NationStates Jolt Archive

Typically, soap box orators were hard pressed to draw any sort of audience on the Shield. They might rant and rave, perhaps even froth at the mouth, but the average passersby paid them scant more attention than a new pothole in the aging, cracked streets of eastern Ianapalis. Every now and then, perhaps when all the stars in the heavens were aligned perfectly right, a small crowd may congregate towards one particularly eloquent speaker, but even the most gifted with gab couldn’t hold down the attention of Iansisle’s vast working class.

When a nondescript young man started setting up a small table and stand on the corner of 41st Street and Grand Avenue, nobody paid him much mind. One old man sat quietly on the front stoop of a nearby tenement house smoking a pipe and watching with muted interest as the newcomer set a half-circle of pamphlets upon the table. The proceedings took some time, perhaps longer than would be expected, and the old man slowly grew more interested.

He tried to focus his eyes closely on the young man, but his failing sight couldn’t make out more than a few details. After all, he had already lived twenty years past the life expectancy of the average Iansislean, and RM&M’s retirement package hadn’t been quite enough to cover a luxury such as being fitted for a pair of spectacles. After a minute or two of hard concentration, the old man discerned at last the source of delay: the young man was attempting to set up a complicated folding table, but he had no left hand. His arm came down as normal, but ended in an ungainly stump halfway between the elbow and where the wrist would have been.

The old man sighed and took a deep puff on his pipe. He had been far too old to help out in the last war, in either a military or a home-front occupation, but the toll on Iansisle’s younger population had been horrid, especially given the state of medicine on the Shield. Men, it was said, left for the front with a case of patriotic fever, and returned home with a case of enteric fever.

Now, as the ex-soldier attempted to scale his crude speaking platform, the incorrectly assembled table lost its balance and the pamphlets spilled forward onto the street. The old man could almost hear a sigh from across the street as the other went around, clutching them in his right hand one by one. Slowly, he got up and wound his way through the pedestrian traffic, his arthritis protesting every step.

“Can I lend you a hand there, son?” he asked in a wheezing voice in between puffs on the pipe. The younger man looked up at him in shock. “I know I haven’t the keenest sight or the youngest body,” continued the old man, flexing his hands, “but I do have a pair of good graspers.”

Slowly, the younger man levered himself to a full stand. He considered the old man for a second, and then extended his hand. “I’d be much obliged, sir. Charles Bradsworth,” he said with a quiet voice, much quieter than the old man would have expected.

Now that he was closer, he had a chance to examine this Mr. Bradsworth more closely. His face might at one time have been considered handsome, the old man thought, but now it was lined with numerous small scars, and his nose had obviously been broken but never properly set. Still, sharp, blue eyes peered out from under the bangs of a moppy, light brown hair.

He had the appearance and bearing of one raised comfortably, with a education, perhaps even all the way through a university, but he was clad in the most miserable rags: his jacket was torn and thrashed -- in fact, Mr. Bradsworth was very lucky it wasn’t raining today! -- his shirt looked as if it has merely stayed on his back after he was discharged from the army, and the pants he wore were stained and dirty. Added to the fact that he was at least seventeen blocks east of MacDunn Street, the official dividing line between the marble, monuments, and wealth of Ianapalis the capital city and the coal, sweat, and misery of Ianapalis the industrial center, in one of the poorest neighborhoods on the entire Shield.

“I’m Benjamin Fullerman, but you can call me Ben,” the old man replied, taking Charles’ remaining hand and shaking it. “I can’t help but notice,” he continued, wondering what the most polite way to broach the subject was, “but were you in the war?” Charles looked down at his missing hand and then, much to Ben’s relief, smiled.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I was a corporal in the Army - with IV Corps, actually.” Charles saw an eyebrow arch. “I’m no hero, though. Took a bullet the first day of Nusheld by being stupid, and they had to amputate.” The young man shrugged, and then bent over for another pamphlet that was threatening to flutter away. It was fairly obvious he wasn’t keen on elaborating.

“I had a grandson go off to fight,” said Ben quietly as he set the table up properly. “He was only fifteen, but his father couldn’t keep him at home. One day, he off and run to the army office.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “Never saw him again. I still wonder if he isn’t still alive, in some Chiangese camp somewhere.” Neither one of them spoke for nearly a minute.

“Well,” said Charles at last, all of the pamphlets in his hand. “Thanks for your help, Ben.” He laid them out on the table, then ascended the short, improvised podium once more.

Ben stood back and listened as the young man started to speak. Instantly, the combination of Charles’ rhetoric and soft spoken but intense manner swept the old man up. Later, Ben would be quite unable to recall exactly what was said, but that hardly seemed important. Charles wasn’t so much using words when he spoke, as do normal human beings, but instead his voice reached out and touched pure emotion; the sound of his voice cradled his listeners’ hearts in their hands.

Things hadn’t always been this way, his said in ways much too beautiful to allow themselves to be transcribed onto paper. There had been a time when Iansisleans - when Shieldians - had lived simply, among the green fields of their motherland. But their way of life had been betrayed; they had been driven from their agrarian roots by the very landlords and aristocrats whom they had trusted; whom sworn their loyalty to in return for protection.

Demosthenes himself would have been impressed by the way Charles smoothly cut through the issue; Cicero would have applauded the moderated aggression in his tone and words. The entire speech flowed as though it had been perfectly scripted, though it was delivered in such a way that it appeared to be coming straight from Charles’ heart and out his mouth. Charles managed to condemn the aristocracy and the plutocracy simultaneously while still keeping the artisans, craftsmen, and unskilled labor united as one.

Slowly, Ben realized that a huge crowd was growing about the base of the podium. They could not be contained by the sidewalk and spilled out onto the ancient but poorly maintained street. Charles was all but yelling, Ben suddenly thought, to make himself heard, and yet it feels as though he’s speaking to me specifically!

Suddenly, a constable in the uniform of the Royal Ianapalis Police forced his way through the crowd. “You there!” he bellowed at Charles, pointing an accusing finger. “You’re blocking traffic!” And indeed, the gathered crowd realized, they were. There were delivery trucks, personal automobiles, bicycles - every sort of transport imaginable - lined up both ways around the human blockade on 41st and Grand.

“Are you challenging my right to free speech?” asked Charles quietly. The policeman must have realized the danger at once, for he quickly backed down from his aggressive stand.

“No, no! - of course not! I merely care for the safety of, um, the crowd here assembled! Wouldn’t they be better accommodated somewhere else - where there’s not the danger of being run over?”

“You’re quite right, constable,” said Charles in a dignified manner. “Please, excuse my impertinence.” The crowd stared. Was the man with the golden tongue going to bow down to a mere police officer? “I shall move the talk to Unity Square!” It took a second for the sheer importance of the words that had been spoken to process with both the crowd and the constable; then, and with one voice, they cut loose with a terrific cheer.

“No! No!” cried the poor officer, reaching a hand towards Charles. “You can’t!” But no one listened to him, and a mass of humanity closed about the man.

At the front, Charles offered the table that had at one time held his pamphlets to Ben. “Will you carry this for me, friend?” he asked quietly. How could the old man refuse? He accepted them without another word, nor any other gesture save a smile at being so honored. Then Charles led his new helper forward, westward, and the crowd parted in front of them and reformed behind.

There was, of course, no law that forbade the crossing of MacDunn Street from East to West; there were never any laws of that sort in the Commonwealth. But everyone knew that it simply wasn’t done; not by one-handed former soldiers with naught but a table and a stand to their name, especially. But Charles didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second - he strode across the asphalt river as one would jump a trickling creek.

Around the marching men and women, shutters slammed on million-general townhouses and the elite of the Commonwealth fled before the surging tide of humanity. At last, they broke upon Unity Square while police wagons converged. They wouldn’t dare interfere, so long as the goings-on remained legal, but they were there, watching and waiting for any excuse to break up the gathering.

Charles set up his tiny podium, which was dwarfed by the gargantuan twenty six foot tall obsidian dias upon which stood a thrice-life sized statue of Commodore Sir Thomas Gurney, and picked up speaking just where he had left off on 41st and Grand.

-------

“Welcome back. You’re listening to ‘Converging Opinions’ here on IanCorp International Radio. I’m your host, Richard Furtherham. I’m here in the studio with Albert Robbins, a columnist from the Ianapalis Star-Tribune, the Baron Devonton, and Sir Howard Kershaw, a noted sociologist from Royal Standard University. Sir Howard, let’s start with you. Recently, a youth by the name of Charles Bradsworth has been whipping up quite the storm among the industrial workers here in Ianapalis. He claims that the current system in intrinsically unfair to the working class man, and a radical overhaul of the entire thing is the only way to solve our problems with crime, poverty, disease, and hunger. Do you agree, sir?”

“Well,” came Kershaw’s careful voice. “Mr. Bradshaw is certainly a very persuasive speaker, there’s no doubt about that, but I think that --”

“If I may cut in here, Dick?” interrupted Lord Devonton’s voice. “There’s little doubt in my mind that this Bradshaw character is nothing but a grade-A loony. He attacks the current system with great zeal in his orations and writing, but he really offers very little in the way of an alternative. If his insane appeal continues, we’ll end up with a dangerous power vacuum on the Shield, and who knows what’ll be sucked in? Marxism? Facism? My point is --”

“Utterly ridiculous!” snorted Robbins’ raspy voice. “I’ve attended many of Mr. Bradshaw’s speeches, and I can assure you that he has a very clear plan for the post-enlightenment of Iansisle...”

“‘post-enlightenment?’” replied Devonton, cutting the columnist off. “Why, I’ve never in all my years heard such utter and complete nonsense.”

“...I thought this was supposed to be a debate show..” tried Kershaw feebly. No one listened to him. Devonton and Robbins continued to bicker for some time, before at last Furtherham stepped in.

“Well, we’ve only about a half-hour left,” said the host, “and that means its time to take calls from our international listeners. If I could simply remind them to please be civil -” the hidden meaning applied to the panelists as well, and Devonton could be heard clearing his throat in embarrassment “ - then we should be good to go. First caller, welcome to ‘Converging Opinions.’ Do you have anything to say about the massive following Mr. Charles Bradshaw has managed to whip up over the past few days?”

[bump]

tag

(Ah, it begins at last!)

(Ah, it begins at last!)

(For better or worse, it does!

A quick note on timelines: This takes place a year or two after the end of the war; D'Carlonia is gone, James and Christin have been married*, and good old Edward Tarriff, like a bad nickle, is back at the head of a conservative government headlined by Free Trade. The liberals have taken a real beating, and the centrists are only mildly effective; in general, the conservative have solid control of both the Commonwealth Combined and Imperial Parliaments.)

(and no, this hasn't been a poorly-disguised bump. Really, this is need-to-know information ;))

*- though I do plan to go back and RP that out later

“But surely the government must be able to do something about these...these unionist agitators!”

