clergy and church won't happen without us. But it seems that you are far more liberal in your methods of spreading the Word of God here. If only we were the same way." Narrowing his eyes at the Pope, Cardinal Lucchesi seemed to imply that the Pope was not taking his responsibilities as Holy Father seriously enough. "The College will be most pleased by your efforts at expanding the Church's influence here."

"You flatter me, Cardinal." Ostfeld said against the hiss of his grin. "It is the one liberty they are afforded. Many have and many more will come to cherish it as their only taste of freedom." The jeep came upon a destroyed Calarimian post office, and Ostfeld's smile evaporated once again. "Surprisingly enough, the most serious dissent we've faced since my ascension has been a Calarimian official."

Lucchesi threw himself back into his seat, baffled at the idea. "A Calarimian? Why would the Calarimians be resisting your rule? Surely they must understand that without the aid of the Eternal Leader their empire would collapse."

"It was a postman." Ostfeld said, emphasizing every vowel with disgust. "He allowed hundreds of terrorists to hide from justice within his post office, and at the time I could do nothing." Then, his wicked smile returned. "He's long dead now. Run over by the same tracks of the Maus which rolls behind us now."

"Good," Lucchesi said, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. "All dissenters to the grand and glorious plans of the NWO must be eliminated. You know," Lucchesi turned to face Michael Gregory, the Pope having long tuned the two men out as his mind cascaded back to 1915. "Your Holiness, we could learn a thing or two about how Ostfeld has run this colony. If we model our mode of governance after his then surely the rioting Polacians and Rilidjans will be silenced in no time."

Slowly nodding his head, Michael Gregory struggled to meet the man in the present moment. "Fear conquers minds, but hope rules the heart," he said without blinking. "It is clear that Ostfeld rules the minds of everyone in Archuko."

"Err, yes," Lucchesi agreed, his eyes narrowing before turning back to Ostfeld. "How have you managed to arrange your hierarchy here? Those beneath you have truly proved their own competence in service to you."

Ostfeld thought over the Pope's words as they ran through him. He couldn't help but nod in agreement, his grim smile remaining.

He shook himself to answer the aging Cardinal, who he honestly thought, at this moment, would've made a much more appropriate Pope than Michael Gregory, in spite of his age. "I find that the military is the most capable and efficient in managing conquered peoples. I've simply maintained the hierarchy of the United Empire's own armed forces here in the Colony's management. It has worked like a charm."

"Your Holiness, you seem ill." Ostfeld said as the jeep continued through an entire neighborhood of destroyed buildings, Arcadisian mothers shaking in the Cold, babies in hand. "Are you alright?"

Michael Gregory turned towards Ostfeld, his face drained of all color as the sight of the abandoned mothers clinging to their children filled his vision. I'm fine," he said. "I'm just... it's just cold is all." Turning back to the mothers, Michael Gregory's heart sunk all the more as he wondered about the horrors that they had to endure on a daily basis. Order and justice, peace and conquest, but at what cost?

Then passed a little girl about Adelina's age, her tiny hands clinging to a ratty shawl wrapped around her for warmth. Adelina echoed in his mind, the thought of the girl being stranded in some snow storm in the middle of Exoa wracking his heart with grief. Covering his mouth with his hand, Michael Gregory pretended to blow warm air over his chilled fingers, all the while struggling to hold back tears.

"His Holiness is not used to the cold," Lucchesi piped up, not understanding most of what was going on. "Vranastrova is so warm, you see."

"Right..." Ostfeld said as the jeep, and the Maus trailing behind it, slowed further before coming to a stop, in front of a large, tall building, untouched by the terror. Reaching for the door and pulling himself out. "Here we are." Ostfeld said, moving to open the Pope's door for him. "I will be in my office... Packing my things, gentlemen. I'll be sending my best men to escort you through the city." He said, nodding to some nearby soldiers. As they began off, Ostfeld sighed, as the snow began to fall harder. "I'll miss you, Arcadisia." He was finally able to say, before clearing his throat, adjusting his monocle once again, and beginning inside.

Arcadisia, Ashdia, Baja formosa, and Cathanistan

The Face of Empire – Asadal, Archuko – January 3, 1941Arcadisia Collab

"We have contacted Ostfeld's entourage, they have reported the Pope is in front of the Governor General building." Several soldiers, both Calarimian and Arcadisian drove by in their trucks, all flying little Calarimian flags on their bow. There was a single Exoan luxury car in the center, vacant.

"Heading for the office..." one of the soldiers said.

“So far I have not enjoyed the cold,” Cardinal Lucchesi complained to Pope Michael Gregory as the pair crossed the street, “but I did enjoy Ostfeld’s company. I do hope that you were listening to him. He seemed to know just what it takes to keep a country in line.” Sniffling once more, the Cardinal withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose, slightly shivering as the snow began to fall harder.

Michael Gregory chose to ignore the Cardinal’s words, unimpressed with his long-time friend’s fascination with Ostfeld. “I first met the man in Nartisune,” he said flatly. “He introduced himself to me just before the meeting of the High Council. Boross honored him for his service before placing him in charge of the upcoming campaign against Kyivksa.”

Lucchesi nodded his head, swatting at a couple of snowflakes that came too close to his nose. “Good. Boross seems to recognize talent. And so long as at least one member of the NWO’s High Council recognizes it I think that the alliance will carry us to victory.”

The Pope narrowed his eyes at the Cardinal, glaring at the old man as he, once again, swatted away the snowflakes. “Where are the Arcadisians,” Michael Gregory asked into the air.

The car pulled up, the Calarimian pilot driver the first to spot the Pope and Lucchesi.

"We see them," he said through the radio to the other cars. "It's snowing pretty hard, let's get them in fast." The pilot car drove past the two, stopping several meters in front. The rest of the cars followed suit, the trucks pulling up behind the pilot car, a few more cars packed with Calarimian soldiers, and of course, the Exoan car in the center pulled up the closest, parking right next to them. Their headlights gleamed into the air, highlighting the snow that fell around them. A young, thin faced Calarimian officer hopped out of the Exoan car, and opened the door for the pair.

"At your service sir."

Lucchesi trembled in the snow, his scarlet cassock swaying gently as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Michael Gregory, clothed almost completely in white if not for the scarlet on his mozzetta, stood completely still, his face unmoving as the man approached.

"Thank you," Michael Gregory said, gently escorting the elderly Cardinal to the car. "I am surprised that you managed to find us at all with all of this snow."

The officer let out a soft smile, and bowed slightly. "I have been told from a young age, that through determination and faith, that we are invincible." He looked up to the snow. "A little weather cannot defeat the fine senses of an officer of Calarim."

Michael Gregory returned a warm smile, the man's confidence something rarely seen in Vranastrova. "It seems as though the Emperor has put his own faith in capable hands." For a brief moment, Pope Michael Gregory considered the Calarim guard, all 135 members having been left behind on the HHS Empress of Pedria when Ostfeld arrived to deliver both himself and Lucchesi here. "You should consider joining the Calarim Guard, Mr...?"

"Marquess Kamakura. Perhaps. I know many honorable guards who have served under that command. Maybe when I am older however, for I have a duty to complete as an officer of our great Empire, and as an heir to one of the Peers of Calarim." He looked back. "Now then, shall we get going?"

"I see," Michael Gregory said, more disappointed. "Your dedication and service is admirable, Mr. Kamakura; Calarim, and the Emperor, are honored by it. But yes. We should be going." Climbing into the vehicle, Michael Gregory dusted some of the snow off his mozzetta before the item became too wet and heavy to continue wearing. Beside him, Luccechi continued to shiver, mumbling something about regretting his decision to leave the warmth of the ship.

Kamakura entered the front of the car, through the shotgun seat and sat next to the driver.
"Get going." He said.

"Yes sir." The man pulled out his radio once more, contacting the other cars. "The Pope is within the car. Everyone else, commence the drive routine." As the pilot cars and the truck convoys started up and began to move, Kamakura turned back to ask the Popes.

"Is there anything you want on the radio Your Holiness? We have the newest models installed on all our cars." He thought for a moment. "Though, I am unsure if we have reception of anything that isn't Calarimian as of current..."

"Calarimian music will do just fine," the Pope said, brushing half-melted snow off Lucchesi. "The Calarimian Guard often sing patriotic anthems during the changing of the guard. It is... rather unique, if unorthodox."

"It's blasphemy," Lucchesi sneered. "They should only sing hymns and the Psalms. Anything else is an affront to-"

"On second thought," Michael Gregory interrupted, "why don't you tell me about your clan instead? I am very interested in how you became a Marquess."

"My clan dates back to Sengoku Jidai, or the Warring States period of Calarim roughly 400 years ago. We were what was known as the 'horse clan,' as we were known for our usage of heavy cavalry. Anyhow, I will spare you the details, but long story short, following our defeat we were allowed to retain our positions. After a period of inactivity, and after a failed invasion of..." he looked out the window. "...Arcadisia..." He slightly smirked to himself, as he noticed the strangeness of the centuries old conquest compared to where he was now. "...yes, after the failed Arcadisia expedition, my clan sided with the Christian Damiyo Haiyashi Honzo, and helped him overthrow the previous Shogun who had managed the ill fated expedition. Early on during that shogunate we abandoned the pagan faith and converted to Christianity to show solidarity with the new shogun, being one of the first converts under the Honzo shogunate."

Michael Gregory smirked, pleased with the man's clan's history of service and faith. "Your family must be held in high regard throughout the Empire. I imagine that there are not many who can say that they converted to support the shogun." Furrowing his brow, the Pope considered just what the shogun once was. A military leader of exceptional skill second only to the emperors. Just where had they gone? Pushing these thoughts aside, the Pope turned his attention to what was to come: a show of faith and solidarity, much like Mr. Kamakura's clan, with the new government of Arcadisia.

The cars rolled through the snow, through the desolate and ruined city. As the minutes passed, the snow got deeper. But just then, the convoy arrived at a colorful and lively sector of the city, surrounded by brick walls, both western and eastern. Though the old city walls of the bygone Arcadisian Kingdoms and Empires were still in use, it seems that they had been heavily demolished or modified to suit the needs of the Calarimian Empire. A few guards opened the gates for the convoy as they drove inside. Inside the city itself, was a lively and bright city, filled with people.

"Seems like us Calarimians have come back." Kamakura observed. "Well, the evacuations have been over for a month now, I suppose it was time for them to come back." He began pointing out a few buildings. One building was a wide, neoclassic building. The lights were off and the building covered in snow, but sitting in the middle, it hardly seemed lonely. "That's the tram station Your Holiness. Looks like the thing is shut down for now." He coolly pointed out another building, this time built in the traditional Calarimian style. "And that is the finest restaurant on this peninsula. Even this wretched hive has to have SOME upside, I assume." He chuckled.

