Orbis

El Gran I Glorios Imperi Romà Catòlic D'Hispània: the Transfer of Cuba

Cuba was, despite it's ability to draw in significant wealth, becoming difficult to administer. The United States in particular became increasingly keen on antagonizing the Hispanians into a losing fight to force them from the island, so Emperor Elies II thought it would make more sense to negotiate with the Americans rather than fight them.

After all, the two were still united by a shared grudge against London.

Thusly, Francisco Javier Castaños was tasked by Emperor Elies II to create documents to ensure Hispanian hegemony remains atleast over the remaining East Indies colonies, and to allow reconquest of lost territories in the region. Castaños would propose Hispanian recognition of American hegemony over the lands west of the Massacre River in Hispaniola, in exchange for three million pesetas, and recognition of Hispanian hegemony in the East Indies, and a promise to allow current or continued Hispanian colonialism in the eastern Caribbean.

Castaños included that the Empire of Hispania would not pursue any further conquest or domination on the mainland of South America, coinciding with the Monroe Doctrine the United States had issued, and merely wanted Caribbean dominance by Spain.

Renolia

The Schleswig War, The Frankfurt Assembly, and Dreams of Unity

The war in Schleswig enters a heightened state of intensity. After a string of early victories against the disorganized, demoralized Danish troops holding out within the rebellious duchies, Yanskia has encountered steeper resistance at Sundeved and Dybbøl. It did not take long for the Great Powers to set their sights upon this conflagration, either; Britain, Sweden, and Russia all express their outrage at the German Confederation’s aggression against a numerically inferior force; Sweden, however, has been the only foreign nation so far to put its words into action, landing a force of 7,000 soldiers on the island of Fyn to assist Danish forces on the Jutland peninsula. With the passing of the Preservation of National Stability During Wartime Decree, Valentinian III drops all pretenses of negotiating with Yanskia’s ascendant revolutionary movement; the decree allows for even greater levels of government censorship than before, and a large crackdown on any speech that can even remotely be construed as critical of the Yanskian government is already well underway, even as the social and economic costs of suppressing the issue continue to inch upwards.
To the south of Yanskia, a wholly different set of changes is taking place. In the Free City of Frankfurt, liberal reformers, intellectuals, professors, politicians, and firebrands converge on St. Paul’s Church for talks. When they called for free, pan-German elections, the result was the Frankfurt National Assembly- which has wasted no time in functioning as an instrument of the revolutionaries’ collective will. Now, the Assembly is hard at work penning a new constitution, but not just any constitution- a constitution for a single, unified German nation-state. The level of cooperation has been nothing short of miraculous; the Assembly has even found itself a temporary head of state in the form of John of Austria, a member of the Habsburg dynasty with liberal sympathies.

However, many unresolved questions remain before the Assembly. The assembly members have agreed on a set of “Basic Rights for the German People”, but they have yet to decide questions of territorial jurisdiction, federalism and centralization, and, of course, the mode of the new government itself- should this new Germany have an elected or hereditary monarch? Or maybe it should cast off the ancient trappings of royalty and become a fully-fledged republic? No matter which path the Assembly chooses to follow, its legitimacy is bound to be contested by those who have the most to lose- the old order of aristocrats and the bourgeois-bureaucrats and generals who serve them. Some fear that this fragile dream of a unified Germany will be dead on arrival. But others hold on to hope.

Peril and Uncertainty at a Late Hour

A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the nighttime streets of Crusader’s Port. Sheets of rain lashed mercilessly against the gabled roofs and brick walls. The ancient bronze bells of St. Dionisius tolled the late hour through the dense, rippling air of the thunderstorm. All across the city, windows were darkening as slumber set set over it.

But a single narrow window in the Principate Palace remained lit.

A smattering of oil lamps cast a yellowish hue over the mahogany table, cushioned chairs, and gilded arabesques of the meeting room. Valentinian was barely awake as he slumped against the sides of his chair- his eyelids were heavy and begging him to lay his head on the cool, smooth surface of the table and drift off. Strands of his hair hung at a downward angle, occasionally catching in the inkwell before he jerked up out of his semi-asleep state and then inevitably began to nod off again. Opposite from him sat his most trusted ally and confidant- General Aloys Fitzenhagen. Unlike the Grand Prince, the general sat bolt upright, his left eye occasionally twitching ever so slightly; about a dozen empty china cups sat on the table around him- cups which had originally been filled with coffee, but which Fitzenhagen had emptied into his mouth over the course of the past few hours. And still they waited. Waited for the telegram from Denmark.