“I assure you, Sir Penton, that much as it may chagrin you or I, there is nothing we can do.” The Earl of Dirwisham sighed as the short Shadoranite head of Royal Mining and Manufacturing continued to pace back and forth in the spacious office at #2 Jameston Place.

“You could have him arrested!” suggested Sir Penton Dubois, his eyes flashing. “I’m sure that rogue has managed to break some sort of ordinance by now!”

“Mr. Bradsworth has acted in complete accordance with his rights at every step,” shrugged Dirwisham. In the back of his mind, he wondered why this problem was even being brought to him. The problem with being a puppet behind the throne, he thought glumly, is that as soon as anyone figures it out, they come to you as the supreme authority! By all rights, Sir Penton should have taken his ranting and raving down to Edward Tarriff of the Free Trade Party; after all, Lord Dirwisham was merely the Chancellor of the Exchequer - Tarriff was the Prime Minister!

But people had known for years that Tarriff was nothing but an imbecile who happened to have some skill at playing the game of Iansislean politics. Certainly, the man most famous for his stupendously large mustache was quite good at getting into power, by one means or another, but once there he had slight idea what to do and relied immensely upon the ‘suggestions’ of others. When Free Trade was kicked out of the then-ruling Centrist Coalition, Dirwisham (acting in the stead of the conservatives’ actual leader, the elderly and incompetent Sir Humphrey Appleton) had recruited him to push out Alfredo D’Carlonia’s liberal government.

Everyone knew that Lord Dirwisham had an extortionary large amount of experience pulling strings behind the scenes as the conservative’s whip, but the earl hadn’t expected them to close on his as the new government’s real leader quite so quickly. It was really quite annoying; this was exactly why he preferred to stay out of the public eye!

“Damn it man!” exclaimed Dubois, leaning in close. “You will do something about Bradsworth. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how important Royal is to Iansisle.”

“I remember,” replied Dirwisham dryly. “Though I might suggest it’s best not to twist arms at this moment.”

“Hmmph.” Sir Penton grunted, then waved a disparaging hand at Dirwisham. Had this been an Iansislean Grand Ball, his behavior towards a social superior would have been absolutely inexcusable, but fortunately for the man, it was not. “If the government refuses to act, then Royal shall just have to take matters into its own hand. Good day!” And he stalked out of the office.

(a half-pleading bump...please don't make me call in to my own radio show! ;))

OOC:
*groans*
Noooo. You know, the Knootian army can only repress so many socialist/fascist/unionist/communist revolutions in foreign countries at one single time.
Time for my Israeli protectorate to come in...

IC:
A voice with a heavy accent crackled trough the radio.
"Joachim Nbdedzar calling. I'm from Ale-Yarok and I wanted to ask, what do the people see in this Bradsworth guy? And what does he want?"

With a soft "shalom" he waited for an answer.

((Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. If this goes as I plan, then foreign intervention should be largely marginalized.

Let's just say that I do feel kind of sorry for Bradsworth, especially since I know the rest of the plot.;)))

“Hello, Jo...” started Furtherham, but Devonton cut him off before he could say anything.

“That’s a very good question.” As usual, the baron’s tone was condescending and slightly nasal. “This Bradsworth character is simply an anarchist of the first degree - he’s never indicated any sort of agenda other than the overthrow of our current system.”

“Indeed?” snorted Robbins. “Have you read his work, or listened to one of his lectures? There’s a clear plan therein contained - one that even works within the current system, for all its faults!”

“I do wish you’d enlighten me,” replied Devonton flatly.

“Um, well...” started Robbins. “Obviously, I couldn’t repeat the whole thing on air! If you’d be so kind as to read my column next w-”

“You’re nothing but a fool, as those are the only people upon whom this man’s rhetoric can have its full effect!” challenged Devonton. One could almost hear Robbins turn beet-red over the wireless. “Now, to answer your question, Mr. N...Nb... dear caller, Mr. Bradsworth is simply the latest in a long line of very talented speakers with no real head nor talent for politics. This disturbance, or whatever you’d like to call it, is simply a passing fad among the Empire’s underclasses.”

“Well, there you have it,” said Furtherham before Robbins could jump in again. “Do you have another question, Joachim?”

Comrade Binney felt.. well, he felt great. The brother of the flagship's Captain never got to be a hero, always managed to miss all the excitement, it was just one of those things. This was..great! He hadn't seen anybody else with a mobile phone since he'd come ashore, and finally felt a bit special, he had some secret agent gizzmos at last! Well, probably the laser keychain wouldn't be much good, but avoiding drawing attention to his phone as he conversed at the edge of the crowd was pretty exciting.

And it was for a good cause!

Binney slipped the phone back inside his Chinese People's Volunteer Army issue winter jacket and slowly strutted through to the back of Bradsworth's latest audience. Man, it was hard to keep from telling people he was a secret agent for the international revolution! And look at my phone!

Comrade Kilgore had quite a job finding Binney after the former switched his phone to silent and stuffed it inside his padded jacket, but the eagre young revolutionary's somehow exceptionally black hair caught the eye from some distance. How on earth does slick get that much gel to stay up there?

Kilgore ambled up to Binney's side and gave him a friendly nudge.

"Bore da."
"Comra..oof!"
"Come on now, even if revolution were to break-out here there's nowt to say.. Beth Gellens will be welcome, less of the commie-speak."
"But it's a perfe.."
"Why am I here?"

Kilgore seemed a little moody, thought Binney as his efforts to defend the politically neutral nature of his vocabulary were dismissed.

"This, ah, Bradsworth fellow, isn' it?" Said Binney with a nod to the relatively distant speaker. "Thought Father might like to know about stirrings 'ere. 's on his list, isn' it?"

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" Came Kilgore's slightly sarcastic reply.

"Yeah." He went on with a little more purpose. "He's in Kosong. Making a collection.. on his way to kick the Roiks out of Madagascar."

"Mh, he'll be a while then?"

"Well, I wouldn't have thought he'll want to hang around once its done. Probably fly out of Lusaka. Can you have him contacted there via Ood? Tell him to get his arse up here?"

Binney nodded, though he was clearly a little deflated by being most important for his contacts owing to that damnable brother of his. Ah well, maybe he'd follow this Bradsworth about and make a few more friends in the meantime. His meandering chain of thought was broken just there.

"What the bloody hell's that then? ..It's only the Great Escape, isn' it? There's subtle, look, everyone's going to want to see, now."

"Fuck!" Muttered Kilgore before fumbling for his tunefully ringing phone and biting his slightly humbled lip.


(ooc:Ah! All my threads are becoming horribly tangled! Or wonderfully? Who knows?)

((Mmrm. Interesting. A taggishness for this thread.))

OOC: In a nation run by spies, the spies shall run free...

IC:

The man walked away from the speech, looking fully moved to a new cause. Of course, deep down he knew it was more dribble from the un-understanding. He quietly walked to a small coffee shop near the park where the speech had taken place.

He ordered a house blend, and sipped the hot beverage as passers bye continued to walk down the street. It was good to be stationed here in the man's opinion. After all, it was like being imersed in one of his much loved period pieces.

Of course, he didn't really fear an Iansislanian uprising of sorts. The Ians, although a bit over the top and little to liberal for him, were good folk, and sensible people. And if all else failed, there was the 13th Space Drop Unit who could be called in at a moments notice, on the request of the Dominion's leadership, of course.

He had transcribed the entire speech, and on a data pad that looked like any other note pad, he sent the speech to his supervisors. He sat back in the cafe, listening to a call in show. He always liked these shows, they were fun to listen to. It amazed him sometimes how people thought.

He took his pair of reflective aviator style sunglasses off, and opened up a local paper.

(why am i not confident about this uprising's chances?)

It had only been recently that Iansislean broadcasts had been picked up and re-transmitted into the country, but slowly the awareness of Shiedlian affairs was growing. And with it, the realization that other countries could function quite well with different systems. Most found the ways of Iansisle bizarre. A few found them enticing. And those were the ones most likely to be listening.

"Zachary Pieters here. My question is why there are so few rabble-rousers like this in Iansisle? How have you managed to keep your society so orderly, with such an admirable respect for authority? Please tell me this isn't the end of those days of order!"

*waves red flag* Toro, toro.. errr. I mean taggo, taggo until I sort through this ;)

OOC: Lark, WYC is open for buisness, early sales are good to go...the sales people are missing your face...

IC:

The Imitoran Intelligence agent suppresed a chuckly at the call of the one man. At times, he forgot that in many countries, 'sopa box orators' weren't offered silence on free will or silence on a bullet. He smiled as he sipped his coffee, and read the international section of the paper.

He sat back in the chair, watching people stroll by, and wondered how many of them supported this young man, and how many wanted him gone. He'd have to find the later of the groups.

(why am i not confident about this uprising's chances?)

((I dunno..maybe you’re just pessimistic ;)))

“Well, Mr. Pieters, I’d imagine that we’ve managed to keep such an orderly society through the indomitable strength of the Shieldian character,” said Devonton without hesitation or the slightest sign of humility. “Ultimately, the Shieldian values order and the good of all above anything. In fact, I haven’t the slightest doubt, however, that this Bradsworth chap is simply a passing fad. No people have ever been more free than we Iansisleans are under our current system - people like Bradsworth simply don’t realize that with that freedom comes responsibility.”

“Responsibility towards the massive corporate structure of Royal and Westerton?” scoffed Robbins. “I believe that the old order is on the way out; it’s outdated, precariously balanced, and utterly useless. What we must ask ourselves is whether we want our post-revolution - for it is inevitable - world to be a free one led by Mr. Bradsworth and the will of the people, or whether we want one led by the unscrupulous forces of the industrialists.”

--------

As the days wore on, Bradsworth continued to speak every day, often for more than four or five hours. The locations changed, but every new lecture drew a slightly larger crowd.

His latest muck-raking campaign took place from the ridge of Tablet Fountain, in the forum of Jameston Place itself. Bradsworth’s supporters, nearly all of them the bedraggled poor from east of MacDunn Streetk, stood about with eager faces, letting the words of an egalitarian society flow over them, allowing themselves to hope while simultaneously having their muck raked against the aristocrats and plutocrats who had for so long exploited them.

The Ianapalis police made a strong, even semi-belligerent showing at each talk. However, soon Bradsworth’s rhetoric even moved their stoic hearts. More and more officers started lodging their protests when ordered to contain the mobs east of MacDunn street. The city of Ianapalis had no choice but to try and buy their loyalty back with wage raises, but it soon became apparent that law enforcement was only partially on the side of the law makers.

The King’s IV Rifles, a regiment most famous for their part in the Battle of Salvador all those long years ago, and the King’s VII Rifles were ordered from their base north west of Ianapalis to move in on the city and reinforce the lagging police force.

