Capto Iugulum
- Thread starter EQandcivfanatic
- Start date
Haseri
Emperor
Poland thanks everyone that has voted for Warsaw. We will be voting for Cardiff, United Kingdom of Great Britain.
This is the sixish hour warning to get those orders in.
Milarqui
Deity
Spain votes for Seville.
Since we already have a significant majority of orders, going to start work early. Due to yet another job interview tomorrow, and a busy weekend, going to have to get things done today. Therefore this is the point of no more revisions allowed.
No more orders of any type are allowed beyond this point.
Mickzter97
The One and Only
The Kingdom of Portugal votes for Seville, Spain
Circuit
Writing Letters
The United States would like to congratulate all the athletes sent to the Olympics this year. This was an excellent year and our athletes are national heroes.
We vote for Seville, Spain, to host the 1908 Olympics.
We vote for Seville, Spain, to host the 1908 Olympics.
Crezth
i knew you were a real man of the left
Here's a bad story:
------------
Alfons Elric walked across a short gangway, breathing in the sea salt aroma of London harbor as he did. Now disembarked, he waved to the captain who returned the gesture with one in kind, but dashed with a Spanish flourish. Facing again into the city, Alfons composed himself with a smile, and made his way in.
Having not set foot in London for some time, it took him more than a few moments to gather his bearings as he walked - he was headed for Hyde Park, yes, so he simply needed to go through... it all came back to him. He still had it, after all. Not bad for the son of an immigrant from Hanover, he thought with a smirk. All those years in Austria, Spain, and France had not dulled his ability to navigate London's many, twisty roads.
Nor, did it seem, had they improved the standard of his taste. Despite years of dining in the finest European restaurants among patrons and aristocrats of the highest order, he was soon drawn to a streetside vendor peddling fish and chips, and decided that a quick sieste in the park was acceptable. Settling down on a bench nearby a large, sagging tree - affectionately called the “weeping beech” by the people of London - he broke lunch.
As he ate, he noticed that there was something very different about London, something that had changed from the way he had remembered it. Fifteen years certainly seemed like an eternity to him, but London itself had always seemed constant - immutable and unchanging. Yet before him he saw, where once there was a busy, decisive hum, every person with a velocity to their step, the park alive with abundant energy, there was now a strange sense of dejected calm. People with pallid, empty faces passed by him, hands stuffed into pockets, hurrying on to some unknowably urgent destination. Women, dressed like men, did the same. The park no longer carried children’s laughter on the breeze, and in fact the greens were quite deserted although it was by no means a day with foul weather. Clouds rolled in and blocked the sun as he ate, and a cold shadow fell across his face. All around him, he felt the spirit of the city slinking off into cold, dark corners, as people who had once been so sure, so confident, now wandered aimlessly to wherever it was they were going just because they were going there. He drew his coat tighter around his shoulders. Big Ben announced the hour.
It wasn't long after he had finished his meal and discarded of his newspaper that he caught sight of a familiar face approaching him and the beech. "Eric!" he cried, "It's good to see you!"
Smiling briefly, the approaching Eric responded with "It's good to see you too, brother," and they embraced.
At first glance, it is readily apparent that Eric and Alfons are brothers. They are both, after all, blond-haired and blue-eyed; the product of their distinctly German and Danish ancestry. And yet, their family's true roots go back deep into the annals of English history, and there was no denying that both felt that Englishness tugging on the fibers of their being. They felt truly at home in London, and at peace, as of some ancient treasure restored to its rightful place.
Other than the hair and eyes, the two differ noticeably. Alfons, quite tall and built like an ox, his face complete with smooth, handsome features, was quite the opposite of his "big" brother Eric, who was not as tall and had features more like a fox - shrewd and calculating, sharp and harsh. And of their demeanor, they could not be more different: Alfons was jovial and happy, quite content to spend lazy days lounging on Spanish beaches; Eric, meanwhile, was serious and studious. That was just as well for a lawyer who aspired to a spot in Parliament, anyway.
“Alfons, how was Europe, then? All still very much there?” said Eric, smirking.
“Indeed. Spain was marvelous, as was Vienna. You have not lived until you’ve spent an evening in Madrid, my brother,” said Alfons, beaming.