Earlier today, following news of yet another bloody stalemate on the fringes of Schleswig and a botched landing by the Swedish troops near Sønderborg, Valentinian and his ministers drafted a tentative peace treaty, as well as a list of demands- Denmark would formally renounce all control over Schleswig, Holstein, and Lauenburg, and in return Yanskia would protect their sovereignty as member states of the Confederation and not press Valentinian’s claims on Lauenburg.
Considering Denmark’s pitiful position, it was obscene generosity on Yanskia’s behalf. But when considering other factors as well- not so much.

To start, Hamburg had spontaneously decided to go up in flames, revolutionary-style. For that matter, it seemed the entirety of the Principality of Luxembourg-Schaffhausen, a close ally of Yanskia, had descended into madness the minute it pledged some of its ships to the war effort. Now, the Luxembourgians were also facing ethnic Lithuanian revolts around Memel, an uprising of Walloons in the northwest, and what appeared to be a sinister plot against the fragile regency of Cardinal Falkenried by powerful members of the nobility. Spillover of the chaos into Yanskian territory was all but guaranteed.

Adding fuel to the fire, the foreign Great Powers were now asserting themselves. Nicholas I, Emperor of Russia, has mobilized his nation’s armed forces and dispatched a squadron from his Baltic Sea fleet to Denmark as a show of formal support. Britain threatens use of her world-conquering navy as well. If Yanskia makes one wrong move or menaces Denmark too strongly one more time, makes one more overly-decisive victory, occupies too much territory, then it is altogether possible the hammers of foreign foes will smash all the efforts of the German Confederation into dust, as effortlessly as a parent disciplines an unruly child.

And so, Valentinian and Aloys continued to sit at the table as the minutes crept by and the last dregs of strength left their bodies, desperate to rest but utterly unable to do so. Until the telegraphist’s knocking could be heard at the door and the transcribed message read aloud for them to hear, they would continue waiting. The fate of Yanskia rested on their tired, beaten shoulders…

When suddenly…

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A rapping is heard against the heavy wooden door of the room. Valentinian and Aloys shoot up from their seats, all signs of sleep instantly vanishing from the corners of their eyes.
“Enter!” Valentinian intones, his voice wavering and his whole body trembling slightly. The elegant brass knob turns, and the door swings open. Erik, the young telegraphist, steps into the room holding a slip of paper. He bows curtly and begins to speak.
“Your Majesty, I come bearing the response from Denmark…”

“...They reject our proposition.”

The bloodshed will continue.

A Toast to the Future

As the tempestuous storm lashed the Yanskian capital, another gathering was taking place, but under wholly different circumstances…

Many miles from Crusader’s Port, nestled in the pleasant rural landscape of south-central Yanskia, sits Techolo Manor. Elegant and tasteful but of a modest size, the neoclassical country house is enveloped on all sides by stately gardens and many acres of countryside estate. Built in the early 18th century, Techolo Manor has always been under the ownership of the House of Plescof-Lauenburg, a cadet branch of the House of Plescof and currently the ruling dynasty of Yanskia; Valentinian III is a direct male-line descendant of the branch’s founder, Sigebert the Good, who reigned in the final decade of the 17th century. A few years ago, the manor passed under the ownership of Arcadius von Plescof-Lauenburg, a nephew of Valentinian.

The hour was late, and Arcadius lounged casually on the back deck of the manor, offhandedly taking sips of wine from a frosted glass goblet and gazing at the stars in the sky, which twinkled like a sea of white gems. The night was indeed fortunate- not a single cloud in the sky; warm, pleasant air; the occasional slight breeze bringing the aroma of blooming flowers from the garden; and the pale glow of the moon for a bit of light. The rest of Yanskia (and all of Europe, for that matter) may be aflame, but here, in this corner of the world, there was a moment of peace and serenity.

Truly, there could be no better occasion for a drink and some conversation amongst friends- Arcadius was joined by Hans Nabel, an austere boulder of a man whom he knew from his brief time as an officer in the Yanskian Army, and Emil Kadelburg, an excitable young political journalist who Arcadius took under his wing at the University.