Lucchesi laughed along with the officer, a smile gracing his face for the first time since the holy duo had left Ostfeld behind. "Forgive me, Holiness," he said, motioning towards the restaurant, "but it has been quite some time since we last ate."

Michael Gregory's face briefly twisted in disgust, the idea of dining on food from anywhere east of Aucerosa turning his stomach. "I'll condone going in only if Mr. Kamakura is hungry. We do have an appointment with (main Arcadisian) to keep. And I do not intend to be late."

"Well well." Kamakura smiled. "We...actually have decided to meet Mr Yi at the restaurant today." The car pulled in closer. "Mr. Yi Wan Ik thought that you all would love to see some of what Calarim has to offer. Now, we are in the colonial outskirt that is Arcadisia, but..." He looked at the restaurant. "I apologize if you were unable to be properly informed of this. The rebels have been cutting through the wires, and it is quite difficult to get information across these days without word of mouth." He looked out at a birdshop across the store. "Or a messenger pigeon."

"So much for Ostfeld's reforms," Michael Gregory remarked. "Are you sure that meeting in public on the outskirts of authority is safe?"

"Your Holiness, these are not the outskirts of authority. If anything, it is the center." The car stopped, the soldiers all getting out of their cars. A small crowd had begun to gather. "The most powerful men in Archuko are here, save for the Governor General. Almost all of them ethnic Calarimians, the few Arcadisians being Honorary Calarimians. Powerful politicians, captains of industry, military leaders - the men who rule this land, who carry out order on behalf of the Governor General, himself a servant of the Emperor of course, these powerful men are all in this building. And our security is watertight." The Calarimian soldiers all turned to face the crowd in deadlock. "Ostfeld has done a wonderful job subduing the Arcadisians, even if I..." He thought to himself. "...question the material efficiency of certain tactics and choice of equipment. But he has done a wonderful job, I must admit. With that being said, that is for Arcadisians, as the Calarimian citizen is naturally obedient due to our superior intellect. We do not whine and revolt like the unruly Arcadisians. With that said, the few Arcadisians we deem worthy - the best of them in fact - stand in this building." He motioned towards the building.

"I stand corrected," Michael Gregory said, preparing himself to get out of the vehicle. "Are you ready?" He asked Lucchesi, the old man beginning to nod off.

"Huh?" Lucchesi said, jumping to a state of alertness. "Ah, yes. Have we arrived in Ashdia?"

Michael Gregory narrowed his eyes, the genuineness of the man's question concerning him. "No, Your Excellency. We're still in Asadal. We're going into the restaurant to meet with Mr. Yi Wan Ik." Opening his door, the Pope walked around to the other side, aiding the Cardinal to his feet before turning back to Mr. Kamakura. "Thank you for your help. I sincerely hope that you give the Guard a chance when the time comes. I could use men like you in my court." Shifting his gaze towards the restaurant, the Pope made for the door, Cardinal Lucchesi in toe.

"Thank you, Your Holiness. I will consider it." Kamakura bowed, his trenchcoat increasingly covered with snowflakes. By now, the crowd was bowing to the Pope, and threw more praise and admiration at him. Though he didn't really sense any danger from the crowd, Kamakura did as ordered, and stood outside of the restaurant, facing the crowd in the cold snow, the hundreds of faithful trying to get a glimpse of their leader, the closest thing in the current day to their God.

The restaurant was completely swamped with staff and workers, with not a single customer other in sight. There was a beautiful indoor garden in the traditional Calarimian style that led to a second doorway inside the restaurant. Women in kimonos scurried about, carrying food and drink to the top. As they spotted the Pope, they gasped, some putting down their trays and bowing to him. The walls were lined with armor stands with samurai armor in them, swords hanging on the wall, all of it giving a refined, upper class vibe. Beyond Arcadisian or Calarimian, this was a wealthy restaurant for only the upper crust, that no typical Calarimian could enter. Yet unlike the wealthy restaurants of Aucerosa, it had an air of simplicity, the paper and wood walls and the plain but clearly well buffed floors.

"Your Holiness." A young man in a yukata, presumably a waiter here, approached the Pope and bowed. "Mr. Yi Wan Ik is waiting for you upstairs." He then retreated from the Pope, head still bowed, still facing him.

"This reminds me of the Calarimian barracks in Reema," Michael Gregory said, eyeing the many diverse suits of armour that lined the walls. Looking around further, the Pope made note of the elegant simplicity, something sorely lacking in many of Aucerosa's oldest and most prominent cities. "Shall we head up?" He asked Lucchesi, eager to meet with the elusive Mr. Yi.

Lucchesi scowled, the idea of climbing stairs to meet with an inferior disagreeing with him. "I am not." Stamping the end of his cane on the polished wood, Lucchesi cast his scowl over the rest of the room. "Why should we be the ones to go to him?"

"We are guests, Lucchesi," Michael Gregory said, though he too would have preferred a table on the ground floor. "Besides, remember what you said to me earlier, what the College wants for this country. If we meet with him and make a good impression, then perhaps Arcadisia will be encouraged to convert en masse. A nation ripe for the harvest."

As his scowl faded into a slight grimace, Lucchesi began up the stairs, Michael Gregory following close behind.

"Bring me another glass of wine girl! Do it quickly!" Viscount Gwon Hun Hyeol barked at one of the waitresses. Yi Wan Ik and Yi Sun Cheol (no relation) looked upon him in disapproval, their otherwise peaceful party being ruined. The Calarimian officials sat at the other end of the table, ignoring what was happening on the other side. The farther right the table went, the less Arcadisians there were. Just then, they noticed the Pope and Lucchesi entering.

"Your Holiness! Um..." They looked to Viscount Gwon, who was completely hammered. A local Calarimian Baron and Steelworking CEO, and Viscount Park Doo Soon was trying to wrestle the drunk man into submission, but with little luck. "Take..." Before Yi Wan Ik could give any orders, he caught the eye of a Calarimian Commander who looked upon him in disapproval. He quickly changed his approach. "Maybe we should take him outside?" The two dragged Gwon outside, the man still ranting about not getting more sake. "Arcadisian filth, they should be more polite." A few of the Calarimians sniggered to themselves, the few Arcadisians at the table rolling their eyes. "What?" Yi Wan Ik turned around to see everyone bowing down to the Pope. Feeling awkward, he at last bowed like everyone else.

"You see?" Lucchesi said, leaning into the Pope as he crested the top of the stairs. "They're barbarians." Scanning the room, the old Cardinal considered the state of the men before him. One was drunk, two were disheveled, and the rest were preparing themselves to grovel before the holiest man on earth. "What an abhorrent collection of lowlifes," he said, leaning forward on his cane. "And to think that the College deemed your country as its priority in spreading the Gospel."

Michael Gregory stepped forward, his face stern as he nodded along to the Cardinal's words. "Who among you is Mr. Yi Wan Ik?" He said, his voice cool, laced with anger. "He has ten seconds to explain this carnival that you call a government."

"Er, that is I." Yi Wan Ik timidly stood up as everyone else resumed their activities, apparently unfazed. "You're a bit later than I expected so we decided to begin before..." Yi Wan Ik turned around to see everyone else ignoring him. They continued to eat as if nothing had happened.

"Dismiss anyone who is of little import to our conversation," Michael Gregory said, stepping close to the man. "Then we shall talk, albeit briefly. I am in no mood to have my time wasted by men of sub-par standards." If ever there was a time to tell Boross that he was right about something it was now, the Pope thought, glancing around at the other men who had gone back to eating.

Few people moved, all suspiciously eyeing each other, no one wanting to seem 'less important.' Finally, one of the Calarimian nobles spoke up.

"Yi Wan Ik, it was clearly a bad idea to invite a rabble of Arcadisians. Look, he's cross at us now. Remove yourselves from these premises and allow the...proper folk to do the talking." He said this as plainly and politely as possible, believing the Pope could not understand Calarimian.
"Oh, that won't do Baron." Yi Wan Ik shot back, emphasizing 'Baron.' He smirked, trying to appear more elegant, also believing that Gregory could not understand Calarimian. "Was it not your idea to start eating first? And bringing sake to the table too." After a brief, tense moment between the two, one by one, their eyes wandered over to the Pope, as they all noticed him once more, waiting for his next reaction. Some gazed at him with dull indifference, others glared. The ones farthest from the incident looked at him respectfully, believing themselves to not be affiliated with the events whatsoever.

Michael Gregory met the stares of each man, his green eyes searching them for an inkling of importance. Leaning back, his white cassock and rochet swaying gently as his golden pectoral cross shifted in response to the motion, Michael Gregory crossed his arms. Letting out a sigh of exasperation, he turned his furious gaze to Yi Wan Ik once more. "So," he began, his voice little more than a whisper, "am I to assume that everyone in this room is of vital importance to this conversation? At this point, why not invite the people from downstairs to join us, or," motioning towards the window the Pope's voice rose in volume, "perhaps some of the shivering widows outside? Why not invite the whole of Archuko to speak at this gathering?"

"Your Holiness, you can't judge a colony by only seeing the worst elements. This land has prospered after the takeover by Calarim. The Arcadisian people may not seem happy, but I assure you, things are definitely better than they were before the Calarimian Empire." Yi Wan Ik lowered his head as he saw an older, greying nobleman approach the area.

"We all must apologize for the bad first impressions, that was not supposed to happen, nor does this occur on a daily basis." said the Calarimian nobleman. "But Mr. Yi Wan Ik is correct, the annexation of Arcadisia by Calarim has brought nothing but prosperity to the peninsula! The Emperor has graciously modernized, industrialized, and civilized this wasteland, throughout own pockets and hard work. Where would the Arcadisian people be today if Calarim had not annexed it? They were clearly incapable of ruling themselves. I know not of whether you would understand, but the simple truth is, we are always hard at work for the Arcadisian people."

"I highly doubt that," Michael Gregory rebuked, "when there are starving widows and freezing children littering the streets of this city! Houses are still nothing but burnt ruins, corpses hang from trees, and after twenty years of occupation you have the audacity to tell me, the Pope of the Reeman Mother Church, that the Calarimians have brought peace, freedom, justice, and security to this land?" Taking a step back towards the door Michael Gregory turned his gaze to each man individually. How dare they, he thought as his mind turned once more to Adelina, to the friends that he lost in the Great War, to his family. How dare they lie to me.. "No. You have done nothing to help the people of this country," he said coolly, meeting Yi Wan Ik's gaze once more before following Cardinal Lucchesi out the door.