However, before they could arrive, Bradsworth held one more talk on the grass before the Greek Revival glory that was Jameston Place. After an hour or so of talking, he jumped down from the fountain and announced his intention to demand an audience before parliament. The crowd was stunned; it was every citizens right to petition for a hearing, certainly, but never had it been known for a mere commoner, much less a former soldier and current unemployed, poverty-stricken one handed man, to so.

Bravely - one might even say brazenly - Bradsworth turned and walked towards the marble facade and great pillars of #1 Jameston Place. At first, it seemed as though no one could move; then, Ben took a hesitating step forward. Soon the whole group, voices raised and cheering, followed close behind the gifted speaker. As he started to ascend the great steps, the guards at the top braced themselves for the inevitable question.

It was with this recent 'outburst' that the man who had been at every speech thought the lengths had been pushed. As the crowd marched towards teh parliment building, he removed a cell phone from his pocket, dialed a secure connection, and began to talk.

"It's Heath. I think we have a situation in Iansisle." He explained to his supperiors about Bradsworth, the speeches, the responses, and the like. He discussed the political theory of the man, and how the people were seeming to fall in place.

In Imitora, several men had gathered to hear the report, and made their decision. They called the 'spy' back, and discussed the options.

"One, you can take him out. You're armed, right?"

"Yeah, M10 on me at all times."

"Ok, we can keep that in mind. Also, we can bribe the police, I'm sure that even if they do feel the persuasiveness of this man, they can feel the persuasiveness of money even more. Also, we can contact the government, tell them they have our support. Keep your options open."

"Right. You want me to stick with the crowd?"

"Yeah, stick to them, I wanna see where this goes."

David hung the phone up, and quickly cought up with the crowd. The weight of the small pistol in his light leather jacket stragly comforting.

Binney had continued to follow and enjoy Bradsworth's oration, and had already resolved to subtly introduce the codename Hunt into Old Guard lingo referencing the upstart.

Chatting to a few domestic constituents of the parliament-bound crowd and introducing himself to anyone who asked as a native Welshman in the 'wealth with a nondescript, ah, shipping..concern, he gradually grasped something of the situation's gravity.

Comrade Binney's enthusiasm saw him briefly withdraw from under the CPVA jacket his little 7.62-noiseless PSS pistol before he hurridly replaced it in his hand with the mobile phone he'd aimed for.

Moments later comrade Kilgore was dashing from the more familiar grubby side of town towards the parliament, supposing that he would tell anyone inclined to wonder at his haste that he was going to see that interesting Mr.Bradsworth. Kilgore only hoped that this was not sufficient offence to merit a search that might reveal either his 9mm (improved armour piercing) PYa Rook or by some wonder his connection to Father.

((Hunt?

Oh, and I've been meaning to ask - who is this 'Father' character? I think I saw him referred to as 'the Slayer of Salvador' in another thread, but I'm afraid I've been rather out of the loop lately. He isn't - God forbid! - Sopworth? (assuming I've managed to spell Iansisle's evil nemesis' name correctly ;))))

Before who might be considered the greatest public speaker in the history of the Shield, the Jameston guards quaked as one might before a terrible conqueror. Really, the more poetic among them speculated, Charles Bradsworth was a conqueror - he had vanquished the cruel grip in which IanCorp held the nation’s media; he had shattered one paradigm after another; and, most importantly, he had proven that the working man of Iansisle was a force in and of himself.

“Halt!” called a young lieutenant in the guards. By that time, Bradsworth was three steps up the staircase.

“I am a citizen of the Empire of the Shield,” replied Bradsworth, his voice clear and fearless. “I wish to speak before the King’s ministers.”

“H-have you a petition?” returned the lieutenant, his voice shaking slightly. Bradsworth turned to the crowd.

“Have I your support?” he called. For one split second, there was naught but silence. Then Benjamin Fullerman, nearly seventy years of age, stepped feebly forward and raised his voice, which shook but slightly.

“You have mine!”

“And mine!” called another person. Then the individual shouts were drowned out by thousands upon thousands of voices, all calling support for Bradsworth. The lieutenant could hardly block Bradsworth’s way - he’d have a veritable riot upon his hands.

“Very well,” stammered the guard, stepping back. Bradsworth smiled and continued to climb the stairs. He walked fearlessly through the guards and vanished into Jameston’s marble halls.

((OOC: hum, well, Joachim lost the connection to TB
*reads on*))

(ooc: Henry "Orator" Hunt, early C19th British political figure who spoke to crowds of up to 80,000, and was about to speak before the Yeomanry carried out the "Peterloo Massacre". Campaigned for adult suffrage and all that. Abstract reference by surname alone, I know, but of local significance in these parts ;)
As for Father.. I haven't directly confirmed to anyone much of anything about him.. but, erm, you seem to have grasped it :)
I fear he may not return in time to do too much damage here, but probably that's for the best where you appear already to have a plan.)

The world was riddled with Checka agents. Most of them did very little apart from get paid large salaries. But it seemed the pair watching the crowd move might finally be in a position to earn their pay.

"It's very poetic." one remarked to the other, "The common man rising up to overthrow the system, through sheer force of personal determination, and so bloodlessly as of yet."

The other nodded enthusiastically, he was older than the first, his hair grey and his eyes carrying the look of a man who had been just about everywhere and didn't like it much, "Oh yes, but I wouldn't count on it lasting that way....and I wouldn't want to be that poor sap when the myriad of Governments out there, all hell bent on preventing any form of rule by the people, decide he's a little bit too dangerous."

The first man nodded absent mindedly, he was young, short and dark, the image of the typical Dyelli Beybian, or Greek for that matter. "It bears certain similarities to our own rebellion."

The second spy snorted, "Yes, but nobody has been fed to the crocodiles yet, and nobody has been lynched either." he nodded towards a side street leading away from the crowd, "Anyway, I'm going to go and get a message off to HQ, they'd probably be interested by this, you stay here and watch."

The younger man nodded, but he didn't seem to be listening to the older spy, he was listening to Bradsworth.

Even now, more than five years after the battle, the streets of Nusheld had the frightening sensation of a warzone. And in some senses, Nusheld was still recovering from the destruction the war had wrought. Gigantic piles of rubble littered the streets, having been simply pushed out of the center for want of time. Every now and then, a new body would be pulled from the rubble, sometimes in the khaki of the Royal Iansislean Army Corps, sometimes the colors of the Chiang Maï Army, sometimes the olive of the Royal Iansislean Marines, but most often the brown of a Company soldier or the simple garb of a Gallagan civilian.

The human cost of defending Nusheld had been huge; more than eighty thousand, or twice Iansisle’s pre-war army, most of which had been paid by the Company’s sepoys. The battle for the city had lost all sense of proportion; it became a titanic trial of strength between the Company and the Sanctified Empire. Chiang Maï had torn through defensive line after defensive line - first over the Salween, then the Irrawaddy, then across the Arakan Yoma - but in the bloody ground on the banks of the Ganges, a final line was drawn - this far, and no further! Both sides had poured men into the meat-grinder on a scale not seen since Verdun. Blood was traded for street after street, only for the next day’s counteroffensive to wipe out all gains that had been so dearly paid for.

In the third week of the battle, the Chiangese broke into the historic Iansislean center of the city. Walls that had been built before the Empire of the Shield was forged were smashed beneath Chiangese artillery; bombs rained down on the Company’s Gallagan headquarters. Marcus Jackson, supreme commander of the Company’s forces in all of Gallaga, was forced to flee the city, and all seemed lost. But they came no further; step by bloody step, the Chiangese were thrown from the city, and then back across the Arakan Yoma.

As Edward Tedders, Executor of the East Gallaga Company, strode through the shattered ruins of his city, he wondered if the heroic effort of tenacity and defiance had really been worth the end result. With the toe of his boot, Tedders brushed some dust from the center of the courtyard, revealing the Company’s motto. auspicio regis et senatus Iansislae!

He didn’t like spending time in Nusheld; it was too hot for him. Too hot and too ridden with cholera, yellow fever, and a host of other tropical bugs just waiting to infect him. Tedders snorted; why, didn’t they even have a breakout of the bubonic plague not fifteen years ago? That man Rumbiak proved himself as ignorant as he was impudent - and that was saying quite a lot! - whenever he championed Gallagan independence. It was painfully clear that these - well, perhaps ‘savage’ was now too strong a word now - these children simply weren’t ready for self-government. Some day, perhaps, but for now they needed the strong but fair guidance of the Honorable Company.

“Shamne ar moddho!” called out a young Gallagan non-commissioned officer. Every military body on the compound stopped, spun to face inwardly, and snapped to full attention smartly. Tedders sighed as he walked down the middle of the rows, snapping off a salute here and there to any one native who seemed particularly respectful. All this pomp and circumstance was really very wearing - as much as he loved playing Head of State, there were times he longed to be back in Ianapalis, safely just another corporate head. His only brief respite came while he was being escorted from the parade ground to the ball room.

Once the heavy teakwood doors - at least those lazy bums who work for me have gotten around to fixing something, thought Tedders - swung open, however, it was right back to his position as the most powerful man in Iansislean Gallaga.

“His Supremeness the Executor of the Company and Overlord of all Iansislean Gallaga by the Grace of the Charter, Edward Tedders!” A band in the corner swung into the Company’s anthem, and there was a general applause that rang out through the hall. Tedders allowed his eyes to rove over the crowd, mostly made up of his yes-men and the native princes who ruled large parts of the country in his stead. He noticed just two men who weren’t clapping; one Tedders recognized the Imperial attaché to the Nusheld office. Tedders swore he’d never met a more obstinate man than Lord William Duquen, the second son of the Marquess of Teritam. It was almost as if the government in Ianapalis had deliberately assigned the ignorant and surly young nobleman to reign in the Company. It was all the Executor could do to keep from spitting on the fine carpet; they had tried that once, and all it had resulted in was national humiliation.

Little did Tedders know that Lord William was doing all he could to keep from spitting as well. Tedders disgusted him; the way the fat old fool always strutted about as God’s personal right hand man - he wasn’t even of noble lineage! How such a crass and stupid little commoner had ended up Executor of the Company was frankly beyond Lord William’s reckoning.

Meanwhile, Tedders eyes had settled flatly on the second figure not properly humbling himself. It was an older Gallagan, who wore just a modern-cut business suit rather than the elaborate and antiquated costumes favored by the local nobility. Tedders’ brown eyes tried to focus on the man’s expressionless face, but to no avail. At last, as the party swung back up to its full tempo, Tedders leaned over to his assistant.

“Gates - who is that Galler younder?”

“The Maharaja of Tipperah, your supremeness?” replied the man in the same low whisper.