Hans took a puff from his wooden pipe, stretched with a groan, and said, “Whew. Well, my friends, what a splendid evening this is.”
“-Mhm,” mumbled Emil as he reclined with close eyes in his armchair, a look of supreme contentment on his face.
Arcadius chuckled slightly, sipping some more wine. “Ah, but it is always so good to have you two over! You continue to acquiesce to a foolish old nobleman’s demands to be entertained, even as you yourselves have far more useful things to do.”
“Oh nonsense, Arcadius!” Hans retorted humorously, “We served together! Our bond is forged with the same steel as the guns we wielded. And I’d hardly call you foolish either. You and I are some of the few remaining people of our respective professions who haven’t lost their damned minds over the Revolutions. All the washed-out former lieutenants and corporals are talking big words about the liberals as if they’re suddenly master statesmen, and don’t even get me started about the conversations I overhear from the top brass. We fight wars with against foreign nations, not fellow Germans! Preposterous, all of it. The people want reform? Fine! Just don’t get too crazy.”
“Hear, hear!” Emil piped up, his eyes still closed. “Ah, but who am I to talk? My liberal leanings are an open secret. And the fact that I’m here with you would be nothing short of apostasy to some of my colleagues at the Press. ‘Consorting with military men and autocrats? Shame on you, Emil, you reactionary sympathiser!’” He mocked an imaginary journalist with a high-pitched, reedy voice. Arcadius and Hans laughed heartily at the impression.
“But nevertheless,” Arcadius picked up, “I’m confident that sanity will prevail. There’s always going to be a certain subset of people who become a bloodthirsty mob and want to burn things down, no matter where you go. But always the passions are cooled by sense and reason.”
“True, that,” continued Hans, “Even in that little Assembly they’ve got down in Frankfurt, the moderate liberals form a significant majority. The, uhh… what are they called again?”
“The Halben? The ones who meet in the Casino and Wurttemberger Hof?” Emil said from the depths of his armchair.
“Yeah, those. Anyway, what I’m saying is that the crazies always inevitably get overpowered or destroy themselves from the inside. Whatever the Assembly decides, I believe a united Germany is within our grasp.”

A united Germany. The notion cast a sudden silence over the conversation. The three men sat up as the idea inextricably overpowered every other thought in their heads.

A united Germany. A single Germanic nation-state. Bavarians, Swabians, and Saxons, all under the one banner of the Imperium Teutonicorum. The weaknesses of the Confederation supplanted by sovereign rule. There was a sense of finality to Hans’ words. As if there was no going back now. As if fate herself decreed such a necessity.

The three men sat silently, but their thoughts now turned in unison to Yanskia. Since the Grand Principality’s very inception in the fateful year of 1124, when Johannes I smashed the pagan hordes with the razor edges of the burning Jerusalem cross and won his crown through blood and the people’s adoration, the Yanskians always regarded themselves as somewhat distinct from their Germanic brothers. For one, they were much more outward-looking, concerned much more with campaigning in Terra Mariana and forging alliances with far-flung Christian kings than bickering about the finer points of the Investiture Controversy or the divisions of the stem duchies.
Adding to that, there was the cultural heritage that Johannes brought with him- he regarded himself first and foremost as a Frank, an heir of Charlemagne and the Merovingians before him, as did many of his earliest followers (who eventually settled Yanskia with his blessing). And indeed, Johannes’ holdings were in the region of Franconia, partially tracing the borders of lost Lotharingia, Francia Media, and even Austrasia, the legendary first Kingdom of the Franks. Yanskian Grand Princes have frequently drawn upon the idea of the Grand Principality as a spiritual successor to the old realms, leaning heavily into the Holy Roman Empire’s origin as East Francia. Yanskia’s culture in subsequent years was influenced thoroughly by the Franks on both sides of the Rhine- by Latin Frenchmen and Teutonic Franconians alike. Even the modern Yanskian language is regarded by many as staying remarkably true to its roots in the ancestral Frankish lands. And, of course, all Yanskians will be quick to point out that their most cherished ideals- of fearlessness, of duty and adventurous valor, intertwined and honed in countless Crusades- stems directly from the heroism of the olden days of Clovis and Charles Martel. In some ways, Yanskia cannot be said to be German, even if her people will on occasion reference themselves as such. The hard-headed warriors of the northern marches have always walked their own path, even if it frequently runs alongside others.

Arcadius was the one to finally break the silence. “A unified Germany… would set into motion forces that cannot be undone, subsuming the all that lay in its path. I would love nothing more than for Yanskia to pursue closer bonds with her sister nations, but…”
He shifted in his chair, drinking the last of the wine, “...but we must remember that we, too, have been a sovereign nation for many centuries, and our legacy is nothing short of storied and dignified. If Yanskia becomes joined in a German state, my greatest fear will be that in finding German unity, we will lose ourselves.”

The silence returned.