“Yes, well, then I haven’t lived,” said Eric, his smile quickly fading. Alfons laughed loudly.
“Ah, as ever the soul of wit, I see. What have you been up to in old London town, anyway?” asked Alfons.
“Politics.”
“Politics as usual, eh?” chuckled Alfons.
“No,” said Eric, “Not... as usual. Different.”
It was Alfons’ smile that disappeared this time. “How’s that, then?”
“Things have changed, the people are getting restl- no,” Eric stopped himself, and paused for a thick moment. “Not restless. But they want something greater than what they’ve got.”
Alfons looked puzzled. “Can you explain?”
“I think a demonstration would be more appropriate,” said Eric, “Let’s go.”
Eric started walking, and after a brief pause, Alfons followed. “A demonstration? You’ll have to be more specific, dear boy.”
When Eric didn’t respond, Alfons began to pout. When he noticed he was falling behind, he increased his speed as well - for being shorter than him, Eric was moving at quite a clip. Then speaker’s corner came into view.
A large soapbox stood at one end of a sizeable paved area. An impressive collection of people was gathered there, many of them arguing and shouting loudly amongst themselves, and more than just a few of them sporting patches on their woolen jackets. The patches were all union jacks, but they seemed a little more brightly colored, as if someone had taken a pastel of all of the most extreme reds and blues and drew the union jack using those. Drawing a similar patch out of one of his coat pockets, Eric slapped it on his coat, just beneath the lapel, and fastened it there with a small pin. Alfons’ eyes lingered on the patch for just a few seconds before he looked up to see Eric staring back at him.
“I really don’t understand,” said Alfons cautiously, “Is this some sort of political meeting?”
“Of a kind; we’ve rallied a lot of Londoners here today for a speech,” replied Eric, “Which I shall be giving.”
“A speech? Whatever for?” asked Alfons.
Eric smiled thinly. “Politics,” he said, nodding his head casually to one side. Alfons followed the direction of the nod with his eyes, and noticed several members of the press taking pictures of the crowd while they wrote short, scribbled memos on torn notepads.
“Eric, brother, don’t tell me this is what you’ve been up to,” said Alfons.
Eric frowned and turned away. “The times are changing, brother. The people of Britain lack momentum. They lack purpose and feeling. And all because it’s been robbed from them. While you were off playing the cosmopolitan in every one of those backwards continental kingdoms, Britain was selling itself into ignominy. We have been shamed and humiliated, and our government is too spineless to do anything about it.”
Eric swiftly turned on Alfons. “Where were you when Ivan massacred English settlers in New Britain? Where were you when the powers of Europe defended their aggression in the name of their oh-so-precious balance of power? Cavorting about in their courts, I am sure. Britain needs real leadership, the Empire needs to be able to stand up and say ‘no’ when the forces of nature conspire against her, the United Kingdom needs to assert its birthright, not come to the table in the name of universal brotherhood.” Eric spat. “Indeed, with brothers like these, we have no need for enemies.”
Alfons was speechless. He did not remember Eric ever being so animated in his life. Before he could say anything, there was a short murmur from the crowd. Eric looked over his shoulder, and then back at Alfons.
“I have to go,” Eric said, as he turned and started walking towards the soapbox. Alfons was left alone.
Alfons was at a loss. All at once, that bitter rage had spilled out of Eric, and Alfons could tell that Eric wasn’t quite finished. And yet, here he was still trying to piece together what was happening. A weird movement had gripped the crowd as Eric approached the podium, and Alfons was standing at the very edge of the crowd, mouth agape, as he beheld the masses before him in all their befuddling unity.
“‘Ey guvnah!” Alfons was suddenly alerted by a nearby fellow in a tweed suit and a brown bowler cap, “You ‘ere to see the jacks speak?”
“The ‘jacks,’ my good man?” asked Alfons, bemused.
“Ye’h, the Empire Jacks, they calls ‘m, for the patches they’s wear on the’r jackets,” said the man in the suit, sidling up beside Alfons, “New poli’ical group, way out the’e, but they’s callin’ for change and the people is listenin’.”