"Your...Holiness..." Yi Wan Ik trailed off as the door closed behind him. The angry nobled began glaring at one another, trying to figure out who was to blame. Arcadisians blamed Arcadisians, Calarimians blamed Calarimians, vice versa, and in any way possible, as long it was everyone else's problem and not theirs. The arguments of the nobles and buisnessmen grew louder and louder, as it began to descend into a shouting match of who was to blame for the failures

"Barbarians the lot of them," Lucchesi snarled as the pair made their way down the steps. "Ostfeld is the only one in this country with any sense. It's a shame that he's been recalled so soon. Those buffoons could learn a lot from him."

"I don't think that they're capable of learning anything, Lucchesi," Michael Gregory said, reaching the bottom of the stairs with a noisy thud. "Pope Saint Clement XVI was right to try to preserve the independence of these people. They were once our allies and now look," he motioned towards the window once more, his mind racing back to the widows that he had seen lining the streets outside the Calarimian Quarter. "They're nothing but cattle lined up to be slaughtered."

"Your Holiness?" A young waiter in a suit met the Pope at the bottom of the stairs. "Is...everything alright?" He looked outside.

Turning rapidly on his heels, Michael Gregory met the waiter's gaze, fury twisting his face. "No. The men upstairs are nothing but a den of thieves and vipers; unholy executioners of greed and anguish." Turning again to Lucchesi, Michael Gregory nodded his head toward the door. "Come, Lucchesi. It's time we got back to the ship."

"Thank you, Your Holiness." The waiter bowed slightly, a worn pocketwatch appearing on his right thigh, seemingly stopped at five minutes later. "I must be frank sir..." He looked around, making sure no one else heard him. "Honestly, no Arcadisian really likes those bloodsuckers. It seems you didn't either."

Michael Gregory grit his teeth as he turned to face the waiter, stopping in his tracks as the Cardinal made for the door. "And you have every right to. I was not impressed, and I can only pray to God that they be replaced with people who actually care about the well-being of the Arcadisian people." Stepping closer, the Pope eyed the young man with suspicion. "Are you an Arcadisian?"

"Yes your Holiness," the man said, his eyes lighting up. "Yet, I cannot speak any Arcadisian." He looked a bit sad. "I doubt there will ever be anyone who cares about us under this Empire. But at the very least, I know that God has not abandoned us, as you were here today. Thank you, Your Holiness." He checked the battered pocket watch, then the clock on the wall. "I...have to get going. Thank you again sir."(edited)

His Holiness glanced at the clock, grimacing at the time he'd wasted in coming here. Smiling warmly to the waiter, Michael Gregory said, "God speed to you." Turning towards the door, Michael Gregory followed Cardinal Lucchesi out of the restaurant, relieved that he wasn't forced to endure the foreign tastes and smells of this land's food. Calarimian green tea is one thing, he thought, but raw fish is another. "Kamakura," he said, approaching the door to the car. "Take us back to the port."

"Yes sir." As Kamakura helped them onto the car, there was a sudden yell, a cry of independence. An explosion rocked the building, smoke coming from the room the Pope had previously been in as bloody figures could be seen inside.

"Long live Arcadisia, and long live her people!" The soldiers braced and began running into the building as shouts continued.

"I'm sorry sir, but I must..." He looked at the driver, who had his pistol out. "You! Keep the Pope secure!" He drew his sword and ran into the building.

The soldiers ran about, trying to secure the nobles as the police and ambulance sirens wailed on the sideback. Kamakura himself walked out of the building, holding the Arcadisian waiter, battered and bloody, outside of the restaurant. The crowd screamed for death, throwing jeers and insults at the Arcadisian. Behind him were the nobles and businessmen, many of them being carried out of the building on stretchers. The staff of the restaurant were being carried out as well, their hands on their heads and the soldiers pointing rifles at them.

"Get out here you." Kamakura beckoned at the owner of the restaurant. "Were you affiliated with this waiter?"

"No, no!" The owner shook his head. "I had no idea that it was like this."

"Alright then." He scanned the staff. "All Arcadisians, step forward." Several Arcadisians stepped forward, others pushed to the front by Calarimian staff members. "Now. Who here knows this man?" He showed the bloody waiter to the group. "Anyone?" They all kept their eyes down, and shook their heads. "Were you?" He got close to a young girl, dressed like a geisha. "Were you?!" He barked. She shook her head. "Not answering, eh?" Grabbing her by her chin, he looked right into her eyes. "Lee Sun Ja, eh? You think your family will be safe if you don't fess up?"

"Sir, I really..." The girl looked around, trying to find a shred of comfort in anyone else. "Sir, I really don't know." Kamakura's eyes softened, then he backed off, his face pensive.

"I believe you. Oh, I believe you." He sighed, turning around, looking into his palm. "It's a real shame when innocent bystanders get sucked into these kinds of situations, tut tut..." With one sudden swoop, he beheaded the girl, drawing the sword and slicing her neck in one graceful motion. "Now." He turned to face the other staff. "Who's next?"

Arcadisia, Iserk, Caloy, Ashdia, and 1 otherCathanistan

Out of Time
Asadal, Calarimian Quarters
January 2nd, 1941

Two men, an old, greying man in a suit, and a young man in a waiter's uniform met in a dark alleyway. The young man gave a strange hand signal to the other, and the other responded in kind.
"Sohn Cheol Soo?" The old man asked.
"And you are Ahn Baek Gil." He smiled. "Has Kim Chae Yoon* sent for you?"
"Yes, yes!" The two shook hands. "I believe that the Pope heads here soon. He will be here in due time." The old man smiled, seeing the direct efficiency of the young man. "My plan invovles not harming the Pope, but I will give him a demonstration of our resolve. Our determination."
"Are there any Arcadisian workers in the restaurant there?"
"No, or at least the intel we have suggests not. It's hard to tell, being deep within the uptown. I had to conduct all the reconnaissance on my own."
"I see." Ahn thought to himself, of his old ancestral home that was now located under the restaurant. He sighed, thinking of the horrid situation Arcadisians were now in. "You...really are going in then? Are you really going to do this?"
"Yes. I have to." Sohn smiled sadly. "It is my destiny. As an Arcadisian. I'll show those bloodsuckers our strength. I'll blow them sky high for what they did to my..." Sihn gluped, not being able to get everything out. He procured a watch, and set a time. The old man shook his head at the Sohn Cheol Soo and his battered watch.
"A fine young man like you, a soldier of Arcadisia should not have such a wretched clock." He procured a shiny brass watch from his coat, and held it out for him. "This watch was my son's during the Great War." The old man held back his tears. "He would have been your age when he died. You remind me of him. Here, allow me to give this to you."
"Sir," Tears streaked down Sohn's eyes as well as he pushed the brass watch away. "I am out of time." He tucked the bomb into his coat as the old man truly realized what was about to happen.
"Then godspeed to you. May the lord be in your favor." Sohn Cheol Soo knelt down, giving him an eastern bow.
"Thank you sir." Ahn Baek Gil knelt down as well, trying to get the young man to stand up. "I am but one of many. You gave my life purpose. You gave me meaning."
"Sohn!" Ahn cried out. "It has not Sohn. Everything, everything was of your own doing. I was but an old man observing you, you, everything you have built up is your doing and your doing alone. It should be me, it should be me that is going out there, not you!"
"This is my path." Sohn got up. "This is what I have chosen. Thank you again. Thank you. Thank you." Sohn bowed again, and walked away, leaving Ahn stunned.

*Charlie's Arcadisian name

Ashdia, Baja formosa, Cathanistan, and Magna kalonia

Post by The 69th republic of chad suppressed by Miklozia.

The 69th republic of chad

Hello everyone I just joined your guys union and it seems wonderful

Attack Imminent

King of Klepia, Niman Polx was in the Klepian Central hospital, recovering from a stroke. He had already created his will, but he won't be needing that anytime soon. The stroke, fortunately, hasn't crippled any parts of his body, other than some minor paralysis on some of his fingers. Suddenly, one of his generals entered his hospital room.

"Do you really think you can direct a war like this, your majesty? We can always delay our aid to Vranastrova."

"We have waited long enough. I won't be required to stay in this wretched room for any longer. I will personally plan the attack." King Polx responded with a sickly voice. "Now, if you excuse me, I need to take my medication."

Niman Polx looked away at a counter, and reached for a small bottle, he dissolved the pills in water and drank the liquid.

"These new pills require all this extra work, I wish my old medicine still cut it."

As he carefully set aside the bottle, he looked out of his window. A bright coast. He promised to himself for Klepia to have a new shore, on new lands. The invasion is soon.

Ashdia, Baja formosa, and Cathanistan

The Eastern Criminal - November 13th, 1940 - Indo-Authrasia

"So, you're an arms dealer?" Asked Davidida, who took a small sip off his whiskey glass. The loud and busy room upon the bar was ideal for him to make small talk and with such an interesting man as an arms dealer, things couldn't get any better, except a cigar and a fan, that would be perfect. The room was both busy and hot, the sun from outside, even to the night it was, made the room humid and hot. The drinks laying upon the table were not there most needed cold sour flavour, however, it was a near-warm taste of mediocre alcoholic beverages, but it was good enough for those who go there. From miners just a few miles out, to soldiers on a short leave, to those who need a quick drink, it was a bar for everyone.

"Yes, why do you ask?" Responded Sandruita, he was an immigrant from the Authrasia Colonies, yet thankfully, his family was fairly wealthy and he managed to set up a small company providing rations for the war effort, with only 30% of the profits coming to him. However, his small company wasn't enough. Establishing him set immediately in the arms market with both his father companies money and his own company, he would buy cheap from anti-government groups and guerrilla groups, and would sell to the army for higher prices. A simple buy low, sell high. He gets the profit and doesn't get a single blood on his shirt.

"How do you make money then without being... killed?" Asked Davidida, he questioned how he was still alive, as he sipped upon his whiskey as the heats attack began to dim down. He lurked his eyes around the room, no one was looking. Scratching his head due to an itch, he ordered a glass of water, specifically large. The small cubes of ice upon it was handed to the nearby of the table, as he took a sip upon it.

"I'm the middle-man, I buy and sell. I never deal the blood, at least not yet. So, you're interested? I'm in need of an accountant and you seem both experienced and easy to work with. You in?" He asked, David knew the answer would most likely be yes. Though the arms market was small to the region, it was profitable, and not really being affected by who he sells and buys from, he was in the perfect situation. Though his small cabinet of workers, from commercial directors to those in the table, Davidida was very much in the game of money and war, in which he saw more money than both and no blood.

