TNESII: Et In Arcadia Ego

Where's my story bonus for my super special awesome story?

 

Aww me too

 

Kraz, yours sucked and wasn't a real story. Adrogans, sorry about that, I'll figure something out.

 

Oh yeah and if you can answer the PM so I can figure out if my next story is viable.

Thanks.

 

Gah, stats are not yet finished.

Sorry, this is a busy week for me, and certain people who will remain unnamed have taken up some of my time with queries. You know who you are.

Chemistry final in 5 days (yes the same day as the deadline) means that I'm juggling NESing and school work, and school work wins. I'll finish the stats as soon as I can, and push back the deadline if I have to.

August will be much better in terms of free time.

 

July is officially the worst month ever
(for NESing)

 

Littleboots has returned, and expressed his intention to play the Federationist faction of the Republic of New Albion. Welcome back.

Theige, you're controlling the Directorate at the moment.

 

From The Republic of Italy
To The Portuguese Empire

We kindly request the support of the Portuguese in our Republic's troubled times, where tyrants would seek to over-throw our legitimate government.

 

The guards flanked King Frederick XI as he toured the new industrial facility. The machines making all the now familiar loud noises which indicated they were producing the goods that Denmark needed to thrive. The portly manager of the facility, whatever his name was, continued to drone on about the efficiency of these new machines in producing. It wasn’t very interesting, but the king made it his business to at least see with his own eyes what others simply put down on paper in front of him.

King Frederick XI looked out over the work floor from the second floor office he was in when he spotted a small form running across the floor covered in grime. He turned to see the manager continuing to discuss the actual numbers of running the factory. King Frederick XI waved his hand to silence the manager. “I have a question, what is the age range of your employees?” The manager looked at him stunned, glanced at the agenda of the visit in his hand, and then glanced back at his highness like a deer mounted to a wall. King Frederick XI stated the question again.

“Sir, we employ anyone from ages six to forty if they can perform well.” answered the flustered manager.

King Frederick XI glanced at his personal aide. The aide nodded knowing what he was to do from long association with the king and how his mind worked. Then he placed his attention back upon the manager of the factory and continued to ask questions about working hours, pay, and working conditions. Needless to say the manager stammered, hemmed, hawed, and avoided answering as much as possible by often answering: “Y..y..you should ask my boss about that, sire.”

The royal entourage left the factory with a thoughtful looking monarch. He had been receiving reports on the increasing industry in Denmark and its export of goods, and various other numbers and statistics. King Frederick XI was also receiving quiet reports on the conditions of working in the factories and had dismissed it believing it was exaggerated as his advisors told him was. Until he saw it today.

Once back at the Royal Palace the king called for his aide Sir Gunnar Späth. He rose up from his desk holding a ream of papers for the king to look over. “Yes, you do know me so well. Thank you for preparing all of the reports we have received from these people claiming to want to start what is it again?” the king’s eyes stared off for a moment, “Ah Unions I believe.”

“Sire, may I suggest you read this one first as it is actually a proposal for a law to allow the unions and what that would entail?” Sir Späth said as he handed a small ream of paper to the king.

“Yes let us go over this and see what changes must be made. I can only imagine that you do not want your children to work in such a place, so why should anyone eh?”

“Yes sire, thankfully the lord God has seen fit not to subject my family to such.” Sir Späth said as he let his eyes go skyward and made the motion of the cross.

The pair of them set out upon the documents like ravenous wolves faced with a fat buck it had brought down. After several hours and meals brought to the office by the staff the pair of them sat back and looked over the draft of the new worker’s union law. They believed they had covered every important detail but would need to run it by a few lawyers to check for any way the spirit of the law could be circumvented.

Sir Späth looked up from his desk with bleary eyes at King Frederick XI, “Sire, permission to speak freely?”

“My friend, you only ever ask that when it is going to be a huge question; and the answer is always the same – speak.” The king said as he leaned back sipping his favorite ale from the tavern a few blocks from the palace.

“It’s just that all this discussion of children, milord you are twenty-two and not married. You need to secure the realm with an heir.”

“The realm has an heir, in my cousin Hertuginde Karoline Asta of Funen.” The king said while waving away any concerns.