The man in the suit grinned and winked at Alfons, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy focusing on the soapbox where Eric was standing.
“People of Britain!” Eric roared over the crowd. The crowd cheered vigorously, and the man in the tweed suit stole Alfons’s wallet.
------------
Alfons Elric walked across a short gangway, breathing in the sea salt aroma of London harbor as he did. Now disembarked, he waved to the captain who returned the gesture with one in kind, but dashed with a Spanish flourish. Facing again into the city, Alfons composed himself with a smile, and made his way in.
Having not set foot in London for some time, it took him more than a few moments to gather his bearings as he walked - he was headed for Hyde Park, yes, so he simply needed to go through... it all came back to him. He still had it, after all. Not bad for the son of an immigrant from Hanover, he thought with a smirk. All those years in Austria, Spain, and France had not dulled his ability to navigate London's many, twisty roads.
Nor, did it seem, had they improved the standard of his taste. Despite years of dining in the finest European restaurants among patrons and aristocrats of the highest order, he was soon drawn to a streetside vendor peddling fish and chips, and decided that a quick sieste in the park was acceptable. Settling down on a bench nearby a large, sagging tree - affectionately called the “weeping beech” by the people of London - he broke lunch.
As he ate, he noticed that there was something very different about London, something that had changed from the way he had remembered it. Fifteen years certainly seemed like an eternity to him, but London itself had always seemed constant - immutable and unchanging. Yet before him he saw, where once there was a busy, decisive hum, every person with a velocity to their step, the park alive with abundant energy, there was now a strange sense of dejected calm. People with pallid, empty faces passed by him, hands stuffed into pockets, hurrying on to some unknowably urgent destination. Women, dressed like men, did the same. The park no longer carried children’s laughter on the breeze, and in fact the greens were quite deserted although it was by no means a day with foul weather. Clouds rolled in and blocked the sun as he ate, and a cold shadow fell across his face. All around him, he felt the spirit of the city slinking off into cold, dark corners, as people who had once been so sure, so confident, now wandered aimlessly to wherever it was they were going just because they were going there. He drew his coat tighter around his shoulders. Big Ben announced the hour.
It wasn't long after he had finished his meal and discarded of his newspaper that he caught sight of a familiar face approaching him and the beech. "Eric!" he cried, "It's good to see you!"
Smiling briefly, the approaching Eric responded with "It's good to see you too, brother," and they embraced.
At first glance, it is readily apparent that Eric and Alfons are brothers. They are both, after all, blond-haired and blue-eyed; the product of their distinctly German and Danish ancestry. And yet, their family's true roots go back deep into the annals of English history, and there was no denying that both felt that Englishness tugging on the fibers of their being. They felt truly at home in London, and at peace, as of some ancient treasure restored to its rightful place.
Other than the hair and eyes, the two differ noticeably. Alfons, quite tall and built like an ox, his face complete with smooth, handsome features, was quite the opposite of his "big" brother Eric, who was not as tall and had features more like a fox - shrewd and calculating, sharp and harsh. And of their demeanor, they could not be more different: Alfons was jovial and happy, quite content to spend lazy days lounging on Spanish beaches; Eric, meanwhile, was serious and studious. That was just as well for a lawyer who aspired to a spot in Parliament, anyway.
“Alfons, how was Europe, then? All still very much there?” said Eric, smirking.
“Indeed. Spain was marvelous, as was Vienna. You have not lived until you’ve spent an evening in Madrid, my brother,” said Alfons, beaming.
“Yes, well, then I haven’t lived,” said Eric, his smile quickly fading. Alfons laughed loudly.
“Ah, as ever the soul of wit, I see. What have you been up to in old London town, anyway?” asked Alfons.
“Politics.”
“Politics as usual, eh?” chuckled Alfons.
“No,” said Eric, “Not... as usual. Different.”
It was Alfons’ smile that disappeared this time. “How’s that, then?”
“Things have changed, the people are getting restl- no,” Eric stopped himself, and paused for a thick moment. “Not restless. But they want something greater than what they’ve got.”
Alfons looked puzzled. “Can you explain?”
“I think a demonstration would be more appropriate,” said Eric, “Let’s go.”
