TNESII: Et In Arcadia Ego

[Thlayli]

Hey Josef! I definitely want you in my NES, but most nations are taken. We can work something out though.

Nordstream is a diplomatically delicate term referring to another NESer who was permabanned, returned under another name, and banned again. He IS a rather experienced and genocidal NESer, so I'm pretty sure you know who he is.

Which reminds me, he's asked me to repost a (rather tasteful) story here.

---

The early Sunday morning mist hung over the city Osaka. The city was all but deserted but for the rag pickers who scurried down the streets. On the street corners there near the slums and shanty towns figures crouched along small fires built from garbage. The buildings in this area were run down, and the homeless slept on the streets. This was the center of the Kristian messianic cults. They lived on the outskirts of Japanese society hiding fearfully from the reprisals and purges that had been instituted by the Shogun Yamagata Aritomo.

Higashikuni gazed over the area with disgust. So this is where the followers of the one they called Kristh lived waiting for their savior to come in order to end the world and bring about nirvana. He smirked, what a ridiculous proposition. Higashikuni was a member of the Kempeitai, the feared secret police who had been given powers by the Shogun to hunt all Kristians. And he was very good at his job.

In one of the dipiliated buildings a door creaked open and a group of men exited wearing cloaks and robes. They walked quickly without glancing over their shoulders but each had urgency as though they wanted to escape from the open as fast as possible. Higashikuni crouched low behind the corner of the building.

This had been what he was looking for. The surviving Kristian’s in Japan had gone underground, and they had organized their small close knit group around hidden churches. Many of them were nondescript building from the exterior but inside it contained a vast array of dug out tunnels and chambers where the Kristians would meet for prayers. Finding one of these meant that the whole group would be caught.

Higashikuni smiled. He was very good at his job.

His orders reached the local garrison that night.

The garrison commander read over the message thrice to make sure he understood properly what was required of him. Then he grinned. He was going to enjoy this.


The Kristians were at evening mass as the sun set. Their priest continued to preach unaware that the moment of his destruction was drawing near.

Suddenly the church doors burst open and soldiers flooded in. Guided by Higashikuni instructions they had surrounded the building and entered the underground tunnels until they came upon the worshippers.

The soldiers set to work immediately hacking away at the worshipers with swords and bayonets. Screams echoed through the church as the worshippers were systematically slaughtered. A sword lifted, a sword fell, blood sprayed and a decapitated head rolled on the floor.

The men attempted to defend themselves desperately with anything on hand, ranging from candlesticks to the crosses that symbolized their prophet. It was all for naught. They were cut down mercilessly one by one, resistance was futile.

The women and children were herded against the wall the soldiers lined them up and proceeded to bayonet each of them one by one. No mercy was given.

Their priest was taken to the altar of his religion and his head was lopped off and placed on a pike in a public square. The tunnels were collapsed with explosives and the makeshift church burned to the ground.

There would be no survivors.

 

[Thlayli]

Certain players (who will remain unnamed) have asked for details on intelligence networks. I will provide them here.

Intelligence is a difficult field. It requires both a native-born intelligence agency to act as handlers and contacts for foreign agents, and long-lasting penetration into the middle to upper echelons of an enemy government.

At present, very few nations have a coherent foreign intelligence service. This can be changed rather quickly. However, the utility of such a service will depend on the size of their objectives, and the amount of time and money invested into their training.

There is an element of chance in intelligence operations, as the information your receive may not be what you want, may be fed to you by a double agent, or may unexpectedly be more than anticipated. Sifting through this information might be difficult at times.

At any rate, just throwing money at the problem will rarely give you what you want. The level of an opposing government's Bureaucracy and Stability will provide proportional resistance to penetrating that government.

Counter-intelligence can also be performed. Startup costs for an intelligence or counter-intelligence operation run from .5 to 1 ep, depending on the target, and the information required. Most operations require sustained involvement for 3-5 turns to provide solid information.

 

[Kraznaya]

Wow, that just completely ruined the poetry of no survivors (from literature obviously superior in taste) in my mind.

 

[alex994]

OOC: Japan will have her time. As will her player.

 

[Kraznaya]

King Douchebag looked out at the window at his empire. Times were hard, he thought, but he was harder. Was he hard enough to write in a pretentious font? Maybe with some italics? He debated this but decided it was time to move on to action. What superbly awesome and completely unoriginal propaganda action was he going to do today to pick up his story bonus? This was a hard decision, he mused, and his country's future depended on it. Violent depravity or diplomatic vacillation? Economic growth with industry or completely meaningless trade pacts? He could always muse about how threatening a country was and debate it with his parliament while eventually agreeing how it wasn't an issue to be debated. That sounded productive, but perhaps too productive for a king of his stature...