At length, Emil opened his eyes and sat up in the armchair, placing his hands on the table. “I agree, Arcadius. The question of Yanskia’s culture burns on my mind as well. We liberals are more nationalistic than all the saber-rattling old farts combined could ever hope to be, and you know it. But then, if we are so concerned for our nation’s future, as we rightfully are, why are we sitting around and not doing about it? Let’s go to Frankfurt. Yes, it’s too late to stand for elections in the Assembly, but we can still observe the proceedings, gather our arguments, and plead our points!”
A smile broke out across Arcadius’ face. This is exactly why he had befriended the starry-eyed lad all those years back. Emil’s belief in the future and desire for action were positively infectious, keeping the creeping cynicism of the wider world from infecting those around him. “Emil, you sly dog, I like the way you’re thinking. Maybe you’re right. I mean, look at us- a warrior, a writer, and an aristocrat. Different walks of life, but united together. If anybody possesses the collective experience and wisdom to effect at least some sort of change, it’s us. What say you, Hans?”
The grizzled soldier furrowed his furry brow and scrunched his face in contemplation. Then, he slammed his pipe down on the table and grinned widely. “Damn it, you son of a bitch, I’m in! I’ve fought for Yanskia once before, so why not do it again!”
“Ha!” exclaimed Arcadius, “Then it’s decided. Tomorrow, we shall ride to Frankfurt! Gentlemen, if you will indulge me, one last toast.” Arcadius poured the remaining wine (a Schaffhausen red, 1824) out of the bottle into the glasses.

“My friends, to the future of Yanskia and all Germany!”

They raised their glasses and drank.

Forging a State

The spacious rotunda of St. Paul’s church was abuzz with chatter and activity. The Assembly, currently adjourned, was fast approaching another session, and with it the vital work of hammering out a Constitution for the new Germany. Its rows of concentric wooden seats were filled to the brim with delegates and spectators, the rays of the sun filtering through its tall arched windows, casting light on the unfurled German tricolors suspended from the balcony. Germania, a monumental painting of the triumphant female personification of the budding nation-state, hung just under the ceiling, the imposing Lady Germania surveying the scene unfolding below.

Arcadius sat with a group of Yanskian and Silesian delegates, talking in hushed tones about matters of judicial jurisdiction and state power. Upon arrival in Frankfurt, Arcadius took up a seat as an observer of the Assembly and quickly befriended several members of the Casino and Augsburger Hof factions, who were more than happy to have a member of Yanskian royal family on their side and helping articulate their points. As the most prominent faction in the Assembly, the Casino had been instrumental in pushing for Germany to be a constitutional monarchy, among other things. Overall, Arcadius had found no shortage of things to do.

A wave of silence washed over the interior of the Church. The speaker of the Assembly had ascended into the wooden pulpit. “Esteemed gentlemen, delegates and dignitaries– the National Assembly is now in session…”

Many hours later…

At long last, it was finally finished. The Frankfurt National Assembly had done what it set out to do- put together a constitution for the new German nation-state. Months, nay, years of preparation all culminated in this moment. By a majority vote, the delegates and the Regent approved the constitution.
In the end, it was decided that this new Germany should be an Empire- a revival and improvement of the old Heiliges Römisches Reich. At its head will sit the Emperor of the Germans, elected like in olden days by representatives from the Empire’s constituent states, although now the privilege of electorship will be extended to all states, big and small, rather than being restricted to just seven haughty Imperial favorites. Despite considerable powers, such as the ability to pass Imperial Acts, this new throne will be wisely and fairly constrained by the Constitution, for all Germans must be guaranteed equality in their new country. The Basic Rights of the German People were, obviously, now enshrined in the document as well.

The power of taxation and legislation will rest in the hands of a bicameral Reichstag. Its lower house, the House of the People, will consist of directly elected representatives from all the Empire’s constituent states and essentially be a direct continuation of the Frankfurt Assembly in its current form. To “cool the passions of the people” will be the purpose of the upper house- the House of the States. Its pool of lawmakers will be decided by state parliaments or, in the absence of a lower legislature, directly appointed by the constituent state’s monarch. Delegates in the House of States will serve longer terms than their colleagues in the House of the People. An Imperial Court is to serve as the highest judicial authority in the land, holding jurisdiction over a wide category of cases, as well as lawsuits on appeal from lower courts.
Perhaps the most fractious aspect of drafting the constitution had been the limits of Imperial government over the powers of its constituent states. On the one hand, a return to the patchwork carpet politics of the late Holy Roman Empire was wholly undesirable. On the other, many delegates and observers, Arcadius included, had no wish to subsume the states fully into the Imperial governmental apparatus, as it would lead to the destruction of local law, tradition, and in the long run, cultural pride and identity, not to mention causing unimaginable strife and unrest. A sensible alternative would be federalism. Many turned their gaze overseas, deriving inspiration from the United States, a fellow nation born from the fires of revolution. Still others recalled the inspired, but stalled and unfulfilled, Reichsreform of decades and centuries past, seeing this as a chance to realize something that otherwise was doomed not to be. Ultimately, common ground was found.

