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Event Question 2 by 
Kalquen
Ming Tuo, The Pirate King
November, 1347
Qaimong City
“The Storm Coast was never a hospitable place to live. This land, plagued by thunder, torn by waves, scorned by typhoons, condemns all living within it to a life ruled not by man, but by nature. Within this veil, however, lies a town, an enigma which perverses the way of the land, a small shelter ruled by man, by me.”
Ming Tuo from his flagship gazed upon the city of Qaimong. What had once been a small fishing village on the fringes of the empire had become his own little fiefdom. The locals, once resentful of his arrival, had come to appreciate the riches he brought with him, and the fleet which followed him was among the greatest of the time. Ming contemplated his luck, that he had once been a lowly trader in the empire’s southern reaches, before his vessel was captured by pirates and he was pressed into joining. Ming was never a great negotiator, but upon the seizure of his first ship of many, he came to realize the liberty that came with the life of piracy, and so forsook his life of old, and came to embrace his new way of life, his own rebirth.
As he reminisced on the times of old, a commotion was breaking out on the deck: a captured Celestial naval officer, having broken free of his crew, was on the loose, but only for a moment. As quickly as he began to run, he was just as quickly pinned back down. Ming would direct his attention to the officer. “Do you know exactly who you’re messing with?”
The officer glared back at Ming. “You dog. We ought to have killed you as we did to your predecessor!”
“Sun was a good man,” Ming retorted. “And I’m almost thankful for that fateful day, for if it weren't for your ambush, neither would I rule the Storm Coast nor the Velvet Fleet.”
The captain gazed at Qaimong in the distance. “And what of the people there, who you oppress with your own gluttony? They want not to be associated with you, pirate.”
Ming laughed. “They? You merely claim to rule them. In truth, your Emperor has abandoned them. I merely took up the mantle that they longed to have faith in, and delivered. The Emperor has no authority here; these men look to me as their king.” Ming turned to his men. “Let him go. Let him tell his Emperor that he has no authority here, that these forsaken people have forsaken him in turn, that the Velvet Fleet have given them their new idol, that Qaimong will never bow to Nhasa, that Ming Tuo shall lord over the Storm Coast, and that for as long as I draw breath, I will defend it! Now go scampering back to his heels as my herald, for the seas too will bow to my hegemony, and all who dare attempt to cross, shall be at the quarter of my men.”
Strike From Above
The Badlands
Harry and Richard surveyed the cattle that they were herding. Deep in Rebellion territory they weren’t worried about being inspected for rifles nor were they scared of expanded patrols. Richard carried his trusty 1880 Kushmire Standard Issue Sniper Rifle slung around his shoulder and his signature black cowboy hat. Harry had his revolver stuffed away in his arm sash that hung low around his left shoulder.
The two men watched as the cattle, part of The Rebellion’s front business, entered their pen. Richard watched one of the wranglers slam the gate shut and fasten the lock. Harry sighed as he watched the sun set lower in the sky. Soon, he would have to return to the accursed caves again. He envied the men in the rest of the country, whose work at least offered the opportunity to leave the office and take a walk in a somewhat acceptable public park. Once Harry had made it out of the maze of tunnels, he’d be met with the view of The Badlands. Stark, dry and devoid of life in any way, shape or form bar the few cattle that existed near the boundaries.
“Richard, I was on the phone with our dear president Frederick yesterday.” Richard, the chief ranger and lead intelligence gatherer for The Rebellion turned to face him. “Yes?”
“He said that the army has managed to uncover our communications network.” Richard seemingly ignored Harry and put his horse into a trot. “Did he mention how much?” Richard shouted. Harry shook his head.
“He talked to Mansfield and Albert. We should discuss this later, I’ve heard the cows tell lies now.” Harry said as he looked around the empty desert.
Rebellion Headquarters
Harry, Richard and Lewis McFairworth all sat around the table, also present was Troy and Henry, the duo responsible for field operations. “Gentlemen, we have a potential situation on our hands. Our inside man Frederick Baldwin has just notified me of an unexpected turn of events.” Harry began, “A few hours ago, Frederick called Admiral Albert Hull, the chief of imperial staff, Admiral Mansfield Smith - Cumming, the chief of the KFP and Leon Kennedy, politician into his office for a brief on their operation against us.”
Harry looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “One of the takeaways from the debrief was the KFP’s alleged uncovering of our communication network.” Harry watched around the room. The men looked at each other, then looked back at Harry. “It can’t be.” Lewis said, “If they have uncovered our communication network they must have uncovered the Department of Technology. Sounds like a bluff to me.”
“Hold on Lewis,” Henry said, “We must not jump to conclusions.” He turned to look at Harry, “Did Frederick mention how they have uncovered our network?”
Harry shook his head, “Our call was quick, he didn’t mention how much they uncovered, or how deep they are inside our network. All we know is, they know it exists.”
“Well, if they have uncovered it we must assume that they can at least track and monitor our communications. Our telegraph lines pass through the same safehouses, so those are compromised as well, shame no one tried to warn you about the possibility.” Richard said as he yawned and leant back and put his feet up.
“F**k off Richard, last time I checked, isn’t it your job to tell us how good our opponents are?”
“Yes it is Lewis, that’s why I told you to separate our telegraph lines, because I knew the army’s capabilities are expanding, but that big head of yours chose to ignore it.”
Lewis stood up and drew out his sword and went to slash at Richard who responded by moving out of the way of the deadly swipe and grabbing Lewis by his collar before bringing him down to the ground and pulling his knee up to meet his chin. Lewis’s head snapped back and collided with the table as the rest of the men raised their hands to keep them apart.”
“Lads! Lads!” Henry said, his grey hair bristling. “Killing each other isn’t going to help in this situation.” Lewis stood, and with slobber and blood running down his chin he pointed a meaty finger at Richard. “Get this fat, good for nothing c**t out of here, and maybe we can talk.”
“Start using that big head of yours…” Lewis leapt across the table but was held back by Troy and Henry. Harry pulled out his two pistols from their respective holsters under his coat and pointed them at Richard and Lewis. “You two, I will boot you from this organisation, sort yourselves out.” He said, looking at either man. “Now if any of you has a suggestion, I suggest now is the time you speak up.”
Richard ignored the gun in his face and took a seat in Lewis’s chair. “Well, I have some thoughts, though I doubt anyone is willing to listen to them.”
Harry considered pistol-whipping Richard, but decided against it. “Very well Richard, the whole board is ears, why don’t you tell this master plan of yours.”
Richard lit a cigarette. It occurred to Harry that Richard rarely smoked in front of others. “Gentlemen, if the KFP has truly uncovered our communications network, the easiest, most obvious and simple way is to track down our main switchboard houses in each of the big cities.”
“Tell us something we don’t know.” Lewis said, still standing.
“Well, I think this is a good opportunity for us to exercise our own power as well, while simultaneously taking out the breach.”
Harry sighed. “Alright Richard, what are you getting at?”
“I suggest we send a message, to each house, with detailed instructions on events conspiring in a bomb plot.”
“So we send our plans right into enemy hands, we have a f**king strategic genius right here.” Lewis boasted.
Richard raised his hand and the room went silent. “The plans we send to each house will be the exact same, bar the location in which the bomb will go off.”
Troy smiled as he realised what Richard was planning. “If the location is different for each bomb, and there are detailed instructions on where, when and how it is going to go off, then, depending on which locations get stopped, we can figure out how deep they are in our comms network.”
Harry laughed as Richard flicked the butt of his cigarette into a small dustbin in the corner. “Make sense, everyone.” Richard turned to look at Lewis. “Make sense, buddy.”
The Citadel - Army Headquarters
Very rarely did Tamsan ever visit The Citadel. Mainly because he hated its fortress-esque construction. The way it rose over Barricus was not like a sentinel protecting a palace, but a mad dictator oppressing its people. An assortment of flags, one of Kushmire, and one each for the Navy, Army and Cavalry. As well as several other company and regimental colours based at Barricus.
Tamsan’s escort, now larger since he was promoted to a full general, waited behind him as a member of the Imperial Guard marched up to him and saluted. Tamsan returned the salute “The Admiral is waiting for you, come with me sir.”
The two men walked and entered the main lobby area. Elegant marble and plaques plaster the walls with the emblem of the armed forces, two double headed hawks, a shield with stars, crowns and a royal staff all slapped onto a black banner. The guardsman accompanied Tamsan into the office of Fleet Admiral Albert Hull, whose desk was now laden with the plans of what appeared to be a very square bird.
“Sir.” Tamsan fired off a salute as the Admiral looked up from the plans.
“General, take a look at these. You are an engineer at heart are you not?” Albert asked.
“I started in the Regimental Artillery Corps, but I’ll try my best.”
“Very good,” Albert said as he motioned over the plans. “Make sense of that will you.”
Tamsan leant over the desk and scanned his eyes over the plans. He saw the double wing arrangement, with two forward-mounted triple-winged propellers and the tail. Which jutted out from the main platform like a small hill. It too, had its own planes angled 90o to the main fin.
“Is it built for flight?” Tamsan asked.
“How the hell did you figure that out by just looking at it? Our engineers told me exactly how and why it works and I still can’t figure out what the hell it’s meant to do.” Albert said.
“I’ve seen a design like this, two brothers in, Tarst or somewhere, achieved propelled flight with a similar design. They didn’t get very far though.” Tamsan continued analysing the charts, his finger moving along each individual line.
“Parts and Services came to me today, with that plan, they want to attach a gun to it.” Albert said.
“They wanted to attach a gun to a horse one time. Not surprised.” Tamsan said, still looking at the chart.
“Well, I want a second opinion, analysis on the field, the effectiveness of an airborne rifle, or perhaps even one of those machine guns you showed me.” Albert said, returning to the table.
Tamsan sighed long, “It’s like the old Kushmiran Valkyries.”
Albert chuckled, reciting the infamous line from the poem about the mythical creatures. “Strike from above, never below and gone to the wind.”
The Home Fleet Approaches
Tangwen
(January 19th, NL16)
“What is this?” Lord Tseun handled the letter with impatience.
“My lord, it is a telegram sent from the ship, The Albatross.” His attendant bowed low at the foot of the steps to his throne.
“The Albatross?”
“Yes, my lord. The home fleet has reached the north harbour and lies within reach of Syanfan.”
Lord Tseun drew a small letter opener and tore open the envelope’s seal. He read it carefully and nodded. “Where is our telegram operator?”
*******
In the radio room now, Tseun stood over the operator.
“Boy,” he said, “you are to relay this message back to The Albatross and the following to Syanfan, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
And so it was written back to Admiral Mast:
Otherwise the Elysian Lord of Tangwen rejects your offer. So perhaps we can compromise. You may use the harbour as a grave. But you shall not land.
“Are my new ships ready to be launched?” Lord Tseun turned to his attendant.
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Where is Olekov?”
“I…” the attendant paused. “I do not know that either, my lord. I beg your forgiveness.” He bowed.
“He’s missing? I thought I ordered him under house arrest? Are you all so– No matter, his mercenaries will answer to the governor of Syanfan.”
He then turned back to the telegram operator and ordered this sent to the docklands of Syanfan:
Deliver this message unto Olekov’s mercenaries in your province. By order of Lord Tseun you are to assist in the defence of Syanfan. You are to answer to the governor and shall be rewarded handsomely. Your marshal will be restored to his position as your commander if you obey.
TangwenCuriosity Has Grown
The Allied States Of Hexlans
(January 19th, NL16)
-Eeo Livermento currently reading a book as he is bored as Lieutenant Rey rushes in the door quickly with haste-
L. Rey: “Ruler Livermento!, Ruler Livermento!” -he repeated two times his voice being unsteady- “We see Kolch Home Fleets arriving at Tangwen!”
Livermento: -he raises a eyebrow- “How Do you know this Lieutenant Rey?”
L. Rey: “Two Fisherman saw the Home Fleet while they were Catching Fish”
Livermento:” I See But what would-”
-Fleet Admiral Jasey comes in with her dark brownish hair with her Navy Cap on-
FA Jasey: -the girl salutes to L. Rey and Livermento and they both return back the polite gesture-
FA Jasey:”We Have A photo on it but it isn’t clear.”
Eeo: “Thank You Fleet Admiral Jasey.Get The 8 Government Officials and keep a eye on Kolch we’re on good terms with them right now but we need to discuss this matter with Tangwen, and Kolch, maybe so a meeting…”
-Eeo grabs a red envelope and signs his name and it reads-
Dear Governor Laurent Mast Of Kolch and Lord Tseun of Tangwen.
“Two Fisherman Has Spotted Kolch home fleet coming into yours and due to this The Allied States of Hexlans is deeply Concerned. So, We would love to arrange a meeting about this matter, also send Elodia this message.”
From yours truly and great ally Eeo L. The Ruler of TASO Hexlans
Hope this reaches you.
"The Westell Talk"
July 2nd, 1911 (NL 16)
Westell, Great Tarst
In collaboration with the cunning fiend 
Falkenberg
Morat's ship the True Lord landed at Port Brigantine early in the morning. He rushed onto the dock and then onto Tarstic land. He smiled boldly, for he had won. He had made it here in one piece. He had not been washed ashore in some savage place or his ship consumed by the brine. He grew drunk on the Tarstic air as though it was the sweetest Celestial wine.
Yet, in his hurry, he had moved past a series of Valmerian reporters who had awaited his arrival with their heavy cameras and notepads. Excusing himself, he retraced his steps, and then made his way onto shore again, strutting through the docks with his sword held up in his hand as he did. To the reporters, he made a singular comment: "It is good to be back in Tarst."
The welcome was cooler in Westell, the most developed of the world's capitals, where industry and mud coalesced to produce a machine that remained yet unmatched. He entered Newfield House, where the negotiatons were to take place. In the conference hall, he introduced himself: "Morat Mast," said he, tipping his hat, with one hand and his other on the sword's hilt, "Master of the Sword. Pleasure to make your acquaintances." He eyed the Reichskrieger representative, before moving to take his seat, which sat opposite.
Mark Johann Von Sow, first of his name and negotiator of the end of the War of the Knaves with Morsain, had been reserved on his way in. The Kaiser had been clear in his orders for how the negotiations should go, and his aid carried the demands in a suitcase. Looking across to the Celestial, he studied the man. He wore confidence, which was to be expected. Perhaps a little too much confidence... he added onto his thoughts as he briefly adjusted his suit. He motioned the aid to hand him his demands. "Mark Johann Von Sow, representative of the Reichskrieg Foreign Office. The pleasure is all mine." He said as he placed the briefcase before himself.
Morat was about to object, that who had even heard of a 'Reichskrieg Foreign Office.'
Yet, the door opened, and in walked His Holiness, Pope Benjamin XIII, flanked on both sides by members of the Rurikian Guard. He was a short man, cloaked in white and with a pensive smile upon his face.
"Welcome," said the Tarstic representative, one Paul Whinlow, who showed the Pope to his chair.
When he made it there, the Pope made the sign of the cross toward the gathered, saying "may this conference produce a peace that may last."
"Honored delegates," began Morat, "I thank you for the opportunity to be before you here in this wondrous country. In this matter, the Celestial Empire hopes to reintroduce herself to the field of nations as a respectable and honored entity with a sufficient and succinct focus on peace." He tipped his hat again, and bowed dramatically.
The Pope cleared his throat, "thank you, Mr. Mast. "Mr. Von Sow?"
"The actions of the Celestial Empire has been all but peaceful. Qanteng can attest to that. The Kaiser, and Reichskrieg as a whole, seeks compensation and security for its territories in the region." Von Sow said with a nod. "So that a situation such as this will never arise again."
Before the Pope could speak, Morat stood and yelled, "objection, your honor!" The assembly looked to him. The Tarstic observers respected his boldness. "How can Von Sow say Reichskrieg's actions have been peaceful when they invaded Qanteng, and then Luhai? How is that peaceful?"
The Pope cleared his throat. "Mr. Von Sow, Mr. Master raises a good point. Why did Reichskrieg invade those territories?"
"I never said that Reichskrieg was free of guilt, however, Qanteng and the port there were peacefully purchased in a deal with the then current government. As for Luhai..." Von Sow tapped his finger on the table. "I do not know why, but the reports I've heard tell of squaler and starvation, so perhaps the effort was humanitarian in nature." He cupped his hands together. "The Luhai matter was already settled aswell, when Qanteng was attacked."
"Now hold on, your Popeness! The man opposite me says the effort in Luhai may have been humanitarian. Does not he not know the justifications of his own country's efforts?"
Von Sow raised an eyebrow at 'popeness' but shrugged it off internally. "Do you know the justifications behind the Qanteng attack, then? That was a Celestial effort, was it not?"
The Pope put out his hand, "I'm afraid Mr. Mast's question was regarding Luhai, and not Qanteng. Do you know why the effort took place, Mr. Von Sow?" The representative from Vrankin, Boris Orishev, squirmed in his chair, "I hope it was for a good reason."
"This is nonsense," said Orishev, suddenly standing, "the Luhai matter is settled! Mast is wasting our time."
Von Sow looked to Orishev, only a little startled at the outburst. "Mr. Orishev is correct, the Luhai matter is over. Let us return to the matter at hand."
Morat sighed, "I disagree. This matter of Luhai is very important in the context of the whole matter. Reichskrieg's incursion into Luhai was only possible because they had stolen the Qanteng territory. Why did they take Qanteng? Why did they take Luhai?" He waved an accusatory finger at Von Sow, "give us a good reason!"
"Qanteng was purchased to serve as a naval base for the Kaiserliche Marine. No different from the port of Arnon, which the Celestials had given previously in a not too dissimilar deal." He used his hands for emphasis, eyes locked with Morat 'The Avenger' Mast. "Luhai, atop of the humanitarian element, was secured to protect the port city from the very same attack that came from the province of Elodia."
Morat furrowed his brow, bringing his fingers to his chin. "Our ports were handed over in the pursuit of a delicate peace with you, the foreign powers. Let us not be confused as to what the Reichskriegers are attempting to do: Upset that delicate balance for the sole purpose of stealing Celestial land."