“No, you fool! That one to his left - in the suit,” hissed the Executor.

“Oh.” Gates tone indicated that Tedders most likely wouldn’t be one bit happy with the answer. “That’s Mr. Chanakya Daruwalla. You know, the president of the Gallagan National Congress.” Tedders face took on a fearsome expression, but he managed to fight down the rage welling within himself.

“What the devil’s that ...that blasted ingrate doing here?!” he demanded softly. “I do not recall us being forced to invite plotters and traitors to our dinner table.”

“Things have changed in Gallaga since the war,” said Gates, apologetically. “The Congress’ following grows by the day- mostly in Nusheld, Fort Ash, and St. Walburg, but there have been reports of adherents in Gasgage and Ercolanan Gallaga - even as far away as Vollumbo. If we didn’t invite him, there’d be a major scandal in the Congress’ papers tomorrow.” Gates flinched. “Not that there won’t be anyway, I’d imagine, but at least this way it won’t be our fault.”

“Hmph,” grunted Tedders. “I swear, the day the Company has to bow down to a rabble of Gallagan agitators will be the exact same day the Earth stops rotating.” Then he left in search of a stiff drink.

((ooc: now’s the part of the post where I absolve myself of anything any of my characters say, think, or do - Iansisle is not, not how I’d like to see a country run: it’s racist, condescending, utterly arrogant and self-assured, and extremely elitist. I like to consider myself at least something of a liberal; the sacrifices one must make for the sake of the art! So, one more time: nothing my characters say, think or do reflects my opinions in any way. Hell, if I were in my stories, I could think of one or two *coughTedderscough* who could use with a good punch in the mouth!))

-----

Meanwhile, half a world away, Charles Bradsworth cleared his throat as he faced the two thousand members of Iansisle’s highest legislative body.

“Dear ministers of the King,” he started, “guardians of the people’s will, I come to you--”

“Thank you, Mr. Bradsworth,” said the Edward Tarriff sharply. Bradsworth paused - no one had ever interrupted him before, especially not so close to the start of a lecture. “We’ve heard quite enough of your speeches out the window. Now, do you wish to serve your country?” Had the man at the speaker’s platform been anyone else, the Prime Minister’s arrogance and curt tone would have been quite simply intolerable. However, it was Charles Bradsworth, the golden tongued apostle of the masses, and the MPs sat back in gleeful and hardly disguised delight. What a wonderful creature was authority! It allowed a man who surely ranked among the absolute stupidest to ever hold power at Jameston to talk down to and belittle perhaps the best natural speaker the Shield, maybe even the world, had ever produced.

“I should do anything to further the will of the Shieldian people,” replied Bradsworth shortly.

“Then I believe Lord Inswick has a proposal for you,” said Tarriff, deferring to his Minsiter of Foreign Affairs. The Earl of Inswick stood with a grave expression on his face.

“I am sure that you’ve heard of my Lord Laughlin’s failing health?” the Inswick asked. Bradsworth nodded. “Then you know he’ll no longer be able to fufill both his diplomatic duties and his responsibilities to the Kingdom of Weshield?” Againg, Bradsworth nodded. “Very good, Mr. Bradsworth - it’s always nice to see the common man -” there was a slight snicker of laughter that rippled about the chamber “-take such an active interest in politics. Now then, Mr. Bradsworth, I understand that your time is very valuable, so excuse me if I am brief. With my Lord Laughlin out of action, I’m afraid that leaves us with a rather glaring gap in our missions - we’d have no ambassador to the Alliance of the New Highlands.” Inswick allowed those words to hang in the air for a second. “Mr. Bradsworth, I’d like very much to nominate you for that position. You’ve more than demonstrated your devotion to the rights of Iansisleans, and I can think of no one better qualified for this post that you.”

Inswick tapped his thumbs together. “Naturally, an appointment of that magnitude will have to be cleared by this great house, but I put it to you first: will you serve your country in this way?”

OOC: You do know that, after reading his speaches, if this guy does become the ANH ambasador, and Imitora gets back into the ANH...he'd be lucky to last a week or two... :D

(ooc: If it makes you happy, Imitora, I'm pretty sure that Mr. Bradsworth will be meeting a bloody death...probably. ;)

In short, I do have a rough sketch of this whole ordeal worked out...and no, it may not be what most of you are expecting :P. And, of course, it's going to be affected by the actions of other countries (I don't really believe in an absolute plot, after all), so we'll just have to see how things go!)

The bloodier the better...(if you cant tell, Im not a fan of Socialists/Communisits/Anarchists...)

Also, I was wondering, would you be up to doing a bit of RP (hoping that I can get in touch with Lark, get him involved too...) that would expose a bit of the background of everyone's favorite, yet forgotten, Duke, John Nguyen?

[/hijack]

(Yeah! I was wondering whatever happened to John! Damn these classes...)

Meanwhile, half a world away, Charles Bradsworth cleared his throat as he faced the two thousand members of Iansisle’s highest legislative body.

“Dear ministers of the King,” he started, “guardians of the people’s will, I come to you--”

“Thank you, Mr. Bradsworth,” said the Edward Tarriff sharply. Bradsworth paused - no one had ever interrupted him before, especially not so close to the start of a lecture. “We’ve heard quite enough of your speeches out the window. Now, do you wish to serve your country?” Had the man at the speaker’s platform been anyone else, the Prime Minister’s arrogance and curt tone would have been quite simply intolerable. However, it was Charles Bradsworth, the golden tongued apostle of the masses, and the MPs sat back in gleeful and hardly disguised delight. What a wonderful creature was authority! It allowed a man who surely ranked among the absolute stupidest to ever hold power at Jameston to talk down to and belittle perhaps the best natural speaker the Shield, maybe even the world, had ever produced.

“I should do anything to further the will of the Shieldian people,” replied Bradsworth shortly.

“Then I believe Lord Inswick has a proposal for you,” said Tarriff, deferring to his Minsiter of Foreign Affairs. The Earl of Inswick stood with a grave expression on his face.

“I am sure that you’ve heard of my Lord Laughlin’s failing health?” the Inswick asked. Bradsworth nodded. “Then you know he’ll no longer be able to fufill both his diplomatic duties and his responsibilities to the Kingdom of Weshield?” Againg, Bradsworth nodded. “Very good, Mr. Bradsworth - it’s always nice to see the common man -” there was a slight snicker of laughter that rippled about the chamber “-take such an active interest in politics. Now then, Mr. Bradsworth, I understand that your time is very valuable, so excuse me if I am brief. With my Lord Laughlin out of action, I’m afraid that leaves us with a rather glaring gap in our missions - we’d have no ambassador to the Alliance of the New Highlands.” Inswick allowed those words to hang in the air for a second. “Mr. Bradsworth, I’d like very much to nominate you for that position. You’ve more than demonstrated your devotion to the rights of Iansisleans, and I can think of no one better qualified for this post that you.”

Inswick tapped his thumbs together. “Naturally, an appointment of that magnitude will have to be cleared by this great house, but I put it to you first: will you serve your country in this way?”

(And here goes nothing)

Jeff sat in his new seat in the Parliament and listened to the exchange happening on the floor.

How in the hell did I let Katherine and James talk me into running for Parliament? he thought as he looked around in between sips of his coffee. I'll be safer in Parliament, my ass! I'd be safer dangling in some shark infested waters with an open head wound.

His eyes narrowed at Inswick's common man comment, but decided to let it go for now. He'd pick his fight with that chuckling nimrod later. At the offer for Bradsworth to be ANH ambassador, Jeff tried to run through the calculations in his head. He settled on Inswick trying to keep Bradsworth out of the country to cool down his campaign. He waited for the man's response before speaking.

((Well, I'm not sure about bloody, but ironic, certainly ;)

His Grace John Nguyen? The Duke of Chateau, Speaker of the Noropian Assembly and First Lord of the Nobles' Conclave? (just catching you up on his new titles ;)) Sure, I'd love to! Just remember - the Dominion is fairly insular. Outside of a few strikes or something of the sort, Noropia probably won't see any major disturbances - this movement is Shieldian Nationalist as well as anti-aristocracy/plutocracy.

right, enough rambling (the again, is there really such a thing as TOO much rambling? I may never know!). What sort of RP did you have in mind?))

Bradsworth, in perhaps the first time he had ever been caught off guard, stumbled. He too recognized the obvious plot to get him out of Iansisle, but it was almost too clever. Inswick had to make an enticing offer - and Iansisle's highest diplomacy post certainly was that! - to get him to bite, but the New Highlands was almost too enticing.

After what seemed an eternity, but must have been less than half a minute, Bradsworth slowly nodded. "Lord Inswick, if that's where you feel I would do the greatest good for the Shieldian people, then that is what I shall go. I accept your nomination."

"Debate?" asked Tarriff briefly. He obviously wasn't expecting too much trouble over passing this; after all, a simple plurality would suffice.

Jeff cleared his throat and stood to be recognized.

"Mr. Speaker, I'd like to move that we recess for 15 minutes for the members of parliament to relieve themselves before we begin such an important, and possibly long debate," Jeff said making sure to look over at Tarriff's rivals to hint to the speaker that there might be some, "And for Mr. Bradsworth to prepare his statement of acceptance for his new position?"

*shoots a TG to Lark*

(Oh dear, this can't be good :P ... checking now)

Edit: Checked and replied to

Tarriff looked up at Jeff. His eyes, only a moment ago filled with energy as he rattled off the pre-prepared lines, were now all but dead. Edward Tarriff was simply not a man who took unexpected turns well; at least, not after he was the chair of the Combined Parliament.

One or two people might notice Tarriff’s eyes creep across the room slowly from where Jeff sat, along with the other ministers from the West Ianapalis electorate he had won in a smashing victory, to the Earl of Dirwisham. There was a second of silent discussion, then the Earl nodded ever so slightly.

“The chair approves the motion to recess for fifteen minutes,” Tarriff wheezed. “We’ll reconvene at - “ he checked his pocket watch “- [fifteen minutes from now].”

Bradsworth looked curiously up at Jeff; the young Larkinian’s career, both as a naval officer and an ambassador, was very well known - and Jeff was probably the only person on the Shield right now more popular than Bradsworth himself.

(sorry if my posts are getting progressively more crappy...it's getting pretty late. But sleep is for the weak! Haha!)

As the chamber cleared out, Jeff winked to Bradsworth and subtly motioned with his eyes toward the door outside.

Jeff finally made it down the steps to the crossway and walked out of the chamber and outside, wrapping his thin coat around him tighter to fight off the cold as he snipped and lit a cigar.

Bradsworth nodded back to Jeff. This was coming together too terribly well; he was in one day not only offered the chance to become the highest ranking diplomat - short of Inswick and Johnson, of course - on the Shield, and now he had the chance to talk with the single man whose exploits had entralled a nation.