It was decided that so long as they do not directly contravene the constitution, the Empire’s constituent states will be allowed to freely conduct many of their own affairs. Harkening back to cuius regio, eius religio, constituent states will be able to choose their manner of government, whether it be republic or monarchy. They will be free to enact additional taxes and pursue criminal justice within their own borders, as well as raise additional standing armies. However, states will be barred from going to war against other states and must regard Imperial-level laws as superior to local statutes unless the jurisdiction of the Imperial law is explicitly delineated. Secession from a constituent state or from the Empire as a whole will be strictly banned unless the Reichstag and Emperor approve measures of territorial redistribution.
And, of course, all constituent states will be required to contribute to the new Imperial German Army a number of men proportional to their population, so as to make the burden more fair…

The atmosphere in St. Paul’s Church was one of jubilation. Delegates mingled freely with observers and with members of opposing factions, embracing and congratulating each other on this momentous occasion. Arcadius, together with Hans, Emil, and his new friends in the Assembly, joined in on the festivities and were carried along in the crowd as the members of the Augsburger Hof went to celebrate at their namesake drinking establishment.

Most everyone thought that the success of this bold venture was practically. Letters and telegrams had been dispatched to all the governments in the German Confederation, urging their respective states to be admitted into the Empire. Surely, it was only a matter of time until affirmative responses started pouring back, and the more hesitant or anti-revolutionary rulers would bow out to peer pressure.

Only one question remained in the back of everyone’s heads: who was to be the Emperor? The Assembly had gone through many candidates from all over the Confederation, finally settling by narrow majority on Valentinian III, the iron-fisted Grand Prince of Yanskia. Though openly in contempt of the liberal reformers, Valentinian was regarded by many as a capable and even-handed ruler, and Yanskia’s military successes in Denmark had certainly increased his standing in the eyes of many delegates who supported the unification of the rebellious duchies with the rest of Germany. Ultimately, a letter on behalf of the Assembly was sent to faraway Crusader’s Port, asking Valentinian to accept the imperial crown, with the response expected in several days. But what if he refused? Or what if, in the wake of victory against Denmark (which still refused to negotiate, despite losing all of Jutland) he decided to leverage Yanskia’s formidable military power to demand a dissolution of the Frankfurt Parliament and a voiding of all its efforts? Nobody knew the answer. All that was left was to celebrate the success achieved so far and to watch and wait.

Meanwhile in Crusader's Port...

“Those goddamned Danes are nothing short of suicidal. All of Jutland is aflame. Our forces occupy every town from the border up to Skagen on the North Sea coast! And still that foolish King refuses to acknowledge the reality of his country’s situation. Still he refuses to accept our treaty, which at this point we have amended to become nothing short of highway robbery on our end!”

Valentinian threw his hands up into the air and sighed deeply as his advisers delivered him the most recent of Denmark’s refusals to negotiate. Truly, the world was full of imbeciles. That bothersome King of Denmark, Frederick VII, holed up in Copenhagen even as it was being shelled to pieces by the combined naval might of Yanskia, Schaffhausen, and a handful of other German states, continued to buy into the delusion that at any moment, the foreign powers of Russia and Britain would finally become so indignant at the poor Danes’ plight that they would intervene on their behalf. But there would be no further intervention. The Swedish expeditionary force was annihilated, and Sweden quickly retracted its overt support for Denmark. The Czar’s Baltic Fleet circled aimlessly as he issued big words with little weight. It was finished. The duchies were permanently wrested from their hateful foreign yoke. It seems the people had forgotten that if Yanskia chooses to go to war, it makes sure to destroy its enemies utterly.

Valentinian drained the last drops of bitter tea from his cup and placed it back on the table. He walked to the window, surveying the scene outside the Principate Palace. Crusader’s Port was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t like that. He had grown accustomed to the general public clamor inspired by revolutionary fervor. In these strange times, it had become a sign of normalcy, the one island of consistency in a roiling sea of uncertainty.
If the liberals aren’t stirring the pot as usual, it means they’re up to something. Valentinian didn’t like that one single bit.