As he was thinking very hard, as befitted him, his adviser interrupted him hopefully.

"You could always chit chat with me aimlessly about some minor action as the story for that action instead of you know, being involved in that action."

"Hmph." Douchebag replied. "That's too hard, I might actually have to do something."

"Well, stories kind of need a plot-"

"Besides, last time this happened you confused me completely when you utterly mistook the ownership of a subcontinental sized colony and formed institutions that didn't exist and transcribed it in some official documents. These things are going to be preserved in museums showing your idiocy!"

"Uh, my bad?"

"My anger level is rising! In fact, I will now talk in an annoying voice described my onomatopoeic adjectives that are clearly the hallmark of an overly descriptivce writer as well as grow excessively angry since I am obviously megalomaniacal because of the tendencies of my player, I'm going to order you to bow now arbitrarily because I hate talking despite the fact that I have been engaging in this run on for quite a while. Bow!"

In any case, his priests (oh my god, he's a papist!) and high officials all bowed like sycophantic dogs, acknowledging his supremacy. Clearly there would be no internal unrest in this story that didn't involve annoying minorities cowering before him in submission, he thought. That would have to wait until the disastrous update, which would probably result in him and five of his rivals quitting.


Also, orders sent.

 

[Thlayli]

Color me slightly concerned by the elevating brutality level of these stories.

Kraznaya, take your meds.

Anyways, I've received orders from: Tver, Sweden, Denmark, Arcadia, Bengal, Knights of the Nile, and Croatia.. That leaves...well, that leaves a lot of players left. Deadline in 5 days. In the future, please format your orders as follows:

TNESII: Tibetan Orders 1900

Unless I tell you otherwise, turns will be 1 year long.

 

[Espoir]

Ionia confirmed.

We will attend the Christian conference in London.

We ask that representatives of the Holy Roman Empire and Chernigov please meet with an Ionian diplomat there to discuss matters.

 

[Dachs]

"General von Merveldt, what the hell are you doing with your division?"

Mounted on his white charger, the man in question turned to his interrogator. "Why, merely deploying it to clear our flank, sir. Begging your pardon, but it was my impression that this army needed to keep hostile forces out of those woods."

Generalleutnant Michael von Kienmayer, commanding officer of the Imperial III Corps, shook his head. "No, you damned fool, you're maneuvering against the Emperor. He's not supposed to lose."

The battle before them, a mock engagement, was already in full swing. III Corps was participating in the yearly maneuvers against I Corps, the Emperor's favorites, here in the wine country of the Wachau. The twin villages of Oberloiben and Unterloiben, picturesque little towns on the Danube, were already the scene of battle between elements of the two corps, and infantry and artillery were busily firing blanks at one another. River monitors were fighting on the Danube itself, to the south, and supporting both sides in the land battle as necessary. To the north, the villages were bordered with a series of ridgelines and hillsides, climbing sharply to 2,000 feet in height. On their slopes, apricot trees and vineyards were terraced, making the ground almost impossible to negotiate, even without fighting.

But further to the north, the small village of Scheibenhof guarded a difficult mountain trail, traversable by soldiers, that led into either corps' rear. Thinking the trail of secondary importance, the Emperor, commanding I Corps, had only left a single brigade to guard it, and it was that error that von Merveldt was about to exploit, clearing the woods that fronted the village in preparation to attack it and march up the trail.

Thus, the lieutenant general was peeved. He wasn't interested in getting on the Emperor's bad side, which could make for...dubious prospects of promotion at best. "Our Corps isn't supposed to win, General, it's supposed to make a decent showing but lose. You know that. If we were really supposed to try of course his highness would have been bottled up long ago."

"Of course I know it, sir," Generalmajor Johann von Merveldt replied placidly. "But, sir, it would seem most improper to subvert these army maneuvers for the mere purpose of politicking with the Emperor."

"What's improper is arousing the ire of his imperial majesty. Halt that attack at once!" von Kienmayer snarled.

"Begging the General's pardon, but I have no wish to see my division be repulsed by a force a quarter of its strength on the grounds of expediency. Besides, you can always claim that I did it without permission, sir," von Merveldt noted with a twinkle.

Von Kienmayer grunted assertion. "Fine. Take zu Wittenberg's Brandenburger cavalry to help you reconnoiter. There may be some sort of reserve you'll have to overcome. Debouching into Dürnstein oughtn't be too difficult, there's no good defensive ground in the rear of the Loibens."