He followed Jeff through the front passages and at last out of #1JP altogether.

"Your Grace," he said, just the slightest sound of sarcasm under his voice. After all, Jeff was one of that creature most rare in Iansisle - a nobleman who had earned his title. "I must confess that you honor me with this visit."

(are we on the crowd side of the building?)

(Dear lord I hope not ;) *raises glass* and here's too many more of Jeff's exploits in the future :P )

Jeff chuckled at the statement, "Please sir," he said taking a draw on the cigar while offering one to Bradsworth. "None of this your grace stuff. My blood's as red as your, god knows. And I'm glad that the best orator in the nation would take the time to talk with a submarine captain.

"I'm guessing you know what they are trying to do. Getting you out of the country long enough to slow your rebellion down."

“Of course,” said Bradsworth quietly. “And I’d hardly say you’re ‘just a submarine captain,’ Duke Williams. You’re a hero to millions - and I do count myself among those numbers - a friend of the monarch, and, from what I know, a friend of the common Shieldian working-man.”

His eyes settled onto the hustle and bustle of Gallaga Street, which lay just fifty yards away (the crowds on the sea-side of Jameston ;)) across another immaculate lawn.

He drew his lips back into a thin smile at Jeff’s next comment. “I’m not sure even I’d call it a rebellion, Duke Williams.” He paused to think for a moment. “A national awareness, perhaps. I’ve found that the amount of ignorance among -- but, that’s not what you brought me out here to discuss, is it?” Bradsworth chuckled.

“The Conservatives have never been masters of the art of subtilty and misdirection; I suppose we ought to be thankful for that. I know they want me out of the country; the thought of a working class which could realize its own power scares them. And I would be much remiss in denying my fellow man the chance - insofar as I can provide it - at least a little glimpse of what they are capable.

“On the other hand, the New Highlands post is very prestigious; they used to have a king of the Shield filling it! I wonder if there wasn’t some way that I could take advantage of that position in one way and continue my lectures in another. Ah, well - I could always resign the post if it proves terribly undesirable.” Throughout his entire participation in the conversation thus far, Bradsworth’s voice had been quiet, conversational, and refined. It was hard to type his voice into a particular accent, but if a guess had to be made, either east Shadoranite or west Vesshamptoner would be the best options.

((I need to go to bed, man. Darn it, ya beat me again! *shakes fist in the air* ;)))

OOC: Hey, settle down everybody. If Bradsworth becomes the ambassador to the ANH, you won't NEED to assassinate him - he'll get into some sort of duel anyway.

OOC: I'm assuming that this is fairly after the little pirate incident...since I'm reusing a character.

Ann Gretchen was walking down the street and causing most people to turn their heads. An odd shock/curiosity effect considering what they were seeing. It might have been her natural beauty, the blond was considered 'soft on the eyes' by many men. Her greenish blue eyes and a well proportioned body that most models would have envied, seemed to draw the male eye. But no, In reality it was her companion that got all the stares, all 400, furry pounds of of him. After all, people expected there to be bars between themselves and a tiger in a civilized nation. What kind of place allowed somone, even a Baroness, to have one as a pet and let her walk it around on a leash? If the local police had a problem with it, all they could do was watch. As both pet and master had diplomatic passports.

Ann in and of herself was something of a rarity. She had gone from being a poor engineer for a minor shipping firm to being Baroness Winton in one short, thirty minute period. And it showed in her social ineptness. Her only true freind as far as she was concerned was Sir Meow.

Her present assignment was somewhat fun for her, she was supposed to be the Naval Trade and Armaments Attachee for the Alconian Delegation to Iansisle. It had been a sudden assignment of a civilian to what had been a military post but she was qualified. It had served more advantagous in Thunderbay than here, but we degress.

She walked down a street in Jameston, on her way to an appointment to smooth over some problems between a local shipper and an Independent Alconian Ship he had contracted with. It was likely just going to be a misunderstanding stemming from the vast diffrence in exchange rates and cost of living between the two lands. Her eyes turned towards the openness of the area at her side and she just stopped for a moment.

She recoginized one of the men, the one without a hand, from the newspaper and the second seemed to be a bit...well important. There was something odd about it...
Damn it, I should know who he is...ah f*** it. I'll call Lord Astbury about this...It may be important. The tiger and the woman started moving again, the crowd almost evaporating on both sides of her.

((cookie if you can name what movie/book I stole that concept from....a second one if you can give me the name of the cat in the movie/book.))

OOC:

Tag!

This looks interesting.

“Of course,” said Bradsworth quietly. “And I’d hardly say you’re ‘just a submarine captain,’ Duke Williams. You’re a hero to millions - and I do count myself among those numbers - a friend of the monarch, and, from what I know, a friend of the common Shieldian working-man.”

"Well, there's a fine line between hero and lucky bastard, and I think I've crossed it a few dozen times," Jeff grinned as he took another drag on the cigar.

His eyes settled onto the hustle and bustle of Gallaga Street, which lay just fifty yards away (the crowds on the sea-side of Jameston ;)) across another immaculate lawn.

He drew his lips back into a thin smile at Jeff’s next comment. “I’m not sure even I’d call it a rebellion, Duke Williams.” He paused to think for a moment. “A national awareness, perhaps. I’ve found that the amount of ignorance among -- but, that’s not what you brought me out here to discuss, is it?” Bradsworth chuckled.

“The Conservatives have never been masters of the art of subtilty and misdirection; I suppose we ought to be thankful for that. I know they want me out of the country; the thought of a working class which could realize its own power scares them. And I would be much remiss in denying my fellow man the chance - insofar as I can provide it - at least a little glimpse of what they are capable.

"Well it might not be a rebellion in the regular sense of the word, and I hope to god it doesn't turn into a bloody one."

“On the other hand, the New Highlands post is very prestigious; they used to have a king of the Shield filling it! I wonder if there wasn’t some way that I could take advantage of that position in one way and continue my lectures in another. Ah, well - I could always resign the post if it proves terribly undesirable.” Throughout his entire participation in the conversation thus far, Bradsworth’s voice had been quiet, conversational, and refined. It was hard to type his voice into a particular accent, but if a guess had to be made, either east Shadoranite or west Vesshamptoner would be the best options.

((I need to go to bed, man. Darn it, ya beat me again! *shakes fist in the air* ;)))

"It is a prestigious posting, maybe it would be better to go there for a year or two and then come back. If you can survive there, you can probably make it dealing with Parliament," Jeff winked, "But you need to be careful with the various people representing their own countries, when there's not a consensus then things tend to get testy," he said quietly looking out.

"Well, there's a fine line between hero and lucky bastard, and I think I've crossed it a few dozen times," Jeff grinned as he took another drag on the cigar.

Bradsworth shrugged. "Semantics."

"Well it might not be a rebellion in the regular sense of the word, and I hope to god it doesn't turn into a bloody one."

"As do I." Bradsworth waved a hand before his face briefly, his eyes watching a young lady and her most unothadox pet walk down Gallaga Street. "I have never believed that the letting of blood has solved any problem, and I certainly don't believe that it will solve this one."

He smiled witfully. "But that doesn't mean that the problem doesn't exist. The working man has been ground into submission far too often in our history, an.." He chuckled, and looked over at Jeff. "Pardon me, I don't mean to lecture at you."

"It is a prestigious posting, maybe it would be better to go there for a year or two and then come back. If you can survive there, you can probably make it dealing with Parliament," Jeff winked, "But you need to be careful with the various people representing their own countries, when there's not a consensus then things tend to get testy," he said quietly looking out.

"So I've heard," laughed Bradsworth. "Who was it at Yarrum's induction - young Javin Katana and..Donnaghue, was it?" Noting the expression on Jeff's face, he nodded. "I know it's not common for my class to follow current events, but one cannot lead but by example."

((oops: geographical boo-boo in my previous post...I mean west Shadoranite and east Vesshamptoner :oops: ))

Bradsworth shrugged. "Semantics."

"Good point," Jeff nodded. "I'll concede that one to you."

"As do I." Bradsworth waved a hand before his face briefly, his eyes watching a young lady and her most unothadox pet walk down Gallaga Street. "I have never believed that the letting of blood has solved any problem, and I certainly don't believe that it will solve this one."

He smiled witfully. "But that doesn't mean that the problem doesn't exist. The working man has been ground into submission far too often in our history, an.." He chuckled, and looked over at Jeff. "Pardon me, I don't mean to lecture at you."

"It's all right. I understand that you are concerned about the living conditions of the people who are the backbone of Iansisle. You never have to apologize for having the courage of your convictions," Jeff said with a smile. His eyes scanned to the young woman and her pet. The cyberoptics zoomed in quickly. Wow, walking with a tiger in Ianapalis, this place never ceases to amaze me..

"So I've heard," laughed Bradsworth. "Who was it at Yarrum's induction - young Javin Katana and..Donnaghue, was it?" Noting the expression on Jeff's face, he nodded. "I know it's not common for my class to follow current events, but one cannot lead but by example."

"I'm impressed, sir," Jeff smiled, "Someone who leads by example and with a depth of knowledge of current events is great! Sir, I think you'd fit in well at the ANH."

((oops: geographical boo-boo in my previous post...I mean west Shadoranite and east Vesshamptoner :oops: ))

(*gasp!* :shock: :P )

OOC: Sorry...when does this take place in relation to the meeting with Knootoss and Valinon?

OOC: Probably quite a while afterwards, if James and Christin are married at this point.

((here's the rough timeline outline (if anyone has any suggestions/modifications/corrections/snide comments, please let me know!

Plain = Role play
italics = Event referenced

Year 'One'

Chiang Maï overruns Galla-China
General Elections called
Hiresh Dhawan's Centrists lose to Alfredo D'Carlonia's Liberals
Knootians visit Iansisle
Winter Gala

Year 'Two'

HIMS Odysseus helps evacuees at Tharkold
Chiang Maï overruns Iansislean Burma
James and Christin engaged
Elections in Tanah Burung
Democratic-Socialists threaten to leave Liberal Coalition
Elections in Knootoss
James, Christin, Jeff, and Kate visit Dr. Niven's summer house

Year 'Three'

General Elections called
Battle of Nusheld begins; Charles Bradsworth loses his hand
Edward Tarriff's Conservatives oust Alfredo D'Carlonia's Liberals
James and Christin married
Counter offensive begins in Gallaga

Year 'Four'

Operation: Honor Bound
Chiang Maï driven from western Gallaga

Year 'Five'

Russolini assasinated; Ercolana collapses
Truce signed with Germany and Chiang Maï

Year 'Six'

Charles Bradsworth starts his "lectures"))

"I'm impressed, sir," Jeff smiled, "Someone who leads by example and with a depth of knowledge of current events is great! Sir, I think you'd fit in well at the ANH."