The bastards in Frankfurt were certainly planning something. He had read all about their little constitutional convention. And his spies and emissaries brought him frequent updates about the sentiments floating around the Assembly- talk of Empire, of Constitution, of Basic Rights, and all other manner of high-handed concepts those fools had no right discussing.

And, of course, Valentinian remembered very well the occasion on which he learned of Arcadius’ meddling. It must have been about three days ago, when he was having a rare moment of peace and quiet with his son Dagobert, discussing the finer points of realpolitik, when an informant of his stepped out of the shadows, informing him that earlier in the week, Arcadius von Plescof-Lauenburg had departed Techolo Manner with a retinue in tow and was now associating with the Frankfurt Assembly. Valentinian scrunched up in suspicion and cynicism. “Arcadius? The farm boy in Techolo, huh? So, it seems my dear nephew has taken up the bleeding-heart revolutionary cause, eh? Interesting. Keep an eye on him. If he so much as breathes in the vicinity of the Assembly, I will know about it. Understand?” The informant nodded, bowed curtly, and withdrew.

And so, Valentinian had kept careful track of everything Arcadius was saying and doing. The little blighter was not country bumpkin, that was for damn sure. He spoke eloquently, and his words carried meaning and genuine belief. But he was also naive- naive in his dreams of peaceful progress and a united Germany, and, based on the few interactions he had with him at state dinners and dynastic reunions, naive about everything else in life. And in the ruthless arena of statesmanship, naivete is rewarded only with defeat, and in some cases even death.
No, Arcadius was certainly no threat. A fool, perhaps, but not a threat. The real threat lay in the “professors’ congress” gathered around him, and the poisonous words that wafted through the air out of their unclenchable gullets.

A knock at the door. “What is it now? Another fever dream from His Majesty the King of Denmark? Or has Frederick Barbarossa returned from the grave and delivered the revolutionaries into my hands?!” Valentinian barked out as one of his attending ministers went to open it. “A letter, Your Majesty, from the Frankfurt Assembly.” Bows were made, courtesies exchanged, and a thick envelope was thrust into Valentinian’s hand. The door closed again, and silence returned to the room.

Valentinian unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter, his stormy gray eyes scanning the careful penmanship line by line. This was truly something: the Frankfurt Assembly had elected him Emperor of the Germans, extending an offer to come to Frankfurt for an official coronation ceremony.

Valentinian threw the letter aside. It fluttered nervously to his desk.

“Ridiculous nonsense. I will not accept a crown of dirt and weeds, plucked carelessly from the gutter by a crude mob of common rabble! I will not sully the Yanskian line with this false pretense and throw our sovereignty into the wind.”

Little did he know how badly those words would come back to bite him.

Not So Quiet Anymore

As the shockwave of Valentinian’s rejection of the Imperial crown traveled southward towards Frankfurt, the seeds of open revolt were slowly but surely sown all across Yanskia. From Berlin to Tilsit, the throngs of intellectuals, writers, journalists, political theorists, union leaders, and bourgeoisie who had poured every drop of their being into appealing to the ironclad sentiments of Valentinian III, only to be strangled by reactionary legislation, were turning their backs on the Grand Prince. Their impassioned speeches, polished policy proposals, and firebrand protests had failed in persuading Valentinian to cede ground on his continuing rule by decree.

Instead, eyes now turned to the town of Malbork. What eventually turned into an unstoppable force began as whispers, carried on the winds and left unheeded by much of the populace. Promises were made and pacts were sealed in the dark, away from the prying eyes of the “Prince’s Men”, the derisive nickname for the enforcers of Valentinian’s regime. Gatherings which had previously been held in coffee houses and cafes moved into private residences and secluded country lodges, only increasing in potency as a result. Gradually, the isolated cells began to re-establish connections with each other, and factions started to emerge. Out of the collected East Yanskian urban intelligentsia came the Kirschenbaum, a moderate liberal faction named for its favored meeting spot in a private cherry tree garden. Cleaving to the right of the Kirschenbaums was the National Conservative League, while to the left were the Armbandists and outright Socialists. Churchmen sympathetic to the ideas of reform became known as the Social Clericalists. And even in the ancient castles and manors of Yanskia’s noble class the realization began to set in, like a dense raincloud, that the status quo was untenable.
Siding with the “radicals” obviously would mean the end of many age-old privileges and powers, but continuing to support Valentinian’s despotism would lead to the obliteration of the noble class completely. Better to endure trial and tribulation as a lord rather than, through one’s own foolish stubbornness, be reduced to rabble.