"Well... sure". He didn't seem so sure, but went with it. Becoming an accountant to an arms dealer wouldn't be that bad, would it? Thoughts raced through his head as the man who he has just talked to rushed off in a spirit of a second or two. Staring upon the exit of the bar, he leaned back on his chair, gripping his near-finished whiskey and slurped the rest of it. This could be incredible, getting the large slums of catch, profiting from the business of war. War isn't war, war is a business between the buyers, sellers and actors. That was his motto from now one. Gripping the water and giving off a great gulp as the cold water went through. A smile came to him. This was his new life. A better one.

Upon a few mornings and nights went, as the two would meet at a warehouse, supposedly meeting a client of some sort. The room was large, but had little in it, a table, several chairs, lights and large bags of rubbish of some sort, but most of empty. It had a loud eco, as the metal wailings made an almost cold atmosphere in the hot climate of into-authrasia. Even though outside markets rose to the ground, fruits and foods of all kind were sold, within the extreme temperatures. The two were waiting for a client, or it wasn't just a single person, a group of rebels from a few years ago who had fled north and now prepared to sell off weapons to gain a profit. Though with no background of information of both buyer and seller, both accounts knew neither was getting out without a bit of blood. Automatic weaponry was a luxury, so some rifles and Molotov's would do the trick, all hidden behind a few bags behind them. As the door crept open, the clients, a group of robust men carrying some form of weaponry, automatic or not, legal or not. Two boxes were wheeled in behind them, as they were laid in front of them.

"Who are they?!" Asked the accountant, confused and a little worried of what they may, could or really should do. He glared to Davidida to a bit, before glaring to the two boxes headed to him. Engaged with a sweaty suit, the patches of sweat on his arm-pits, his forehead dripping in it, despite the cold and depressing feeling in the room. As the man who had gotten into this deal in the first place came closer to the boxes, the unofficial leader shoved him away, obviously with a payment needed for the products.

"My good people, I will get the payment. Wait a moment". He slowly made his way to the bags behind him, as the accountant realised. Seeing the lingering bottles of the molotovs, seeing the smirk of a rifle, his eyes widened. What had he done? In the shock of the moment, he did nothing. Frozen, He just gave a look upon the man, who was several inches taller than him. This was his moment.

Arcadisia, Iserk, Ashdia, Baja formosa, and 1 otherCathanistan

In Defiance of History - Banda Nor, Ashdia - January 21, 1941 - Ashdia Collab

Glancing up at the bright yellow sun overhead, Pope Michael Gregory sneered as he brought a handkerchief up to his forehead. Patting away the beads of sweat quickly accumulating on his brow, the Pope found himself conflicted over which climate he preferred: the frost-bitten winter of Arcadisia, or the sweltering heat of Ashdia’s faux-winter. Neither, he decided as he made his way along the banks of the Sungai Atjdia. Vranastrova, for all its many downsides as a second-rate power, truly had the best climate. Never too hot, and never too cold.

Turning his head towards the Calarim Guard that walked close beside him, Michael Gregory found himself pitying them most of all. Their ceremonial cuirass, thick polished metal that blanketed their chests in a protective veil, was draped over their full dress uniform - a yellow and blue striped uniform crowned with a morion helmet and red feathers. In each of the mens’ right hands was a large halberd. Smiling with glee, Michael Gregory reached out, dabbing the nearest Guard’s head with his handkerchief as they walked towards their destination.

“There,” Michael Gregory said, retracting his hand, “hopefully that helps.” Turning his gaze ahead, the Pope spotted the place where they were to meet the Sultan of Ashdia. His eyes widening, Pope Michael Gregory took in the sight of a large golden barge, three gazebo-like structures poking up from the deck - two blue with the center white and adorned with gold molding. The barge screamed elegance and refinement, something that he sorely missed while in Arcadisia.

Arriving at the barge, Michael Gregory took in one last look before boarding, his anticipation and excitement growing as he prepared to meet the man who would conquer the Kalonian Raj.

Sultan Ihsan and his entourage reached the barge soon after. The entourage, consisting of 17 royal slaves, wore in dark black as a symbol of Sultan's protection. Some of them hold spears, some hold the Lalayan armor shileds and some hold bright majestic blue umbrellas to keep the sun's direct light off the Sultan. Already recognizable from afar, their arrival was due to the majestic blue umbrellas shining. Sultan Ihsan fully dressed in Baju Yayasa which is a traditional Wasya costume, that is only used by the royals. In his waist, they are Kris and Terakol placed side by side. Alongside his majesty, also came the Bendahara (similar role as prime minister). The Bendahara, Osman dressed up in his new and fancy Payasan clothing excited to meet the most influential person in this era. Payasan clothing is a black velvet fabric dress decorated with golden yellow lace, and a part of Payasan culture.

"Oh, so you have arrived, good sir. Sorry for my lateness, I have something going up a bit. But anyways Welcome to Ashdia! Welcome to the nation of islands and diverse culture. I see that your men are quite exhausted there. Why don't you change your clothes to ours, we brought one. Since the weather of this nation is hotter compared to the nation of yours. And So, how should I address you, good sir?"

Michael Gregory put his hand up, dismissing the offer as his guards straightened their backs, standing in resolute defiance to change. “We’re fine as we are, but thank you,” he said, a smile growing on his lips as he extended his hand towards the Sultan. “You may call me Michael Gregory, though most call me ‘Your Holiness’ or, more simply, ‘Holiness.’ I assume that you are Sultan Ihsan?”

"Yes, I am Ihsan al-Muktafi billah Shah, the 43rd sultan of Ashdia. You can just call me, Tuanku (same like your majesty). Then I shall address you as Tun, an honorific title that means 'The Most Honourable' since that is the most suitable title for you. What are your thoughts about this barge? Of course, it's nothing compared to that huge ship of yours. What is that monster's name?" Clearly to be seen in Ihsan's face, the face of excitement to know the answer.

“Well, Tuanku,” Michael Gregory began, his gluttony for learning other languages shining through as he slowly and proudly mimicked the Sultan’s pronunciation of the honorific. “The ship that I travelled here on is called the HHS Empress of Pedria. She was built by Vranastrova’s very own Red Star Line in the New Reema colony further east of here. She’s a fine ship, but not quite as elegant as this barge that we find ourselves on.” Turning his gaze to the deck, then to the gazebo structures at the bow and the stern, the Pope whistled in amazement. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It is not proper for me to do so, but I must say that I envy you. It is quite beautiful.”

Ihsan thought in his mind, after seeing Michael Gregory's face "I know, this face!. This face is.. It's the face of those who seek to learn more!." He replied, "Ah, if you wish to know more about our languages, I'll send one of our people to you. Oh, so it was built here. That's new knowledge for sure. Haha, you know what, it reminds me of something I learned from my father. There are two types of jealousy one is a good one and one is forbidden. You see, this is part of our family, the rima family's most beloved treasure. I can build you a copy of this, but the most important thing we need is GOLD." Clearly visible on his face, his greed for gold and wealth known only to the Bendahara.

Osman looked at MG1 and the calarimian guards, concerned "By the look of it, your guards are sweating quite a lot. They look like they are going to fall at any second. Are they okay? It's a bit concerning, plus those uniforms and cuirass in this 'hot weather'. Why don't we have a drink? Samarinda! Prepare us some tjendols" He'd called his servant. After 5 minutes, she arrived with a tray, on top of it were 5 tjendols full bowls. "Thank you, Samarinda. Introducing the tjendols. One of the best drinks during this kind of situation. For your information, tjendol is an iced sweet dessert that contains droplets of green rice flour jelly, coconut milk, palm sugar syrup and toppings such as jackfruit and sweetened red azuki beans. Try it! Hope this will cool down your body." He'd hand the tjendols to the guests.

"Tch, look at this old man. Why did he even come here? Ugh, wherever I go, he will always be there. If it was not for the system and laws, I would disband 'The Big Four' myself. I'd always prefer Teacher more than him. Not only that Teacher is the second highest in rank, he is also much better than you. Teacher, why didn't you join us.. Just why?? -referring to the grand imam, Syeikh Nabil" Ihsan thought himself.

Michael Gregory eyed the bowl with suspicion, weary of its foreign origin. Looking to his guards, Michael Gregory motioned for them to eat, only taking a bit of his own tjendols when he was satisfied that it would not kill him. Arching his eyebrows in surprise, Michael Gregory greedily took a second and third bite. “This is quite delicious,” he said, his mouth full of the cool treat. “I say, you simply must have Samarinda visit me in Reema to make this. It would be quite the showstopper at any event.” Taking a fourth bite, Michael Gregory set his bowl down on a nearby table, dusting his hands off before turning back to the Sultan. “Speaking of cultural exchange, I believe that we can direct some of the gold mined in the Pedrian Empire, our largest colony, to Banda Nor. In exchange,” Michael Gregory turned, walking to the edge of the deck near the cool, reflective water.

Staring at his reflection for a moment the Pope carefully considered his next words. Meeting the Sultan’s gaze once more, Michael Gregory continued, “In exchange, I will need more than a boat. No, I will need a guarantee that the Raj will fall before the year is over. I will need a solemn oath made that your devotion to the NWO, and to Strainism are pure and unshakable.” Inching closer to the Sultan, Michael Gregory’s smile grew, his voice warmer than it was before. “I will keep your coffers full, and in return all I ask for is a guarantee of your friendship.”

Ihsan grew a smile seeing them eating the served food enjoyably. “Yes, they are very tasty. In Fact, They are my favorite dish.” he said, and took a spoon of his own bowl. He smiled even more hearing the pope interest in having some more, “Yes, you may have them, Tun. Tjendol are actually Ashdian national drink, it's not actually eaten during hot weather, it can be eaten anywhere you like and I'm really glad if this dish were to be introduced to the world.”

Ihsan's smile slowly faded away "Raj, you say.. hmm" He gritted his teeth and his hand to his mouth, mainly the thumb, "Those Kalonian monkeys.. How dare they humiliate me! How dare they.. Not even reply to my message, you make me look really weak. If I were-" he stopped, and took a bite of Tjendol to cool his temper.

"Apologies, Tun. It seems that I have vented my rage in front of you. But I believe that our previous loss was mainly because we underestimated them, and brought only a tiny army. We thought that since their capital is bombed, getting attacked from multiple sides, We would guarantee victory, but no.. It backfired us. But this time, all of my army is gathered here. I had a meeting last year discussing this matter. I believe, this time, our revenge will be carried out. Those monkeys... we'll teach them some lessons."

