27-10-2003, 11:15
The Central Avenue runs straight through the middle of Gasra City from one end to the other, only once being interrupted in its 20-mile journey at the centre of the city. Here, it splits and travels around the 5-mile Royal Palace complex, making a rounded square when seen from above, before joining as one large road again as it travels out eastwards towards the desert.
To Royal Advisor Triston Holts, who currently leaned back in the comfortable upholstery of the limousine, this was discomforting. The sheer thought that any attacking force could just simply roll up the road directly to the Palace was unnerving, and he said so to the man sitting opposite him in the vehicle.
The Monarch – soon-to-be-Monarch, Triston corrected himself - argued otherwise. He leaned back fluidly in the grey leather, spread out over the entire seat. He seemed so casual in his seating position, the Advisor thought, one would merely assume he was travelling to a hair cut appointment, not a crowning ceremony. He sipped a glass of Champagne and smiled at his friend as Holts professed his worries.
“I beg to differ, dear fellow,” the former-resistance leader said as he placed the glass on the small chestnut table that occupied the central space of the limousine. His English accent was unmistakable when he spoke, having emigrated ten years before from the UK. He still wore the black and gold of Gasra that had become almost standard among the rebel militia forces, and Holts half-pictured the man with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder, as had been so normal a sight until that day.
“And why is that, Your Highness?” Triston leant back with his own glass of Wine. Outside, the seemingly endless crowd that lined the pavements either side of the road were barely audible in their cheers through the soundproofing to the vehicle chassis. Out of the rear window, the noise of the T-72 that lumbered behind the car was much more audible, but hardly noticed by the occupants.
The Monarch-elect laughed a little, and grinned at his friend. “Please, Triston – I’m not royalty yet for anther few hours.” He took a sip from the glass. “Besides, you can address me normally in private.” He licked his lips thoughtfully. “If the enemy was actually foolish enough to try the grandiose method of rolling up Central Avenue, we can be certain that not only can they target us, but we can target them.” By we, Triston realised, he was mainly referring to the Royal Guard; a body of 150 men and 4 M1A2 tanks that guarded the inner walls of the Palace complex.
“I suppose that is true,” Triston deferred to the Monarch on this matter. “But it’s still unsettling.”
Christopher J. Falkor smiled again, and glanced out of the window. “I see the Militia did a good job of keeping away the non-supporters,” he said quietly.
Holts nodded slowly. One of the problems that would dog Falkor throughout his reign was his politics. Formerly the leader of the Gasra Free People’s Militia, he had earned many followers as he fought and finally won against the Corrupt Monarchy that had ruled the county damagingly for so long. Now, the economy was in ruins and militia soldiers working on a basis of “shoot first, ask questions later” were the only thing keeping any kind of order in the country. This was what had led to the huge support for Falkor to be installed as reigning monarch.
However, Falkor’s incredibly Thatcherite outlooks were still unpopular with a large percentage of the population. At least a quarter of the people of Gasra had become disillusioned with a Monarchy and wished to install a Democratic government. More worryingly was that the pushing force of this was a Communist group, whose publicly announced policies could be seen to eradicate what little of the Gasra economy remained. They also had an announced hatred to the former-rebel, inciting him as a “profit-greedy, wealth-mongering Nazi.” What they seemed to fail to realise - or at least refused to realise, Triston thought – was that someone Right-Wing was needed for there to be any wealth to share out in Gasra’s future. Plus, Chris was nowhere near as far right as he was portrayed – merely a little further right than most others.
Still, the majority of the public had spoken, and that was why over two and a half of the 5 million residents of Gasra cheered the leader-elect as his limousine and guard made its way towards the Royal Palace for the crowning ceremony.
“Sometimes the worst portrayed in the past are necessary for the best hope in the future,” Chris muttered to himself. He was staring out of the tinted windows at the endless sea of cheering faces, his face blank of expression as he ran things over in his mind.
Holts smiled a little. “No-one said ruling a country would be easy, Your Highness.”
Falkor looked around at his advisor for a long moment, and then smiled. The car slowed as it entered the main gates of the Palace Complex and the sea of faces ended at the breakers of the outer walls. The Palace was huge, even though they were still over a mile away; necessarily so, for it contained many of the main offices of the monarchical government, as well as being the ruler’s official residence. The immense gardens seemed to stretch on endlessly as a carpet of green and trees that stood like guardians on the lawns. Military units of the hand-chosen Elite Guard, remnants of the Militia’s best and most loyal soldiers, stood alongside the roadway, AK47 Assault Rifles held at ready.
A few moments later the two limousines and the T-72 crunched across the stones of the driveway as they pulled up outside the Palace. From the first limousine – always two were used as a security decoy; no one knew which the Monarch was riding in – a squad of soldiers climbed out and began to spread across the front of the building. After the area was secured, the driver of the second Limousine opened the passenger door.
Monarch-elect Christopher James Falkor finished off another glass of champagne, took a deep breath, and then grinned across at Triston.
“Come on,” he said as he leaned for the open door. “Let’s go build a nation.”
____________
OOC: Salutations to all the RPers in the NationStates world. This is my introduction into the NS scene with my country, Gasra (think small Middle-Eastern country with a lot of desert and a mid-sized supply of oil...no, wait - come back! :P)
An invitation to any other countries who wish to attend the crowning ceremony and the resulting celebration party afterwards is open - I will be doing a news report-like post of the actual ceremony later - RP-wise, it is not for another 4-5 hours, but I will do the post after I see how many people decide to come, if any. :) So, come one, come all! (Just no terrorists or trouble-makers please - I'm trying to kick this off smoothly. Plus I've sorta got my own Commie group that may make trouble in Gasra later. ;))
This is also my first RP post, so any comments, (constructive) criticism, suggestions etc, please drop me a line either here or by telegraph - It's all very much appreciated. :)
(Edited for one or two minor bugs)
To Royal Advisor Triston Holts, who currently leaned back in the comfortable upholstery of the limousine, this was discomforting. The sheer thought that any attacking force could just simply roll up the road directly to the Palace was unnerving, and he said so to the man sitting opposite him in the vehicle.