His subordinate saluted, then spurred his horse and departed for his division. General von Kienmayer turned back to the panorama that lay before him at Unterloiben, to buy time for von Merveldt's maneuver.

---

Major Julius Makart, a twenty-year man from Salzburg and commander of the I Corps' artillery, gazed through his field glasses at the clouds of smoke obscuring the battle at Unterloiben. III Corps was holding stoutly against the I Corps attacks, thanks in large part to the constricted battlefield. So close to the mountains, there was scant room for infantry to spread out, and so the Emperor's directed assaults were too bunched up to be effective. Still, sheer numbers were telling, and it was likely that III Corps would fold by the evening. Satisfied, Makart ordered one of his batteries to switch from supporting the army to firing at the III Corps-attached river monitors.

He was rudely interrupted by a gaggle of soldiers, minus their regimental insignia, that were streaming through his gun line with scant semblance of organization. Irked, Makart collared a lieutenant among them and started grilling him about what in blazes they were doing. The lieutenant just pointed behind him and broke free, resuming his headlong flight away from the rear.

Riding at full speed towards Makart's guns from the rear was a full brigade of cavalry, clad in Brandenburg black, driving a small disorganized infantry force in front of them that Makart recognized as one of the corps' reserve battalions. Horrified, Makart ordered his men to turn the guns around, but knew that they wouldn't be in time. He drew his pistol, but fumbled for the wooden practice rounds. He was still trying to load when he was rudely whacked on the head by the flat of a cavalry saber.

He looked up disconsolately at his assailant, who grinned in return and dipped in a mock bow. "Sorry, Major, but you're dead."

---

His Imperial Majesty Friedrich V, August Emperor of the Romans, King of the Germans, and so on and so forth, was disturbed by something, but he wasn't sure of what it was. Only when an aide from one of the divisions to his front rode up to the gaggle of I Corps staff officers to ask why his men weren't getting any artillery support did he realize that it was the lack of that sound that was jarring. No big booms to signify - who was it? Major Mallart? - and his guns' presence.

"Captain von Mehring, go and find out why the artillery isn't firing. Are they low on ammunition?" The courier left for the rear, and the Emperor turned back to the battle before him.

The general commanding the I Corps sidled up to his imperial majesty. Generalleutnant Erich von Schurz, a Franken native and veteran of the 'Prager Herbst' rebellion from a few decades back, was a solid professional who inwardly winced at how his corps was being mishandled by the pompous Leiningen Emperor. "Your Majesty, if I may, I believe that Schimmelpfennig's brigade has been routed and the enemy are in our rear."

"How dare they! How can they have even got over the mountains with enough men to capture our artillery anyway? I went over that ground myself!" the Emperor raged.

"Sire, some of our officers believed that the trail could easily hold more men."

"But that leaves far too many soldiers away from the main blow!" pointed out Friedrich V. "Did not the great von Willich write that all forces must be concentrated at the decisive point?"

"Yes, Majesty, but only if it's possible," von Schurz explained patiently. "The soldiers are hardly of use at Unterloiben. Four divisions is far too many for an attack here on the main road - they're too bunched up."

Friedrich V did not like having his mistakes noted, even less than he liked making them. He was saved from further (if mild) excoriation by the arrival of adjutant von Mehring with the news that the artillery had indeed been captured by III Corps soldiers, probably of von Merveldt's division, and that they had cavalry with them as well, the Uhlans of Brandenburg.

"What force remains unengaged?" the Emperor asked his staff.

Philipp, Fürst von Pommern, came forth. "My cavalry brigade is all we have left, Highness, and we are low on numbers from yesterday's attack."

"Fine. You are to charge those guns and clear the enemy from them at once," ordered the Emperor.

Again von Schurz spoke up. "No, Majesty, that would be most unwise. Doubtless enemy infantry are already on the scene. Riding into the teeth of those guns from here would be disastrous."

"What, then, can be done about those troops? We should be rolled up from behind if we do not do something!" snapped the Emperor.

Von Schurz cleared his throat. "Highness, a cavalry charge now may look glorious, but it will not help. The horsemen should be dismounted into vedettes, then deployed on the good ground around Oberloiben. If the enemy should attack, they will buy us time to bring up infantry. We should disengage von Mackensen's division and send him posthaste to Oberloiben as well. That should cover the contingencies until nightfall." The Emperor looked at the prince of Pommern, who cautiously nodded his assent.

"Do as he says," said the Emperor darkly, and staff officers immediately rode into action to carry the necessary orders.

---

A day after the maneuvers concluded, von Kienmayer had been summoned to the summer palace at Bad Kissingen for an audience with the Emperor, purpose unknown. He was not shown to the throne room, but to the military office that the Emperor maintained, in large part because he was formally commander-in-chief of the army.