Paul Whinlow stood, "we object to the term 'stealing.' We ask that Mr. Mast please replace it with a more appropriate word."
Morat cleared his throat, "er, um, of course. Annexation."
"A delicate peace that evidently must be backed up with force. Reichskrieg had no further designs on the Celestial Empire beyond what it already had until this war had begun. It is with Qanteng that the Kaiser has seen that our position is not as safe as previously thought, even with deals with the central government, and now we must secure double our efforts to secure the lives of our people and the security of our holdings."
The Pope suddenly perked up: "Sir, did you say that Reichskrieg has no designs on the Celestial Empire beyond Qanteng and the other territories you held before the Qanteng attack?" Morat sat back down, eyes opened wide. "Is this something you would be willing to attest to officially?"
"We had no further designs, yes. I cannot say this stands any longer, but it was the case prior to the massacre." He opened the briefcase and briefly reviewed the contents for a moment, nodding to himself.
"Clearly you have had trouble holding one territory," said the Alstinian delegate, a quiet man named Robert Doft. "Yet now your goal is to take wide swathes of this Celestial land. What makes you think you can hold it, if you can't keep an insignificant port?"
"Swathes is an overstatement of the designs of Reichskrieg. The Kaiser has decided that a 20 kilometer demilitarized zone around foreign possessions, and further in the case of Qanteng, will keep them safe or atleast provide time to prepare. Among other things listed here, anyway."
"Hold on!" cried Morat, "this is an injustice. The Reichskrieg delegate is starting a war, and for what? What will you all think if his Empire has control of our vast resources? One of you must stand up and fight with us!"
The others remained motionless. Orishev held back laughter. No one would die with the Celestials.
The Pope nodded. "We have heard what Reichskrieg thinks. Now, Mr. Mast, please explain to us why armed Celestials massacred the Reichskrieg garrison."
Morat swallowed, slowly standing up. "The actions of the forces in Elodia were the actions of a rogue group. They were not done with the authorization of the Imperial Government in Nhasa."
"A rogue group? Reports indicated thousand of Celestial forces, far more than one rogue actor. Unless the Celestials lack control over its own military...?" Von Sow let the question trail off.
"Indeed, we lacked control of our own military" confessed Morat.
Orishev finally burst out laughing, "and how do you explain that, 'Avenger?'"
"Our military had been commandeered by the villainous Grand Admiral Gong," continued Morat, a bead of sweat rolling down his face, "who was being supplied by none other than Reichskrieg. Our government was merely days old, and we had no control over the Elodian forces."
"Then I question your government's ability to maintain the peace you claim to desire, if your provinces can all but act independently. Such as when the Union of the Three Rivers declared neutrality... even if peace is made here, how do any of the powers present know Elodia or whomever else will honor it if they acted separately to begin this war?'
The Pope nodded thoughtfully, "that is a good point. How can we even negotiate with a Celestial state if its provinces are allowed to act independently of the capital?"
Morat cleared his throat twice, standing to his feet. Despite the quick action, he remained silent for a few moments. "It's worth noting... It's worth noting that we are a state without an Emperor. Our government is merely provisional. Because of Reichskrieg's actions with regards to Qanteng, Luhai, and the support they gave for Gong's coup and civil war, and now their impending invasion, it is impossible for us to prevent the provinces from acting out."
"If you cannot stop them now, how will you stop them after they've been empowered, upon their actions being all but endorsed by Nhasa with innaction?"
"If there is one thing I may emphasize to all the other powers, it is that the ills that have plagued my country in the last two years have been only because of Reichskrieg intervention." He smiled at the other delegates, "if Reichskrieg can agree to cease their hostile acts in this conference, we will be in a position not only to support ourselves, but to make lucrative arrangements with the other powers."
Whinlow and Doft chatted amongst themselves in quiet. The Morsainian delegate, Louis Frontaire, was writing something down in his notepad beside them.
Von Sow shook his head. "You overstate Reichskrieg's importance in Celestial affairs until this conference and the war. These things, such as Gong, would have occurred anyway whether Reichskrieg was there or not. You are simply shifting Celestial shortcomings off yourself and your government."
The Vrankin delegate nodded profusely at this point. The other powers were not satisfied. Frontaire had now joined the other delegates' conversation.
The Pope stood: "Since there is disagreement, who among us would object to a formal recognition that Reichskrieg bears a degree of guilt for the sad state of Celestial affairs?" Orishev raised his hand. The others did not.
Whinlow shined a satisfied smile. Morat exhaled, I think I won that one.
"Mr. Von Sow," said the Pope, "what are Reichskrieg's conditions to peacably end this conflict?"
Von Sow nodded and opened his briefcase once more, retrieving the contents and looking through them. "Reichskrieg seeks the aformentioned 20 kilometer demilitarized zone, with an extension of the zones to the northern coast of Elodia in particular and control over Elodian railroads for 6 years to prevent military movements in a second attack. The immediate return of Qanteng. Reperations to be paid to Reichskrieg over the course of 10 years, summing to 5 million Kriegsmarks. The aquisition of the ports here, and here," He pointed to the attached map that was with his documents. "A permanent embassy of Reichskrieg in Nhasa for diplomacy, the expansion of Falkenberg up its home peninsula, and lastly the expansion of Arnon."
Morat swallowed hard, his face increasingly lined with sweat. He thought back to the orders delivered to him by Jesse, and additionally the advice that of his brother, Laurent. After a moment's hesitiation, he sighed.
Sorry, brother.
"We reject the Reichskrieg proposal," said Morat. "It would be unfair to punish the whole empire for the misbehavior of one province."
He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. "Instead, we would like to propose a different solution."
"We would like to offer that the province of Elodia be made a protectorate of Reichskrieg, whom will have full control over the territory's resources, infrastructure, and population under the oversight of the other honorable nations at this conference. In return, we have three stipulations: Reichskrieg will allow for the Empire commercial use of Elodian railroads. Reichskrieg will not annex the coast of Elodia on the Harborlands, which will remain with the Imperial government. And Reichskrieg will establish a permanent embassy in Cigallo, and agree to pursue no hostile actions against the Celestial Empire, lest their administration over Elodia be legally revoked." The other delegates were shocked: Was this not the great warrior who had defeated Gong?
Von Sow stroked his beard, in thought. After a few moments, he spoke. "Excuse me for but a moment, I must speak with Karnin before I make a response." He stood and made his way to do so, eventually arriving at a location where he could speak with the Kaiser, relaying the deal
After Von Sow had finished explaining the deal, the Kaiser finally spoke: "Von Sow, yes, I can hear you now. Have we triumphed?"
Internally sighing, he began again. "Not yet. The Celestials have made an offer. They offer the entire province of Elodia, minus some eastern coastal regions, and an embassy in Cigallo."
"Elodia... That's where those dogs who killed my boys came from, hm?"
"Yes, Herr Kaiser. They claim the provincal government acted on its own, and thus the whole empire shouldn't be punished."
"Pah! It sounds like this Morat character is the cunning foreign devil the papers have claimed. What do the other powers think?"
"I haven't discerned any reactions from them to the Celestial offer yet."
"You haven't—You damned fool! You have eyes and ears, don't you? So tell me, what are you seeing and hearing!?"
"Overall, the powers-aside Vrankin-believe us to hold partial blame for the state of Celestial affairs. This includes his holiness."
A loud, banging noise was heard on the other side. "Damn it, Von Sow! How could you have let this happen!? You've let that genius Mast completely outclass you! What is your 'expert' opinion them, hm? What is your brilliant idea to win this back?"
"There is only so much I can do, Luhai did not earn Reichskrieg any friends in the diplomatic scene. It has been a nightmare to work around."
Two more bangs were heard: "And now you tell me excuses! I'll tell you what you must do, you foolish man! Go back in there, and don't stop until we have exclusive rights over the rest of Luhai province! And I want every soldier who took part in the attack on Reichskrieg in Friedrichsberg immediately extradited! Understand!?"
"Yes, my Kaiser." He then stepped back and inhaled. He adjusted his suit once again and then returned to the conference room, taking his seat once again. "The Kaiser will not accept any deal until Reichskrieg gets exclusive rights to what remains of Luhai province, as well as every soldier that attacked Fredrichsburg to be extradited to Reichskrieg."
Whinlow's smile twisted. "Quite something, I have to say, your Kaiser." He leaned back in his chair, and looked up toward the ceiling, "I suppose the rags were right."
Morat's hands shook as he worked through papers, "I-I would consider your request, sir, if not for the fact that the rest of Luhai Province is guaranteed by the Grand Empire of Morsain." The Morsainian delegate, Frontaire looked toward the Reichskrieger. "You would have to get their approval."
"I am confused," said Frontaire, "we were told by you, monseur Von Sow, that Luhai was not relevant to this conference." He shrugged, "apparently, your king disagrees. And if he does, does that not mean we must now engage the Luhai and the Qanteng problems as one?"
"It was not, but the situation has developed. The Luhai matter, as it was, was settled regardless. Any agreement here is born of the Qanteng issue, and not the initial crisis."
Frontaire blinked, "what? I didn't understand."
"Luhai being brought up now is seperate from the inital crisis, which created the international zone. The Kaiser simply wishes to secure the region in its entirety, for security's sake."
Frontaire smiled softly, "no, under no circumstance will we lift our proclamation regarding Luhai."
"Well, the Kaiser refuses any other deal if it does not include Luhai. He was very clear in this."
The Pope loudly cleared his throat. "Perhaps there is another compromise, if it is Morsainian influence that the Kaiser fears. We should expand the International Zone with a Reichskrieger division, and we should give the rest of Luhai province to the Reeman Mother Church: As we all know, there is a severe problem of religious persecution in the Celestial Empire." Morat flinched at the suggestion, "we must have a territory—A seed from whence our faith may grow."
Frontaire shook his head: "We would not accept Reichskrier inclusion to the International zone, but we would be willing to cede a small portion of the province if Reichskrieg were to recognize the zone."
Von Sow thought long and hard on the offer before him. The Kaiser had been clear in his instructions this much was true, but with Luhai guarenteed by Morsain, this is the only scenario in which Reichskrieg can secure some of the territories. At this moment, anyway. "Reichskrieg..." He paused. "Will accept the offer, with all other points included."
Morat sighed in relief. He strolled over to Mr. Von Sow, and bowed once more. "You were a worthy opponent, Mr. Von Sow. I do hope this whole peace thing lasts." He leaned in close, and whispered, "I am a good fighter, but I actually prefer to talk."
"Ah, yes... Quite so, Mr. Mast. Now, if you'll be excusing me..." Von Sow stood, and collected his things.
When he exited the Palace, Morat coughed. The Tarstic air of before had grown poisonous since his arrival. He lingered there, finding himself longing for home. Another piece of him cried out for all the Elodians he had forsaken.
Holding his handkercheif close to his mouth, he began back toward his carriage.
Betrayal
July 2nd, 1911
The Elodian government was shocked when a small pigeon, carrying a message arrived at their government. It was still a few days before the declaration was made. A few days before the whole Empire would learn of what had occurred. A few critical days to prepare. Hand the government over? Not over their dead bodies.
Underground Negotiations
Around the same time
"It really is a pleasure to meet you Louis Frontaire." Gaius shook his hand. "Of all the non-Celestial nations, I always thought that we were the most similar." Gaius gestured over to a cup. "Would you like some wine? I'm sure it tastes just like home!" Frontaire smiled.
"Certainly, certainly." He watched as a young woman poured him a cup of wine, and took a sip. "Lovely. So, what did you wish to discuss with me?" He smiled, genuinely enjoying the taste of the wine.
"About the fate of Elodia. And how this ties into your interests too." Frontaire looked at Gaius, intrigued.
"Tell me more."
"Once, we Elodians, were the masters of the Celestial Empire. We founded this empire. Well, founded is a tough word - there were many other nations who joined hands with us to create the Celestial Empire. But of all those nations, now only Elodia remains in it's pure and natural state. Recently, as you are aware - The Celestial Empire has signed away our government."
"Truly a sad state of affairs," Frontaire said, without much emotion. "So where do we come in?"
"If we were to lose the Empire, we would prefer to do it of our own accord." Gaius leaned in. "And as you know, if Reichskrieg were to take control of Elodia, they would essentially take control of the Celestial Empire." Frontaire put his hand on his chin.
"Interesting." Frontaire looked at Gaius. "So...what's the deal?"
"How would you like a concession in Quantung? The southern part of Quantung is hardly damaged. In a way, we are letting you get the best part of the port."
"Go on." Frontaire said, a smile coming over his face.
"We can also split Luhai between us. That is, the part of Luhai that the Pope has not taken. We have no intention of dishonoring the Pope's claim to the port."
"I like the sound of that." Frontaire said. "How would you like some...support in your war against Reichskrieg?" Gaius laughed.
"Of course, I was about to ask."
"Weapons, funds, ammunition, medical supplies...you name it. We'd also be willing to help train your men more. And a little extra, depending on how generous we feel in the future." Frontaire said.
"Deal." He grabbed Frontaire's hand and shook it. "The training in particular would be nice to prevent any...incidents like the whole debacle that kicked things off in the first place."
"I can offer to help train a military police team using modern Morsanian methods as well as conventional battle units."
"Then we have a deal. Don't worry. We'll help you become the masters of the Celestial Empire."
"Sounds like a plan." The two men quickly signed a document, acknowledging the transfer of territory, and that was that.
If this empire will betray our nation, then let it burn. Gaius smiled as he saw the document. Now, he would need to send another letter to the Elodian Provincial government.
Alice in Navyland
Aboard the Albatross
Alice, now in a plain black dress, quickly snuck aboard the communications room. Honestly, it was nice. Without the obnoxious white apron, she definitely blended in more with the night. The ruffles near the shoulders were a bit harder to remove. She had cut her hand a few times trying to remove that blasted ruffle. But it was done now, and she had a fairly plain black dress.
Upon reaching the telegraph device, she rapidly began typing away. It wasn't her shift on the telegraph machine, but while she could probably lie or charm her way out of a situation, she would have to abort her mission. And then she would be stuck with more secretarial work, which Alice personally wished to avoid. It tired her out, and then took from little valuable time she had that she could yse for gathering intel.
TangwenI am an anonymous spy aboard the Albatross, the flagship of the late traitor Gong's navy. Currently, the man leading this ship is known as Hugo Mast. DO NOT bother to respond to this telegram. Please pretend as if you never received this letter if they confront you, out of the value of my own life. I am telling you the exact composition of this fleet, it's bearings, and estimated time of arrival. I have connections, and can and will reward you later on. I understand if you do not trust me. But please, do understand that this is a far more dangerous fleet than you can imagine. I have devised a plan to sabotage them from the inside, but I cannot -
She was in the clear now, assuming that the folks in Tangwen weren't stupid enough to send a message back responding as if they knew about this telegram. She got up and exited the door, returning to her cabin as stealthily as she had left it.
Communications on The Brink of Battle:
(1911)
The Elysian Lord, following the approach of the home fleet and after hearing their demands, had become inundated with several messages. One told of a supposed spy from within the enemy force, Alice of 
Elodia, though this was, at the time, unknown to Tseun. The other was a request from 
Hexlans; a request for talks.
The door leading into the war room, within The Elysian Palace, clattered open and Lord Tseun spun around. He saw his attendant and then he spied the letters he held.
“Has Mount Fig resolved to submit? Has my envoy returned?” he asked.
The attendant bowed and then offered the letters to him. “No, my lord, the envoy has not replied. These are telegrams: one from The Albatross again and the other from the province of Rexlan.”
Tseun read the first letter from The Albatross and a frown came over his face. “Spies.” He sneered. “Such a dishonourable profession.”
His attendant nodded. “But, my lord, perhaps he could help us.”
“How, pray tell? The fleet will arrive any moment, we’ll know its composition by then. This Zero will supposedly contact us when he’s on the ground – our ground. He expects us just to let the traitors land. This I cannot accept, and if that is the sort of help our spy plans to deliver, then I cannot accept that either.”
“My lord, there is potential for us to turn the tide in our favour, without even firing a shot, perhaps–”
“Cowardice!” Tseun swept his arm across him. “Only a coward would let them land. The clans obey me out of fear and respect. I will not let some Celestial trample over my dominion. I will not let them land and make a mockery of my rule. I shall have their ships decorate the bed of our harbour.”
“Yes, my lord.” The attendant bowed and he froze there, head down. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite conjure the words.
“Speak,” Lord Tseun said.
“What about the message from Hexlans, my lord? What should we send in response?”
Tseun tore the envelope and read it carefully. Then, he looked up and gave his command: “tell them, the fleet is already here. Preventative talks would be in vain. Once we have emerged victorious, however, I would gladly meet with their Ruler.”
“It will be done, my lord.” The attendant bowed low again.
“Go now, I must also make preparations to deal with Mount Fig and their upstart governor, should my envoy not return.”
Giving Back (Final Part)
Father Sparrow
March, 1874
Tanjin, Kalquen, Celestial Empire
The smell of wildflowers filled the morning air as sparrows flit across the cloudy sky in looping pairs. Warmth penetrated each and every facet of the city’s outskirts, heat being only further contained by the humidity brought on by a night of rain. Along one road, birthed from Tanjin’s bustling southern district, lay two fields of green rice shoots. Along the edge of one of these farms, a young boy sat, his slacks only separated from the damp earth beneath him by a small stool. The boy’s eyes looked longingly, down the road, to something in the distance, something he could not yet see.
Minutes passed as the boy waited, his mind filled with the sounds of rustling rice shoots and chirping sparrows. Finally, just as he had hoped, a small carriage crested the flourishing hillock at the horizon. The boy’s heart fluttered and raced, whispering a single word of wonder underneath his breath.
“Father.”
Standing up quickly, the boy adjusted his shirt’s collar to a straight-edged perfection, then smoothing down the rogue strands of dark brown hair from his brow. Finally, after a long minute of waiting, the carriage reached him, the grizzled driver slowing his pair of Kalquenan stallions to a halt.