Ihsan then smiled a bit. “Don't you worry, our friendship will be till this world ends. We have no such intention of betrayal. Ashdians never betray their own word. But one of the problems we're facing right now.. is we NEED advanced weapons. We do have tons of weapons, so much that every citizen of Ashdia can hold one.. but they were outdated compared to those monkeys' guns. I'd say our weapons are like par with the late 19th century.”

Michael Gregory relaxed his tensing muscles, shifting his weight to one foot as the man spoke. “I’m glad to hear it, allies seem to be in such short supply as of late,” he said, gritting his teeth at the memory of King Paul’s betrayal eight months prior. “But I will see what I can do about your weapons shortages. Vranastrova could supply your military with guns manufactured here in Pedria. Wanuku’s factories are restless, their workers persistent in their labour. Yes,” the Pope said, nodding his head, “we can supply the weapons, and the men to train your soldiers in how to use them.”

Picking up his bowl once more, Michael Gregory took another bite of his tjendols, savoring its flavor for a moment before swallowing. “Just let us know what it is you need and the Empire of Pedria will work to supply you, but,” Michael Gregory held up his forefinger, his smile rapidly dissipating, “we will only be able to redirect our resources here for a few months. Vranastrova’s war is global. We will need every spare gun and bullet.”

"Ah, I see. Sranastrosa (thick wasya accent) is big after all." He then thought, "That offer.. that's a really good one. I must take it!." He clasped his hand together, "That's not.. a bad offer afterall. I shall agree on that. Hm.. speaking of the world, I just heard from my intel that there was an attack on you there, Arcadisia I mean. Yeesh, those arcadisian. They never learn their lesson. Though, I favor only one arcadisian, Ryuk-Kwang Sun. I think you don't know him yet.

"Ah, if you are thirsty for water. Don't worry we have cold water, ready. Samarinda! Bring them here." She came again but this time holding a labu sayong. She then opened the cap, and poured some water into cups she brought. "You must be wondering, what is this clay-bottle looking item, it's called Labu Sayong. As you can see, Labu sayong is a black pumpkin-shaped pottery container. Simply put, when you put water inside, it will become cold. And this is really convenient."

“Thank you,” Michael Gregory said, taking the cup gracefully to take a sip of the cool liquid. “No,” the Pope said, shaking his head, “I cannot say that I know Ryuk-Kwang Sun. Though I must say that I was not impressed with the Arcadisians that I met personally during my trip to Archuko.” Narrowing his eyes, the Pope cringed as he remembered the dastardly Yi Wan Ik. The slimy oaf had every bit of shrapnel coming. “They are a… tortured race to say the least, and it troubles me that they attempted to kill me.” Remembering the scarred widows, the Pope found it hard to believe that one of them could have ended his life. Years of resentment, he decided was the cause of their intense hatred.

“But I digress, Tuanku, I am here, after all. I survived this last attempt just as I survived the previous one. There is no killing me or this alliance.” Waving his hand as if brushing the thought of assassination away, Michael Gregory considered the benefits of the alliance he was forging. Pausing, the Pope turned his gaze to the east. “Are you aware, Sultan,” he said slowly, “that there is a menace beyond reckoning close to our shores? A dangerous ideology that loathes the very thing that our offices represent?”

“Ah, thought so. Just so you know, Ryuk-Kwang Sun is one of my royal slaves and the only one that has the potential. He's currently the Admiral Bahr or you can say the highest rank in the Navy. I kind of thought that you met him on the way here. hm let's just keep that." Ihsan put a relieved face, "At the very least, you are safe and sound."

“Ah, you mean the communist. That wretched ideology.. Hearing it's name makes me want to puke. Ugh, how in the world could such an ideology appear. I'm very aware of that existence much more than I'm worried of my assassination.. If the ideology sets foot here, the main culture of Ashdia, Kings and Sultans are no more. I remember, back in the 20s, when I was still 8.. They dare to set foot in this land. My father had a hard time dealing with them. If I remember correctly, you are bordering them right? Fue.. Fugra .. Whatever its name. They are also bordering us, by one island.."

A grin tugged at the edges of the Pope’s mouth, pleased to have found a trigger point in the young man. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Fuegrado is the country in question. It is a former Papal colony, lost after the Great War some twenty odd years ago.” His grin fading as quickly as it had come, Michael Gregory scowled at the thought of his upcoming visit to the country. “I am set to visit their capital to discuss a possible trade. They possess oil reserves that will be crucial to the war effort, but,” Michael Gregory paused, his grin slowly returning, “I am also due to meet with the leadership in Axalonia. The primitive nation is a prime target for Fuegrado’s vile ideology.”

Stepping forward, Michael Gregory leaned in to the Sultan, his mouth mere inches from the man’s ear. Cupping his hand to conceal his words from potential listeners, the Pope said, “I have a proposition, but one that we will need to keep between the two of us.” Clearing his throat, Michael Gregory took one last look around before leaning back in to whisper his plan. “Communism is growing at an alarming rate globally. I can tolerate it, to a degree, as it sits in Zudea, but I will not tolerate it growing any further. Fuegrado poses a direct threat to our interests and to our potential allies in the area. What if,” the Pope’s smile grew, satisfied with his own machinations. “What if we formed an alliance against communism? If you and I signed a treaty here, guaranteeing to defend southern Pedria against the ideology, then I could invite Axalonia to this secret pact when I speak with them.”

Michael Gregory leaned back, his smile slowly fading. “The Pedrian Anti-Communist Coalition,” he mouthed as he withdrew to where he was before.

"Ah, Fuegrado.. Oh, I remembered that, in the global history book, Vranan-occupied Pedria something something can't remember. But anyways, you're going there?!" He stand as he was shocked to hear that. But he kept his temper cool, "No, I'd have to suggest you, not to go there. Just look at the ideology they are using, how can we trust that nation. I just am worried for you, but if you resists to do so, then I can't do anything about it.. It's true, they have oil, I'm in need of oil for my tanks too. Axalonia.. you say.. hm we've once offer them weapons and guns but they refused to do so.. But I guess, they could be potential ally."

Hearing the pope's suggestion, he grinned and thought to himself "It's the right time, it's time for me to continue father's work“ He then replied by whispering that only MG1 could hear, "Yes, I'll keep it to myself. Fuegrado does pose a great threat to society.“ Ihsan then nodded after hearing some more of the pope's words, as a sign of agreement.

"With that being said, then, we'll sign it right away. Hartaka! Bring me the paper and my seal, right now." "Yes, Tuanku. On my way." He'd put the items on the table in order."

Michael Gregory’s smile returned, overjoyed at having sealed Ashdia’s involvement in not only the ongoing war, but also in defense against communism. Stepping forward to sign the treaty, the Pope said, “Marvelous, Sultan Ihsan, simply marvelous. We’ve just secured peace, freedom, and justice for southern Pedria. This is a feat not achieved since the last time Popes occupied land here.” Bringing his pen down on the paper to sign the treaty, Michael Gregory found himself suddenly hesitating. Fifteen hundred years of hatred, bloodshed, and war between the Christians and the Muslims of this world and here he was, the Pope of the Reeman Mother Church, signing a treaty of defense and friendship with a Muslim ruler.

Smiling at the irony of it all, Michael Gregory signed away centuries of hate. “Brothers in arms,” he said quietly, pulling up from the paper. “Now, before I go, is there anything else that you would like to discuss?”

"Thank you, for signing, Tun. It's an honor to be friends with you." a big smile appeared on his face." He'd hand the paper to his servant. "Keep them safe."

”Oh, you're going already. How about stay for a while. If not, then that's fine. Also, there's something I want to ask. I'd like to ask you for Cardinals in Ashdia. Of course, it's not for me. It's for some minority Christians in Ashdia. I wouldn't say that minority.. probably there are 20~30% Christian in this nation. Many of my people issued this problem, they said to also have a commitment in worldwide Christian." He reached his hand out.

Taking the man’s hand firmly in his and shaking it, Michael Gregory thought deeply on the subject of Cardinals. Innocent XIV had used them to promote Christianity abroad in pagan or atheistic lands, a tool for the Mission instead of a prize for piety. Michael Gregory, for all his humility, had been sparing in his designation of Cardinals, afraid to hand out too many to the nations of the world that had so sorely missed the mark on Christ’s message. Yet now he was being asked by a Sultan, a Muslim ruler, on behalf of his Christian populace for Princes of the Church. The idea baffled the Pope.

“It certainly is not customary for Princes of the Church to dwell in Muslim nations,” Michael Gregory said, the gears in his mind turning rapidly as he sought a reason to give the people here what they desired. “But I think that we can come to an agreement,” a grin tugging at the edges of his lips once more, the Pope released the Sultan’s hand. “There is some land that you currently possess that was once part of Papal Pedria. A large Christian minority lives there, or so I hear. I can most certainly give the Christians of your nation a Cardinal or two to lead them; their piety and devotion well placed and their loyalty to their most noble Sultan admirable.” Pausing, Michael Gregory quickly recapped the conversation, realizing that his earlier offer of gold could be used for further profit.

Smiling with satisfaction as everything came together, Michael Gregory said, “I shall award two Cardinals for the piety of your people. The land in question I will purchase with the gold previously discussed. 14 tons per year for ten years should suffice.”

"Then I shall agree on that. Ah, before you go. I have my gift for you, as a symbol of our friendship. Hartaka! Bring the gift now." Hartaka came and kneeled, raising his hands, and on his hand a kris was put. "Here, take this, Tun. This is a Kris for you."

His Holiness took the Kris, unsheathing and examining the wavy blade before shaking the man’s hand once more. “Thank you for the gift and for your hospitality,” the Pope said before departing from the Sultan. Making his way back to the harbour to find cooler arrangements, Michael Gregory once more took out his handkerchief, dabbing away the beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead and cheeks. “Oh, Stephen Hende,” he said, chuckling, “you really are a Miklozian.”

Miklozia, Arcadisia, Caloy, Ashdia, and 1 otherCathanistan

H.R. National Security 27
Federal Capitol Building, Alexandria
March 18th 1940

Behind closed doors the 64 member Senate sat in their respective seats. Historical artwork lined every wall, with flags of all sixteen states and the national flag being displayed throughout the room.