Eric started walking, and after a brief pause, Alfons followed. “A demonstration? You’ll have to be more specific, dear boy.”
When Eric didn’t respond, Alfons began to pout. When he noticed he was falling behind, he increased his speed as well - for being shorter than him, Eric was moving at quite a clip. Then speaker’s corner came into view.
A large soapbox stood at one end of a sizeable paved area. An impressive collection of people was gathered there, many of them arguing and shouting loudly amongst themselves, and more than just a few of them sporting patches on their woolen jackets. The patches were all union jacks, but they seemed a little more brightly colored, as if someone had taken a pastel of all of the most extreme reds and blues and drew the union jack using those. Drawing a similar patch out of one of his coat pockets, Eric slapped it on his coat, just beneath the lapel, and fastened it there with a small pin. Alfons’ eyes lingered on the patch for just a few seconds before he looked up to see Eric staring back at him.
“I really don’t understand,” said Alfons cautiously, “Is this some sort of political meeting?”
“Of a kind; we’ve rallied a lot of Londoners here today for a speech,” replied Eric, “Which I shall be giving.”
“A speech? Whatever for?” asked Alfons.
Eric smiled thinly. “Politics,” he said, nodding his head casually to one side. Alfons followed the direction of the nod with his eyes, and noticed several members of the press taking pictures of the crowd while they wrote short, scribbled memos on torn notepads.
“Eric, brother, don’t tell me this is what you’ve been up to,” said Alfons.
Eric frowned and turned away. “The times are changing, brother. The people of Britain lack momentum. They lack purpose and feeling. And all because it’s been robbed from them. While you were off playing the cosmopolitan in every one of those backwards continental kingdoms, Britain was selling itself into ignominy. We have been shamed and humiliated, and our government is too spineless to do anything about it.”
Eric swiftly turned on Alfons. “Where were you when Ivan massacred English settlers in New Britain? Where were you when the powers of Europe defended their aggression in the name of their oh-so-precious balance of power? Cavorting about in their courts, I am sure. Britain needs real leadership, the Empire needs to be able to stand up and say ‘no’ when the forces of nature conspire against her, the United Kingdom needs to assert its birthright, not come to the table in the name of universal brotherhood.” Eric spat. “Indeed, with brothers like these, we have no need for enemies.”
Alfons was speechless. He did not remember Eric ever being so animated in his life. Before he could say anything, there was a short murmur from the crowd. Eric looked over his shoulder, and then back at Alfons.
“I have to go,” Eric said, as he turned and started walking towards the soapbox. Alfons was left alone.
Alfons was at a loss. All at once, that bitter rage had spilled out of Eric, and Alfons could tell that Eric wasn’t quite finished. And yet, here he was still trying to piece together what was happening. A weird movement had gripped the crowd as Eric approached the podium, and Alfons was standing at the very edge of the crowd, mouth agape, as he beheld the masses before him in all their befuddling unity.
“‘Ey guvnah!” Alfons was suddenly alerted by a nearby fellow in a tweed suit and a brown bowler cap, “You ‘ere to see the jacks speak?”
“The ‘jacks,’ my good man?” asked Alfons, bemused.
“Ye’h, the Empire Jacks, they calls ‘m, for the patches they’s wear on the’r jackets,” said the man in the suit, sidling up beside Alfons, “New poli’ical group, way out the’e, but they’s callin’ for change and the people is listenin’.”
The man in the suit grinned and winked at Alfons, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy focusing on the soapbox where Eric was standing.
“People of Britain!” Eric roared over the crowd. The crowd cheered vigorously, and the man in the tweed suit stole Alfons’s wallet.
Voting for the next Olympic City has been closed off at this point.
TerrisH
Mischief?
Persia declares war on the Arabia, to assit in the defense of it ally, Spain.
TerrisH
Mischief?
OOC: what alliance? We've been courting Spain since the BT.
That's true, but Persia was highly pro-British prior to the Boring Time, so you can see where Nuka-cola is coming from as well. Technically, the Persians have always been more interested in driving the Spanish out of India than in the conquest of Iraq. of course, with the BT, this changed, obviously.
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