“But milord you must see that Denmark would be more stable if you had a son or daughter, not just a cousin to rely on if the need…” Sir Späth dropped the thought as he no longer wanted to think on it.

“Fine, I will look into it. Why do you always start calling me ‘milord’ when you are tired or drunk?”

Sir Späth simply shrugged and made motions to be dismissed so as to sleep. King Frederick XI obliged him as he finished his ale and stared out the window to see the dawn beginning. Damn him for bringing it up again. Damn himself for saying he’d look into it. The one this King wasn’t was a liar, he said he would look into marriage so he would, even if he was far more concerned with Denmark.

*any errors or such lemme know I'll fix.

 

Why does he get to choose before me?

 

I was going based off of your orders to support the pro-Arcadian candidate in the election, and you hadn't told me that you wanted to do anything different.

Sorry for the continued delay on stats, I'm sick. Getting a blood test tomorrow, etc. Excuses are excuses, so I'll still try to have them up ASAP.

 

An address delivered before the First Session of the Emergency Parliament of the Federation of Free Albion on September 3rd, 1900, by County Representative Henry Campbell, Plantation Owner

(OOC: Hello again, NESing.)

 

Hi LittleBoots!

 

Welcome back, Caligula

 

Propaganda posters seen around Abernathy, New Albion

Spoiler :

Spoiler :

OOC: Iggy, Kiwi, nice to see you guys

 

lurker's comment: Nice helmets .

 

OOC: Return of the Living Dead

 

Smoke and Ashes​

​

A knock came to the door of 3150 Vicolo Avenue just as Fiorella Capello was putting the finishing sprinkles of seasoning in her famous duck soup. At first she didn’t hear it, but then again came the knock, this time a little louder which finally caught her attention. With a huff of frustration she gave the pot one last stir before hurrying off to answer the door, wiping her hands in her apron as she trotted along. As she got to the door there came the knock again, and yet again it was louder and more insistent which made her all the more flustered. Finally she reached it, straightening her apron thoroughly before she yanked open the door, a sour look pulling her face into something that would resemble an anteater. In front of her stood a tall and rather lanky man wearing a long dark brown overcoat that went down to his ankles that bore the signs of over-use and under cleaning, and some very scuffed dull brown boots. His face resembled that of his attire in that he displayed a significant lack of shaven in the morning or perhaps even the previous day as well as a gaunt, all of which gave him a rather dark persona. Fiorella immediate thought was that this must be some kind of beggar but that fantasy was batted away as the man reached inside his coat and pulled out a small piece of paper which sat inside a metal jacket of sorts. This she recognized as the badge of the police, particularly the detective branch.

“Sorry to disturb you Signora, I am detective Nuncio Ricci, may I come in?” said Nuncio as he slipped the badge back inside his coat pocket.

“Yes of course, what’s this about?” Fiorella said as she stepped aside to let him in, all the while trying to press the creases from her apron with her hands.

“You are Fiorella Capello, mother of Isabella Capello correct?” the detective slowly walked pass her, ducking slightly through the doorway, his eyes automatically beginning to search the home.

“Yes, is there something wrong? Is Isabella alright?” Fiorella’s voice started to get higher, her level of anxiety rising with it as her hands now twisted themselves into the apron she just spent minutes pressing smooth.

“Signora Capello I think its best if we sit” the detective turned to her as he replied, hunching over and moving his face closer to her, his eyes a rather hard hue of blue.

“I... please tell me... what has happened” Fiorella voice trembled, almost as if ready to break at the slightest notice as she moved to sit in the near by dinner table.

“Signora, I regret to inform you” the detective followed suit and took a seat at the opposite side of the table “that your daughter was found dead last night, I am very sorry for your loss Signora”

What came next can only be described as the cry of a dying animal as Fiorella flung herself onto the dinner table, sobs raking her body. The detective however sat patiently, struggling not to be annoyed at the woman’s outburst. It was rather distasteful, in his mind, how people broke down and lost all semblance of coherency and civility when they received such news as this. Of course it was to be expected but still. The detective at this point reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a small notepad and a pen and placed them carefully side by side each other on the table. Then, yet again, he pulled a small thin case and opened it, withdrawing a thin hand-rolled cigar as well as a little box of matches. All the while Fiorella continued to cry and plead with god and other beings to return her daughter to her as Nuncio calmly light is cigar. Quietly he puffed away on it until finally the mother had ceased the majority of her bawling and was now reduced to the odd hiccup and sob.