One such sympathizer, the elderly Ingo, Graf von Sobbowitz, understood that the cooperation of these factions would be tantamount to achieving any measure of reform. With great care and utmost discretion, so as not to run afoul of the ungodly Preservation of National Stability During Wartime Decree, Sobbowitz sent covert messengers to the reputed meeting places of these groups, extending an invitation. An invitation to meet in Malbork Castle, which his family had held for generations. Remarkably, many answered the call. And so, hidden behind the ancient brick edifice of the Castle, a force for modernity took shape. The representatives came together and formed the Yanskian National Commission, immediately tasking themselves with drafting a final ultimatum to Valentinian, coordinating finances, and creating a Yanskian Constitution, inspired by the successes of the Assembly in Frankfurt.

The resulting constitution was, due in no small part to pressure from the attending nobility and the general societal sentiments in Yanskia, more conservative than the document produced in Frankfurt. Containing numerous carveouts for the old landed gentry, it was certainly less than ideal for the more radical delegates. Nevertheless, most could agree that it was infinitely preferable to the current fiasco, with its firm delineations of princely power, stipulation for a bicameral legislature, and affirmation of the Basic Rights of the German People. The ultimatum and a copy of the constitution was sent to Crusader’s Port. The Commission was largely in agreement that if Valentinian did not concede to their demands, he would have to go.
By the time Valentinian caught wind of the Commission’s activities, it was too late to send troops and forcefully shut it down- mostly because there weren’t that many troops left to send. When the Commission made public the fruits of its labor, it was the final straw for countless servicemen. Forced to slam their own countrymen down with the butts of their muskets and skewer them with bayonets supposedly reserved for defending against foreign foes, many grew bitter at the autocrat in Crusader’s Port. And, of course, the war in Denmark was still a bloody stalemate in all but name, with neither side refusing to back down. When the orders came to storm Malbork and shell the Castle, the dam holding back the torrents of mutiny cracked open with no hope of mending. Generals, officers, and common footmen alike cursed the name of Valentinian and split the Army’s ranks in twain, proclaiming their loyalty to the National Commission. Forces sympathetic to the Commission massed around Malbork as Valentinian and his remaining loyalists rapidly and desperately shored up the defenses around Crusader’s Port. The stage was set for a final showdown. The fate of Yanskia hung in the balance.

Arcadius Writes to Emil

To: Emil Kadelburg
From: Arcadius Plescof-Lauenburg

My dear Emil,

I suppose your career as a journalist has ensured you to be speedily informed of the dark news circulating the Confederation, but in case it has not yet reached Trier I shall briefly recount it to you- my uncle Valentinian has rejected the crown. The Yanskian National Commission is surrounded in Malbork, and I fear that no amount of deserting soldiers and university students manning the barricades can hope to stem the Prince’s Men. The parts of the Yanskian Army that are not busy destroying each other move south to torch our Assembly.

Your departure for Trier was most timely as Frankfurt is, regrettably, in a most bleak mood. St Peter’s Church sits cold, empty, and abandoned, its great double doors flapping to and fro in the gusts of wind that periodically sweep through this city. Following the disastrous double news of Valentinian’s rejection and crackdown, many of the delegates have panicked and fled the city. Others hide in the homes of sympathizers, their fearful eyes occasionally peeking out from behind drawn blinds and curtains, anxiously surveying the streets, awaiting their doom. The few states that had ratified the Constitution turn on each other amidst the panic, shoring up their own defenses and hastily backtracking on their proclamations. The prevailing consensus among the delegates and spectators is, I am sorry to say, that the revolution has failed and that our German Empire is stillborn. To say that I am saddened and disappointed is an understatement; it truly torments the soul to see the culmination of such great optimism and passion come crashing down now.

I, too, am planning to depart Frankfurt. I must go and be with my people. The dream of Germany is not yet destroyed, and I hope with all my heart that we might yet rescue it, but we cannot hope to proceed if Valentinian has his way and destroys Yanskia too. I cannot allow this to happen. I do not know what I can do, if anything at all, in this state of affairs. Hans left to fight in the defense of Malbork as soon as news reached the city, and, if nothing else, perhaps I shall take up arms, too. I wish you to be safe and whole, and so I beg you to stay in Trier for the time being. Continue to pen your articles and essays, and in doing so keep the spirit of the people alive. Remember always that the pen is far mightier than any sword or gun. Perhaps, when all is said and done, we shall see each other again.

yours,
Arcadius Plescof-Lauenburg, Freiherr von Techolo

The March of that year, 1850, was difficult, for everyone. Including Regent Falkenried, who currently paced the marbled floors of Hohenklingen Castle, his temporary military headquarters. He distrusted the open-air and nobility-infested rats nest called Munot Palace. Rightfully so. His Eminence was above all things fearful. Thus far, he had done nothing but royally cocked up. The army had attempted to suppress the Walloon Rebellion. While successfully, it was a thoroughly bloody and demoralizing affair. Still, despite having defeated the Belgians twice in battle, they continued to ravage the backveld of Luxembourg, like the brigands and thieves they were. Damn those arrogant French bastards. Yes, he knew they weren't but they might as well be.