Friedrich V was seated and in uniform, and after returning von Kienmayer's salute bade him sit down. He waited for a little bit to speak. Finally, he turned to von Kienmayer and said, "It is hardly a very good commander in chief who makes mistakes like those at Unterloiben last week."

"Sire, with all due respect, it was not a very glaring error. Many a general of ours might make it-"

"Which error? There was more than one," snapped the Emperor. He softened quickly, though, and continued: "I am not a particularly great general, we all know that. It took a shock like what happened last week to assure me of the possible consequences of that fact." Silencing another attempt by von Kienmayer to speak, the Emperor continued, "There needs to be another layer of bureaucracy between me and the military. I dare not act the fool again. The Kriegsministerium exists, to be sure, but it needs to have a minister who is not a cipher."

The Emperor went on. "Your commander, Field Marshal von Steinwehr, has enough political experience and military acumen for the post. So I'm having you promoted to fill his shoes," he said offhandedly.

Von Kienmayer's mind raced. Being in charge of the Army of the Rhine meant - "yes," said the Emperor, noting the expression on his face, "that means a baton for you. The ceremony is next week. Who of your subordinates would best fill your shoes?"

Best return the favor, thought von Kienmayer. "Majesty, Johann von Merveldt, of the Thirty-Ninth Division, would be most well suited to command."

"Then III Corps is his. Congratulations, Field Marshal."

 

[Thlayli]

Most impressive story, Dachs.

 

[bombshoo]

Due to our inability to properly administer the arctic island group known widely as Khan Batu's Land, the Khanate of the Golden Horde hereby cedes the area encircled on the map to the Kingdom of Tver.

Spoiler :

 

[Abaddon]

Indeed, and enjoyable read Dachs.

Hows them orders going. Come on guys!

 

[Ninja Dude]

OOC: Here's a tiny little story I wrote. I wanted to make it bigger, but there have been too many distractions.

Lighting the Fire

The crowd cheered with deafening screams and shouts. Firecrackers and guns rattled off all around Chengdu. Children stood on their parents shoulders as they watched the parade went by. Brightly colored dragons danced in the streets while the Army of Chengdu marched through the streets in new military uniforms, showing off their new Western arms. One by one different entertainers and troops marched by, causing many “oohs” and “aaahs”. But many still knew the best was to come. And finally, the main attraction slowly moved its way down the street.

A massive palanquin, decorated with all sorts or gold ornaments slowly moved through the street. Richly decorated elephants marched alongside the palanquin, rearing up and trumpeting at the call of their riders. Everyone cheered as the platform passed, feeling immense anticipation with ever second. Finally, a shadow moved within the veiled interior of the palanquin. Everyone went quiet, and for a brief moment all the firecrackers and gunshots ceased within the city.

Nancheng emerged from the palanquin, causing a vast assortment of reactions. Some cheered and lit more firecrackers, while others kowtowed silently in reverence. Many shouted, only to be hushed by those around them. Nancheng simple smiled, gazing at his subjects. They were uncountable, standing on the ground, sitting atop roofs; everywhere he saw a face gazing at him with admiration. He would have loved to savor the moment for an eternity. But he was the Son of Heaven, and it was his task to make sure things kept on going in the right direction.

“All silence themselves for the Son of Heaven,” a guardsman shouted.

“Indeed, I would prefer silence from my subjects for a brief moment,” Nancheng said, an almost joking tone in his voice. “I have something I would like to say to you all. As you know, I have declared open war against the Manchu pretenders to the north.”

Many in the crowd cursed under their breath, while a few openly shouted their hatred for the Qing. But with a raise of his hand, Nancheng silenced the crowd once more.

“They have ruined China, allowed treacherous foreigners to invade and take rightful Han lands, and have dared to claim the Mandate of Heaven. They must be dealt with swiftly and decisively! And that is what I plan to do! My armies will march to Beijing and retake the lands that are rightfully mine!”

A loud cheer erupted again before quickly being silenced the Nancheng. His smile had turned into a sinister grin.

“Together the Han will crush the Manchu! I encourage you all to do what you can for the war. Pick up arms and join the army! Gather food for the army! Fuel the fires of industry and create weapons that will devastate our enemies! Only with our combined might can we achieve our greatest goals! So I say to you all: Tell all you meet that the Ming are reborn! The posses a strength unmatched and will once again take their place as the mightiest realm in the world!”

The crowd could not be controlled this time, not that Nancheng even wanted to. His troops fired into the air once more to signal his departure. He stepped back into his palanquin and ordered his men to carry him away. As he returned to his palace he could hear all manner of noises. He had lit the fire. Now it was only a matter of time before it consumes all in its path before engulfing Beijing.