“It’s not a matter of opinion of the armed services, I simply question the need for this much funding when there is no war.” stated Senator Benjamin Ibanes of New Augustine,
“Yet..” [i]Senator Lujan of Bellevue responded
“There is no war yet, but sooner or later the Rimies will come knocking for the Casilleriens.”
“Sure, that’s what the headlines said in 1898 when the Luma blew up.”
“That was a completely different circumstance” The white suited Flint Welch responded, smoking a cigarette while leaning in his chair. “The Rimies and the Miklozians continue to push their borders with their cancerous ideology. Meanwhile we can’t decide whether we should give our boys in blue and green more guns”
“You sure those guns going to our boys, and not to some Kalonian or Kyiviskan?” Ibanes retorted “We have already sent our boys to die once in the escapades of Aucerosa this century.”
“The bill clearly states the funding is for our own security, not to our Aucerosan allies, have you even read it?” Murmuring came from across the room as conservative senators responded to the jest.
Roger Smithfield of New Pelham, stood from his seat “Of course we read it, and this extra funding to the DFSI could just as easily be used against Calian citizens as well as spies.”
Another Conservative was the next to speak “That’s an absurd claim Smithfield, we all know that the current director has been fair with domestic surveillance.”
“He doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone though.” Shouted southern Liberal Kevin Freeman.

Senate Majority Leader, Octavio Morgen stood near the center of the room. “Enough of this Ibnes, we have established that this is a bill entirely for our own defense. I know we are all wary of entanglement in Aucerosa like we had been under the United Alliance. Likewise we’re all wary of another Alien and Sedition Act with the DFSI funding. However, our colleagues in the House were able to pass this, but we’re too busy with party politics to do the same!” he ranted to the audience of senators before clearing his throat. “I promised the Vice President and Secretary of Defense that we would have this sorted prior to their arrival, so please, let’s remain on track.”
Ibnes huffed a cigar in silence, as some of his colleagues whispered to each other.
“I agree with Lujan’s statement of the inevitability of war reaching the republic. Likewise I believe that this bill is necessary for us to be prepared for it when it does happen.” Commented the young moderate conservative from Jericho, Logan Gomes, prompting a nod and a slight smile from the southern liberal.
A few more spouts of agreement were stated prior to the a knock coming at the door of the chamber. Immediately the room went ghostly quiet as the senators stared at it. The heavy wooden door then opened on noiseless hinges, a Federal officer held it open as Vice President Marvin Foyet walked in cleaning his glasses. Behind him trailed the Secretary of Defense, a former navy captain, Antonio Mendosa. Oh his collar was the emblem of the Marinha Federal.

“Good evening Mister Vice President,” [i]Morgen greeted rising to his feet, Foyet shook his hand with a grin.
“Good to see you old friend,” The Vice President greeted,
“Likewise, getting homesick of this chamber yet?”
“No, the air is less stuffy in the Palace, though I do miss that little hot dog cart outside.”
The chamber of senators had a collective chuckle, “We should get FPS to mark that cart as a heritage site.” Freeman joked sparking more chuckles

The Vice President turned to the chamber turning to a more serious expression.
“Gentlemen, have we come to an agreement over H.R. National Security 27?” He asked to the chamber of senators
“We were just about to start the vote on it” Lujan informed
“Perfect, let’s get to it then”

Foyet presided as the Senators stated ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ to the bill, as to be expected the hard line Conservatives like Ibnes and Smithfield voted ‘nay’ the hard line Liberals the other way. However at the end of it there was a clear result
“With a vote of 44-20 the Ayes have it, H.R. National Security 27, shall promptly be brought to the President” Foyet announced “With that enjoy the rest of your nights gentlemen.”

As what would be expected in the immediate next morning, that bill would receive the signature of President Whitmore, authorizing H.R. National Security 27 , signifcantly increasing the funding of the armed services, federal police, and Federal Directorate.

Arcadisia, Iserk, Ashdia, Baja formosa, and 2 othersCathanistan, and Magna kalonia

"Defying Mars II"
March 10th, 1941
Mirobein, Miklozia

What? Erich Hesse Jr. couldn’t help but think as the King before him began to break down after grovelling. Breathlessly, he pulled the photograph back up and then turned to the framed painting of | the same man on the wall. There was no doubt, they were the same, and this had fatally unravelled the man tied up on the ground. He listened on with interest as the King explained himself, justified his inaction. “That damned maniac.” The young man said of Boross, and for a moment Erich doubted himself, and his mission. Shaking his head, he pulled the duct tape back over the man’s mouth, and brought himself behind and over him.

Pulling the knife up into the air, he was poised to strike. But he wavered, understanding now that the King was simply a helpless pawn. He was brought into this as a child, was he not? Could he really be held responsible for the suffering of millions? ”He is complicit.” The voice of his father flowed through him as he continued to hesitate, Mikhael Clement’s sharp breaths against the black tape the only sounds in the room. ”He is responsible! It’s time to enact justice!” His hands shaking upon the handle of the knife, the voice continued to egg him on. ”It is your destiny, Erich! He must die!”

Finally, Erich broke, bringing the knife downward through the air toward the King. They struck against the rope tying the man’s hands together, and then he pulled the tape off the man’s mouth, ushering him up onto his feet.

Mikhael Clement blinked staring at his attacker and, now, his savior. “Thank you.” He said, staring back at the man in muffled understand, and brushing himself off. “Now, who are you?”

The would-be assassin nodded. "My name is Erich Hesse Junior, I'm a…" The young soldier stopped himself, a part of him still fighting against the truth.

"A defector?" Mikhel Clement finished for the man. "I thought so. A part of me doesn't blame you for going after me. I probably would too." He said, before turning up again toward the painting of Alscher upon the wall. "I see now that he's gone too far, and I've done far too little to stop him."

"He's next." Hesse said quickly, causing Mikhael Clement to raise an eyebrow.

"Good," he said, lighting up with a sudden spark of courage unseen from the man in a decade. "Then I will come with you. We'll take him down together. I am still their king." He continued, although he seemed unsure himself, his eyes darting away. Erich thought for a moment, his eyes glaring with quiet sympathy toward the King. At that moment, the paddering of high-heels became audible, coming toward them from the nearby hallway. “It’s Helene.” Mikhael Clement said, grimacing. “Hide, quick.”

As Queen Helene opened the door, her ordered blond hair edged over and around her head, she turned skeptically toward Mikhael Clement, whichever reason she intended to come in here for escaping her mind. “Helene.” Mikhael Clement said, his face red and his eyes narrowed, “I think we should…” His eyes turning toward Erich, stood quietly as possible on the wall behind Helene, his hand gripping his gun. “Go our separate ways. Request a divorce.”

Helene stood for a moment, her chest pounding and her face twisting into the worst, most angry frown Mikhael Clement has ever seen. She chortled a bit, as though waiting for Mikhael Clement to reveal this was some kind of joke. “You must be kidding.” She said what she was thinking, a twisted smile remaining upon her lips. Mikhael Clement shook his head no. “No… no, no!” She said, her pounding chest beating ever faster in pure tension. “You can’t do this to me, Mikhael Clement. I’ve worked my whole life to get where I am now and you’re not taking that away from me!” She took a step forward, waving her finger in his face. “If you think you can take this you’re wrong! You may be the King, but I…” She stopped herself, an insidious smile crawling through her face. “I am the mother of your children. And if keeping my power means taking them away from you, then I am afraid I have no other choice!”

“Helene, no!” Mikhael Clement said as she turned away, determined to rush for the Nursery, but stopping at the sight of a man against the wall in a dirtied uniform, a pistol against his waist. As she took a step backward in sudden fear, Erich taking a step forward himself in an attempt to an intimidate, Mikhael Clement flung a thick, hard-covered book against Helene’s head, and she quickly went down.

Erich rushed downward, duct tape and what was left of his rope in hand. “My children…” Mikhael Clement muttered. “Erich, I can’t abandon my children. I-”

Tying the Queen’s hands to the foot of the bed, he turned upward toward Mikhael Clement. “Then I have no other choice.” He said, before turning back downward and bringing a strip of duct tape over Helene’s mouth. “Your survival is crucial if Boross is to be stopped. We’ll have to get to Jan’s Port and ship you and your children to safety.”

Mikhael Clement’s eyes faltered, his newfound courage clashing with his love of his family. “We will get them to safety, but I must stay here, with my people. I will not abandon them a second time.”

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

Finally, Mikhael Clement returned to the room, a dark-haired baby named Janoz in his hands and little Catherine and Jan Peter stood below him. They all looked very confused, and barely awake. Janoz was sobbing against his father’s chest, struggling in a feeble attempt to break free. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it may have even been cute. “Get Catherine and Jan Peter to safety. I need to get something, but I’ll catch up with you.” He said to Erich, and he reluctantly nodded. He knelt down to Catherine and Jan Peter’s level, and Jan Peter said “Who is that, Daddy?” still deeply confused. “This is Erich.” He said. “Daddy’s good friend. There’s, uh,” he thought for a moment, “a tornado on its way here- yes, a tornado. We have to get out of here as quick as possible. “Why is Mommy tied up?” Catherine asked, still groggy but deeply concerned nonetheless. “Because she’s going to stay here and make sure nothing happens to the Palace. Now go!” He said, patting them both and setting them off with Erich.

Sighing with little crying Janoz still in hand, Mikhael Clement rushed to his dresser, pulling out the bottom drawer and searching desperately with his free hand. There it is. He thought with a sudden smile, bringing up a collection of loose papers, before stuffing them in his coat. Rushing now once again, this time toward the door, he stopped as a rough voice struggled from behind him. Queen Helene was shaking against her constraints, mumbling in desperation. He stood there for a moment, wondering whether or not to acknowledge her, before deciding yes. Hopefully, it would be the last time they spoke. Leaning down, he pulled the tape off and she took a sharp breath.

“Leave him. Leave Janoz here.” She said, staring up toward the baby. It was the first time together he saw real desperation out of his wife.

Raising an eyebrow, he chuckled a bit. “And why on Earth would I abandon my child - leave him here with you and Boross’s evil.”

Helene smiled. “Because he’s not your child.”

Mikhael Clement’s heart began to beat rough and quick. “What?” Was all he could say.

But the blow he would receive next nothing could prepare him for. “He’s Daved’s.” Helene explained, and Mikhael Clement could feel his soul shatter, as he took a hurried step back. “No…” He continued. “That can’t be true. That’s… That’s impossible...”

Helene began to laugh wickedly, before he stuck the tape back over her lips. His very being deeply hurt, he stared back down at the baby in his arms. His brown eyes, his messy dark tuft of hair. His own words echoed in his head: He looks just like his Uncle Daved! His arms shaking and the child distressed, he swallowed, his mind rushing a million miles a minute. Breathlessly, he began slowly toward the floor, resting the child against the ground. Taking another step back, his head still shaking in disbelief, he shook himself and turned, running off to catch up with Erich and the children.