"Thank you, Duke Williams," said Bradsworth quietly. "It's nice to know someone won't be voting for me simply to remove a problem."

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Should we be getting back?"

((oops: geographical boo-boo in my previous post...I mean west Shadoranite and east Vesshamptoner :oops: ))

(*gasp!* :shock: :P )

((Well, I'm sure there's someone in this world, other than me, who'd have noticed the mistake ;)))

**Rp time lag**

Lord Astbury was reading the latest paper from Thunderbay. He was less intrested in the political ramblings than in the price of corn futures. They had been fairly eratic over the past few months....

There was a knock on the door, and a small man entered. He seemed actually to be a bit odd with almost orange features and a sing song voice..."Lord Ambassador, I have a message from Baroness Winton about a very odd occurance. It appears that young man Bradsworth was seen in discussions with that Duke..."
"What Duke?"
"The one that was a seal boat captian..."
"You mean a submariner..."
"Yes..."
"Where?"
"Ah grounds of the parliment sir...and I've made a call to a few of the Royal Minister's pages and well got a shock...they are considering Bradsworth for Ambassador to New Highlands..."
"Hmm, well...and this..." He picks up a folder with the words, IID Level 5 in large red letters on the cover. "Oka, I want an invitation sent to Mr. Bradsworth..."

A young messanger, in an Alconian dress uniform, arrives at Parliment twenty minutes later. He starts to climb the steps of the building without any hesitation.

(Based on some of your statements about victorian culture, that this practice is still in use?)

Her only true freind as far as she was concerned was Sir Meow.
OOC: If they're such good friends, then why is she holding him on a leash? Hmpf.

Her only true freind as far as she was concerned was Sir Meow.
OOC: If they're such good friends, then why is she holding him on a leash? Hmpf.

Her only true freind as far as she was concerned was Sir Meow.
OOC: If they're such good friends, then why is she holding him on a leash? Hmpf.

OOC: So someone doesn't think he's just a wild tiger looking for a snack and shot him! :?

I was gonna post somethign...but i forgot what.

Her only true freind as far as she was concerned was Sir Meow.
OOC: If they're such good friends, then why is she holding him on a leash? Hmpf.
OOC: Cause their friends in that special... nah, that's only for those special dates.. :P

"Thank you, Duke Williams," said Bradsworth quietly. "It's nice to know someone won't be voting for me simply to remove a problem."

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Should we be getting back?"

"Probably in a minute," Jeff said, "I want to make Ippy sweat a minute more," he mischeviously smiled.

Dave sat against the wall, observing Jeff and Bradsworth speaking. He wished he had a microwave or anyother set up that would allow him to hear the convorsation, but he didn't.

He watched as the two talked, and began trying to read body language, but it didn't really work. He walked back around to the front of the building and watched the crowd gather around the building. He looked up at the gaurds, wondering if they planned on doing anything to stop Bradfield.

"Probably in a minute," Jeff said, "I want to make Ippy sweat a minute more," he mischeviously smiled.

(you have a sick, sick, sick mind...wish I'd thought of that joke first :P)

"Ippy?" repeated Bradsworth with a chuckle. "I must confess, making him nervous does carry a...certain appeal."

He stood silently for a couple seconds, watching the ebb and flow of Ianapalis' traffic.

"I do wonder," he half-whispered at last, "if our dear friends on the conservative bench realize quite how hard it is to cut the head off a hydra."

(A+H, I'll have a response for your courier in a few posts. Just don't want to get too many seperate time lines too soon. ;))

(LOL, I know... on both counts ;) A little S&M humor never hurt anyone.. well, according to my acquaintances who engaged in that side, that might not be the right statement... :P )

"It's not just him," Jeff grinned, "The guys on the Liberal side get just as jumpy. It's kind of fun to jerk either sides chain a little bit. Especially by a commoner," he chuckled. "One of the benefits of being in the middle, everyone hates you."

Jeff called up the digital clock on the news scroller at the bottom of his field of vision, "We'd better get back, besides, I need to see if there are any hard feelings with Tarriff. Gotta stay diplomatic, I guess."

“Right,” nodded Bradsworth. He considered the light pedestrian and vehicle traffic before Jameston one more time, then turned to return to the building with Jeff.

“I have to say,” he commented while two guards held doors open for them, “that it is most pleasurable to meet both a nobleman and a minister with whom I feel comfortable sharing some of my thoughts.”

Bradsworth smiled grimly. “Over they past couple years, I had become rather jaded. Almost enough to forget myself that those with power are as much flesh and blood as myself.

There apparently were some hard feelings as the two men reentered the primary chamber. Edward Tarriff looked up from what he was reading - a paper of some sort - and huffed out his mustache. Inswick glared at the pair.

From Tarriff’s immediate right came another glare, but this one wasn’t the empty, hollow stare of the others. It was a cold, mechanical gaze, eternally calculating, that seemed to bore directly into their souls.

Bradsworth shuddered. The Iansislean aristocracy wasn’t well known for its production of brilliant strategists or indeed much besides over-bred and aloof idiots, but when it did produce a first-rate mind, the results were frightening. Much like the dark expression on the face of the Earl of Dirwisham, Tarriff’s Chancellor of the Exchequer.

(edit: heh...shuttered. I was just thinking the windows in #1 Jameston were a little barren ;))

Jeff noticed Bradsworth shudder. He looked over and saw Dirwisham's look. He locked eyes with the man and found himself calling up the crosshairs of the smartgun system and locked them on his head. (No one would see this happen, it just happened in his field of vision)

'Shark infested waters and a head wound', I wonder if it's too late to line that up..

Never being too smart, Jeff broke away and walked over to Tarriff.

"Sorry to throw you the curve ball, sir," he said to him warmly while extending his hand, "But I wanted to talk with him and have him convince me that he'd pass my test to work with the ANH. You made quite an interesting pick Lord (or insert title here) Inswick."

Tarriff snorted, his great mustache billowing out again like reeds in a heavy breeze. His handshake was sweaty and limp, not at all what one would expect from the sort of man who was technically the head of government in a large country like Iansisle.

“Not a problem, Your Grace,” said Tarriff coldly. His tone certainly didn’t express the proper respect for a duke and peer of the realm, even if his words did. “That’s perfectly understandable, even if we did have time scheduled for questions.”

(Lord Inswick’s fine in casual conversation)

Inswick shrugged. “I know; the New Highlands post is perhaps the most important diplomatic position we have - and I believe it’s of a special significance to you, Your Grace. I believe Mr. Bradsworth will preform ... admirably.”

“If you could just take your seat, Your Grace?” asked Tarriff, pointing upwards. “I’d like to get started.”

Jeff nods to each of them, if Tarriff's tone had been upsetting to him, he didn't show it. "Begging your pardon Mr. Prime Minister, I know you wouldn't have wanted these particular questions part of the official record. And hopefully the debate will go by quickly, provided you were able to use the break to get the liberals in line and not try to stall."

Jeff smiled at Lord Inswick, "Thank you for your understanding Lord Inswick. I certainly want to avoid another disaster like the Katana incident," he said. "That was a monstrosity I hope to not have to relive."

Jeff gave Tarriff a warm smile at the suggestion, "Of course, I'll head there now." Jeff turned, and strode to his seat with his head held high to sit down again.

“Of-of course I was!” said Tarriff quickly.

After all present had resumed their seats and the doors had been bolted, the questioning began.

(and I’m going to leave that nebulous on purpose, because I know very little about parliamentary procedure :oops: )

"Well, then that's great! We'll all be home in time for dinner!" Jeff said with a smile to the two men.

(Someone will need to nominate him and there'll be a second, then debate would begin. someone will have to move to close debate and move on to the actual vote)

Jeff sat down and watched as the C.C.P. went back into session.

(thanks, man - boy, if it weren't for you, even less would get done in my government. And then it'd be some crazy negative number of work being done! ;))

"First order of business," read Tarriff. "The opening being created by my Lord Laughlin's ill health. Do I have a nomination for his replacement?"

"The Council nominates Mr. Charles Bradsworth," said Inswick at once.

"Do we have a second?"

"I second Mr. Bradsworth," nodded Dirwisham.

"Any other nominations?"

"Mr. Paolo Scintillio of Harbor City," said D'Carlonia from the Opposition bench.

"A second?"

"I second Mr. Scintillio," intoned Sir Archibald S. Hughes."

"Any other nominations? No? Then I open the floor to debate."

(anytime! All of these years of useless experience and knowledge are finally coming into use! :) )

Jeff sat back and watched the debate starting.

(I'm gonna hold back and let you set things up)

(oh..oh, dear! *eyes dart around nervously* ;))

“If I may have the floor?” asked D’Carlonia. He was granted it. “Thank you. Now, I don’t know who’s idea it was that Mr. Bradsworth ought to represent us in the New Highlands, but I assure you that it is not a good one.

“Mr. Bradsworth may be an eloquent speaker - there’s no denying that - but so far he’s shown neither an inclination towards foreign relations nor any evidence that he would faithfully represent the wishes of this body in the New Highlands’ chamber. I do not personally devalue Mr. Bradsworth’s integrity nor his ability, but I simply do not think he’s the best man for the job.

“There’s hundreds of Tharians, Dianatranians, Gadsani, Noropians, and Troobodians trying to claw their way up the structure of the Foreign Affairs Ministry, and I see no reason why Mr. Bradsworth ought to be leap-frogged over all of them. Perhaps the Council can explain it to me; perhaps someone else can.”

(What is Dirwisham's temperment like now? I'm debating if this is where Jeff will jump in or not.)

(Dirwisham? He's sitting back with the smug face of one who knows D'Carlonia's fighting the good, but futile, fight.

As for his overall disposition, well - the Earl doesn't get angry...he gets even. :))

(He does huh... excellent. Smithers, have that man shot. :P Well then, Jeff'll hang back and see how things develop.)

(ok...I’ll give you a break in between each argument. Just tell me when you want to cut in (but darn it, don't steal my girl! :P))

“I think that what you don’t realize, Mr. D’Carlonia,” said Inswick, “is that Iansisle’s foreign ministry has been in right miserable hands for the past decade or so. It’s quite clear that a new approach is needed.

“When I inherited Sir Archibald’s position, the ministry was a right mess: papers stuffed everywhere, entire embassies being closed for lack of funds; we were a laughing stock, gentlemen, and we didn’t even know it because we were so pathetic.”

Inswick shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I have all the answers, Mr. D’Carlonia - certainly, that would be as presumptuous as you could get! - but I will say that the old ways - such as nominating a man to a position through the good-old-boy system or simply because of his ethnic background - don’t work.

“Mr. Bradsworth is a gifted speaker, and his loyalty is quite with the Shield. I cannot think of a single man I’ d rather have on the floor in Golden Agate.”