 

[Theige]

The New Albion Legislature has narrowly voted to send a delegation to the Great Conference in London.

 

[Thlayli]

I'm enjoying all the stories, guys. Please get orders in soon, so that I have a good chance of completing the update over the weekend.

 

[Contempt]

Book of Elsu, Third Chief of the Oklahoma Alliance​

The chief of the Oklahoma alliance, an aged warrior from the Sarsi tribe, crouched low to the ground. His clothing was tanned bison hide that blended in with the tall grass around him, as he watched a loud, foreign baggage train move not three hundred yards away. He turned to the young Blackfoot scout next him, and motioned him close.

"You were right to tell of this breach of our territory, Elsu. Follow them at a safe distance, leaving a trail for me to follow. I shall gather our braves, and we will drive these white devils from our territory."

At the young warriors simple nod, the chief quickly stole away through the high prairie grass, away from the loud white fools who drove the bison into hiding with their ignorance. The young Elsu watched his chief retreat for a short while, before he remembered his task. His grandfather spoke ill of the Sarsi tribe, remembering with cold anger what defeats the Sarsi chief had inflicted upon the Blackfoots.

But that was before the White devils broke the simple trading agreements they had made with the tribes, and deigned to make terrible war through the plains territory, as white man killed white man, and anyone in between. His father spoke in hushed tones of the long war, having grown to be a man in the last twenty years of it, and always looked at the Sarsi chief, the chief of the alliance with respect. It was he who had forced the White devils to recognize the tribes demands for sovereign land, and it was his life that kept the peace.

But that was neither here nor there. Elsu was moving crouched through the tall grass, his feet finding the silent ground as he shadowed the white devils. One of the white devils fired off his musket, and the crack of the shot sent all the game birds high into the air in fright. Elsu, for his part, was partly made deaf from the sudden explosion. He watched in disgust as the man cried in pleasure as he walked to the slain bird.

White devils, he thought, have no concept of how to hunt. All the multitude of birds here are scared off, and there's no counting what other prey have been frightened into hiding.

Elsu banished such thoughts, however; his marked prey had begun to move again. As he left, he marked the prairie trail with a small vial of bison urine. The tamed dogs of the tribe would be able to easily follow his trail now. Elsu followed the white baggage trail for three hours, always out of sight. He had begun to get hungry, and wished that the Chief had not forgotten him, or lost the trail. He would not be able to return to the tribe's temporary camp. His stomach growled, and he crouched closer to the ground, hoping that white man had not heard. He stayed low to the ground for twenty minutes, before finally feeling safe enough to peek at where the white settlers were.

Surprising, he thought, the white devils had not moved at all in the twenty minutes he had stayed hidden. A heavy blow to the back of his head quickly answered the question of why, and the world went black.

*****​

 

[Reno]

The tense mood in the parlour had set in deep, to an outside observer it might have at first glance seemed like a casual occasion of family drinking tea while immersing in discussion, however for someone who observed even slightly longer it was quite clear how you could cut the air with a knife. To Beatrice it was clear that the cross-examination was just about to begin as the pointless chatter and facade around her slowly peeled away. That she should choose her words carefully, as her position was extremely perilous, was painfully obvious.

Around a small, round, mahogany table sat Beatrice and three of her relatives, people whom she had previously felt she could trust. The old man’s letter had shattered that mirage entirely, it was destiny, she supposed; the royal family all becoming real vultures as soon as the death of the head of the family approached, only the most cunning and clever being able to finally ascend to the throne. Together with her around the table were to her left her older cousin Karl, his wife Pärnilla sat directly opposite her, and seated to her right was her uncle Fredrik.

No one had even touched the black tea served, and Cousin Karl was the one to finally set the ball rolling, he raised his eyes from the teacup in front of him to face Beatrice. His face and voice were those usually reserved for getting a trespasser off your territory, without a slicker of mercy he went straight to the point.

“I’ll be frank, if it wasn’t for that letter you’d have nothing. But as it is what the geezer wishes, I suppose we shall have to comply, however...”

“However?” Beatrice interrupted him, she knew he’d hate that and thus aimed to cause as much irritation to him as possible.

Before Karl could resume, Fredrik did, he was probably the most civil and polite of the trio. “We’ve done some evaluation, on the value of his wealth, and the family holdings. And now that the issue of inheritance is current, we feel it must be discussed.”

“We shall allow you the throne, but there will, naturally, be conditions.” Pärnilla declared, her face and tone of voice showing only a paper thin veil of civility. “Each of which you must accept, they are not up for negotiation.”