The carriage door opened suddenly, its shadowy interior sliced into with bright light, a figure stepped out, his proper black suit and spectacles framed the boy’s father in professionalism, yet no amount of cloth could hide the wide smile on his clean-shaven face. The boy ran, quickly bounding over to close the few metres between him and his father, tears welling in his eyes.
“Happy to see you too, Wei” replied his father, holding him tightly in a short embrace.
“Father, you were gone longer than normal! Mother read me your letters of your experience in Alstinian Embassy, you’ll have to tell me all about it!” exclaimed Wei, still clinging to his father, his eyes looking up with awe.
His father only chuckled, ruffling a hand through his son’s hastily groomed hair. Wei then watched as his father turned to face the carriage rider.
“Well, thank you for taking me so far, my friend. Here, please, accept this as a token of my appreciation. Have a pleasant day, and safe travels!” said Wei’s father, withdrawing a heavily loaded coin pouch from his lapel pocket.
The grizzled man nodded curtly, offering little as thanks save for a grunt. Before Wei knew it, the man had already taken up the reins and set his carriage off into motion once more, continuing onto the city proper. Wei’s father then turned to him, withdrawing yet another object from his pocket.
“Here, Wei. If I am ever gone again on one of my trips for too long, and you miss me, just hold this in your hands. I will be with you”
His father’s deep brown eyes sparkled as a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone down upon the road. He placed his hands in Wei’s, letting the small object fall softly into his son’s outstretched hands. Eagerly, Wei looked as to what gift had been bestowed upon him, his eyes widening at the little metal token in his hands. It was a silver heart, its polished surface reflecting the orange sunlight across Wei’s fingers in dancing waves.
“Thank you, Father, I don’t know what to say, I… Thank you” said Wei, his voice still filled with amazement at his present.
“You’re welcome, Wei. Come now, your mother must be going mad waiting for us to return” His father replied, holding a hand out to the young Wei.
Grasping his father's hand firmly, Wei smiled. A feeling of warmth and hope filling his chest, as he felt the silver heart token move within the pocket which it at been stowed.
The two began to walk, sparrows flitting across through the sun-kissed rice fields.
~~~
January, 1910
Kalquenan Provincial Army Garrison, Tanjin Outskirts, Kalquen, Celestial Empire
As the deep night sky outside the General’s Quarters only continued to fall into the depths of star-smattered inky blackness, Wei lay awake, his mind focused on the half-forgotten image of sparrows flying across overcast skies. Now, with his face beginning to be creased by the marks of middle-aged life, Wei smiled. He held the silver heart locket tightly against his chest, the feeling of his father's spirit still holding strongly as a part of his soul.
He remembered what his father had taught him, the virtues of universal kindness, empathy, and equality. Wei smiled, now that he may pass on the same ideals to his children. The thoughts of his family filled his mind, embracing him with the warmth of spirit calm enough to bring him into a peaceful sleep.
Just as the General began to drift off to his restful slumber, a knocking sounded from his door, echoing through the largely empty bedroom, reverberating into his mind like a gunshot. Startled, Wei sat up, exclaiming loudly to his unwanted guest.
“What is it?”
Tired and half-annoyed, Wei swung his legs to the side of his bed, subsequently sliding his feet into the pair of slippers waiting for him.
“General Lanceson, Sir! I bring a message from Nhasa! It is important that you come quickly, sir!”
Wei sighed, marching over to the door and opening it. The soldier on the other side held himself awkwardly, hands held behind his back and drops of sweat pouring down his brow.
“Are you alright, son?” asked Wei, looking the young man up and down, thinly-veiled fear evidently hidden behind the soldier’s eyes.
“Yes, sir! I am fine, sir!”
Wei sighed, placing a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. He knew what the young man must be feeling, he understood it almost too well. He smiled.
“It’s fine, son. It’s alright. Now, what is it?”
The soldier shakily handed a note over to Wei, not saying another word. The printed text was scrawled hastily, shakily. Wei could hardly make out the words.
”General Wei Lanceson Jr.,
We must inform you that the beloved Emperor has passed away. You will be expected to begin grieving ceremonies in the morning.
May the Gods bless you,
Commander Kai Liang”
The soldier stammered, looking at Wei as he read, fear boring into the General.
“W-what will we do, sir?”
Wei chuckled, tossing the note to the ground.
“We’re going to end the starvations.” responded Wei, returning to his room. He crossed the floor quickly, opening up his wardrobe and withdrawing a set of pressed slacks and a suit top, decorated with military medals.
He turned to the soldier, nodding for him to close the door, the stammering young man obliging in a heartbeat. Wei dressed himself quickly, emerging from the room minutes later, metamorphosed into a different man entirely, his endearing smile coated in the sheen of a leader, his face entirely stony save for the slightest wrinkle of a smile in the corners of his eyes.
“Come now, son. Let us tell the others” said Wei, his voice smooth as honey, like a father warmly encouraging his own child.
The two walked then, through the spacious halls of Wei’s quarters, winding their way to the outermost foyer, pushing through the large sliding doors and letting in the cool night air. The camp stretched out below the front steps, dozens of tents and buildings rimming the night sky in civilization. In front of the steps, a horde was gathered, dozens of soldiers looking up in confusion at their leader. The night air hung around them all, a patient spectator to the history being written.
“Gentlemen, Brothers, Sons.”
Wei’s voice boomed outwards across the camp, a sense of warmth held behind each word.
“I have received notice from Nhasa. The Emperor is dead”
The soldiers gasped and stammered at Wei’s words, their feelings of confusion growing with each moment. The man whose hand gripped their nation, gone in an instant.
“Now is not the time for grief, however. I see a brighter plan for Kalquen. For your children, families and friends, starved by the suckling of the Empire on our nation’s resources”
A many of the confused men shifted to more curious expressions upon hearing Wei’s words, his warm tones soothing some confused ache they could not place.
“This opportunity allows what we merely dreamed of. With a loosened grasp, I know our nation can pull itself up from the dark recesses of the world. I implore you all, believe, I will prove myself to you. If you do not stand with me, go” finished Wei, knowing his soldiers, despite their varied training, would remain loyal to him above all else.
Not a soul moved, each too intrigued at the potential of their General’s plan. Perhaps, this could be the revolt to end all others.
“H-how can you be sure this will work?” stammered a soldier in the crowd, his tired eyes looking up at Wei, filled with desperation.
Wei nodded to the man, taking a moment to consider his words. He looked up towards the soldier, then spoke.
“We stand stronger than we ever have, the people are on our side, he who controls the people controls the food, he who controls the food controls the nation”
Wei reached into his jacket, withdrawing an Alstinian revolver from its hidden holster, the cool metal felt natural in his hand. The etching of his father's signature lined the handle, calling out to him as a message to fight for his beliefs.
“Come on, Gentlemen. We have a nation to liberate”
The following days still flashed through Wei’s mind. Fire, blood, and progress.
~~~
July 24th, 1910
Tanjin, Kalquen
Wei’s boots clacked against the hard tile as he followed Long down the winding halls of the Provincial Palace, its ancient walls covered in posters displaying Wei’s portrait, surrounded by sparrow wings. With each step taken, Wei could feel a strong sense of pride swelling in his chest. In merely a few months, he knew Kalquen would elect it's new leader, finally setting in stone the road to repair.
“How are the other candidates getting along, old friend?” said Wei, his voice causing Long to turn around, spectacles glinting in the light.
“I hear Min and Chen have settled well. I am unsure however of Han, him and his staff remain rather recluse” replied Long, smiling at Wei.
“Good, good. I am excited to hear it. I wish them well”
Wei’s tone was genuine, he knew that Kalquen deserved the best, no matter who that may be. Long nodded to him, turning back to face the length of the hallway. Before the pair, a set of doors sat, a gateway to the palisade, behind it, the sounds of countless people milling about. This was it, the first step.
Without a second spared, Wei moved in front of Long, nodding to him and straightening his slick black suit. Wei then placed his hands on either side of the doors, pushing outwards, letting the hinges bring open the entrance. Sunlight spilled across Wei’s face, the crowd bellowing loudly as he marched out onto the stone palisade.
A crowd of several thousand clamored at the base of the Palace’s steps, a sea of shifting heads all clamouring for a better view. Along the palisade, four podiums were erected, one for each candidate.
Wei walked past them each, glancing looks at the respective candidate, as he made his way to the empty podium furthest from the entrance.
Min Guiying, the General's second in command, the Bull, the Militarist. His middle aged face bore an expression of harboured serenity, giving Wei a passing nod.
And then…
Chen Jiang, the hardworking unionist, the Rooster, the Labourer. Chen gave Wei a passing smile, his eyes filled with a sparkling heat.
And then…
Han Tzue, the late Lord's son, the Wolf, the Scholar. Han did not meet Wei’s gaze, his eyes locked forward in a regal, steely stare.
Finally, Wei took his place at the end of the podium, raising a hand in the air and waving it from side to side. He was met with cheering from many of the locals in the crowd. After waiting for a moment, an aide walked from a position to the left of the Palisade, marching to the centre of the podiums and turning to face the crowd.
“If we could please have your silence during the opening speeches. We will have Mr. Guiying speak, and then we will move in order from there. Thank you” said the aide, his voice booming just loudly enough for the crowd to hush down.
Min Guiying waited for the aide to withdraw himself before speaking, taking a few moments to collect himself. Wei listened to his every word.
“Citizens of Kalquen! The road ahead for our nation is a difficult one. One which we have tried to walk many times and failed. I come before you today to proclaim that our future must rest in strong hands, and as a commander and strategist, I vow to bring our young nation to victory, final and absolute! We must expand our defenses, and move forward as one! We will prevail in the face of tyranny, this, I promise you!”
Min’s voice was met with cheers, his promises of security holding strong with many citizens. Wei nodded to himself. Min was a good man, and surely one who knew how to lead. He would be an asset to the nation, without a doubt.
After the applause died down, Chen Jiang moved forward, his large frame clad in a simple suit, adorned with a union pin. Groups of workers in the crowd let out small applause as he readied himself to speak.
“My fellows, as my compatriot here said, Kalquen has a difficult path ahead of itself. We have far more work to do before our lives are complete. I will remedy this, for what is a nation if it cannot offer it's people a good life? I know how hard it can be, I have worked tirelessly my entire life, and I do not intend to stop here. We will work, and work hard! I will ensure to make our jobs safer, better paid, and better represented. Together, as united people, we will accomplish great things!”
Chen ended his speech by flourishing his hand outwards, as if presenting the crowd as a trophy. Many citizens exploded in applause, workers, farmers and families all cheering for the young man. Wei himself felt inspired by the way Chen carried himself, each word filled with emotion and hope.
Wei waited once more, the crowd quieting down as Han Tzue turned his steely gaze down onto the people below.
“Kalquen is a nation desperately stuck in the past, our infrastructure, policies, and technology all lag behind the rest of the Celestial Empire. We need modernity, we need industry, and we need equality. I see a future where Kalquen alone stands atop its foes, the tyrants who so villainously let millions starve for nothing more than greed. I propose to make Kalquen pure… to make our nation a shining beacon, proving to all what the future stands to become”
Han’s words fell like knives, commitment and professionalism filling every phrase. The crowd murmured, some cheering, yet some silent, enamoured in the words of Han. Something inside Wei did not feel right, hearing Han speak and looking at his cold, calculating demeanor. Perhaps it was all simply paranoia, yet, Han clearly knew something. Hesitantly, Wei turned to the crowd, pushing his thoughts to brighter thoughts.
Wei smiled, sun beaming into his skin and filling him with warmth. He prepared to say the words he had practiced with his wife dozens of times, thinking of just how to express his thoughts as speech. As the crowd fell silent, he spoke, booming his voice out over the crowd.
“My friends, my fellow statesmen, my people. I come before you today to stand for something we have all craved. A vision, a dream, one which had been placed into motion on that day where that tyrant fell” Wei boomed, scanning over the crowd, looking into the eyes of his spectators.
“I have stood with Kalquen so far, and I wish to bring us even further forward. I wish to see families smile, to see citizens prosper, and to see others join our noble cause. I see a Giant rising in the South, millions of feet marching in unison, I see a sky awash with the dawn of a new Republic!”
The crowd began to roar with excitement and inspiration as Wei finished his speech.
“I promise to you, my brothers and sisters, I will bring forth our nation to grandeur, for that is the righteous thing for a leader to do!”
The crowd continued to bellow in approval to Wei, Chen and Min even both giving him reserved applause.
The aide returned to the stage once more as a feeling of relief washed over Wei. It was done, it was perfect. The aide motioned with his hands for the crowd to quiet down, waiting for several moments until they complied.
…
The following hours were filled with debate, words exchanged between the candidates over important matters and problems. After it all, as the sun began its descent towards the horizon, the crowds had trickled out of the front of the Palace, and the four men had returned to their quarters. The following months would determine the outcome of it all, the nation could only hold it's breath until the day would come.
~~~
November 28th, 1910
Newspapers across the country read the same headline.
Below the headline, a photo in black and white displayed Wei, smiling onwards, a new flag rippling behind him, an icon of progress for the nation he had fathered.
~~~
July, 1911
Nhasa, Capital of the Celestial Empire
A letter lay, pressed firmly into the Palace's wall with a knife. A token from an unknown messager, one who had long fled under the cover of twilight. The Palace grounds lay quiet, the stars themselves holding vigil over the hallowed ground.
The yellow envelope had a simple phrase scrawled onto it:
I write to you about a matter of the utmost importance. There is a secret, hidden by devils and fools, a secret it is only now safe to reveal.
The provinces of Kalquen and Koshen have been under rebellious governance preaching the ideals of democracy for over a year now. The rebels insure only rumours escape the provinces, attempting to hide their dissent from the eyes of your righteous authority.
The Provincial Governors of both provinces have been brutally murdered by the rebellious heathens, and idols of the late Emperor are burnt en masse.
I cannot write more, this letter cannot be further delayed. Please, do something.
Signed,
Professor Han Tzue”
The Young Soldier (II)
January 8, NL 16
Konrad Hesse was dead. That was what the camp doctors suggested, anyway.
For the past few days he had been swimming in and out of consciousness, lost in endless dreams. Some times he was awake, most times not, but never fully lucid.
On January eighth he woke, but the boy's miraculous recovery was incited by nothing other than the smell of onions on a grill.
Konrad shot upright in his bed, looking around. His vision still hadn't fully recovered, and it felt like he was dreaming. But the two doctors beside him staring at him suggested otherwise.
"He's awake," one of the doctors remarked, unimpressed. "I told you the antibiotics would work."
"It seems so," the other said. "O'Malley," he barked, to a young Temrisian sweeping the floor nearby. "Get ready to replace the sheets and bring in another one." The doctor then turned back to Konrad.
"Go on," he said. "Get up. We don't have all day."
Konrad blinked for a moment, then hauled himself out of the bed. His limbs ached, but he was alive.
As he reoriented himself with his surroundings, he found that he was not back in Swarzia, but rather in Nhasa. The battle had died in its ferocity, but cannon-shots and explosions still rumbled in the hills outside the city.
His mind drifted back to the scent that he had woken him from his days-long invalidity. Onions. The smell reminded him of the days in his childhood, so recent and yet so long ago, when his mother would bring home surplus onions from her market stall along with a pound of beef his father had received as thanks for his work in a slaughterhouse, and would fry them up, using that battered old jar of Kolchite spices the family had won in a village festival when he was but a child of six years. They'd eat it outside, watching the sunrise.
Oh, to be a child again, whose most pressing concerns involved school and friends.
Konrad found himself drawn outside, where instead of subdued silence, the street seemed more like a colossal party.
The soldiers of Swarzia dipped in and out of the houses on the streets carrying boxes loaded with exotic food and alcohol. Wine from Kushmire, caviar from Cigallo, and whole birds, plucked and gutted. A suckling pig was turning over a charcoal fire some way down the street, and outside the infirmary a group of soldiers were bent over an iron griddle, frying onions and potatoes and squid and beef.
None of the soldiers paid him any attention as he walked by. Konrad's stomach growled, but he found that approaching any one of the groups cooking on the street earned him a swift rebuttal and a slew of curses thrown his way.
There were only two buildings on the street that hadn't been stripped clean in the looting: A Swarzian beer house, and the estate of a noble. The latter was spared solely because its walls were high, and its gates reinforced with steel.
Not worth the effort of breaking into. Salami and dried meats hung from the rafters of the beer house, but the larger cuts had been repossessed by the soldiers and thrown into pots and grills. Konrad ripped a small log of salami from the roof, only the size of his forearm, and munched on it whole as he kept walking.
Where was Leon? Where was his company?
Everywhere he walked he could only find the soldiers of other groups, getting much-needed rest, or playing cards. There was no place where he found the blue-and-white uniforms of his company, until he finally saw a weary-looking officer dressed in the blues of the Meringian Eighteenth Infantry, which he was a part of. He approached the officer, and saluted.
"Sir," he said, cautiously. "Where's the rest of the company, sir?"
The officer looked up, chewing on a smouldering cigar as he spoke.
"Most of them are dead," the man said, exhausted, but pointed to an interior courtyard in a noble estate. "This is all that's left. The corpse-piles are down the street to the right," he pointed to an alley.
Konrad stuck his head into the estate. There were only four dozen survivors, all of them injured to some extent, out of the two hundred and fifty they had left Swarzia with.
Nowhere among them was Leon.
Perhaps he was still in the infirmary? Konrad made the mile-long walk back to the infirmary, only to be turned away at the door.
"We're not taking any visitors or slack-offs," one of the surgeons said, holding out a hand to bar his passage. His rubber coat was stained with blood and other fluids. "Move off."
Defeated, Konrad turned about and began down the street again. He asked soldiers he stumbled across if they had seen Leon; a short, red-haired ranker from the Meringian Eighteen Infantry Company. All of them either shook their heads or cursed at him to get out of their way.
As he walked sullenly back to his company's lodgings, he noticed that the rumbling cannonfire and gunshots in the distance had grown quieter.
Konrad's heart sank into his stomach as he approached a long line of bodies, laid out side-by-side on the road and covered with white tarps. Names and regiments had been scrawled on the tarps, marking each corpse.
He found himself walking down the line, reading the scribbles on the tarps.