The Monarch – soon-to-be-Monarch, Triston corrected himself - argued otherwise. He leaned back fluidly in the grey leather, spread out over the entire seat. He seemed so casual in his seating position, the Advisor thought, one would merely assume he was travelling to a hair cut appointment, not a crowning ceremony. He sipped a glass of Champagne and smiled at his friend as Holts professed his worries.
“I beg to differ, dear fellow,” the former-resistance leader said as he placed the glass on the small chestnut table that occupied the central space of the limousine. His English accent was unmistakable when he spoke, having emigrated ten years before from the UK. He still wore the black and gold of Gasra that had become almost standard among the rebel militia forces, and Holts half-pictured the man with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder, as had been so normal a sight until that day.
“And why is that, Your Highness?” Triston leant back with his own glass of Wine. Outside, the seemingly endless crowd that lined the pavements either side of the road were barely audible in their cheers through the soundproofing to the vehicle chassis. Out of the rear window, the noise of the T-72 that lumbered behind the car was much more audible, but hardly noticed by the occupants.
The Monarch-elect laughed a little, and grinned at his friend. “Please, Triston – I’m not royalty yet for anther few hours.” He took a sip from the glass. “Besides, you can address me normally in private.” He licked his lips thoughtfully. “If the enemy was actually foolish enough to try the grandiose method of rolling up Central Avenue, we can be certain that not only can they target us, but we can target them.” By we, Triston realised, he was mainly referring to the Royal Guard; a body of 150 men and 4 M1A2 tanks that guarded the inner walls of the Palace complex.
“I suppose that is true,” Triston deferred to the Monarch on this matter. “But it’s still unsettling.”
Christopher J. Falkor smiled again, and glanced out of the window. “I see the Militia did a good job of keeping away the non-supporters,” he said quietly.
Holts nodded slowly. One of the problems that would dog Falkor throughout his reign was his politics. Formerly the leader of the Gasra Free People’s Militia, he had earned many followers as he fought and finally won against the Corrupt Monarchy that had ruled the county damagingly for so long. Now, the economy was in ruins and militia soldiers working on a basis of “shoot first, ask questions later” were the only thing keeping any kind of order in the country. This was what had led to the huge support for Falkor to be installed as reigning monarch.
However, Falkor’s incredibly Thatcherite outlooks were still unpopular with a large percentage of the population. At least a quarter of the people of Gasra had become disillusioned with a Monarchy and wished to install a Democratic government. More worryingly was that the pushing force of this was a Communist group, whose publicly announced policies could be seen to eradicate what little of the Gasra economy remained. They also had an announced hatred to the former-rebel, inciting him as a “profit-greedy, wealth-mongering Nazi.” What they seemed to fail to realise - or at least refused to realise, Triston thought – was that someone Right-Wing was needed for there to be any wealth to share out in Gasra’s future. Plus, Chris was nowhere near as far right as he was portrayed – merely a little further right than most others.
Still, the majority of the public had spoken, and that was why over two and a half of the 5 million residents of Gasra cheered the leader-elect as his limousine and guard made its way towards the Royal Palace for the crowning ceremony.
“Sometimes the worst portrayed in the past are necessary for the best hope in the future,” Chris muttered to himself. He was staring out of the tinted windows at the endless sea of cheering faces, his face blank of expression as he ran things over in his mind.
Holts smiled a little. “No-one said ruling a country would be easy, Your Highness.”
Falkor looked around at his advisor for a long moment, and then smiled. The car slowed as it entered the main gates of the Palace Complex and the sea of faces ended at the breakers of the outer walls. The Palace was huge, even though they were still over a mile away; necessarily so, for it contained many of the main offices of the monarchical government, as well as being the ruler’s official residence. The immense gardens seemed to stretch on endlessly as a carpet of green and trees that stood like guardians on the lawns. Military units of the hand-chosen Elite Guard, remnants of the Militia’s best and most loyal soldiers, stood alongside the roadway, AK47 Assault Rifles held at ready.
A few moments later the two limousines and the T-72 crunched across the stones of the driveway as they pulled up outside the Palace. From the first limousine – always two were used as a security decoy; no one knew which the Monarch was riding in – a squad of soldiers climbed out and began to spread across the front of the building. After the area was secured, the driver of the second Limousine opened the passenger door.
Monarch-elect Christopher James Falkor finished off another glass of champagne, took a deep breath, and then grinned across at Triston.
“Come on,” he said as he leaned for the open door. “Let’s go build a nation.”
____________
OOC: Salutations to all the RPers in the NationStates world. This is my introduction into the NS scene with my country, Gasra (think small Middle-Eastern country with a lot of desert and a mid-sized supply of oil...no, wait - come back! :P)
An invitation to any other countries who wish to attend the crowning ceremony and the resulting celebration party afterwards is open - I will be doing a news report-like post of the actual ceremony later - RP-wise, it is not for another 4-5 hours, but I will do the post after I see how many people decide to come, if any. :) So, come one, come all! (Just no terrorists or trouble-makers please - I'm trying to kick this off smoothly. Plus I've sorta got my own Commie group that may make trouble in Gasra later. ;))
This is also my first RP post, so any comments, (constructive) criticism, suggestions etc, please drop me a line either here or by telegraph - It's all very much appreciated. :)
(Edited for one or two minor bugs)