“Conditions?” Beatrice stated, shifting her gaze from Karl to his wife to her uncle, looking each directly in the eyes without blinking.

“Condition one.” Karl began. “First as the heir to the throne you must reaffirm my right to succeed after you, and any children you might later have; this right would be transferred to my children upon my death. In the event that the government find you unfit to rule, I would assume regency, and later if the situation were to be prolonged, I would be crowned presuming, of course, you have no children.”

“Condition two.” Pärnilla continued right off the bat. “You confirm our right to the holdings and property of the main family, and allow us each to have a portion.”

“Condition three.” Fredrik followed up. “Of the main family’s combined wealth the family heir, you, shall receive 50 %. The remainder will be divided between all of us present here today, naturally that includes you.”

Pärnilla then took her turn, the whole presentation of conditions seemed like it had been practised beforehand to perfection. “So of the combined wealth of the main family you’d receive 66 %; my husband and Fredrik would thus both receive around 16 %.”

Finally Karl hit their last term on the table. “Condition four. The distribution of all property will take place at the time of the geezer’s death. However, 10 % of each of our shares will have to be paid by you right now as a deposit.”

“How does that sound? A small deposit should not be too bad for you, right?” Fredrik added with a small sliver of a smile.

“Even with your present meagre holdings.” Karl’s wife quipped venomously, to which Fredrik gave her a slightly resentful look as if to tell her not to push her luck too much.

Beatrice gave a glance to her cup before lifting it and tasting the black tea, it was delicious, too good to be wasted on these people she thought. It was just as Gustav had written in his letter, they were like locusts. And they thought that she’d be easy to simply overwhelm with their petty demands, she knew better and she was prepared.

“Fredrik.” She said as she put the cup down again and looked at her already slightly greying uncle. “Does your lovely wife have an inkling of an idea of your less savoury habits when she isn’t around? If all your little adulterous dealings would come out, it would be a most scandalous spectacle that would probably never smooth over and leave more than a few bodies in its wake.”

As the words left her lips, she saw how they struck him like weapons as his face turned completely white. “Ho- How did you know about tha-?!” He finally managed to stutter out from his trembling lips. Beatrice didn’t like dealing such a terrible blow to her uncle whom she had been so fond of before, but in order to gain an advantage over these people she had to use anything she could get her hands on. She held no such sentiment for the other two.

“Karl.” She continued as her freezing gaze moved from Fredrik to the other side of the table. “I hear you have recently had a run of bad luck in your ore prospecting up north, and that that you are now knee deep in debts. Surely a man of your talents could find some other method of finding money than trying to extort a dear relative?” Karl twisted slightly in his seat, but maintained his composure and didn’t say a word.

“And as for you Pärnilla...” She paused slightly to savour her moment of triumph while slowly moving her eyes to meet those of Karl’s wife’s. “Well, maybe it isn’t best to discuss your exploits within earshot of your husband.” Beatrice gave this a finishing touch with a sly smile.

Pärnilla shook with rage in her seat for a few moments as Beatrice’s words sank in before finally storming up from her seat and pointing her finger at Beatrice and the door. “What rudeness!” She shouted at the top of her lungs. “You, get out!”

Beatrice gave her an amused look before responding. “Shut up, whore.” This seemed to take Pärnilla completely aback. “You are trying to make me, the royal family heir leave!? You, nothing but a borrowed womb are trying to order a future monarch around! Remember your place!”'

“Pärnilla, leave now.” Karl told her off with a cool voice not even giving his wife so much as a glance.

This seemed to be the worst kind of betrayal that she had ever had to endure and she left to room hurriedly, barely not bursting into tears.

“I apologize for my wife; she has difficulties controlling her emotions at times.” Karl stated like the previous incident had been nothing but a short temper tantrum.

After allowing her opponents to stew on her retorts for a few moments she gave both of the seated men one of her warmest smiles. “We are not friends, but we needn’t be enemies either.” She moved from Fredrik’s puzzled look to Karl’s calculating one as she said this. “I will not accept any of your terms. However, we all can benefit from cooperating.”

As both seemed to agree with the sentiment, though Karl’s obvious resentment at being unable to set the terms was clearly visible on his face, Beatrice continued. “And thus, I present to you my own terms.”

 

[Thlayli]

OOC: Great stories. And now, a minor political crisis to keep you all occupied.