George Konig, Meringian Landwehr.
Rupert Schlacht, Fifty-Third Infantry.
Hans and Paulus Muller, Ninth Infantry.
Heinrich Blume, Swarßien Heersanitatskorps.
August Ketz, Fifty-Third Infantry..
The bodies were arranged in no alphabetical order, but rather the time at which they had been found and deposited here. The first corpses, on the other end of the line, had begun to stink already, and were picked over by swarms of flies.
Konrad turned about and was about to head to his company's quarters when he noticed one more body. It was only partially-covered by the white tarp, and there was no name on it. The person who lay under it hadn't even been afforded the dignity of a name in death.
He lifted the tarp with his boot, distancing himself from the corpse, and pushed the sheet to the side, to be confronted by the dead face of his former bunk-mate, Leon.
Though a year older than him, Leon's face seemed all the younger in death. His expression was vacant, his head hanging limply to one side and his mouth slightly open. A perfectly round entry wound perforated his temple where the killing bullet had passed through his head.
Konrad turned, and the contents of his stomach emptied themselves upon the ground. He heaved and retched, eyes swimming with tears both from grief and disgust at the scene, until his stomach was completely emptied and his innards burned with pain.
Gently, he covered Leon's corpse with the cloth, making sure that the entire body was hidden from view this time, and he lumbered off back towards his company's quarters.
The world seemed to swim around him, and his actions were unfocused and erratic as he staggered into his company quarters. He found a vacant chair, and sunk into it, trying desperately to shut his eyes to the grim reality that was now his life.
The Young Soldier (III)
January 20, NL 16
Konrad Hesse would wake from a restless sleep once again. He found himself still in the city of Nhasa, but after an excruciating week of menial labour, the army found itself preparing to march home.
He had come into possession of a blank diary. A book he had found while conducting cleanup operations, clearing rubble and lost goods off the streets. Of standard length, three hundred and seventy pages long, three hundred sixty-five of those pages for days and timetables. He had also chanced upon a fountain pen, one of exotic foreign craftsmanship, in the remains of a house.
And so, what better way to document his own suffering than through writing?
He flipped open the pages, and began scrawling down his recount of the past days.
Ich war Soldat
I was a Soldier, the title said, the very first page, where one was supposed to write their name. Konrad Hesse, he wrote below that.
Once, the first page after that read, as Konrad filled out the first few pages, I was a bright-eyed young volunteer in the Swarzian Army.
I was promised good pay, adventure, and glory in exchange for my efforts fighting the usurper of the Celestial Empire, James Gong.
Instead of good pay, adventure, and glory, what we received was pain, suffering, and memories that will remain with us for the rest of our lives.
I had one friend in the army. A boy named Leon.
Leon was killed possibly in the first hours of the Battle for Nhasa. And for his insurmountable sacrifice, he was thrown onto the sidewalk and covered with a filth-ridden canvas sheet to hide the sight of his body from those bright-eyed recruits who thought war was still the glorious thing the Duchy portrayed it as.
We have been lied to. This is the aristocracy's war, and we are their pawns.
Today we march back to Swarzia. One month later, when we return, we will be hailed as heroes.
Pray that no person ever has to die for the petty grievances of a pitiless aristocrat.
Konrad paused as his officer walked past, then continued writing.
Many of the wounded in this battle will be treated as cripples. They will not find work in Swarzia or anywhere else. The Duchy will not give them a pension either. Those scarred by the fighting like I will be shunned as lunatics, some thrown into asylums.
I was a soldier. Now I am a cripple.
He finally closed the book, standing up as the bugle called for them to rally.
The march home was duller than the march to Nhasa. The soldiers marched slowly, having lost a tenth of their number in the battle, and they marched out of time, some limping, others bent over with the weight of their packs.
There was no singing, no merrymaking, no bandying. They pitched tents in silence, ate in silence, marched in silence. The final day before their entry into Swarzia, the officers drilled them until they were half-dead from exhaustion and forced them to march in formation and in uniform for the commoners to see.
On the day of their return to Swarzia, February 13th, they entered the city of Minau, false smiles on their faces and rifles slung over their shoulders, to the cheers of the city's residents. Children presented officers and parents with bouquets. Part of the army stayed in Minau to return to their barracks. Then they visited the other cities. Rath Dotean, where another group parted ways with them. Heinrichsburg. Blumenthal. Weimat. Lothgard. Grafeld, Hirsche, and finally Hess.
The core of the expeditionary force marched through the city, still wearing their fake smiles, feigning jubilation and triumph. The city's elite had come to watch their so-called heroes pass, and they threw roses at them.
They were to receive an address by the Grand Duke. The boldest among them were to receive awards.
Konrad hid his misery as he passed under the stony arches leading to the Palace of the Regency, the residence of Grand Duke Wolfgang. The Duke had sped ahead of them on the march back to Swarzia, such was the urgency with which he travelled.
And indeed, the Duke emerged to greet them. He stood, three floors above them, atop a balcony, flanked by two Clerics of Sor.
"My good countrymen," he said, looking down on them. "Swarzia thanks you for your courage and determination in removing the tyrant Gong from his throne. The usurper is dead, but there is much more to be done. Traitors and opportunists are everywhere in this empire, and it is our noble duty to keep the peace in this old and proud state."
Konrad, for a moment, seemed to catch the Duke's eye, but it was over just as quick; the Duke turned his gaze elsewhere.
"We must, as ever, stay vigilant for foreign agents in this dark and troubled time, and the servants of the villainous Overtsar, and guard our good Duchy against the evils of the devilish D'yavod. Swarzia has stood tall and proud for six centuries, and it shall not be humbled. Our nation... remains... strong!"
"Long live Duke Wolfgang!" Some officer shouted, signalling an intermission in the speech.
"Long live the Duke!" the soldiers echoed, throwing up their hats, but there was no sincerity behind the words.
"And in the spirit of our forebears," the Grand Duke said, "We must rise to face threats to our prosperity and stability whenever they emerge, and do our duty to our nation. I have no doubt that the proud Swarzian warrior-spirit, which we have cultivated so delicately over the past centuries, will triumph over the Empire's foes. Brave men of the houses of Swarzkrahe, Rothgard and Barin, I invite you with utmost sincerity to be decorated with awards for your heroic deeds in the Battle of Nhasa."
The Grand Duke vanished from view to half-hearted applause. A dozen soldiers walked into the palace flanked by guards, to receive decorations for their actions. A herald read their names aloud as they entered.
"Klaus Bartelt, Cross of the Knights of Arastraheim, First Class, for eliminating an enemy defensive position by himself. Siegfried Muller, Order of the Edelweiss for saving the lives of twenty of his comrades during the battle. Alfred Neumann, Cross of the Knights of Arastraheim, Second Class, for taking the head of an enemy officer..."
The officers motioned to the rest of their men, signalling that they were free to go after they claimed their salaries.
Konrad received a paper cheque from his officer, with a note entitling him to two hundred Sols, the last of his salary, and a pat on the back.
And just like that, he was thrust out into society again, with a pat on the back and pocket change, and a battered old uniform to boot. He pretended not to hear the congratulations and praise from civilians as he passed by.
Before he could return home, he had to head to Minau to return his uniform and gear. And then return halfway across the country to Heinrichsburg.
Konrad sighed in exasperation, as he boarded an outbound stagecoach to Minau.
With no trains and no boats to take him there, Konrad used a hundred and eighty of his two hundred sols buying passage aboard a horse-drawn buggy, climbing in alongside a red-faced, pudgy trader, and a lanky, scowling Temrisian. The ride there, over the next four days, was incredibly silent; the first two days, his other two fellow passengers seemed content to mutter quietly with each other, and fell quiet whenever they thought Konrad was listening.
At Heinrichsburg, the two traders got off, to be replaced by a sullen Atrian and an embattled doctor who seemed too absorbed in his notes to pay attention to his surroundings. This time, the two did not even bother talking to each other but went about their own business.
Konrad's joints were aching and his mood even more horrid by the time he reached Minau, where summer had begun to grip the city. He wandered the city feverishly, searching for the military office, when he ran- or bumped- into another person.
"Oomph!" The man stumbled backwards and fell over. His friends stopped, and helped him up.
"Apologies," Konrad mumbled, helping the stranger pat down his shirt. "I wasn't paying attention."
"You better-" The man began, irritated, before eyeing Konrad up and down. "That's a military uniform," he said, slowly. "You must be one of the men who came back from up north."
"...Yes," Konrad said, bemused. "What of it?"
"My name is Paris Kessler," the man said. "These are my friends here, Klaus and Paulus." The two men flanking Kessler nodded in greeting. "You see, we run a group that advocates for fairer treatment of military personnel." Kessler held up something Konrad never expected to see, waving it at him. A wad of Sols, bound with yarn.
"Would you be talented at any skill, by chance?" Kessler said. "We can set you up with a job if you'd like."
"Hm..." Konrad hesitated. "I suppose I can edit works, and write articles for newspapers," he said, sheepishly. "I can't really do much manual labour, though... been a while since I did that."
"No, no," Kessler said, beaming. "That's alright. I can pay you-" he checked the wad of Sols he held, counting each note. "One thousand sols upfront if you'd help us edit a newsletter we publish each week. We'll pay you eight hundred Sols a week from there. So?" Kessler pressed. "What do you think?"
Konrad stood, stock-still. He needed the money, though he desperately wished to return home.
"I suppose I can do it," he said. "I do have to return to Heinrichsburg soon, though."
Kessler considered that for a moment.
"Three months' contract," he offered.
"I'll take it."
Konrad shook Kessler's hand, and the latter gave him a note.
"This is the address of our office," Kessler said. "Find us tomorrow after ten in the morning, and we can get you started. Pleasure meeting you...?"
"Konrad," he said.
"Pleasure meeting you, Konrad," Kessler grinned. "See you tomorrow."
As they walked away, Paris Kessler sighed.
"That solves the issue of an editor," he said, to nobody. Paulus von Barin scratched his forehead in irritation.
"Three months?" von Barin said, quite exasperated. "You might as well have thrown away tens of thousands of sols."
Klaus Kogler spoke up.
"Still, it will make us a tidy profit if the new hire can push out the second edition of our manifesto," he said. "And our newsletter."
"Time will tell." Kessler swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water, rubbing the sweat off his forehead. "Time will tell."
The Revolutionary (I)
Minau, March 13- NL 16
As with all problems the Collectivists faced, Paris Kessler had found a solution. The only issue was that the solution lay with the Dayani, and the Temrisians.
O'Brien, a short Temrisian merchant barely taller than the table at which they sat, smirked and scratched at his beard.
"You wished to expand this business into Swarzia?" The Temrisian said, chuckling softly. His assistany, Flanery, paced about the door, waiting for some sort of secret signal.
"Yes," Kessler said, stiffly. "We need another source of income."
"You're in luck." O'Brien slid a sheet of paper across the table. "Firstly, an agreement. You give a forty per cent cut of your profit to us to cover the costs of distribution and losses. In exchange, we'll smuggle the goods for you through the border into Rath Dotean."
Kessler frowned. "Forty percent?"
"That is business nowadays, my friend," O'Brien flashed him a crooked smile. "Operating costs are high. Not even the devil himself-"
Three knocks on the door stirred Flanery and O'Brien from their positions. Both jumped up. Flanery opened the door, while O'Brien slithered into the corner of the room, and whipped out a sawn-off shotgun, pointing it at the door.
In stepped a gaunt man, with a gaunt face. He had donned unusually-thick clothes to conceal his heritage, but a pair of piercing green eyes, a thin lip, and matted brownish hair easily exposed his Dayani stock. The Dayani had sunken cheeks and sunken eyes, and one of his eyes wandered about lazily, while the other darted here and there, taking in his surroundings. Both his hands were in his pockets.
"Easy," O'Brien said, sweating. "Vasily, this is Mr. Kessler. He's approached us with a deal."
Vasily, as he was called, slowly drew out a chair, taking his hands out of his coat. One of them held a gun, the other a long knife. He placed both weapons on the table, and sat down opposite Kessler, doing everything in silence.
Kessler shifted uncomfortably as the Dayani's one good eye stared him down.
Finally, Vasily coughed and cursed and said something unintelligible in his mother tongue. He reached into a small pack hanging at his waist, and produced a pipe and a handful of blue powder, which he stuffed into the pipe.
O'Brien offered a match, which the strange Dayani took, and used it to set the pipe alight. Curlicues of bluish smoke reached up and hung near the ceiling.
Kessler coughed at the smell. It was D'yavod, no doubt!
Vasily's aloof demeanour quickly melted away as the devilish drug's effects took over his body. His shoulders slumped, and he collapsed backwards into his chair with a great sigh. When he looked back at Kessler, his hands were twitching madly.
"My name is Vasily Zubarev," he said, slowly, stumbling over the words in his drug-induced stupor. "I am the master of supplies for these two people with me today."
"Paris Kessler," Kessler said, extending his hand. "Pleased to-"
Zubarev sprang up with a great shout, an infernal scream that made the two Temrisians jump. He seized his knife off the table, and held it aloft, a maniacal look in his eyes.
"This swine means to break my neck!" the Dayani shouted madly, swinging the knife wildly. Kessler fell out of his chair as he scrambled backwards. "I will not be brought down by such treachery! O deception, o betrayal, o vile foreign snakes!" He continued ranting madly in Dayani as O'Brien and Flanery seized him by the arms and forced him back into his seat. The man continued to rave and thrash for another few seconds, before he shuddered, and went still. His head lolled forward, and the Temrisians let him go.
"Terribly sorry," O'Brien was mumbling in the background, as a shell-shocked Kessler returned to his seat. "There's nothing you can do to stop one of his little fits..."
The Dayani's head jerked up with a loud crack.
Vasily coughed feebly, sinking back into his seat.
"I am Vasily Zubarev," he said again. "The master of supply for these two." He gestured to the Temrisians- again. "They tell me you'd like to expand your.. our business into Swaria."
"Yes," Kessler said. "Swarzia would make a good market. How many batches of product can I purchase for resale a week?"
"One hundred crates," Zubarev replied, as his left arm began to spasm. He drew another long breath from his pipe. "One hundred crates a week, yes, one hundred makes a tidy profit..." He rambled on, before coughing again. "One hundred crates a week. You want to buy- no- you want to sell each crate at two thousand sols, yes, to make maximum profit."
"..Excellent," Kessler said. "Your associates have told me that they want forty percent of profits a week."
Zubarev snorted, as he continued to suck in long breaths of D'yavod from his pipe. "Forty. Forty good bargain."
"Ah-" O'Brien interjected, as Zubarev slouched back, still smoking his infernal pipe. "Mr. Kessler, if I may interject- you want to sell our product at three thousand sols instead."
"Why is that?" Kessler said, shaken.
"We've discovered a method which makes our D'yavod almost one hundred percent pure," O'Brien boasted. "Only issue is.. the D'yavod turns bright bloody blue for some reason. Can't get the blasted thing to look normal."
"How pure?" Kessler said. "It's just some thing people smoke in their pipes. Surely-"
"No, no, no," O'Brien said, hissing. "99.1% pure D'yavod. Effects that last twice as long as the D'yavod readily available on the market. Herr Kessler... should you accept, Swarzia will become a testing ground for our product. We could make all of us rich."
Kessler sighed. "I just need enough sols to publish my book and establish more groups for this organization of mine."
"All of those," O'Brien spread his arms, flashing Kessler another crooked smile, "You can achieve if you take on this contract with us. Deal, or no deal?"
"A hundred crates a week," Kessler said, taking notes. "Three thousand sols per crate." He looked up. "A profit of three hundred thousand sols total per week, assuming our supply isn't uncovered..."
"One hundred and eighty thousand sols of profit per week at the most," O'Brien said. "After we take our cut. Worry not, Herr Kessler. Swarzian border controls are... no obstacle, to say the least... the same couldn't be said about Kolch."
"If I may inquire," Kessler said, peering at his calculations. "How exactly do you intend on smuggling your goods into Swarzia?"
"We have our methods," O'Brien said. "We will transport one-half of the goods down the Zwinilinge- we shall hide them as boxes of silver bullion and timber, from Temris. The other half will be brought in through Rath Dotean, disguised as spices. We can then pass them on to our distributors here."
"On that matter," Kessler said. "Who shall we sell it to? The old folks around these parts don't take kindly to new inventions."
For the first time, Zubarev looked up, leering at Kessler. His pipe wobbled erratically as he spoke.
"Sell it to the young," the Dayani said, with surprising clarity in his voice. "Sell it to young men. Men returning from war. It calms their nerves. Push it to young adults looking to defy society. They will spread the news from there."
Vasily Zubarev smiled eerily. "You will find great success if you do as I say." He raised a nonexistent cup. "To our profit."
Abruptly, he gave a snort, and Zubarev slumped forward, blacked out.
O'Brien sighed, and the two Temrisians hauled the Dayani upright.
Kessler nodded in agreement to what Zubarev had said. "Yes," he said. "Deal. How soon can you make the first delivery with your agents?"
O'Brien thought for a moment. "We can start in April. In the meantime, you should have your men prepare to distribute our goods to the populace." The Temrisian stood, tipping his hat. "Good day to you," he said, before the two of them dragged Zubarev out through a back door, leaving Kessler entirely alone in the room.
Kessler thought for a moment. He stared down at the paper, and with a malignant scowl, scribbled out the asking price of three thousand sols, and added another five hundred to the end.
The Revolutionary (II)
July 18, Minau
Konrad Hesse, former soldier, former newsboy, and current editor, sat almost completely alone in the offices of the mysterious group which he worked for. There weren't many others in the office with him. An old man sat in the corner of the room tucked away in a private cubicle, banging away on a typewriter, and two women his age were sitting idly smoking at their desks.
The day's work hadn't been particularly overwhelming. The newsletters he had edited sat on the side of his desk, with amendments to their contents scrawled out in red ink, and the articles he had refined had been taken away by some clerks earlier that morning.
All the articles, he noted, seemed to be rather political. They talked about "Collectivism" and "seizing the means of production". Among them, the phrase "Worker's Paradise" seemed to appear more than others. Articles berating the bourgeoisie, lecturing on the "Serf-Lord system".