Jeff took another sip of his coffee and subtly signaled to Tarriff to be recognized.

"Duke Williams?" asked Tarriff, recognizing Jeff.

Jeff stood up and addressed the throng with a calm, strong voice.

"Gentlemen, I understand Minister D'Carlonia's concerns. There are a great many people who are deserving of a post like this.

"However, this post is different than a regular ambassadorship to a nation. Here, whoever is picked is not just dealing with one nation, but a group of nations with varied concerns. Concerns that at times will clash with those of Iansisle. And that's when one must move a person's will to act.

"We have all heard Mr. Bradsworth speak. His 'silver tongue' is one of his greatest assets to a position like this. His ability to move the hearts and minds of people.

"He might not have shown an inclination towards foreign relations as a career, but in my moments speaking with him during the break, he has shown something more important than an inclination. He showed me that he has the knowledge of foreign affairs that will serve Iansisle well in this position.

"Will he always represent the wishes of this body? Probably not, and that's not a bad thing. Lord knows many careers were spawned from someone who is willing to buck the system from time to time.

"Will he represent the wishes of the nation of Iansisle as a whole? From working man to upper class? Yes, I believe he can. He can approach this representing not just this body, but also that of the working man. And represent not just the working man, but the wishes of this body as well."

“If I may?” asked D’Carlonia. “Thank you - Your Grace, we all know that the New Highlands post is a difficult job. Frankly, and this is again no insult to Mr. Bradsworth or his abilities, I simply don’t think that a random civilian plucked off the street, no matter what his credentials, would be best placed to act in the interests of the Commonwealth.

“Why, didn’t Mr. Bradsworth himself say that he wanted to act in the best interests of the Shieldian people? Forgive me for playing the race card, but what of the millions of Gallagans, Tharians, and Dianatranians living both in the Empire and in the Commonwealth? Will he simply ignore them?

“Your Grace, we’ve had far too much in the way of Shieldo-centric politics in the past; I don’t think now is the best time to be furthering those prejudices.

“Mr. Scintillio has spent a lifetime in the foreign service. He’s never held a position as a post ambassador because of the undying racism of the institution, but he understands the system well. He has served on teams in the New Highlands and to most Highlands countries. He is also a skilled orator: one who has the experience and training needed to fill this post.”

( I think I’m going to bed, man. I’ll catch you tomorrow!)

OOC: Hmm, no problem. Just a point about typical parlimentary rules. They usually tend to get basterdized the more powerful a body you have.

"Those are some good points you've raised Minister D'Carlonia," Jeff replied. "Including what Mr. Bradsworth hasn't said yet. He still has yet to address this body and address them. And who better to turn to than him to answer those questions."

Jeff turned to Tarriff, "Sir, I'd like to yield my time to Mr. Bradsworth so he can address this body and answer those questions himself."

Dirwisham frowned. He wasn’t officially the whip for the Conservative Coalition anymore - his new position in the Council had far superseded that - but he knew that more than a few members of the farther right - such as his own Conservation Party and the Tradition Party - were already nervous about Bradsworth.

“Better for him to meet an unfortunate accident in some back alley,” a few of them had actually suggested (in private, of course). Dirwisham had quite disagreed; killing Bradsworth, no matter how distantly connected, would have triggered a domestic disturbance on par with the Riots.

Letting Bradsworth talk was certainly a risk; not because he might alter the entrenched views of his party, but because he may cause the more radical elements of the right to break from the line. Fortunately, only that fop D’Carlonia and his Liberals had proposed a candidate (Dhawan’s Centrists were the only major cause for concern, if in the long term alone). Dirwisham sighed: Duke Williams’ cult of personality, wanted or not, and his insufferable attempts to broker peace between the factions even as the Conservatives had smashed their opposition were starting to make him a real nuisance to the government; one that would have to be taken care of sooner or later.

None of these thoughts passed through Edward Tarriff’s head, of course. He just stumbled and approved Jeff’s motion unconditionally.

“Mr. D’Carlonia, even I’m not sure that I’m the absolute best man for this job,” he said softly, though with enough enunciation that every person in the hall heard him. “Then again, the offer has taken me quite by surprise.” There were a couple titters from the seats.

“I would like to say, however, that I am confident in my ability to do the job well,” he continued. “I hate to sound a braggart, but I do know something more than many of you may expect about international relations. And I do love this country; this Commonwealth.” He swept his eyes over the liberal bench. “Mr. D’Carlonia, I do not deny that I’m a Shieldian nationalist, for I am. However, I also respect the great men of the Dominions, and will do everything possible to see that their interests are represented in Golden Agate as well as the Empire’s.

“When, my Lord Inswick, you said that it was time for a change in the old situation, I couldn’t have agreed with you more. While I’m sure that there are many more qualified men than myself for this station, I do think it’s about time the average Iansislean had some representation in the Alliance.”

Several men on the conservative bench shifted nervously, and Dirwisham all but made a slashing motion across his throat.

“I couldn’t be more honored by this chance,” Bradsworth said at last. “I can only promise to represent the concerns of the Commonwealth - and all its people - in Golden Agate. Thank you.”

“Motion to close debate!” exclaimed Baron Devonton, who had replaced Dirwisham as the conservative’s whip, nearly knocking over his chair to put the motion in.

“Seconded,” agreed a man sitting beside him on the conservative bench.

I won’t deny that I’m not a Shieldian nationalist, for I am.
OOC: Triple negative? Aside from that it hurts my brain to read it, it is plain wrong.

OOC: Triple negative, triple post... Why do I even bother trying?

OOC: *carefully releases rumors that the forums said something offensive about Imitora*

OOC: Triple negative? Aside from that it hurts my brain to read it, it is plain wrong.

((:lol: That's what happens when you try and sound eloquent at 5:00 in the morning.))

OOC: Tis doublespeak do you not realize that Bradsworth is Big Brother? :P

Duke Williams’ cult of personality, wanted or not, and his insufferable attempts to broker peace between the factions even as the Conservatives had smashed their opposition were starting to make him a real nuisance to the government; one that would have to be taken care of sooner or later.

(Yeah, Jeff can feel the love from his seat across the way ;) )

(( :lol: That's what happens when you try and sound eloquent at 5:00 in the morning.))

(No doubt! at that point all I could think of was 'hand it back to Iansisle, he'll know what to do' :P )

*snip*

(No doubt! at that point all I could think of was 'hand it back to Iansisle, he'll know what to do' :P )

(Thanks man :P

At any rate, I think this thread has done just about all I really meant it to; that is, introduce Bradsworth and get him the job as ambassador to the ANH.

A+H, do you think we might be able to abridge our meeting slightly? I mean, cut out all the arrival and everything, and just have him appear in your office?)

OOC: I'm going to TG where your taking this thead....but Bradshaw was invited to tea. My government/The Klatchian Government has a few items to discuss with the newly minted Ambassador...

IC: Bradshaw found himself standing in a garden at the back of the Alconian Embassy. It was long and narrow, a two story porch with a patio were near the house. This ended in a narrow pool that crossed the width of the yard and had a small wooden bridge crossing it. Beyound that was a swath of green grass and trees, the end of the garden was marked by a glassed in building.

The marine Sargent continued to led Bradshaw across the garden, near one of the trees something orange and black moved in the same direction. Bradshaw was escorted up the granite steps and into the shade of the orangery at the rear. A man was sitting at a large, oak table while a woman could be made out inspecting some tropical tree.

"Ambassador Bradshaw, may I present Lord Astbury, General Ambassador to the Commonwealth..."

The man rose and smiled, giving a short bow..."So glad of you to come, Mr. I mean Abassador Bradshaw....may I introduce Baroness Winton, the second ranking Alconian on staff." The woman, and her beauty came out from behind a palm. "Jones, the tea if you would...please sit, sit everyone this is not a formal occasion..."

Bradsworth, in a newly stitched, government-expense Agrigentian business suit, still couldn’t help but feel slightly out place in the Alconan embassy.

He returned Astbury’s bow, though it might have been considered slightly more choppy than the Alconan’s, either through intention or lack of practice. “A pleasure, m’lord.” He turned to the beautiful Baroness and bowed the same way with only the slightest signs of hesitation before taking a seat. “Also a pleasure, Baroness Winton.”

The Ambassador leaned back for a moment and then decided on a strategy. “Mr. Bradshaw, let me congratulate you on your recent rise in your government. I hope that you show excellence in doing your duty to your nation in your new capacity as you have in your speeches. Which brings me to my first reason for asking you here.” He shifts forward and looks squarely at the young man, “Some recent reports has caused the government of the Dual Duchy and the entire Federated Klatchian Coast to desire a better understanding of your political beliefs. Specifically, what have you been advocating in your speeches? “

The woman appeared to be equally at unease in the situation. But brightened when something came from around a large planter in the garden. It was the tiger who looked at everyone with large, red eyes. It stopped and stared at them all and then moved up towards them with almost no haste.

A woman in a maid's uniform, and a man in a butler's uniform appeard from somewhere within the bushes and approached. The maid carried a tea set and the butler carried a large wooden box.

“Uh, I beg your pardon, m’lord - it’s Bradsworth,” said the young Shieldian cautiously after the third time Lord Astbury had called him ‘Bradshaw.’ He didn’t want to sound rude, but also didn’t want to go down in any official records with the wrong name.

“To answer your question, I don’t really consider my speeches to be poltitical, not in the traditional sense of the word.” Bradsworth paused, then smiled. “Let me see if I can phrase that better: since the forging of the Empire, the common man of the Shield has trusted in his lord to care for him, and returned that care with labor.

“Over the past century or so, as the Empire has industrialized, the trust the common man placed in the aristocracy has been betrayed. One by one, the great estates have been moved from the country to the city; the man of the earth has become just another cog in their great machines of industry. The change has been gradual - so gradual most didn’t even notice it - but now the farmer finds himself a steel mill worker and the shepherd toils in an assembly line.”

Bradsworth clasped his hands together. “Many - no, most - of my friends and neighbors didn’t even realize they were being exploited. I simply took to the street corner in the hopes of educating them.”

OOC: My fault...somehow keep thinking of Terry Bradshaw for some odd reason...

IC: "Ah, see a very large confusion I see...IID has apparently even gotten your name wrong, Mr. Bradsworth." He stopped and nodded as the table was set for tea. The butler proffered the box to the Lord and he just smiled, a very pasted on smile as he opened the box. "Now would you like to have the Winton house blend with myself and the Baroness or would you prefer Black Cawhaba, Red Thuria, or Green Marlspike?"

Ann leaned forward slightly, "How are they being exploited?" She asked her question as the tiger began to snuggle against her leg. Without thought, her hand dropped to pett the creature.

The staff attempted to move around the tiger, who was obviously a hinderance to the setting of both the tea cups and the silver implements. But really took no notice of him.