Vranastrova, Arcadisia, Caloy, Ashdia, and 3 othersBaja formosa, Cathanistan, and Magna kalonia

The Land That Time Forgot - Itza, Axalonia - February 4, 1941 - Axalonia Collab

Pope Michael Gregory I clung to the side of the lifeboat as it rowed slowly to shore, his eyes fixed on the great oceanliner that had brought him to this strange and mysterious land. The ship, unable to find a place at the pier, weighed anchor nearly a mile off shore, her massive black hull, crowned with a white superstructure and four cream-colored smokestacks, absorbing the dimming light of day. Yes, this was a wild land indeed, uncivilized by Aucerosan terms. Yet, His Holiness could not help but to think of the excitement of it all. An adventurer in an unknown land.

As the lifeboat reached the pier, the four Calarim Guardsmen who had come with him from the ship unloaded first. Then went the eight sailors who rowed the thing to shore. Then, aided by two of the sailors, Michael Gregory stepped onto the pier. Taking in a deep breath, the Pope inhaled the rich fishy odors mixed with the pleasantness of the nearby beach. Grinning at the scent, Michael Gregory closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his childhood trips to the sea.

“Ah,” he sighed, reminded of the Miklozian seaside. Opening his eyes and glancing around, Michael Gregory was met with a very strange sight. The docks, which stretched for a mile in each direction, were constructed mostly of wood; some buildings even sitting between living trees for support, others constructed in between entire tickets. Each building was coated in a layer of copper, the land no doubt rich in the substance.

“How quaint,” Michael Gregory remarked, starting forward on the wooden pier, itself held up by stone supports and stretching nearly 300 feet to sea. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Pulling out his handkerchief the Pope patted his forehead, continuing to do so until they reached solid ground.

As Michael Gregory approached the mainland the people would be clearly uneasy, the land quickly being absent of any natives other than a group of five natives, the one in front being a young female wearing a jaguar pelt. As Michael Gregory would come close to her the female would smile and soon speak to him. "Ava gortia nandis alica. Or as you might say, gracious welcomes foreigner above all." The female would smile at Michael Gregory, having been trained in his language in preparation for this meeting.

"The lands of Alaxlonia graciously welcome you to our lands. I am councilor Nicte of the Axalonian council." she said before looking at one of the guards with her who hands her a box wrapped in a fine jaguar pelt. Nicte would kneel down and hold the box out to Michael Gregory as if offering it to him. "A gift nandis alica, as a sign of generosity from our council, to you. The gift is a small bar of the purest Axalonian copper, a fine ruby embedded in a small golden cross, and the pelt itself having been gathered from a jaguar by our finest warrior." Nicte was well versed in Michael Gregory's culture and of his status in his society, the gift of a golden cross showing this.

Pope Michael Gregory smiled wide at the gift, the sudden and unexpected offering pleasing to him. This woman has clearly seen something of the world outside, he thought, eyeing the cross. Motioning for one of the sailors to take the gift, Michael Gregory considered the appropriateness of the jaguar pelt. No matter, it shall one day be Adelina’s.

Turning his gaze to the native woman, the Pope found her attire to be quite curious. Most women in modern society wore dresses and skirts, but this woman wore the pelt of a fallen predator. “Greetings, Councilor Nicte,” the Pope said, extending his hand in greeting. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance and, might I say, very surprised and humbled by the gifts. The craftsmanship is remarkable. But where are my manners? I am Michael Gregory I, Pope of the Reeman Mother Church and ruler of the Princely Republic of Vranastrova.”

The female would raise up and smile at the greeting. "I am very glad you appreciate the gifts." Nicte would say this happily as two of the natives step to the side revealing they are soldiers with gold tipped spears, them being for ceremonial events more than anything.

"Now, nandis alica, would you like a tour of this town and our culture? Of course we can speak of the culture on the way to temple city Itza, where the council is, but a tour of this small town would give you a great incite to our culture that words cannot easily explain." Nicte would say with a smile on her face as the people of the town start to gather in a small crowd the sight of a foreigner of Michael Gregory's rank being a rare sight for the town.

Smiling to the crowd, Michael Gregory soaked in the attention. It was not often that the people where he went gathered en masse to bear witness to his stunning white wardrobe. Vranastrova, after all, was a nation that lived and breathed the Papacy. “I would be very honored,” the Pope said as he turned his gaze back to Nicte, “to learn more about your isolated part of the world. It is much like travelling back in time, being here. But just who leads your people? I was under the impression that I’d be meeting someone more… masculine.”

Nicte listened intently to Michael Gregory's questions and would soon speak. "Well our nation is glad you feel honored. We have tried to keep our isolation to the best of our ability due to our history with foreigners. As for your questions, I was assigned to this meeting because I am the most fluent in your language and have the least age related problems. As for who leads our people, the council does. The council is a group of ten who are voted on by the ten largest tribes and set to rule the nation until their death."

Nicte soon has the soldiers guide the citizens away as she would walk with Michael Gregory to a large dock with a large trireme style ship docked in it. "This is the Lady Itza, the pride of our navy. We know that foreigners tend to name their ships. The ship houses 600 soldiers during war, it is driven by oars and sails, and is fitted with a thin layer of copper plating to prevent fires. The ship is designed to ram enemy ships and allow the crew to board it. The ram of the ship is designed with a small tube that allows for a flammable liquid to be piped into ships after it locks with them in battle allowing the soldiers to board the ship." Nicte seemed to be enthused in the ship, it being one of the most high tech devices Axalonia created.

"Now, nandis alica, what else would you like to see of this town that may be of interests to you or your nation?" Nicte would say in a curious tone seemingly wanting to please Michael Gregory on his visit.

The Pope examined the vessel, his eyes flicking from the trireme to his own oceanliner a mile off shore. The warship, the wooden pride of its nation, was dwarfed by his own mode of transport. The woman’s pride, seemingly genuine though, to Michael Gregory, seriously misplaced, baffled the Pope. The country, as beautiful as it was, was prime pickings for anyone who desired a short and decisive conquest. Swallowing his pride, Michael Gregory forced a smile at the pride of Axalonia. “She is a magnificent ship,” he finally said, glancing at his reflection in the bright copper. “Your people have every reason to be proud.”

Taking out his handkerchief to dab his forehead once more, Michael Gregory turned a genuine smile towards Nicte. “I think I’ve seen enough,” he said, trying his best to sound regretful, “but we really must be getting on. I have an urgent proposition to discuss with the Council that governs this country. One that I believe you will find most intriguing and beneficial.”

"Very well nandis alica. Follow me and we will leave for Itza in a carriage." Nicte would say this and walk with the Pope to a nearby carriage which instead of being pulled by a horse had about eight birds that were white and about four feet tall each. Nicte would walk to one of the birds and turn to face the Pope before saying to him. "This is a Rhea. While we may not have horses like most foreigners, we use these large birds that are very versatile. We use them on most carts and carriages. While they may seem deceptive they are quite strong and eight can pull almost eight people and, if worse comes to worse and the carriage is attacked, they are taught to defend the cart and could easily take ten bullets bullets before dying." Nicte would say this in a joking tone while it likely being an over statement this land is known for its brutality so it is possible.

Nicte steps to one side of the carriage and gets in as one of the soldiers opens the door to let the Pope enter. "But no need to fear the Rhea nandis alica, they are held back from attacking anyone they aren't meant to." She says as she waits for the pope to enter the carriage so they can leave.

Gawking at the birds, their height and ferocity something that the Pope had never before seen, Michael Gregory took a tentative step towards the carriage. Leaning towards one of his own guards he gently ushered the man forward, afraid of going first. “Th-they,” he stuttered, stepping ever closer to the carriage, “are quite… remarkable looking.” Michael Gregory cleared his throat, making those last steps in three great bounds. “I’m sure that they serve your people dutifully.”

Once in the carriage, the Pope had one of his guards enter with him, ordering the remaining men to guard the boat that would eventually take them back to the HHS Empress of Pedria. “Your culture is quite… unique,” he said, glancing once more at the birds. I doubt that those overgrown vultures will be taking us anywhere!

Nicte would smirk at the pope's comments on the birds. Soon Nicte leans her head out the window and whistles and the carriage would suddenly start moving fairly fast. Nicte looks at the Pope smiling "As you can see the Rhea are very capable in transport and work even better as messengers through no man's lands." Nicte would say this in a proud tone.

"But, where are my manners? What can someone of your stature tell us of your culture" Nicte would say as she looked at the pope curiously.

A grin tugged at the edges of the Pope’s mouth Which one? he asked himself, turning his gaze to meet Nicte’s. “Well, that is a difficult question to answer because while I rule Vranastrova I am not Vranan. No, I am a Miklozian born and raised in what is now the United Empire. One important thing you should know is that not all Popes are from Vranastrova. Why, from 1921 to 1930, we had an Exoan as Pope.” However mistaken the College was to choose him, he sneered, his smile fading. “When I die the College will choose someone else from any number of candidates from across the globe. Who knows? We may even see an Axalonian as Pope should your country ever be awarded a Prince of the Church.”

Clearing his throat, Michael Gregory relaxed into his seat, his eyes turning to the sole Calarim Guardsman sitting across from him. “Not even my guards are Vranan,” he remarked as his smile returned. “But that is the culture of the Church. Millions of voices, scores of nationalities, but we are all united in our shared faith in God. Nothing will ever change that.”

Nicte would listen closely and nodded as the Pope finished speaking before smiling and saying. "Well, I wished to know about the culture of your religion. As you are a religious people I would assume you have a long history in the religion." She said this curiously, while likely she wouldn't convert to catholicism sharing the word of it would still do good.

"And don't get too comfortable. We should arrive at Itza in about an hour." Nicte would say this in a joking tone but seeing as the Rhea were going fairly fast she could very likely be telling the truth.

“A long history is one way of putting it,” Michael Gregory said, looking past his Guard towards the birds. “Nearly two-thousand years worth of faith and Popes. How can one hope to cover it all within an hour?”

Nicte would chuckle at the comment and nodded. "I guess you are right. Our people have never been very religious but I am sure our people would love to have your word spread to our lands."

“My interests here are purely political. The College has not yet assigned a Mission to Axalonia, but after this visit the Cardinal-Dean Monedero just may take a religious interest,” the Pope said. “Saving your people from communism is my only concern.”

When Michael Greogry mentioned communism Nicte seemed angry. "Filthy communist. They claim to want the best for their people but only oppress them and make them starve." This comment made it obvious to the Pope that the people of Axalonia despised communism in most ways.

Permitting a smile of satisfaction, Michael Gregory reverted this gaze to the window, eyeing the buildings and people as they passed by. “Excellent,” he replied, his voice having lost some of the warmth that it had earlier. “Then you and your Council will agree that the vile ideology must be destroyed,” he said, turning back to Nicte, “or at the very least, contained. You see, I was recently in Ashdia where I met with Sultan Ihsan. While there, he and I both agreed that the threat posed by Fuegrado warrants our attention. As such, we have entered into an alliance to defend against any possible advances that they may choose to take.”