Further still, the situation in Hamburg has deteriorated. With the sailors of the naval forces there defending and bringing cannon, Colonel Schüler thus ordered his garrison to abandon the city, seeing as they were outnumbered and outgunned. Hamburg has been lost. Memel currently sits under Yanskian occupation. Worse yet, the Danish continue to hold out. It has drained precious resources and coins on a fruitless adventure as such.

His hand clutched his pectoral cross, and he looked at the ceiling. His eyes wandered long and hard as he pondered what He would say of the mess he had made. He would forgive. That is what He would do. Falkenried crossed himself and uttered a prayer. He walked across the room, hobbling ever so slightly, his red clothes flowing behind him. He paused when he heard a commotion. He headed to the door and opened it. The distant sounds of steel on steel. Shouting. He was at first confused, then realized. His time was up.

Falkenried rushed back into the room and gathered what he could, and burned it. He watched as the fire smoldered on the documents. Then, he proceeded out into the corridor. The shouts grew louder. His pace sped up. Then, at the end of the corridor, he heard voices, "There's the bastard! Seize him!" He dropped what he had taken with him, and moved swiftly, like a wolf, running, although his riding boots were ill suited for this. Then, a deafening boom. A pain spread agonizingly in his lower back. He fell to the floor, blood obscuring his vision, as his nose exploded upon impact with the cold surface. He could see the edges of his vision greying. The voices dimmed, and the ringing of bells in his ear grew louder. As his vision faded, and he felt the rush of cold, a pinprick of light entered his vision.

Perhaps his reward was greater, after all.

March 3rd, 1850.

The morning has been quite unusual. A dockworkers' strike occurred at 0800 sharp. Not all too horrible considering the state of many other places in Germany. Local police cordoned off the harbor and called for reinforcements from the national guard. Throughout the morning, much time was spent managing the striking dockworkers, bringing in replacement workers, and re-establishing the portmaster's schedule. But then... it began to spread. Rumors that the port had stopped working. Police brutality. Corruption. Whispers of deaths and mass jailings came next, far beyond the scope of what had actually happened.

It devolved quickly from there. The many illiterate urban masses had heard from other cities the wind of revolution carrying across Northern Germany. Why should Hamburg be an exception? Disgruntled workers mumbled. The bourgeoisie grumbled at the newspaper continuously referring to the absolute dysfunction of the regents' court. They quietly yearned for more stability.

March 4th, 1850.

Things began to escalate. False rumors of a grain requisition for the war with Denmark began churning out in the mill. By Noon, all of the bakeries were sold out. Commoners panicked. Grain couldn't be moved into the city fast enough. Rumors further still circulated of farmers hoarding food. An angry crowd gathered in front of the Pfalzstadtkammermeister's office. Reinhold von Krallwitz, to his credit attempted to soothe the crowd. Giving just enough distraction for the local watch to try and suppress the crowd. It failed miserably. Within 30 minutes, Krallwitz was hanging from a lamp-post. The uprising began in earnest. The jail was raided and dockworkers from yesterday were freed. Several municipal gendarmerie depots were raided for guns and ammunition. The Pfalzstadtkammermeister's Building was seized. The city was in a frenzy. Storefronts smashed, police in chaos, ports frozen, streets clogged.

The local Pfalzheer garrison in Fort Nachtnebel was notified. It's commander, Colonel Schüler, telegraphed the information back to Schaffhausen. He then sealed the city off. Telegraph lines were cut. His 5 regiments moved to cut off the city, and prevent the spread of the revolutionary infection.

The liberals, the bourgeoisie, now took hold of things. Those educated and associated with this spontaneous joining of revolutionary fervor slipped on their jackets as fast as could, and declared loyalty to the German National Assembly as they heard of, in Frankfurt. They began their own work.

Meanwhile the grave news has reached the Cardinal Falkenried. He swallowed greatly at the noise. It can wait until tomorrow, he supposes.

(OOC: Why is only Baikala doing any of the rping lately, by lately in the past couple months. What happened to this region? *Sobs*)