He would rather not have taken any sort of political job, in Minau of all places- the city practically burnt with political tension, and there were other young men abroad these days, young men who threw punches and rocks at others who believed in different ideologies.
Indeed, an article he had written supported that. "YOUNG SWARZIAN PARTY ONCE AGAIN HOSPITALIZES SEVERAL IN STREET ATTACK," it said, in bold black text.
However... this job was probably the best he could get. Good pay. Good working hours, and not much work to do. He'd have slimmer chances with other businesses, being a war veteran. He had originally intended to only stay until May, but a generous raise from Paris Kessler, so-called Collectivist and his supervisor, had extended his tenure to the end of the year.
And of course, the late Battle of Nhasa had had profound effects on the city. The amount of unemployed, or homeless- veterans had increased significantly. Most of these veterans, Konrad noted, were his age. With no home of their own, no money, no job. None of them dared to go back to stay with family.
It was then that the veteran's musings were broken, as the office door opened and Paris Kessler himself came walking in.
"Up, up, everyone!" He shouted as Konrad and the three others in the office leapt to their feet, alarmed. "Now," he said, "I have good news. We have secured a publishing contract in Temris that is projected to bring us millions of Sols a year. In addition, it shall spread the good word of Collectivism in our neighbour-state!"
Everyone else reacted with jubilation. Kessler continued smiling, though internally the young radical knew. There was no publishing contract. They were selling D'yavod instead. And there were hundreds of thousands of Sols flowing into the party every month.
"Come," Kessler declared. "We'll go out for dinner tonight! I've booked out an entire beer house. Food and drink on me!"
There was a subdued cheer, and the other three people in the office filed out. Konrad hung back a moment, stowing away his work, when Kessler strode up and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Hesse," Kessler said, referring to him by his surname. "How goes the work?"
"It's been going fine," Konrad replied, bowing his head. "I finished it all, and attached the relevant annotations."
"That's my editor," Kessler said jovially, though Konrad could tell that there was something awry. "Now," he said, "Do you think you could do a favour for me?"
"Hm?" Konrad raised an eyebrow.
"As you know," Kessler said, pointing to the papers on the table. "The Province of Kalquen has... seemingly risen in rebellion against the Empire, championing the values of equity and democracy. A good turn of events..." his voice trailed off, before he regained his composure. "I need someone to travel there, and interview the man in charge of this so-called Republic of Kalquen... Wes Launceston, or whoever he was."
"...Me?" Konrad said, with mixed feelings. "Why me?"
"Ah," Kessler said, "You're by far the most skilled in this group. We'll need an almost-perfect article." He waved two tickets in the air. "I've bought tickets for a stagecoach that departs tomorrow. Will you go?"
Konrad swallowed. "Yes," he said, partially motivated by fear, partially motivated by money. "I'll go. Who should I seek out?"
"We've already sent out a request for an interview to the Kalqueni government," Kessler replied. "It's been approved. Head to Tanjin and everything'll be fine from there."
Konrad nodded, slowly. "I see," he said. "Well, wish me luck."
One and a half weeks later, Konrad Hesse, now a reporter for the so-called Collectivist Party, stepped out of the dingy stagecoach that he had been confined to for the past week, basking in the pleasant weather of Kalquen. He hadn't been to Tanjin before. But armed with a map of the city, he started finding his way to the address that he had been given.
The Revolutionary
Nhasa, Capital of the Celestial Empire
July 30, 1911 - In Collaboration with the Indestructible Kalquen
Jesse straightened his posture, his demeanor like that of a lioness protecting her cubs. He’d heard of and seen enough of rebellion this past year and a half. That the province of Kalquen would so boldly dare to proclaim itself an independent republic free of the Empire now was beyond comprehension. He’d lavished praise upon the province; raised up its representative to a spot on his esteemed council, but this… this was a betrayal worthy of a thousand deaths.
He gripped the letter from Professor Han Tzue, its edges wrinkling under the strain. A bead of sweat worked its way down the back of his neck as a vein pulsed on his forehead. He had half a mind to send the armies to Kalquen to end this pitiful rebellion now, but instead had chosen the high road. Instead he called upon yet another irksome lord from another ungrateful province to explain why in the name of Ren they’d rebelled.
Gritting his teeth, he shot a narrowed glance toward the front door. Gilded hinges creaked open, the light from outside illuminating the golden screen behind him. Sean stood to his side, his beady eyes glaring on with the subdued fascinations of a hungry spider. Behind the pair was the throne of the emperor, cloaked by a golden screen. Blinking once, Jesse prepared to receive Lord Yun, High Tribute of the Celestial Empire.
Yun pushed through the doors calmly, his posture straight as an arrow. His black suit illuminated by the light streaming in behind him. Behind his wire framed spectacles was a look of cold determination, eyes looking forward through the Supreme Regent, fixed upon that gilded throne before which his compatriot stood.
He knew this day would come, he had been preparing it to be under different terms. but some figure beyond his knowledge, had likely forced his hand. It was no longer time for secrecy, Yun would answer for his actions like a man.
Despite his treasonous acts, Yun would have not wished to come off as disrespectful. As the doors closed behind him, he fixed his steely gaze onto Jesse. Although he knew not what the man was thinking, it could not have been pleasant.
Yun bowed gently before the Supreme Regent, electing to stay silent for the time being.
"Bowing must mean you and your province have at least a modicum of respect for the Empire," Jesse said, his voice bereft of any friendliness. He held the letter aloft, as if offering it to Yun. "I want to know exactly what is going on in Kalquen."
Yun nodded slightly, his eyes still fixated on Jesse's. His face held behind it a look of slight disappointment. He should have been more honest with the man.
"I understand, Supreme Regent. There is no point in hiding anything" said Yun, in the same tone in which one would address a friend.
"One year ago, a small armed group of soldiers began a revolt against the governor. Everything moved so quickly, and the armed forces entirely sided with the rebels. All this, during the chaos when the emperor died. The government soon was controlled by the group, who then allied with a similar rebel sect in Koshen. Recently, the people have elected themselves a leader. It is for fear of our lives that we were not able to tell you, yet I recognize just how disrespectful this action was, Supreme Regent. Are there more details you would like, sir?"
"Fear for your lives? What fear was there that you should conceal this?" Jesse seethed, his cheeks reddening. "That you should lie about this? And now, when they've thrown off the yoke of the Empire, you have the audacity to appear before me, the Supreme Regent of the Celestial Empire, as though nothing terrible has happened at all." Jesse threw an accusing finger at Yun, his limbs trembling with growing fury. "I appointed you to the Council because I believed that I could trust you. Yet here you stand! A defender of a growing rebellion."
"Supreme Regent. I understand, your anger, it is more than justified. I did not intend to become a member of the Council, but as I was appointed, I understood the dire situation. I fought damn hard to ensure the Empire's survival. Kalquen itself died by your side under the Hoydland-Koshen Volunteer Brigade" Yun said, his voice solid, rising in tone.
"Kalquen wants to end a cycle of centuries, independence, recapture, starvation, hardship. It has suffered as the breadbasket of the Celestial Empire for incredibly long" Yun stepped closer to Jesse, calming himself as he began to think of bellowing out in protest.
"It is the duty of any man to serve the people, and the people do not want war. We have fought for this Empire, Supreme Regent. I understand the horrible weight of my actions, and appear before you as a man attempting to prevent the further suffering of millions" Yun finished, pain seeping through his words. The weight of his own betrayal still a dishonourable smear on his heart.
Jesse shook his head. He couldn’t believe a word this fool was saying. Honor, duty, loyalty, service. They all meant nothing coming from Yun. If only he knew what those words truly meant. If only he’d known the duty, sacrifice, heartache, and restless nights of the man he dared to utter such nonsense to. Jesse had given up so much to save this Empire. Now its traitor in chief had the audacity to compare. “Service to the people?” Jesse’s voice was hardly a whisper, his fury something much more now. “You dare to lecture me, the Supreme Regent, on service and sacrifice?” His voice crescendoed, filling the hall with a bellowing echo.
“That I haven’t ordered your head cut off is an undeserved mercy. That the army that defeated Gong isn’t now turned to march toward Kalquen is an unearned act of compassion. If this Empire and its people meant so much to you and yours then you would have brought this to me sooner.” He turned away, gripping the bridge of his nose as he removed his glasses. His throat ached with each word. For a moment he didn’t know whether to scream or cry. Turning back, he glared at the arrogant council member.
“I am going to say this once. Offer this once.” He stepped forward, his face inches from Yun’s own. His voice had calmed; his fury but a whisper now. “Get Kalquen back in line or there will be dire consequences.”
Yun nodded, he knew no words or actions would have strayed Jesse from this path.
"As you wish, Supreme Regent"
Yun knew Kalquen would not step back into line, yet, he had succeeded in his goal. The Republic now had valuable time, time few and far between would have granted him. An image flitted through his mind, a project file passed over his desk only a few times before, something brewing far above his pay grade. Something stirring in the South.
Without a further word, Yun turned to exit the hall.
Jesse crushed the letter in his hand as the door closed shut behind Yin. He’d had enough of these provinces decided that they knew better, that in the aftermath of the previous emperor’s death and Gong’s demise they could do what they wanted. He grit his teeth, huffing an irate sigh. They were wrong. So very wrong.
The Revolutionary (III)
Heinrichsburg, August 2, NL 16
A plague was spreading through the northern trade-city of Heinrichsburg. A plague that did not directly kill, but wore its victims down over time, and struck them down with starvation or exposure.
Indeed, the Lord Mayor of Heinrichsburg had noticed that there were a growing amount of beggars and vagrants. A visit to the treasury only raised his concern.
"Lord Mayor," Haufmann, the director of the city treasury, bowed, showing them inside. As they walked, the bespectacled treasurer spoke. "Trade from the Empire is dwindling," he said, scratching at his neck in the stifling heat. "It's been declining since May of last year."
"How come?" Lord Mayor Rothgard said. He shivered, thinking of the displeasure of his distant relatives in the Rothgard family he'd receive when they would find that his city was losing money.
"All those veterans from the war in Nhasa," the treasurer said. "No one wants to employ them. And the Grand Duke's modernization program's putting factory workers out of their jobs..."
"How can that be possible?" the Mayor said incredulously. "It was supposed to streamline production..."
"Streamline production," Treasurer Haufmann said, "By removing thousands of workers whose jobs are to assemble things by hand, and replacing them with heavy machinery. Ah," he bowed again, and swung open the doors to the treasury's vault. There were shelves upon shelves of polished gold bullion and bundles of cash, but it was emptier than what he had seen during his last visit- five months ago.
"In addition," Haufmann said, "The Grand Duke's been depleting gold reserves across the country to finance the modernization program. We've lost..." The bloated bank manager huffed and puffed as he made his way to another shelf. "Five hundred thousand Sols out of our coffers."
"But that's a fifth of the treasury!" Mayor Rothgard gasped. "What for?"
"An automobile plant in Hess," Haufmann replied grimly. "Staffed entirely by those blasted Atrians. And another hundred thousand of those Sols have gone to building more roads."
"H-hold on!" Mayor Rothgard said, indignantly. "How come I- how come we weren't notified of this modernization thing?"
"His lordship, the treasurer said, "Did not consider it important enough to notify the mayors and staff of the city of this.. program," he shook his head at the empty coffers. "We merely receive orders from Hess of what buildings will be laid down, and forthcoming upgrades to infrastructure, without explanation."
Mayor Rothgard shook his head in disbelief. "Is there something that can be done?" He said. "To get the unemployed jobs?"
"No," Haufmann frowned. "Even with our modernization efforts the growing amount of jobs aren't enough to fully employ even a third of the unemployed."
-
There was another plague in Heinrichsburg. This one was painfully-obvious.
After his visit to the treasury, Lord Mayor Rothgard's second order of business was to visit the City Guardhouse. He noticed that some prisoners were being held in wooden cages outside.
Commissioner Wildlitz, overseer of the city's law enforcement, bowed as the elderly Lord Mayor shuffled up the steps.
"Why are the cells overflowing?" Rothgard demanded, walking past cells with seven or eight detainees apiece.
"Something foul," Wildlitz said. "We don't know the cause. But all these young fools keep getting into violent brawls out on the streets. It's as if they've gone mad."
As he spoke, one of the prisoners lunged at them, and the bars of the cell door ratted violently. The prisoner's eyes were tinted a deep blue, and he screamed continuously.
"Sor's radiance!" Rothgard leapt back, as two guards shoved the detainee back with nightsticks. "What has gotten into these wretches? The youth just can't behave.." he grumbled.
"There are reports of something called D'yavod causing this disturbance," Wildlitz sighed, holding up a police report detailing a pub stabbing. One week ago. "We just don't know what this.. D'yavod is. I've sent letters to other cities asking for assistance in this case, but none of them seem to have a hint of what it is."
"Well," Rothgard said, bright-red with anger, "Find out! I won't have such barbaric displays of public indecency in my city."
As they left the Guardhouse, the mayor's delegation passed the slumped shapes of the unemployed and homeless, huddled in alcoves or under trees to escape the sun's blistering heat.
-
And finally, there was a third plague riddling Heinrichsburg. One of a political nature.
"Down with the Collectivists!" A young college student, a white armband with a black eagle tied to his arm, shouted. He threw a rock at the mob standing opposite to theirs, a mob with red armbands. A thin line of overextended constables was the only thing preventing the two groups from surging forward into each other.
It was for this reason that Klaus Kogler, third-in-command of the Collectivist Party, found himself in Heinrichsburg with a fortune in sols, and a following of three dozen Collectivist zealots from Minau. They walked in sync behind him. From that day on, they were to be his, and the other Collectivist leaders' elite guards. An invention of Paris Kessler, against the growing backlash from the Young Swarzians that prowled the cities. Each of them carried stilettos and brass knuckles and clubs and all sorts of weapons under the burgundy poncho-like garments which they wore over their torsos. The first of the so-called Red Guard.
They stopped outside an old establishment, a beer hall that had found itself out of business. Its proprietor came hurrying up, eyes flitting about suspiciously.
"Mr... Kogler, I take it?" He extended his hand, dangling a trio of keys. "The gold, and it's all yours."
Kogler handed two briefcases full of money to the unfortunate proprietor, whose eyes gleamed greedily at the weight of the tens of thousands of sols inside. The portly barkeep shoved the keys at Kessler.
"Gold one is for unlocking the front door. Black one is for the kitchens and the cellar. And the grey one is for the attic and storage shed." With that, the former owner of the beer hall hurried off, eager to not be seen with his newfound fortune.
"Meyer," Kogler ordered one of his subordinates. "Take the keys, and let us in. We'll set up for dinner service as soon as the kitchen's found. The rest of you," he gestured to the Red Guard. "Buy as many groceries as you can. We'll need as much food as we can get."
He followed Meyer into the beer hall, and the two began to clean the dust-covered premises, using buckets of water and rags to scrape cobwebs and dirt off every surface. The kitchen was still decently-clean.
Meyer and Kogler hauled out the tables, and set up large banners outside the beer hall. "Free Soup and Beer for the Unemployed," they read, golden letters against a red cloth. Then, in smaller text, "Provided by the Collectivist Party."
It was not long before the unemployed masses in Heinrichsburg came that night. First a handful who happened to be passing by, then their friends who they alerted of the event. And soon Kogler and his subordinates were frantically filling bowls with soup and bread, and distributing mugs of beer around the room. The line outside stretched around the corner, as Meyer reported.
With each meal, the Collectivists handed out little paper flyers.
"A world where no man shall beg for scraps," the flyers said. "Join the Collectivists."
At the end of the service, several hundred men stepped forward, professing their desire to join the group. The next day, after that day's dinner service, another few hundred men came forward to join Kogler's branch of the party in Heinrichsburg.
And Paris Kessler smiled, reading the telegraphs. His party had boosted its ranks tenfold, from a thousand to perhaps ten thousand all within the span of a few months.
Minau. Heinrichsburg. His designs for the country which he hated with a burning passion would be seen through. He would make sure of that.
Kessler laughed.
Eagle and Sparrow (Part 1)
August 20th, 1911
Port of Nhasa, Capital of the Celestial Empire
Gulls flocked in the Azure sky above the port, Yun Kulang watched their white forms pass across the rays of sun. His feet stood firmly planted on the deck of The Ouroboros, a medium sized modern vessel, able to clip across the water at great speed. As sailors milled about around him, Yun merely stood, prepared for the long voyage ahead of him.
His orders, directly from the Supreme Regent, remained clearly imprinted into his mind. He would travel to Alstin as commanded, but he would not demand aid for the Empire. His purpose as a Lord of Kalquen remained clear, to further the reputation of his state and its power, to sever the suckling maw of the tyrant Empire from his homeland.
After a few minutes of concentrated thought, the ship unmoored itself, the wind whipping through Yun’s slicked back hair as the vessel propelled itself across the deep blue waters. Nhasa grew smaller and smaller behind him, the petty problems of the sick empire leaving his mind just as quickly.
“The Empire will be left to its own business. Kalquen will reach the rising sun alone” thought Yun, his mind filled with a burning anger.
~~~
The ship cut straight as an arrow, sailing westward into the horizon. Days of long travel and open ocean came and went.
~~~
July 3rd, 1911
Port of New Hamilton, Alstin
Clouds covered the afternoon sky as The Ouroboros pulled itself into the Port, a forest of masts and rigging. The buildings were far more modern than those in Nhasa and Tanjin, strong, brick structures, reaching upwards into the sky higher than most buildings Yun had ever seen.
He stood idly by, one hand resting on the ship’s border wall, the other hanging gently in the pocket of his pressed grey slacks. On the boardwalk below them, a sleek black automobile sat, it's paint glossy, reflecting what few rays of light broke through the clouds. A uniformed Alstinian stood by the hood of the vehicle, watching the sailors place down the gangplank leading to the dock. Yun watched them work as well, bringing his luggage down and to the side of the black car.
“Thank you all, gentlemen. I will return soon” said Yun, passing the members of the crew as he maneuvered himself onto the gangplank and walked down onto solid ground for the first time in almost two weeks.