Excerpts from An Act of the Sovereign Chamber of Lords of the Kingdom of Arcadia, Regarding the Accession of New Provinces and Territories to the Kingdom, with Reference to Lands of English Descent

That this Kingdom welcomes the free, willing association of any body of government, or territorial entity, with particular reference to those places of English descent, or formerly owing allegiance to the Kingdom of Britain, in pledging allegiance to the Crown of Arcadia and Britain.

That the King, in his beneficence, grants all Englishmen their entitled rights and protections, including those of representation. By this Act, any modes of representation formed in desperation by Englishmen bereft of the Crown's protections at one time, may be kept when her loving protection embraces anew the provinces over which she once held sway.

That these rights, freedoms, and protections extended to autonomous areas acceding to the rule of the Arcadian Crown be not voided, unless by a referendum of all the inhabitants of that Province, or Territory, willingly voiding such rights, including the right of autonomy, freely granted by the Crown.

That the legislature of any state, province, or territory pledging such allegiance remain, and send delegates, to be numbered by the Arcadian Chamber of Lords at a later date, to take their place as Peers of the Realm, in accordance with their high honor in both their native land and the land to which all Englishmen rightfully belong.​

Duke Arthur Haversley, 4th Duke Stokeworth, Arbiter of the Chamber

Alleged response of First Director Hampstead Godwin of the Upper House of the Legislature of the Republic of New Albion:

"Wiped my arse with that paper, I did. Expensive stuff, smooth on the buttocks."

 

[alex994]

The Seeds of Reaction

“The Siege of Chernigov and the Tverian Invasion in the Nineteenth Century would create a national siege mentality within the Grand Principality of Chernigov. Tver, Tver, always Tver; this national obsession would prove to be instrumental to Chernigov in the Twentieth Century.” –The Dual State of the Varangians, Arcadian Historian Robert Service​

The right flank was collapsing. The Tartar cavalry swept in on the left as the Tverian Imperial Guard advanced on the center. Bullets whistled past him as he led the center back. Even then, it would be a close retreat. He slashed a Tverian conscript and led an escape out. Turning around to issue further commands, he saw his older brother stumble. Stumble with a bullet through his head.

He woke up in cold sweat. It had been years ago. Why did God suddenly decide to remind him of that? He left his bed, doing his best not to disturb his sleeping wife and stepped out onto the balcony. Looking out, he knew that his lands, the lands of the Bezukhovs stretched out for hundreds of acres. His family, the Bezukhovs, was one of the greatest aristocratic families, and perhaps the most ancient. When The Wrathful purged the Chernigovian aristocracy, his right hand man was a Bezukhov. Thus the legacy of political loyalty to the Mstislavichi Dynasty was born.

And that was why a fourteen year old boy and his sixteen year old brother had been sent off to fight in the Balkans. Against Bulgarian Princes, Hungarian Dukes, German mercenaries and the Serbian Army, they had fought and struggled. The height of Chernigovian military success came when they marched into Thessalonica and prepared to launch a final blow against Constantinople. The sweetness of those times, their First Corps had entered Thessalonica in triumph and declared Chernigovian support for the restoration of a unified Greek state south of Macedonia.

Then the messenger came. The Tverian Army poured across the border. Levies and conscripts were raised in Chernigov and flung against Tver. They were brushed aside. The First Corps was rushed back to Odessa, and then to Chernigov. Thessalonica was the first to fall to the Serbs. And with its fall, the dreams of an independent Greece collapsed with the retreat of the last Chernigovian soldier. Larissa and then finally Athens fell to the advancing Serbs. The Tverian Army was less than a two hundred kilometers from Chernigov.

The First Corps was the first of the regular army to return from the Balkans, and the first to enter Chernigov. Grand Prince Mstislav V refused to abandon Chernigov but headed the evacuation efforts. Tens to hundreds of thousands fled, but many more stayed. The main force of the Chernigovian Army was days away. Time was of the utmost importance. The Tverian Army was less than a hundred kilometers from Chernigov.

The First Corps would spearhead a counter-attack and hopefully delay the Tverian advance. The battle had started grimly, but the lines collapsed so quickly. Too quickly. Chernigov would have long been enveloped if Tver was not repulsed. His own military success came on the coffin of his dead older brother; the suicidal charge and subsequent victory were but a blur.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

He turned around and gave the best reassuring smile he could. There was no need for his wife to be bothered with things beyond her understanding.

“No, I am fine. Simply a little concerned over the train ride to Odessa tomorrow. Those damned smoke-belching machines do not seem at all normal to me.”

His wife simply held his arm and placed her head on him. Leading him back to bed and rest, she spoke to him: “Do not worry about the speech before the Reichstag. Ignore what everyone says, you are a Bezukhov. When have you or your ancestors ever allowed themselves to stray from their ideals?”