“Again I express my condolences for your loss Signora, however I must ask you some questions pertaining to your daughter” Nuncio picked up his notepad and pen and looked at Fiorella “they will aid me in my investigation into her murder”

Thus began the long and arduous task of getting information from a grieving mother about her murdered daughter. All the while, Fiorella’s famous duck soup had already half boiled away, leaving the soup not so much soup as half burnt duck.



Trudging back to his office Nuncio muddled over what he had learnt a few moments ago. The daughter Fiorella Capello, Isabella, was last seen by her mother at around half past nine, at which point she claimed to be leaving for a local bar, located close by. However this was before a rather heated debate between Isabella and her mother in which her mother sought to persuade Isabella to stop working as a journalist and “settle down”. Indeed Nuncio knew that Isabella was a reporter for a local but rather well known and widely published newspaper “La Verità”. This lead to Nuncio to suspect that her murder was in some way linked to her job as a journalist. During his visit with Isabella’s mother his suspicion was strength when Fiorella told him of some “big story”Isabella seemed to be on. Isabella did not, however, reveal the nature of this story to her mother or even hint at it’s contents. Hence the only credible lead he had to go on was the local bar “La Selvaggia Barba” where she was reported to have gone.

But first Nuncio would take a detour to his office where he could mull over other facts that he had perhaps skipped over. Thus he promptly arrived at his front door, it was at this point that he realized he had forgotten his keys in his other pants. Muttering curses under his breath in frustration, Nuncio began to trek around to the rear entrance, where he usually kept a spare key hidden under a plant pot. However upon reaching the plant pot in question he could not seem to find it anywhere under, around, or even near it. His assistant must have used it, Nuncio thought, and hence he must already be inside.

“Mimi, Mimi are you in there?” Nuncio yelled as he began to knock on the door “It is Nuncio, I’ve forgotten my keys again”

From the second floor window popped out the annoyed face of Mimi. “Signori, must you always leave your keys in a different pants?”

“I have many pants Mimi now open the door I have important business” Nuncio replied rather gruffly, his mood only darkening at contact with his rather abrasive assistant. With that Mimi withdrew her head from the window, all the while giggling in her rather obnoxious voice and after a few moment she appeared at the back door to open it.

“You should be more careful Nuni” Mimi said as she let him in, grinning like a child.

“I told you to call me Signori Ricci” he said in the most frustrated tone he could muster, which only seemed to further encourage Mimi who was nearly hanging off his arm at this point “enough Mimi, go sort... something out... I need peace and quiet”

Nuncio wished he had not let his brother talk him into hiring her. Her ineptitude was only surpassed by her insufferable nature and constant willingness to drive Nuncio completely insane with the most foolish of questions. However he did not want to offend his brother by declining. With a sigh of frustration he stalked off to his office, slamming the door behind him and then carelessly throwing his overcoat onto a near by coatrack. Shortly after he sunk gratefully into the chair behind his desk, leaning back and immediately lighting up a cigar. All the while the facts of the current case flitted through his mind. It seemed obvious that Isabella’s murder had something to do with her being a reporter, but what could it be. Nothing pointed to anything except for the bar. Surely it could not be the answer. Suddenly a thought struck Nuncio like lightening, forcing him upright in his chair. Perhaps she was meeting a contact in the bar. This had to be the clue he was looking for. Without another thought he quickly carelessly shoved his cigar, still burning, into the near by ash tray and shot towards the door, grabbing his coat and gruffly shoving his arms through their sleeves. As he squirmed with the coat and stumbled through the door to his office at the same time Mimi pounced on the opportunity.

“Nuni! Where are you going?! You can’t be leaving, you just got here!” she cried out as she reached to try to grab him, however Nuncio was wise to her tricks. Quickly he dodged out of the way and bolted toward the front door without a word. Finally he was free of that insufferable wench again, and off he trotted to the bar in question, speculations of what might have happened racing through his head.

 

I really hope the dog doesn't eat the computer.

 

All my orders are done cept for spending