He drew a deep breath, cold, wet air filling his lungs. The city around him bustled with life, it's modernity a dream to any Celestial. It was marvelous. By Alstin, Kalquen would firmly follow.
The chauffeur opened the side door for Yun, helping him step inside the car’s cushy passenger seat. Yun sat down quickly, folding his hands in his lap politely. His eyes took in all which laid around him as the vehicle roared into motion, the wind whipping through Yun’s hair and over his spectacles. He smiled widely, as the car rolled down onto a main street, leaving the boardwalk behind.
“This is magnificent!” remarked Yun, the chauffeur smiling as his eyes stayed fixed on the road.
The rest of the long drive was in silence, Yun’s eyes moving from sight to sight, the views of the city filling him with childlike wonder. Before he knew it, the car had stopped outside of a large, white brick building, the large lettering carved over the entranceway reading “NEW HAMILTON OFFICE OF EXTERNAL AFFAIRS”.
“Sir, they’ll be holding your conference here. I’ll wait for you to come back, good luck!” said the chauffeur, getting out and opening the passenger side door.
Yun nodded, reaching out and shaking the hand of his driver as he stepped out of the car.
“Thank you, kindly” stated Yun, his smile curt and official.
He turned his head and looked towards the doors of the large building beside him. The door to progress, to liberty, to freedom. The chauffeur turned, reaching into the backseat and handing Yun his briefcase.
Without another moment, Yun nodded his thanks and strowed confidently to the doors. Once inside, a secretary escorted him through the sleek hallways of the building, bringing him to a large wooden door labeled “Conference Room”.
After a moment of checking to make sure his suit and tie were straightened, Yun turned the door handle and walked into the room. The conference room was hospitable, a long hardwood table ringed by a set of plush leather chairs. At the far end of the room, three men sat, each dressed in fresh suits. The man in the centre of the three stood, walking over to Yun. He was of average height and build, his age showing in several grey patches lining his medium-length hair.
“Mr. Kulang! My name is Norton Carwell, and I'll be the delegate to hear your proposition. The two men behind me are Misters Fred Howard, and John Garnham, they'll be simply attending to note down your propositions. How was the trip here?”
Yun smiled at Norton, reaching out and firmly shaking the Alstinian Delegate’s hand.
“The trip was fine, Mr. Carwell. I am very glad to be finally be able to talk with you, it means very much to my people that you are able to confer with us at such an important time”
Norton chuckled at Yun, his voice gravelly and reeking of tobacco.
“Well, Mr. Kulang, no need to be so thankful. We’re happy to talk. Please, have a seat, let's not waste any time during this pressing times”
Yun followed Norton’s request, sinking into the plushy leather seat beside him, waiting for Norton to return to the other side of the table. These men may be relaxed, but Yun knew that was no reason to be unprofessional. Millions counted on his every word.
As Norton sunk into his chair, Yun opened his mouth and spoke.
“Gentlemen, I come before you today to make a request. The Celestial Empire currently lies on the edge of economic ruin, and the government has not lifted a finger. My home province, Kalquen, saw the death of Ren Osarrus XXIV as a turning point, with our citizens taking up arms against Tyranny. We have kept this all largely hidden from the Empire’s gaze, our democracy and our people still lie in a position of great risk. Without economic aid, our nation will starve, or be reassimilated into the sphere of the Empire. In this position, we reach out to you, Alstin. We have heard stories of your noble Rebellion and strong democracy, and wish to follow suit for you”
The delegates turned to look at eachother, their faces neutral, eyes hungering for more detail. Norton turned to Yun, placing his hands into an arch below his head.
“A rebellion? For democracy? This is indeed something intriguing, Mr. Kulang. Very, very intriguing. Tell me, what does Kalquen plan to do, granted we provide your state economic aid?” inquired Norton, the joking edge within his voice replaced with fascination.
Yun’s heart leapt, the initial statement hooking in the men just as he had hoped.
“Well, gentlemen, once Kalquen is free from its shackles, we plan to undergo a… conquest, of sorts. We will, with allies, travel to Nhasa, and liberate the nation once and for all. After this noble victory, the Celestial Empire would likely be more than willing to open up a good few treaty ports to aid the Alstinian economy, and further the reach of democracy across the continent!” Yun mused, his eyes alight with patriotic fervour as he finished.
Norton smiled widely as Yun spoke, the men to his side hastily writing down notes on leatherbound notebooks.
“Your nation seems rather ambitious, and your goals align with our own, a foothold in the Celestial Empire could prove both useful and profitable for our nations, and we have been looking for opportunities like these!” said Norton, his voice now snappy and enthusiastic. Yun nodded, his chest blooming with pride.
“I am very pleased to hear that, Mr. Carwell. I can assure you, this opportunity will be unlike any other. The people of Kalquen are united, and the people will succeed. I can promise you that”
Norton chuckled, a glint of admiration behind his eyes. He had a feeling, an aching feeling, that this investment could bloom into something far more important than the Kalquenans could realize. He would humour the man before him, he would see what his nation could offer.
“I’m going to pass your proposal up the chain of command, and we will send for you again when we are ready to discuss the broader strokes of this deal. We look forward to working with you, Mr. Kulang” said Norton, standing from his seat and walking briskly over to Yun.
Yun stood in response, nodding his head and extending a hand for Norton to shake. Yun’s heart beat rapidly, a drum reverberating in his ribcage. He had done it, this was a leap in the right direction. His face remained calm, his professional visage maintained despite his excitement.
As the Alstinian reached out and shook his hand, Yun pictured in his mind what the future may bring. Tanjin, a city of concrete spires and light, a metropolis like no other. A shining beacon, driven by the flight of Eagle and Sparrow alike.
“The same to you, Mr. Carwell. Thank you kindly for your time” said Yun, his words feeling suddenly more powerful than before.As he left the conference room, the path before him seemed just a little brighter, each step a little easier. There was more work to be done, yet it would not be done alone. Not anymore.
~~~
Freedom shall stand United.
”The Hunt of Black Island I”
August 2nd, 1911
Middle Ossaran Sea
Duke Franz Krallemann lay half-asleep in his lavish bed, dark stormclouds rolling in across the night sky visible through the porthole. The hull of the SMS Eisenhaut cut violently through the choppy waves, sloshing the half-empty cup of wine sitting atop the Duke’s dresser. His mind wandered between twisted wishes and fantasies, permeating his mind and filling his heart with excitement. Visions of the days to come danced before him, bringing him to a point of almost childlike joy.
Bloodlust and Opulence filled the air equally, mingling within and around the Duke’s every breath. He could only imagine what lay below him, his imported game, his prey, his toys. He knew that beneath his lavish personal quarters lay the holding cells, the dingy, dark and rat-infested metal cells, filled to the brim with prisoners long forgotten by their homeland. How greatly he wished to hold each by the throat, to watch their eyes bulge and their mouths gasp for air. His lip curled into a grin, his eyes drifting slowly downwards, ever the more heavy as the seconds passed.
Just as he began to be firmly gripped by the claws of sleep, a youthful voice piped up.
“Duke Krallemann, Sir! The Captain told me to let you know that we can see land on the horizon!” spoke the young deckhand who had rudely interrupted the Duke’s thoughts.
Krallemann snarled, snapping his eyes open and shooting into an upwards position, his fine pyjamas ruffling out around him in a silken storm.
“Boy!” he spat, “You must never enter this chamber unannounced! You awoke me from my slumber, you wretch!”
The Duke moved out of his bed in a flurry of motion, startling the young deckhand into topping sideways, knocking into the dresser and spilling the precariously placed glass of red wine onto the floor.
“No! Sir! I-” stammered the deckhand, looking in horror at the mess he had created, the Duke staring down at him with a face gradually mirroring the tone of the now spilled Zinfandel.
Krallemann clenched his fist, shaking it violently as the surprise and anger began to boil off. He looked into the scared eyes of the boy, his snarl gradually turning into a placid grin over the course of a silent minute.
“Don’t fret, boy. Please… clean this mess. I did not intend to lose my… temper…” said the Duke, his sharp words now dulled and smooth like honey. The deckhand looked back at him with the same expression of fear, now beginning to mix with confusion.
Without another word, the Duke turned to the opened doorway into the main corridor of his quarters, reaching for a thick Mosainian wool coat hanging on an antique rack beside the door, swiftly fitting his arms through the sleeves. He then began the short walk from his bedroom, through the wood-furnished lounge and foyer, and onto the main spiral staircase, travelling upwards in a cramped helix of wrought-iron, the sounds of wind, rain, and thunder becoming clearer the closer Krallemann came to the top, the small metal door leading onto the deck of the Eisenhaut standing ajar, letting a small smattering of rainfall patter against the metal landing of the staircase.
Krallemann tightened the coat over his body, covering his smooth, silken pyjamas from the rain as he opened the metal door fully. The sky above the ship was an angry roiling tropical storm, the black and grey clouds swirling above and dropping a torrent of watery knives onto the sailors running about below. Krallemann looked around amidst the din of thunder and wind, his eyes flicking around at the uniformed ants before settling on a man in dressed in a black greatcoat, Captain Hermann Sturnheld.
Sturnheld was an older man, short, military cut grey hair ringing his slim head. His green eyes widened in surprise as he saw the Duke walking towards him.
“Your Grace! I did not expect you to come out in the storm! My apologies!” yelled Sturnheld, over the wailing gales.
Krallemann squinted his eyes as the rain buffeted his exposed face, the streaming trails of water pouring across his field of vision. He yelled back towards the Captain, water coating his brown beard.
“Captain Sturnheld, where is the island?!”
“Due West, your Grace!” replied Sturnheld, pointing a finger outwards into the direction of the ship’s bow.
Without another word, Krallemann pushed past the Captain, slipping across the deck and catching himself at the bow’s railing. In the distance, a small dark lump rose from the choppy waves. The amorphous specks of a jungle canopy barely visible moving in the wind.
It was perfect, perfect. Krallemann could already feel the mud under his boots, the smell of wet bark and ferns filling the air. His lust of excited adventure soon to be satiated. He let out a strained exhale fell from his lips, being carried away in the tempest surrounding him. Soon, the enemies of his great nation would find out how their insulting existence would be remedied. Soon, Krallemann would get his fix. His blue eyes glinted with a sadistic excitement.
The Duke turned after a few moments of gazing longingly towards the island, marching back towards the door from which he came. The Captain called out to him as he went, yet the hollered sentences lay lost on the wind. All Krallemann could think of was what the next day had to bring. The warm interior of the ship welcomed him back in, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him. His feet retraced the path back to his quarter, a dim light leaking out from the prison floor at the base of the stairs as he stepped out onto the landing of the second floor.
Passing back through the wood paneled hallway, visions of jungle fronds danced through his head, figures passing across the shadows behind them. Before he knew it, the Duke was crawling back into his four postered bed, silk sheets falling across his skin like puffy white clouds. His body fell into a deep relaxation, his mind following suit the closer the ship drew to the shores of the tropical paradise before them.
~~~
Below the softly slumbering Duke, men lay wide awake, damp steel bars surrounding them, rats squealing from unreachable corners, guards patrolling with blood-caked batons. They did not know it now, but these conditions were but a small taste of the depravity soon to come.
~~~
Notice: Welcome to the second story event of the Celestial Empire!
You sorry souls all now have found yourselves trapped in the bowels of a Reichskrieger prison ship, and you will soon discover just how horrid your fate will be.
In order to participate in the event, reply to this post with a post of your own, introducing your character, their unique quirks, and how they were captured for being a part of the Elodian resistance (will be a resistance volunteer from your own province, of course, but if you want to have a slightly different backstory, just let me know and I can try to help you fit it in as well as possible). Once we have our event members, another post will follow, detailing how the ship lands on the shores of Black Island, and the regulations of the event.
Please DM me on discord for further questions, I am stoked to be running this for you all.
"Kinsman"
August 2, 1911
Augustus Thalgaard blinked once, then twice, forcing the rheum out from between his eyelids. They had all been beaten, but the Swarzian had received a slightly worse assault than the others. It took him a minute, perhaps two, to remember where he had been before he had become a prisoner.
The ship's innards stunk, and the screeching of a rat made his head throb again. Thalgaard glared at a guard, who only returned the look with twice as much spite.
"What're you staring at?" The Reichskrieger said. "Filth." The soldier struck the bars of Thalgaard's cell with his baton, generating a sharp bang. "We should have killed all of your sorry kind before you left for Soralla."
At that insult, Thalgaard shot up, the chains affixed to his wrists and ankles rattling, and he was pleasantly surprised to see the guard recoil. He hawked up a glob of blood and phlegm and bile, and spit, and spat on the guard's face.
The Reichskrieger cursed, and stumbled back, wiping the spit off his cheek where it had landed, shouting obscenities and slurs at his Swarzian counterpart. Only Thalgaard could fully understand just what the man was hollering, and given the nature of it he wasn't particularly inclined to share with the others.
But there was nothing the guard could do, without the keys, and he knew it. Thalgaard smirked, and sat back down in this prison he had found himself trapped in.
The Moon Falls on all Of Us
Ralph Coltrane carefully applied the bandages to the foot. Around him, soldiers screamed for many things, mercy, their mothers, some screamed for death. Outside the battle for Luhai continued. Volunteers from all corners of the empire had converged on the site, to resist the Reichskrieg intervention.
Ralph was formerly a lieutenant in the Kushmiran Land Component, working as a surgeon in an assortment of different units. He’d been discharged over disciplinary issues and has since spent his time in Elodia, operating a clinic. Until Reichskrieg arrived.
Ralph pulled out a knife and cut the bandage short, tying it and finishing the dressing. The tent flaps opened and a group of officers walked in. “Doctors, come with us, we’ll get some injured men from the fields.”
Ralph and two others mounted horses and followed the Elodian officers out of the tent. The group rode to the main front where cannons, gunfire and screams could be heard. Ralph checked the contents of his bag once more, no doubt, the sight of a doctor would lead many men to start screaming for help.
Ralph didn’t know how he ended up deep within the bowels of an enemy ship. He remembered attempting to console a man with punctured lungs. When Reichskriegan soldiers swarmed the area. Before he knew it, Ralph and his counterparts were behind enemy lines in an unexpected counter attack.
He’d tried to escape, and got tantalisingly close to the Elodian lines. When he was stopped by a Reichskrieg patrol. Beaten, spat at and dehumanised Ralph now lay in his cell. A rat nibbling at his feet and uptight, bitter guards for company.
He lulled off into a sleep, the vessel following the rhythm of the waves, his head rocking against the metal rivets. The rat, growing bored of his cheesy toenails, left to nibble on another fellow prisoner, leaving Ralph alone with his thoughts.
The Apothecary
2nd of August, 1911, NL16
The red haze obscuring his vision slowly retreated in the short time after he woke. He had found himself in a deep slumber, or perhaps a feverish stupor, for what felt like days. He tried to check his temperature, but was met with a splitting pain in his shoulder when he raised his arm. He whimpered like an injured dog. Slowly and carefully he inspected his wound. It looked severely infected.
He looked around for anybody who might be able to help him treat his wound, and met the gaze of a foreign-looking man outside his chambers. He cried to him for help.
“Sir, have you a bottle of brandy on hand? A wet tissue, or a cream?”. He tried his best to climb back onto his feet, but his exhausted legs wouldn’t budge.
The man stayed completely silent, his cold black eyes staring right into his soul from behind the bars. “Barbarians…”, he grumbled, as he tried his best to clean the wound with his spit and a scarf. He couldn’t tell if it was reality or just a hunger-fueled hallucination, but this place seemed completely unlike the chamber which he remembered dozing off in. Perhaps something had occurred while he was unconscious…?
He decided to put off that thought for now and find something to eat, only to be painfully reminded of his injured shoulder. The effect was strengthened by the tapping of an alien on his back, evidently seeking his attention. He turned as much as his crippled body would permit, and was spoken to in a muted tone by the foreigner.
“You’re finally awake, eh? You’ve been out for a while.”. He smiled. “What’s your name, son?”
The man appeared to be of an advanced age, forty-five at minimum. He was dressed in surprisingly neat apparel; an ocean-blue suit with silver buttons; apart from the long tear cutting through his right sleeve. He had bushy, uncombed, silver hair, teensy glasses, and a thin smile.
“Trelomeruite’s the name, sir. Trelo for short. I’m an apothecary working in Elodia.” He tried to form a smile, but it must’ve looked more like a pained grin. “Excuse my manners, but I’m awfully parched; would you happen to know the way to the bar?”
The man shook his head. “I doubt there’s one on board, and even if there is, I doubt they’ll let you out of your cell.”
“They?”
“The Reichskriegers. They’re holding us captive.”
“Why would they imprison us? What have we done to deserve such treatment?”
The man paused for a few seconds. Confused, it seemed. “…fight in the war?”
This was news to Trelo, who distinctly remembered leading an anti-war campaign just a year prior, and could not imagine himself actively participating in a conflict himself, even if he’d been in a stupor. “I… need some time to think. Pleasure meeting you, mister… ?”
“Barabas Cyu.”
“…mister Cyu”
The Interview
July 30, NL 16
In collaboration with the mutinous Kalquen
Konrad stepped out of the shabby hotel he had taken up lodgings in for the night, rubbing his sleep-weary eyes. The pleasant weather he had seemed to be blessed with yesterday was now replaced with the stifling humidity of a hot summer day.
He reassessed the crumpled little map he still had in his possession, with the address of the hotel scratched off, and set off down the street in hunt of the second address, his journalist's satchel at his side
The morning was hot and sultry. The Swarzian, earned himself many stares as he trotted through Tanjin's streets, passing by red-roofed houses, vendors selling fragrant chunks of meat on skewers, children trotting briskly to school, and three old men bickering over a game of cards.
Huffing and puffing, sweat dripping from his brow, Konrad, gripping his satchel tightly, arrived at the address. An address that turned out to be some sort of inner-city gentlemen's club. Men dressed in neatly-pressed suits shuffled in and out of its gilded doors.
The Swarzian gulped, looking down at the collared shirt and tie he wore, feeling highly conspicuous as his dusty leather boots trod their way into the club.