Thinking back to the encounter, Michael Gregory’s hand idly fell to his waist just above his hip where he kept the kris given to him tucked beneath his fascia. “I intend to make the same offer to the Council. If our three nations band together then maybe, just maybe, we can stay communism’s hand before crushing it once and for all after the current war is over.”

"That is where we disagree. We do not wish to contain it. We wish to destroy the ideology and send their leaders to the bottom of the ocean." Nicte said this as she looked at the Pope with a clear anger in her before saying. "We want those criminals to pay for torturing their people."

The hour would quickly pass and you would come to see the giant temple sitting over one-hundred feet tall. The carriage soon stops and Nicte lets the Pope exit before leaving herself and saying. "This is the great city Itza." The city was large and almost like a large square. There were many large bronze covered houses with the large marble temple being the center of the city.

Michael Gregory took in the sight of the strange city, its centerpiece causing him to doubt the woman’s earlier claim that the people here were irreligious. Walking forward a few steps, the Pope could not help but to wonder at the practical usage of coating their buildings in copper. The land was hot and humid and the metal was prone to oxidizing quickly, especially in a climate like this one. “The architecture of your people is something that I would never believe existed if I was only ever told about it.”

Motioning towards the large marble structure in the center, the Pope asked, “What is the large building over there used for? It looks as though it has some kind of religious function.”

"The building formerly had a religious function long ago but has long sense lost the use and is used as the meeting hall for the council." Nicte seemed genuine about this. Soon Nicte looks at the Pope and says. "Any questions before heading to meet with the council?" Nicte would say this the copper buildings being the most notable part about the city.

Shaking his head, Michael Gregory turned to face Nicte once more. “No,” he said, satisfied with the woman’s explanation. “I am ready and eager to meet with your Council.” And to get back to my ship where the world makes more sense.

Nicte would nod and lead you to the top of the temple. The climb is difficult for someone the age of the Pope but when he gets up there he could see a group of nine natives and one foreigner sitting around a table under a stone roof with one seat at the table reserved for the pope.

Soon the foreigner speaks up. "Sit down your holiness and I will introduce you to the council." Says Yunuen him formerly living in Vranastrovia until joining the council.

Michael Gregory nodded his head, sitting himself down to catch his breath. “I was not aware that Councils were still held at the top of the world,” he said, a smile creeping onto his face. “I figured that after Christ doomed the pagan gods to Hades, councils were held in more… sensible places. But I digress,” he said, taking a cursory look around the table at the gathered councilors, “we are not here to speak of such matters, at least, not yet. There are other things that require our attention.”

Yunuen would nod and soon speak. "Very well your holiness. The first member is seated at the left of the table. His name is Balam and he is the eldest member of the council. After Balam is Yunuen, me, I am the only foreigner. Next is Itzel, Sacnite, Nicte who is the only female councilor and the youngest, Ixchel, and Sacni. We are currently missing three members of the council but voting is under way to find their replacements soon enough.

As he finishes Itzel would speak up. "Now, what are you looking for in a deal?"

Leaning forward, the Pope’s smile dissipated, replaced by an air of severity. “As previously explained to Nicte,” he said, motioning in the woman’s direction, “I was recently abroad in Ashdia where I met with Sultan Ihsan. The young Sultan and I agreed to enter into an alliance to combat the growing influence of communism in Pedria. Said alliance, called the Pedrian Anti-Communist Coalition, is known only to us and to our closest confidants. I am now sharing the knowledge of this secret pact with… this noble body as a gesture of friendship.” Extending his hands palm-up, His Holiness softened his expression, a gentle twinkle in his eye expressing the genuineness of his offer.

“Vranastrova stands ready and able to defend its allies in the area,” he said, balling his fists and retracting his hands. “But I am curious. What is Axalonia prepared to offer in exchange for said protection?”

The council listens and discusses silently as the Pope finishes. After a minute of speaking Itzel would speak. "This deal is quite intriguing to Axalonia. We are willing to enter a pact with all members where any trades with us will only be of equal value for both parties. In addition we would like to sell a small area of land deep in our jungles. The land is rich in copper. And the last condition we can provide at this second is the selling of two docks to you and Ashdia. These terms can be changed but we will need more details on this alliance." As he finishes Itzel would sit back and wait for the Pope's answer to the offer.

His Holiness sat still for a moment, pleased at the offer to expand his empire but nonetheless confounded at the notion of gaining a sliver of land so far away from any feasible access point. Straightening his back, the Pope prepared a counter offer. “The treaty signed between myself and the Sultan was purely a defensive one. Each of us agreed to aid the other in combating the vile ideology of communism. For now our goal is to keep it maintained, but once the war is over and the NWO stands victorious, well,” Michael Gregory smirked as the idea of adding Fuegrado to his growing Pedrian Empire came to mind. “Let’s just say that Ashdia and Vranastrova will not remain idle for very long after.”

“But the idea of owning, let alone buying, a piece of land in the middle of the jungle far from any shoreline is not in my best interests, I am afraid. Docking rights, trade, further defensive measures and the possible gradual modernization of your military are all possible to be sure, but I cannot speak for Ashdia on the matter. This Council will need to meet with the Sultan to begin trading with him and his esteemed country.” Leaning back in his chair, Michael Gregory drilled each member of the Council, his eyes finally landing on Balam. “This Council is more than welcome to gift the land to Vranastrova in exchange for protection, but I will not be buying it. If resources are what you need then perhaps we can come to some other agreement.”

Balam looked at the Pope with suspicion before saying. "We don't want resources in a "trade", by trade we mean we give you the land in return for good relations. But, our spies have analyzed the lands of the communists and would like a small guarantee. We know the lands formerly were yours and you have the most decisive claim but we would like to mark areas that would help us, in return for lands in any lands we may conquer or colonize you find of interest." Balam seemed suspicious of the Pope as he spoke, he being the most anti-foreigner of the council.

“Councilor Balam, there is no need to be so hasty in dividing the communist nation. For one, this Council has yet to agree to join the Coalition against them. Secondly, the chances of there being a war with Fuegrado any time soon are small. You will be waiting a very long time before the division of their territory becomes an important issue,” Michael Gregory said, amused at the man’s suspecting demeanour. “Now, I do not mean to be rude, nor am I here to impose. I only seek what is best for both our nations in light of the threat that Fuegrado no doubt poses for Axalonia and Pedria at large.”

The council talks and soon Ixchel speaks out. "We know this very much so. We just don't wish to be sucked into a war to protect ourselves or remove the communists and gain nothing" Ixchel would say this in a sincere tone before saying. "But, we had one final request that will surely interest you. We want to be provided with the designs for a few modern inventions including a power plant we could use with our resources we have, communication devices, and for the machines you use to weave clothes. In addition we request a trade of cotton from our lands and large shipments of copper in return for the materials to construct the devices that we cannot produce ourselves."

Michael Gregory stood to his feet, his gaze slowly shifting to Ixchel. Boross was right in his assumptions of those across the Adrantic. Balling his fists, the Pope said, “To the victor, the spoils. This Council can rest assured, knowing that you will be duly compensated for any and every war that you may find yourselves in on the Coalition’s behalf. You will not be left out in the inevitable event of victory.” Victory, the word rolled off his tongue, a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. Yes, they would see victory. “And as for your request for… basic modern amenities,” he said slowly,” I find this to be most agreeable. Raw cotton and copper are fair trades for schematics and an introduction into the twentieth century. Given that it’s all you seem to have to give.”

The council listens closely to the Pope and soon Ixchel would speak again. "We are very glad you find this deal agreeable. Is there anything you would request from us besides what we have already agreed upon, pecia en Axalonia, friend of Axalonia." This comment would be able to shake any normal foreigner to the core as being called a friend of anyone in Axalonia much less a friend of Axalonia is one of the highest compliments you can be given by the people of Axalonia.

“So, you will be joining the Coalition?” Michael Gregory asked, eager to get a definitive response from the Council.

The council speaks before Ixchel says. "Yes, we will join this coalition with you and Ashdia. And will be willing to offer one final gift, in a sign of friendship to you, pecia en Axalonia." He would say this before a servant walks to the Pope and shows him a wooden box. He opens it revealing a large bird egg and Ixchel speaks. "This is an egg of a Rhea, the bird of Axalonia, set to hatch in a week." Despite their primitive nature it was obvious this gift was more of a sign of respect than thinking the Pope would want the gift for what it is.

Michael Gregory quickly smiled, hiding a grimace as he gazed upon the gift. “Thank you,” he said after a moment of staring at the egg. “I’m not sure that anyone on board my ship will know how to take care of it, but I am deeply touched nonetheless.” Gently taking the box, the Pope looked back to the Councilors, first to Nicte, then to Ixchel. “It has been a pleasure.” Dipping his head slightly towards them, Michael Gregory then began the long trek down the stairs to the bottom of the temple structure. Once at the bottom, he quickly climbed into his carriage, stealing away as quickly as he had come.

Miklozia, Arcadisia, Iserk, Baja formosa, and 4 othersMozaka, Cathanistan, Magna kalonia, and Axalonia

Post self-deleted by Axalonia.

Still Free ?

As the Second Great War continues, we once again hear these questions on the streets of the capital; what about us ? What if Miklozia decides to attack us ? maybe we could stay neutral forever ??
Here's what President Branson has to say: "I know what you're thinking right now, and I know you fear for your own safety, but i garantee our country is far too young to interest anyone in this world ! For now, all we have to do is watch and wait for this horrible war to end, also I want the other countries to hear what I have to say; we won't intervene in your affairs as long as you don't intervene in ours, god bless Harzanie !"
Meanwhile, Norris Blackburn, the current State Marshal, said the Harzaniean Secret Task Force was operating in secrets locations to prevents any attack from potential enemy countries.

Harzaniean Free Post, April 1941

Declaration of war to Vranastrova

Perm, April 1941

Hello, thanks for coming to this meeting. - Hvastuk

Why did you call us? - Major General Tereshkov.

Comrades, the hour has struck. It's time for our first war, I have no doubt that it will be cruel or bloody, but we will show this cruel world that our country can stand up for itself. - Hvastuk

It's clear. Comrades, bring the map. - Lieutenant General Vasiliev.

Thanks. - Hvastuk

4 hours later

Done, we are fully ready. Getting Started with the Green Elephant Plan - Hvastuk

Do you really think that we will defeat Vranastrova?

Yes - Hvastuk

Arcadisia, Cathanistan, and Harzanie

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