He knew too well when they did. When they swore an oath to the Mstislavichi Dynasty.

****************​

Paris, the City of Lights remained bright as ever. And intrigues were as interwoven in her history as the legacy of Capetian schemes. Pausing for a moment to hear the cries of the city guard patrolling the streets, he continued to write in his journal with one of his favorite ink pens.

“I, Vladimir Medvedev, am in Paris by the express order of The Grand Prince of Chernigov and of the Reichstag. My mission, of the utmost importance and secret, is to normalize relations with the Holy Kingdom of France and his Most Catholic Majesty, King Henri V.

It is no secret to the Grand Prince, or to Europe, that the Grand Principality is in lack of friends. Our natural ally, the Holy Roman Empire, against Tver has long betrayed us. Having failed to find allies against Tver, we must strengthen Chernigov itself. And that is why I must not fail in my duty.”

He stopped.

Grabbing his pistol and dagger, he crouched behind dinner table. There had been steps at his door; in Paris, there was always the threat of an assassination. He had learned much of France’s domestic politics, but he had still been unable to get a meeting with the Cardinal. Perhaps his life would end tonight?

“Vladimir! It is I! Dmitri’s nephew! I have come bearing urgent news from Odessa!”

Reassured, he slowly drew to the door. After all, it was highly possible that the young man was being threatened with a gun. He relaxed as he opened the door. It was just the young man. He closed the door quickly and took the letter in the outstretched hand. Breaking the Princely seal, he moved towards the fireplace, more for warmth than for light, and read it.

“This is news most excellent! Your uncle would be most proud that you would be the bearer of such well tidings!”

He read the letter once more and threw it into the fire as decorum dictated. He grew a bit uncomfortable at the silence and turned around. Only to feel cold iron held against the back of his neck.

“Monsieur Medvedev, I strongly encourage you not to make any sudden movements. But come, I am not a foe.” The cold touch of the pistol was removed and he turned around to face four guardsmen, by their gait and poise.

“Come, for great men beckons. We go to the Palais du Lourve.”

****************​

The Great Omnibus Bill of 1900. This was the deciding point in the session of the Reichstag. Every great peer of the realm, every great statesmen, every man who could possibly claim some significance was present.

Politicians.

They were all here to claim some part of the glory. There was no point to waiting anymore, it had been days and there had been no opposition. Taking his coat, he prepared to leave his seat. A hand grabbed him. “Kamenev, wait. There is a man whom you want to listen to. Marshal Andrei Bezukhov.” One more speech could not possibly hurt. After all, the Marshal had spared his district in the War.

Marshal Andrei Bezukhov ascended the podium. A silence quickly pervaded the room. The man who had prevented the fall of Chernigov in The War; even now, anticipation built up with the quivering of pens.

“Fate has been cruel to Chernigov and Polania. The lands left to us by the Polanian Princes are all but gone. The last of Chernigov’s overseas territory, India, is in the process of being sold to whomever shall buy it We will not ever have the great colonial Empires of Flanders, Portugal or Egypt. We lack the sheer military power of the Holy Roman Empire and Tver. It is true that Chernigov indeed suffers from a lack of much.

Yet we are unified. Our history, our culture, and our faith all unite us. There are few who have forgotten the horror of the Tverian invasion. Fathers, uncles, brothers and sons were lost in those battles. If Peace offered herself to us, we would embrace her and take her as our own daughter. That is not our world. She has successfully evaded and eluded us. And not from trying.

To the Tverian ambassador, I say this. Chernigov seeks nothing but peace. It is but our deepest wish. We now reach out for your hand in brotherhood and fraternity. Too many have died. If you spurn our offer, we shall have no choice but to take up the instruments of peace in preparation for war.

To farm, to work, to invest, and to build are all equal to the action of fighting. The soldier cannot fight on an empty stomach without the food from the field. He cannot resist his foes if he lacks the gun or the bullets. He cannot survive the cold of Chernigovian winters without the uniforms produced by factories. He and his compatriots cannot march to their destination without roads.

For Chernigov to regress is for Chernigov to die upon a Tverian bayonet.”

Quietly and as inconspicuously as possible, the Marshal left the podium. There was an undeniably awkward silence, and nerves began to fray. Then, a solitary set of hands applauding. It was a signal. The entire Reichstag rose in military precision and the applause was mighty.

He looked approvingly at the scene from within. If they were to die, they would die as brothers.

 

[Thlayli]

Good story. Though as a technicality, Tours is the capital of France, and it is la Ville-clochers, not la Ville-lumières.

 

[alex994]

OOC: Everyone knows that the powerful don't really work in the capital They get their best work done outside!