Wei Lanceston, one of his notes said, President of Kalquen.
Wei Lanceston Junior, one of Kessler's annotations added. Interview to be held in Parlour Twelve.
He walked anxiously to the front desk, patting his combed hair, which by now had become slick and shiny with sweat and moisture.
"Um," he said slowly, stumbling over his words. "I'm Konrad Hesse. I have- I have a meeting with the guest in Parlour Twelve."
The short man at the front desk nodded, looking up at Konrad with dull, dry eyes.
The man then walked from behind the desk and down through a paneled wood hallway, beckoning for Konrad to follow. The smell of the building reeked of tobacco and alcohol, however, approaching the end of their hall, the smell was replaced with incense, heavy and floral.
The short man stopped in front of a door marked "12", gesturing for the visitor to follow.
Konrad exhaled nervously, fidgeting with his tie and moving his satchel to hang at his right-side waist, in the style that was fashionable of reporters these days.
He peered at the golden numbering, and was shown in by the proprietor. He found himself in an amply-spaced room. In direct contrast with the humidity outside, this parlour was cool and air-conditioned.
Konrad coughed nervously as he span about to face the man already in the room. "Good morning, President... Lanceson? I'm Konrad Hesse, here on behalf of the Minau Tribune."
Across the room from the door, in a large leather armchair, sat President Wei, a small glass of water in his hand, newspaper across his lap. At the sound of Konrad's voice, he raised his head.
His eyes twinkled at the site of his guest, his face widening into a bright smile. The President set down his paper and water, standing and promptly marching over to Konrad.
"Mr. Hesse! My secretary told me you'd be coming. Welcome to Kalquen! How was the ride over?" Ever hospitable, Wei reached out a hand for his visitor to shake.
"I found it rather enjoyable to take in the Kalqueni landscape," Konrad said, shaking the President's hand. "How fare you? I can only assume you've been rather busy with your electoral victory." As he spoke, he unclasped his satchel and pulled out a large notepad, inkpot, and quill.
Wei glanced down at Konrad's quill and inkpot, a look of confusion crossing his face. Snapping out of his contemplation after a few seconds.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Hesse. I indeed have been busy the great machine of this nation has begun to churn and wake, and I have been oiling the wheels. And, I am doing rather well, thank you very much. How about yourself?"
Wei ushered Konard to an armchair just across a small, circular wooden table from his own seat. Upon the table rested two glasses, and a large bottle of rice wine.
"About as well as a man can do these days." Konrad took a seat across from Wei, and placed the inkpot squarely upon the tabletop. "I am blessed," he said, "To have a job that pays more than what jobs of higher prestige would pay, and an employer that would take in a mental cripple born of war."
He swallowed, memories of the Battle of Nhasa half a year ago still fresh in his mind.
"I am distracted," said he. "Apologies for my babbling. If you don't mind, sir, I have some questions for you, regarding your presidency and the course Kalquen intends on taking in the coming years."
The quill scratched across the parchment, etching out a title: "PRESIDENT W. LANCESON- INTERVIEW".
Wei took his seat, smiling at Konrad, placing his hands on the table.
"No worries at all, Mr. Hesse. I understand my time is important, yet, you need not be so formal. We're friends here, and I'll be happy to answer your questions" said Wei, in the same tone which with a father would use to talk to his own son. The President poured himself a small glass of rice wine, offering another glass to Konrad as he took a sip, the liquor burning lightly at his throat.
"Ah," Konrad said sheepishly as he stared at the rice liquor. The last time he had tasted it, at his graduation party no less- he had gotten blackout drunk from a handful of shots, and woke to find himself in a dumpster the next day. "I must apologize, sir- Mr. Lanceson- pardon me. My body doesn't have much tolerance for alcohol..." He smiled bashfully. "Though, I'd be more than happy to have a drink after this interview's over."
He added the date and his name to the notepad.
"If you'd be fine with starting the interview," he said. "First question, if you would. Could you describe the direction you intend to take Kalquen in, now that you've been appointed to office? What sort of state do you intend on remodelling Kalquen into?"
"Well, now that I am in office, I intend to steer my country into the direction of the people. They wished for security, freedom, and prosperity" said Wei, stopping for a moment to take another small sip of the liquor.
"I will oblige. I see a Kalquen two decades from now where all are paid fairly, where each citizen has the food they need to eat, where no tyrants hang hungrily over our backs. I see a different president in my position, one with the ever changing needs of the people in their own heart. A state, like Alstin, a great power we are already gravitating towards. That is what I imagine"
Konrad scribbled Wei's words across the page, nodding as the tip of his quill plunged in and out of the ink-pot, dancing across the parchment. Despite his aversion to politics, he couldn't help but feel that he agreed with the man's words.
Intends to model the state after Alstin, he added, and looked up, flashing the President a smile.
"Thank you," he said. "Next question. There are concerns you are breaking away from the Celestial Empire. What is your stance on relations with Nhasa and the... Empire?" he said, a hint of distaste hanging on the last word.
"I believe that Kalquen cannot stand truly beside Nhasa to succeed. A government such as that of the Empire is a relic of an era far too long ago. Absolute power corrupts to the core, and until the day that which the Celestial government is elected, I do not think Kalquen will see itself standing by the Empire. We do not wish for conflict, but when talking in terms of a monarchy hungry to control power by any means, I do not know if we have a choice, my friend" said Wei, his tone solemn and reflective, his eyes wandering briefly to a large window facing the outside street, citizens walking up and down, smiling to one another.
"I truly wish there was another way, Mr. Hesse, but in my opinion, one cannot compromise away the lives of his people. I hope you understand" he finished, returning his gaze to Konrad.
"Hmm," Konrad said. He struck down a punctuation mark, and swished his quill around in its inkpot. "I can't say I disagree with what you say. The Empire's done worse than good, and I'd rather not fight another war for its sake." He cleared his throat. "So, to clarify: You intend to rule Kalquen without the interference or oversight of Ren Osarrus from now?"
"Yes. I wish that other provinces would follow suit, but I will make sure that at least Kalquen and Koshen both remain independent from the hands of tyranny." Wei replied, taking another small sip while looking to his interviewer kindly.
"I understand."
The Swarzian's quill made some more additions to his notes. He let the ink dry for a moment, before flipping the page.
"Now, Mr. Lanceson," he said, "Another question. What would your economic policy be? Since Kalquen intends to separate its apparatuses of government from the Empire, would you decouple the Kalqueni economy from that of the Imperial market, or do you hope to continue trade relations with Nhasa?"
"Kalquen will largely remain an export market, yet we will attempt to cut Nhasa from the equation. We will export to our fellow provinces, ensuring that similarly democratic states are able to gain a reduced cost, due to the chances their supplies will end up in the hands of their citizens. Other than that, we will increase exports to Alstin, to hopefully ensure they can economically support us and gain resources in return" said Wei, not entirely enthusiastic about the economic matters, yet still happy to oblige Konrad's question.
Once more, Konrad flipped the page, muttering to himself.
"Last question," he said, smiling at the President of Kalquen. "Forgive me for the hubris, but this is for the readers in Swarzia. What are your thoughts on the Grand Duke of Swarzia and the Ducal government as a whole?"
"Well, Mr. Hesse, I mean not to insult, yet, I feel morally driven to say that as your province is currently in a state of autocracy, I cannot give my support. I have no problem with its citizens, in fact, I see a bright relationship with them and Kalquen, Swarzians are hardworking brothers to our state, like many in the south. Yet, until the day where something occurs to alter the Ducal government, I will remain distasteful" Wei said, folding his hands on his lap.
He had heard shifting news on the matters of Swarzia, and he hoped in his heart of hearts that they perhaps would be swayed by Kalquen into bringing themselves towards a brighter path.
Konrad nodded sagely, as he took notes of the president's sayings.
"Well, that is why we exist, Mr. Lanceson," he said, smiling. "The Minau Tribune is an independent newsletter that pushes for change in the government."
His smile soon faded. "Of course, that has earned us no support from the Duke. But I do hope that Swarzia will change for the better in the near future."
Wei smiled the same smile he gave his sons when proud, this man, Konrad, may be more noble than Wei had already believed.
"Well, my friend, as I said, if Swarzia ever does change, Kalquen will stand beside you as a brother" he said, taking the last sip of his rice liquor as he finished.
"Thank you," Konrad rose, smiling from ear to ear- the first time he had genuinely smiled since he had left for Nhasa to fight so long ago. "That'll be all." He bowed. "It was a pleasure meeting you, President Lanceson. I hope to see you again sometime."
He stood to exit the room, packing away his things. Perhaps the Kalqueni politician was right. He had no love for the Imperial system. What better alternative than democracy?
-
"Morning, sir," the butler said, setting Grand Duke Wolfgang's breakfast down on the desk at which he was seated, as well as the daily newspapers from all corners of the province.
Von Swarzkrahe flipped through the newspapers, before one article caught his attention. He squinted, and looked closer.
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE PRESIDENT OF KALQUEN
The Call of Destiny
Campbell, County Uicklowe
February 1, 1911 - New Life 16 – In Collaboration with the phenomenal 
Kolch
The silken red robe lined with buff color shimmered in the Temris sun. At the very least, the cool air was a welcome respite from Kolch. If I never see Kolch again, Arbiter Priapos Chrysostomos began to think, but quickly silenced his mind, He reminded himself that it was not his place to complain. The gods had sent him to Kolch.
He steadied himself, drinking in one last glance of the house that stood before him. Yes, it must have been the one from his nightmares.
Yet, nothing godly could be a nightmare, Arbiter Johannes always said. He walked up the road, for the first time in this world, until he was before the doors. He gripped the knocker, and the sound resonated thrice.
Delighted laughter echoed from within the simple abode. Bathed in the cool light of the late winter day, Kayden tried again to stand up. He clung to his father's forefingers, their tips turning red beneath the child's solid grip. Spencer's smile shone bright as the summer day sun as Kayden shimmied his way up.
"You almost have it," Spencer said, his attention now split between Kayden and the door. His smile fading, Spencer lifted Kayden into his arms with a hefty grunt. "You're getting too big for this," he said, tapping his son's nose. Kayden laughed, his head coming to rest upon his father's shoulder. Opening the door, the pair were met with a sight neither had ever seen before. "Can I help you?"
Priapos studied the two carefully. "Good day, Mr. MacDarcy. I am called Priapos. Is this your son?"
Spencer's hand instinctively moved to shield the boy from the stranger. "How do you know my name?"
The austere Magi looked Spencer in the eyes: "You are Spencer MacDarcy, are you not? The one who survived the sinking of the Aftalia? You are not unknown, especially not to we holy Magi." He eyed the frame of the door suspiciously, "may I come in? We have much to speak about."
His grip tightened around Kayden’s small body. The Magi’s presence was not a good sign. After a long moment, Spencer nodded his head and stepped aside. Closing the door behind the Magi he suddenly found himself a bit embarrassed by the state of his small home. Kayden’s toys were scattered about, and a half-eaten fish was sprawled on his counter. It wasn’t the luxury he knew at Kayden’s age, and he guessed it wasn’t what the Magi expected either.
“Please,” Spencer said, motioning toward a cushioned chair in his tiny living room, “sit. You must have had a long journey. Can I get you anything?”
Gliding into the house, Priapos found himself taking peculiar interest in his modest surroundings. When he was led to the chair, he eyed it suspiciously, before resolving to stand. "My journey has been long, yet easy. How long have you lived in the Empire?"
Spencer shifted Kayden from one arm to the other. Kayden protested sleepily; his thumb in his mouth as he rested his head under his father's chin. "Gee," Spencer smiled at his boy, "my entire life I guess.
For reasons unexplainable, Priapos was surprised by this revelation. "Sorry, I didn't know why I thought..." he resolved to continue on; "what about your house? How long have you been here?"
Spencer shrugged. "About a month or two. Packed up my things and left Chasewater behind as soon as I could. Giving Kayden a good start in life, one without the interference of my parents, is what brought me here."
"Do you have a disagreeable relationship with your parents?"
"My parents are an overbearing lot. My father never cared much for me as a boy, and he's tried, now that I'm a man, to turn me into, well, him." He set his jaw, pride in his voice as he declared; "I am my own man." His head teetered slightly. "But my mother... she means well, but you can always tell that there are ulterior motives with her."
Priapos supported his chin with this knuckles as he leaned further in. "So, you have a difficult relationship. How about your son? Does he like his grandparents?"
Kayden stirred sleepily in his father's arms. "I'm not sure. My father had little to do with him, but my mother appeared doting."
"And..." Priapos hesitated, though one mustn't attribute the inaction to sympathy, "where is the boy's mother?"
Spencer's eyes filled with grief. Casting his pain-stricken face toward the floor he struggled against the torment that came with Marcy's memory. "She died," he finally managed after a long moment. "The day Kayden was born."
"That is unsurprising," said Priapos. "When we are born, we take pieces of our fathers and mothers' mana with us. The extraordinarily strong-willed often take more than most are allotted; for boldness, for mischief, or because the gods willed it."
"If the gods willed that Marcy die and my life be so unbearable in the wake then it would appear as a cruel trick."
Priapos remained stolid: "Mr. MacDarcy, the gods work in their hidden ways, and each guides our hearts on different, blessed paths. I shan't waste your time any longer. I have been dispatched here because it is my belief, and that of the Flame, that your son will be a man of immense karmatic importance." His eyes now turned to the boy Kayden, "he is the reincarnation of a great man. That is certain."
Spencer's face twisted with bewilderment. "My boy is hardly a year old," he said. "We can't be certain of anything aside from the fact that he's only now learning to stand and walk." Gawking, he turned away from the Magi. "'Immense karmatic importance.' A Temrisian?"
"Of course," agreed Priapos, standing. "That is why we ask that I may be permitted to return, and conduct a few tests to examine the validity of our suspicions."
Again Spencer shifted uncomfortably. "Return? Here, or to Nhasa?"
"Here, of course," said Priapos, "we wouldn't want to trouble you more than necessary."
“Having a Magi visit is no trouble. Your presence has been an honor,” Spencer said. “I just want what’s best for my boy. And while I don’t believe he’s the great man you’re looking for, I do believe that he will one day be a great man.”
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Exactly one month after the prior engagement, the Magi Priapos re-emerged at the house of MacDarcy, riding in with a train of carriages. Now he was joined by another, a woman in striking black robes and her face hidden by a veil, who introduced herself as Mira Ann, High Mother of the Ashes. Behind the shifting tulle, Spencer could make out imperfections in her face, just barely. Her nose was a little too big on one nostril. The skin around one eye was black, like charcoal. Her mouth was twisted, yet neither in smile nor grimace. Of course, his eyes could've been playing tricks...
"May we come inside, Mr. MacDarcy?" asked Priapos.
"Priapos," Spencer said, guarding the doorway with a grimace. "You're back sooner than I'd expected." His eyes flew beyond the pair at his doorstep. "And it looks like you've brought friends this time."
"Indeed, we are ready to conduct the aptitude tests I was telling you of before." He peered past Spencer's shoulder, "is your son here?"
Reluctantly Spencer nodded. "Yes." Stepping aside he allowed the pair in. This time Kayden was sitting upright on the floor of the meager living room. In one hand he grasped a wooden horse, blowing raspberries and absurdities only he could understand as he mimicked its galloping strides across the floor. Spencer approached him, kneeling on the ground with a forlorn smile. "Our friend is back," he said softly. Kayden looked up at Priapos, a smile flashing across his face.
The Magi shared none of either Spencer nor the boy's joy. Their austerity remained as the Magi Priapos strode forward and plucked the boy from the floor. He held him carefully, still eyeing Spencer warily as he turned to exit. Outside the front door and on the lawn of the house had been placed a series of toys: A dragon, a ram, a soldier, a bear, and a pristine ceramic doll. They all looked old. Kayden was placed before them, and the lower Magi stood and watched.
Kayden protested quietly, his whimpering only exceeded by his father's heavy footsteps as he chased them out onto the lawn. As Spencer bit his lip, Kayden turned his attention toward the toys. Crawling toward them, he first leaned toward the soldier. Then his eyes settled on the ram, and with the same excited gibberish that he'd had with the horse, Kayden picked the ram up and began to have it trot across the grass.
Priapos took a long breath, before giving a signal to the others. The ram was removed, and he moved to pick Kayden up once more. When presented with fruit, Kayden chose the lychee. When presented with sets of the same clothes in different color, the boy chose blue-trimmed, and from that time on he wore it. For the next test, Kayden was placed in the center of the living room, with Spencer told to stand at one end and a plate of chocolate on the other.
Kayden twisted and turned in his new clothes, the fabric and color something he hadn't experienced before. When his mind was made up that the clothes weren't going away, he transferred his attention toward the chocolate. The brown squares looked odd and enticing. He hadn't seen something like that before. Taking a step forward he soon opened his mouth with a tremendous yawn. Were these strangers always so tiresome?
Turning toward his father Kayden was met with a man whose often cheery countenance was replaced by welling panic. There was something different about his face; something Kayden didn't understand. He yawned again. His first few steps were tentative, uneasy. Then, slowly, surely, he crossed the room to his father. Spencer had kneeled, his arms outstretched to receive his boy. As father and son met, Kayden collapsed comfortably into Spencer's embrace. Spencer kissed the top of the boy's head, almost wishing he'd gone for the chocolate.
A smile crossed Priapos' face as he witnessed the scene, a relief he had not hitherto experienced in the MacDarcy's company. The High Mother was less enthused. "There is still one more test," said she, her voice cutting through the others' happiness like a knife to butter.
When Priapos had retrieved Kayden once more, they were once again taken outside, where a small wood tub awaited them, filled with water. The child was placed inside.
Spencer moved instinctively to grab Kayden from the water. Though he'd given the boy many a bath, he hadn't ever tested if his son could swim. Pausing mid-step, he drew his hand up to his mouth. Biting down on his knuckle, Spencer winced as Kayden went under. A second or two later, Kayden reemerged, paddling as if the water were air.
Priapos audibly groaned as he turned to the High Mother, who was conversing among the others immediately. He went to retrieve the boy from his swim, and lamented that his hands had gotten wet.
"Congratulations, Priapos," said the High Mother when they were a distance from Spencer. "Your visions were divine."
Priapos shook his head, "the boy failed the most important test of all. When given the choice between worldly and familial, he chose his human father." His eyes bore down on the woman, "he is not the one."
"But he passed every other," said the High Mother of Ashes. "That cannot be said for the seven hundred boys we have tested thus far. You should be happy, Priapos Chrysostomos. Your intuition was sharper than men with twice your experience and three times your esteem. This boy is the one, and he will be removed of his familiarity when this man is far from he." Before Priapos could protest, she turned to one of the lower Magi, "ride to Nhasa and deliver this news to the Justicar, posthaste." The man nodded, and was off. Priapos handed off the boy, who was delivered into one of the carriages.
Spencer strode forward after the Magi who had his son. "Wait! Wait, you're wrong!" He came to the carriage, fear, anger, grief united in unholy matrimony across his face. "You can't just take my son from me. He isn't the one you're looking for. He's just a MacDarcy from Chasewater. He's, he's..." Spencer's voice faltered as he caught a glimpse of his son in the carriage. Kayden's tired protests were growing into a wail with his father's shouting. "He's my boy. He's all I have left."
Priapos looked with disgust toward Spencer. "You will explain this to him," said the High Mother of Ashes.
"High Mother," said Priapos in a hushed tone, "this man is dangerous. In my visions—"
"You will keep that to yourself," said the High Mother, the fabric of her veil drifting in the wind. "Go on."
Priapos walked somberly toward Spencer. "Mr. MacDarcy," said he, "compose yourself. We must speak."
Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Spencer glared at Priapos. One hand lay upon the carriage, the other balled at his side. Tears welled in his eyes as the rift between himself and the son he'd fought so hard for grew. Kayden was so close, yet so very far away now. "Compose myself?" He sneered, his body tensing. "You're kidnapping my son, and you're asking me to compose myself?"
Priapos took a weary glance back at the High Mother. He was not an emotionally intelligent man. Turning back to Spencer, he cleared his throat. "Your unknowing service toward the nation will not be forgotten. You will be awarded a pension, as is custom."
He paused, before continuing: "Who you knew as your son is the man who has seen ten million moons, the twenty-fifth incarnation of the god Ren on Earth. He will be worshipped, honored, and cared for in Nhasa by our most capable statesmen and eunuchs until the moment when he may rule for his own. Congratulations."
Spencer bared his teeth, his body trembling. "You're wrong. I don't want your 'pension.' I want my son, god or not."
Priapos narrowed his eyes, "the boy is not your son," said he, "he is the son of Cathos. You will dispense with this foolishness and bear joy for our Empire."
"I watched him be birthed. I was the first to hold him," Spencer moved his arms as if he were holding a newborn, "right from his mother's womb. Priapos, I've endured countless horrors and crossed the Empire to be with my boy. He's my son. Nothing, no gods, magic-men, or decree will ever change that."
Priapos inhaled a frustrated breath, but was soon pushed aside by the High Mother of Ashes. As she entered Spencer's view, the fabric of her veil picked up with the wind, allowing him a peek at her chin. It was orange, yellow, black, all sorts of colors, with bubbling up skin and other deformities.
Yet, she spoke with the quiet gentleness of a mother: "This is the last you will ever see of this boy, who you know as your son. Do you wish that his last, and perhaps only memory of his father be that he wept and yelled and acted womanly?"
Spencer would have grimaced at her disfigurement if not for the biting words. His arms fell to his side, his shoulders slumping. There was nothing he could do. There were no words that would change their minds. The Magi had determined that Kayden MacDarcy was the son of the gods. "Could I hold him one last time? Just let me say goodbye."
The woman shook her head under the veil, "no. You may do as you wish at the carriage's window."
His lip trembling, Spencer's thoughts drifted to the boy's penultimate test. The embrace they shared, the kiss he'd given Kayden... Only the gods knew that it would be their last. He grit his teeth, the vile unfairness of it all. That he should endure a thousand trials only to lose his son to a hideous woman and her gaggle of men clothed in mystery. Gods damn them all.
Running a hand over his face, Spencer forced himself to smile. Without saying another word, he looked through the window of the carriage. Kayden had calmed, though appeared distraught. When their eyes met Kayden's face twisted in fear. "Dada," the boy shouted from his immaculate prison. Spencer's heart melted, though he retained his smile. Placing his hand on the glass, Spencer considered it a mercy that he at least could hear the boy say his first word.
"You be good now," he said. "You'll be a great man. I know it." At the sound of his father's voice Kayden's fear subsided. As Spencer winked the boy's tears melted to a soft giggle. When he could no longer contain his sorrow, Spencer withdrew from the window. Overwhelmed, he retreated several paces before the weight of his grief brought him to his knees.
Priapos and the High Mother of Ashes paid Spencer no more mind. Priapos climbed into one carriage, and the High Mother into the new Emperor's, and the caravan was off.
In the dust left by the carriages Spencer clutched the grass that grew outside his home. The machinations of cruel men had kept him from his son. First his father, now the Magi. In his care, Kayden had only ever known kindness. What would those twisted, emotionless beings do to him now that they'd plucked him from his home? Spencer arced his back, screaming at the heavens, empty though they were. How could there be any gods now?
Damn them all. The Magi, his father, the Empire and its backwards traditions. He was going to get his son back.
Where the Hills are Green
Nhasa, Capital of the Celestial Empire
February 28, 1911 - New Life 16
Jesse O’Rourke, Supreme Regent of an Empire embroiled in chaos, tapped his pen against his wooden desk. Its polished shine stared unbroken at him. Unbroken save for a single sheet of paper. Across from him was a gaggle of ministers he’d appointed to a plethora of posts. Each looked on expectantly, worriedly. They knew the promise he’d made upon his ascension, yet many wished they’d never heard it. Since Gong’s coup Jesse’s leadership had been the one constant. As Jesse steadied his hand the ministers held their breath.
A single familiar face emerged from the crowd. Heavy footsteps heralded a man with grey mustache and white beard. His dark suit, simple among the colorful robes of the ministers, moved like a shadow at sunset. Jesse’s eyebrows raised at the sight of the newcomer. Could it be?
“I’ve heard what you were planning,” the newcomer announced, his voice filling the hall. “I don’t think you understand what you’re doing.”
Jesse stood, his pen dropping next to the paper. “Lord-Lieutenant Higgins,” he said, relief filling his voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Higgins narrowed his eyes as they dropped to the paper. “Seems I arrived at the right time. You have yet to sign it.”
“I made a promise,” Jesse protested, seating himself down again. “Gong is gone. The emperor has been found. I did what I said I would do.” He cast his gaze upon the paper. It was a simple, sweet document. One that would set him free from the chaos of governance. One that would let him go home. “There is just one more thing.”
As Jesse moved to sign the paper Higgins leapt forward. Snatching the pen from Jesse’s hand the old Temrisian bellowed a command that sent the ministers scampering away. Jesse’s face had paled, and as the Lord-Lieutenant of a province so remote and powerless seated himself he felt a wave of panic well in his chest. Higgins sighed, the tips of his fingers near the edge of the document. Silence filled the Palace of Admirable Tranquility, the seat of Jesse’s government. Looking away, the young Temrisian’s lip trembled under the weight that burdened him.
“Nhasa has no more room for tears.” Higgins inclined his head forward. “Especially those of a Temrisian.”
“His Exalted Majesty cries daily. What are a few more?”
“He is a child. You are a grown man. You are the Supreme Regent. You. A Temrisian of all things. And not to mention His Exalted Majesty who is also Temrisian. A MacDarcy at that.”
Jesse wiped his hand over his face, his lip steadying. “You make it sound as if being a Temrisian is a curse.”
Higgins laughed, his smile hardly genuine. Shaking his head he plucked the document from the table. “No, not a curse.” His great blue eyes scrutinized Jesse’s intent to resign. “Simply abnormal. Temrisians never amounted to anything prior to this extraordinary moment. Throughout the centuries we had been relegated to the footnotes of history. A people, though industrious, oft overlooked. Yet now,” he ripped the paper in two, casting a piece over each shoulder. “Now we have a chance to make something of ourselves.”
There was little Jesse could do to hide the fear that struck his face. “Temrisians are not an ambitious people. The green hills of County Calpa that surround Chasewater beckon to all the true sons of Temré. Governing this Empire was never something I wanted.”
“That’s why the gods chose you. It’s why they chose that MacDarcy boy. We are a simple people with simple desires. A green hill over a blue lake surrounded by a flock of white sheep are enough to make any man in Temré tear up. But you aren’t any man, and this isn’t Temré.”
Jesse deflated in his chair. His fingers traced one of the many dragons’ heads that formed a small skirt around the desk. Its face was fierce, judging. How else could a dragon be depicted? His pinky barely fit between creature’s wooden teeth, dulled with time. Pulling at his collar, Jesse sat upright once more. “You’re asking me to do something I know I cannot do.”
“No. I’m asking you to do the one thing you know how to do: Protect the child.” Higgins rose, his stare softening. “The gods ordained that we should be the rulers of a new age. Whether we rise to the occasion or fail is up to you now… and the new emperor.”
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A week later…
The Lord-Lieutenant’s words struck Jesse. As he strode through the blooming gardens of the imperial palace his mind wandered toward the child emperor. Ren Osarrus XXV was barely over a year old, and half-way to being an orphan. Grandson of the richest man in Temris it was almost laughable that he be chosen emperor. Yet here he was in the shadow of Nhasa’s guarded legacies. He’d attempted several times move the child into his own apartments so that he could care for him, but the eunuchs had other ideas. The eunuchs and the Magi.
Jesse questioned the need for the Magi now that their job was done, and he trusted the eunuchs little. He knew that too much power in the hands of either would invite trouble as it had in years past. Yet consolidating it in himself felt counter to everything he believed in. Temré was a province of laws, democracy, and devolved government. His father-in-law, the Lord-Lieutenant, was the elected leader of the province, but he held little real power outside of a ceremonial role. Jesse smirked. His own role wasn’t even supposed to exist.
As he crossed a bridge over the artificial stream that flowed through the palace gardens Jesse could hear voices from further down the path. Giggling accompanied a series of joyous praise as the Supreme Regent drew nearer. Praises that ceased the moment his footsteps could be heard.
“Gentlemen,” Jesse said, coming upon three eunuchs who had bowed low in preparation for his arrival. “How is His Exalted Majesty today?”
The eunuchs, a hideous lot, stepped aside. Ren Osarrus was standing on his own, a smile across his face. His blue robes shimmered in the bright sunlight, a contrast to his pale complexion. With both hands he held a toy ram. Jesse smiled at the child. He certainly was a Temrisian.
The smile slowly disappeared, the emperor’s face changing into Jesse’s own children when they were that age. His heart sunk deep within his chest. It had been well over a year since he’d last seen his children. He imagined himself as a stranger to them now: a man whose name was spoken yet whose face had faded into memory. Pursing his lips he bid the emperor farewell with a slight bow and continued on.
There were advantages to resigning. Chief among them was going home to raise his children. As the former Chief Lord and Supreme Regent he imagined he was entitled to a sizeable pension, not that he needed or wanted one. Leaving Nhasa now would let him be the father his children needed, but… his head turned back toward the emperor, now several yards off. This child needed one just as badly. Perhaps a mother and siblings too.
But would dear Maggie move the children to so foreign a place? So dangerous a palace? He shook his head. No. Even if he begged she’d stay in Temré to protect them. Just as he needed to stay in Nhasa to protect the Empire and the new emperor.
“Shattered Oaths” — a shocking incident
November 7th 1911,
Leisheng Palace, Sima Shang.
The sound of morning bells drifted through the winding corridors of Leisheng Palace, echoed into the hills of Sima Shang and beyond. Master-Principal Gi’an Stitos stood by his automobile, gaze settled upon the city state. Each year, he embarked on journeys to visit his people across the province, to listen, to learn their burdens and their success. This year, his path would carry him to Zui, a faraway town hidden in the eastern part of Karakez.
“Master, Zui is a dangerous place, stirred by whispers that speak ill of our presence. You must increase your guards, 4 horsecars is not enough,” one of his trusted commanders intoned. “Please, take caution.”
But Gi’an only offered a serene smile, his face could soften any heart, the face of love and peace. “A governor who cowers before the troubles of his people is no true governor. If they would meet me, then I will meet them,” he replied, with quiet and unshakeable voice for which he was known.
November 9th 1911,
Zui.
The sun rose into the soft blue sky as the town of Zui bustled with the hum of market day. Gi’an’s automobile, a curiosity to the townsfolk, trundled along the narrow roads, accompanied by a modest guard flanked by four horse-drawn cars. Gi'an greeted the crowd, each nod serves a promise. He called out to the vegetable sellers, exchanged nods with the shopkeepers, even smiled at the old bicycle repairman who bowed reverently as he passed.
But in a single instant, the peace was broken. A young boy dashed from the crowd, positioning himself directly in the path of the automobile. Alarm swept over the assembled people, and one of Gi’an’s guards called for the vehicle to halt, narrowly avoiding disaster.
“Back with you, lad!” the guard barked. “This is no place for such as you. Step away, and be quick about it!”
Yet the boy stood firm, clutching a small bundle close to his chest, eyes wide and hopeful. “Please, I must see the governor!” he implored, his voice trembling. “I- I have brought a gift for him!”
Gi’an lifted a steady hand, quieting the guard’s protests with a single nod. “Come now, do not scold him. Let him speak,” he said, a paternal kindness in his gaze. Then, to the boy, “What is your name, boy?" The boy replied quickly, "M- my name is Meng Pia- I mean- my name is Piao Chen."
What is it that brings you here, little Piao?”
The boy took a trembling step forward, his face earnest and pale. “My father, he… he wished to meet you, sir. But he’s unwell, bedridden at home. He wanted you to have this.” And he held out a carefully wrapped bundle.
Inside, Gi’an uncovered a carved figurine and a few small tokens. But as he unfolded a slip of paper nestled among them, his eyes traced a chilling inscription inked in dark, bold strokes:
"Glory to the Meng, death to the imperialist dogs."
The words struck him like a dagger. In that moment, he barely had time to act before the figurine exploded in his hand. His last instinct was to shield the boy, pulling him close as the world erupted in flame and sound.
Through the swirling pain, the boy’s words reached him, a broken voice amidst the chaos: “I hope I am good enough for you now, papa.”
And Gi’an, with the last breath in his weary lungs, managed only, “You… poor child…”
The explosion was massive and cast a huge sound over Zui, chaos unraveling in its wake. Guards and townsfolk alike scattered, their cries sync with the shocked screams of onlookers. Through the smoke, Gi’an’s guards, injured yet brave, formed a protective wall around their fallen master. They bore him upon their shoulders, tears burning in their eyes as they swore vengeance, vowing to bring justice for their beloved master. As they carried his body through the fractured streets of Zui, news traveled faster than the steps of his sorrowed retinue. It was an event destined to blaze through the entirety of Karakez, fierce and unyielding as fire.
November 10th 1911,
Zui underground.
Beneath Zui, in the dim light of a secret underground auditorium, a man raised his voice above the chatters of a gathered crowd. His face was fierce, and the fire of vicorry gleamed in his eyes.
"Finally, the Gi’an has fallen. We are one step nearer to our birthright."
The crowd erupted, fists clenched in grim, their eyes bright with a hunger for justice long kept hidden. The man held a newspaper aloft, his hand trembling with joy as he spoke, his words full of conviction.
"We are the Meng! Don't you forget, this land was ours once. Long ago, the empire stole it, and our forebears fought, bled, and died in honor. Now is the time to rise! We shall claim our glory, and we shall return to it!”
The man was Meng Jahar Roun, the rightful head of a dynasty thought lost. Yet here, beneath the streets of Karakez, he stood as proof that the Meng name was not forgotten. Mingling among the crowds of the province, the Meng legacy had endured, lying in wait, waiting for the perfect time. The world had buried them too soon, and now beneath the quiet towns and humble villages, a name began to rise, will pierce like the edge of a blade - Meng Jahar Roun.
Liar, villain, rootless rogue, far from home:
In the depths of the SMS Eisenhaut
In the bowels of that dread ship, there sat a man, bearded and skeletal in his rags; he sat in a pitted and rusted cage, like the rest of them, where the walls are barnacle ridden and where the rats skitter over damp floors and vie for scraps left uneaten. He sat with his arms across him, like a man in a straight jacket, thought he wore no such thing. He sat with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. They'd taken him amongst the Elodian resistance, for indeed he was a part of it. But, in truth, he was Tangwenese.
The Reichskriegers had interrogated him. He gave no reason for fighting them. He gave no name either, at first. Indeed, he didn't have one, for he was a true orphan, but they tortured him anyway, and so he invented himself there, in anguish and in pain, before an enemy ever more powerful than he: he said that his name was Shen.
A droplet of salty water fell onto his forehead. It ran down past his temple, past his cheekbone, down his long grey beard. He did not stir. This man, who now called himself Shen, was a petty thief back home; he was a wretch in the eyes of all Tangwenese society, for his trade was dishonourable, and so he'd been driven out with pitchfork and flame.
He found himself in Elodia, in exile, a year later and, again, he stole and fought with others of his ilk. But then, fate found him mistaken for another man, a resistance fighter named Matthieu who'd died; there was pay and a warm meal that came with that name, and so he took it to be his own. He fought, with feigned pride and zeal, against the invader, until one night he was tasked with running a message to a forward command post and took a wrong turn; he went the wrong way and found a Reichskrieger encampment instead.
He told them his name was Hanz and that he'd been separated from his squad, all dead. They didn't believe him and so searched him. They found the message tucked in his breast pocket. The commanding officer read it quietly. He looked up, and the last thing Hanz, Matthieu, or Shen, knew was the sharp force of a rifle stock striking the side of his skull. Thereafter he was dragged off to the holding cells and then aboard the SMS Eisenhaut to a fate unknown.
Liar, villain, rootless rogue, far from home.
«12. . .45678»
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