OOC: My fault...somehow keep thinking of Terry Bradshaw for some odd reason...

((ooc: I’m at least fairly certain Bradsworth should be insulted ;)))

“That’s quite all right, Your Excellency,” said Bradsworth. He wasn’t sure which title - ambassador or Lord - took precedence in Alconan society, so he decided to cover all the bases he could. At the tea question, Bradsworth smiled back and assured him that Winton House blend, if it came so highly recommended, was perfect.

Bradsworth had also just noticed the tiger. It was slightly unnerving, but if he intended to cross swords with the Javin Katanas (pun fully intended), Earl Nivens, Roberto DiPartenzas, and Sir Talfryn Cheesmans of the world, he couldn’t be put off by something so comparably urbane as a pet tiger.

“Well, m’lady,” he said to Baroness Winton, “their traditional way of life has been utterly destroyed. Iansisle wasn’t always a forest of smokestacks and smelters; once upon a time, it’s people lived simply off the land, and happily at that.” Bradsworth shrugged. “But ever since steam power was discovered, they have been drug off their plots and forced to feed the fires of industry. No one may have put a gun to their head, but that’s only because they didn’t need to.

“These industrialists - most of whom disgustingly come from those same lords who pledged to safeguard their subject’s best interests - have raped and pillaged our beautiful land in the pursuit of wealth. Our government has let them do it; now its up to the people to put right what is wrong.”

OOC: He's a member of the Adel...feel insulted...that is what they do best...that and get political appointments with few, if any, merits.
However, the Baroness is a Peer so actually has both more social and political clout in any other situation, except for when said Adel is an Ambassador (even a general one).

The Baroness turned, not to the Ambassador but the butler. "Ah Jamison, did my family drag you off your farm lands and into the sweaty labor force of an industrialized nation?"

The butler raised an eyebrow as the Ambassador stopped for a split second in the middle of dooling tea from a large glass container in the center of the box into the tea infuser. He then restarted but seemed to be looking for support somewhere...anywhere. Only the maid had vanished...

Jamison, gave a cough as the Ambassador stopped filling the tea infuser and returned the silver spoon to the box. "Ah, no My Lady in Alconian society the opposite was true. The peers were very reluctant to give up their serfs to work in factories rather than on the land. Unfortunatly for them a small radical group alligned with the merchants and forced through the Vaux Land Reform Acts..."

She ended the statment, "That effectively ended the existance of serfs outside of the Vaux themselves, allowing for more workers to find new jobs in the cities with more pay and shorter working hours. And forcing the mechanization of farming at an accelerated pace. Yes...and let me guess your from a Uplands Family."

"No, my family didn't imigrate until 1865, well after the Vaux laws were passed...."

The Ambassador was attempting not to fume, but was having difficulty..."Could we get back to the matter at hand, please."

He returned his attention to his guest, trying to smile even though he had a strong desire to be commiting Peercide.
"Now I must say that the question that sits on peoples tounges will be how Ambassador Bradworth? Shall your nation adopt, socialism?" He said the word with a cold icyness to it. The Baroness looked a bit stunned at the suggestion...

Jamison had been expecting it.

“I can see, Baroness, that despite all attempts to draw parallels, there was some difference between the industrialization of your own country and that of the Shield,” said Bradsworth, almost conversationally. “You see, serfdom was dealt a premature death blow in Iansisle with the reforms of Michael II of Shadoran and Alexander VI of Wyclyfe. As such, the landed gentry still maintained vast estates, but were forced to keep their capital somewhat more liquid than in less enlightened nations.

“When the spice routes to Gallaga opened up in the early seventeenth century,” he continued, “it was the great houses of Shadoran and Weshield that provided the venture for trading and exploration missions.” Bradsworth shrugged. “The aristocracy, especially so as a true ‘House of Lords’ failed to emerge in domestic politics, shared many of the qualities of what was called the ‘bourgeois’ in other countries, with several notable exceptions. Naturally, a strong class of traders and professionals did emerge, but never to the same extent as in western Europe. There’ve been thousands of books written speculating why the Iansislean gentry didn’t give completely in to the pressures of a growing middle class, and I won’t discredit them by continuing to present their arguments.”

“As for your question, m’lord, I advocate taking whatever steps are needed to bring about an end to tyranny - both by the corporations and their governmental stooges - on the Shield. If socialism, even full-fledged Marxism, is the answer, then so be it.”

"Hmm, the Duchy of Alcona had been a colony. It was the rise of the desire for cheap manufactured goods and a source of ready iron and copper etc. on the island that led to the industrial revolution begining early in our history, more than most islands of the Dark Sea. And the presures of population growth on an island nation. I should point out that I would be considered an industrialist by your definitions" Ann smiled. "Yet I was born so poor that church mice gave me charity."

The ambassador interupted..."Hmm, yes thank you Baroness Winton..."
"Now I must make one point clear Mr. Ambassador my government has had a very bad experience with the teachings of Maxism and socialism. And the general opinoin is that in any situation where there is a monopoly of control, those who guide it and run it become corrupt, more desiring their own pleasure and power than the peoples welfare. The Kingdom of Hubris decided to embrace the fruits of socialism, only to discover a new nobility no better than the one they replaced. Just having the new title, 'the party'. As such, I hope you spend more time studing the problems that other nations have faced in their reform efforts...and perhaps find the best system for your nation."

He stops and considers things for a moment. "I may not be a great man, Mr Bradworth. But I do know one thing, people are going to need a leader. Your concern for their welfare is touching and will likely lead you to being that leader, you must not allow yourself or them be lured by the false promises of idled minded utopists."

He begins to poor the tea out of the pot and takes a new tack "Now to get to the other buisness matter at hand. Recent problems between ourselves and the United Emirates Alliance has caused a significant beleif in my government that Superior Ambassadors from the Federated Klatchian Coast need to be sent to significant, multi-government alliances such as the Alliance of New Highlands. I would enquire as to what your government might feel about this idea."

((drat, drat, and triple drat!))

I’ll be sure to notify Horatio Alger, Bradsworth almost, but didn’t quite, add dryly.

He listened to Ambassador Astbury with a passive expression, sipping his tea and showing no signs of wanting to interrupt.

“I don’t really consider myself a leader, your Excellency,” he said with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “I know that the press around here has been following me about, calling me the great demagogue - and those are the kinder ones - but I simply don’t know if it’s true.” He reclined slightly in the chair and took a sip of tea. “Though, like you say, the people do need a leader. And I suppose that the only leaders who’ve ever been ‘ready’ to take the limelight were the worst tyrants.

“As for your proposal, my lord, I cannot see how the government would find a problem with it. Iansisle’s foreign policy, through several governments, has always been to consolidate old friendships and build new ones.” Bradsworth smiled. “I’m sure we’d love to have a Klatchian ambassador attached to the New Highlands, if only because it let us feel more like a ‘significant alliance’ to people other than those in it.”

(Aww, the poor little Heir...actually it isn't a Horatio Alger story but more Ops the only one left is the black sheep...but I do have an IC reason my Ambassador to do this...you will understand the next post)

The Ambassador just smiled for a moment, "Well that is good. The problem is selecting the right individual for the postion. After all we don't want to send an Ambassador who is completely incompatable with the current crop of individuals. And some obvious formalities as to embassy location and such need to be worked out."
A plate of sandwiches arrived and the Ambassador seemed to look at his watch for a moment...

"Which is why I hope that for the benift of both our nation's intrests that you Ambassador Bradsworth would be so kind to introduce Baroness Winton here to the other Ambassadors of the Alliance of New Highland and appropriate staff of the ANH. So that she might set the groundwork for the Klatchian delegation and suggest a personality profile that will best enable strong communications between the Federated Klatchian Coast and The Alliance."

He stands and gives Bradsworth a short bow. "I unfortunatly have a long distance transmission to take in a few minutes. So, I will leave you and the Baroness to work out the details..."

He walks back towards the main building. The Baroness looks to be in shock, as well as the butler who starts to pour himself some tea.

Bradsworth arched an eyebrow at the ambassador’s sudden exit, then turned his gaze back to Baroness Winton. “No small order, eh?” he asked.

“Frankly, I’m not sure I’m the man you want to be talking to about this,” he continued after receiving no response from the Baroness. “I haven’t had the chance to travel to Golden Agate yet; I can’t say have any first hand knowledge of the other representatives.” He smiled. “Of course, I have heard quite a few things about the more ... colorful members.

“As for location of embassy,” he continued, “the headquarters is going to be permanently located in Golden Agate, Larkinia. If you’d like, I can put you onto the Larkinian ambassador here in Ianapalis; I’m sure he’d be happy to address any concerns about an embassy near the Alliance Headquarters.”

Bradsworth didn’t say as much, but he sounded ready to leave.

She shakes her head free for a moment. "Sorry, just a bit of a shock really, left me gathering wool."

She looks down at the tiger..."Ah Sir Meow, how in the bloody hell did we get into this mess. I know, Noropian Hospitality...hmph."

She turns her cup for a moment and then laughs..."Ah yes, umm...well, how about this plan of action Ambassador Bradsworth? I assume that there will be a formal reception for the new New Highlands Ammbassador at the Golden Agate? If so, could a poor little, helpless Baroness of some podunk, third world country get an invite to said reception? And an introduction to the other ambassadors? After that I can charm my way to get an appointment with each of them."

She smiles and Sir Meow seems to take an intrest in the contents of the tea table.

"As for an intro to the local Larkinia Ambassador and induction would be nice." Seeing the man's behavior, the Baroness realized that the interview was completely over.

"Ah, I have a feeling that you don't really want to be hanging around a rich little brat like myself do you? Oh well, let me show you to the door, it was nice meeting you."

She rose and profered her arm...

----Upstairs----
In the shadow of his office window the Ambassador looked down on the garden and smiled evily. "You know, as things go I couldn't have worked this out better. No matter what I get rid of that annoying b*** once and for all."
A feminine voice answered back, "Eh, wat ya going on about...She seems nice enough," it came from the mouth of a local girl who had been the Ambassador's mistress for the last twelve months.
"Dear, you don't understand, she is my social superior, and my legal inferior. The whole situation was driving me bonkers. A upstart engineer who should be back fixing engines, not attempting foreign policy..."

"Then what she here for..."

"The government wanted to demonstrate that she was a complete incompetant, which is why they thrust her out here. They were hoping she would either kill a local dignitary in a dual or be killed...that hasn't happened.."

"Eh? Now what they want to do that do her fur, she seems nice enough..."

"She killed the Assistant Minister of Sanitation in a dual...he was actually quite politically conected. The family wanted blood...Now I've thrown her in with the real sharks, and attached her to a Marxist for all that..."

"What Bradsworth? he's a Marxist?"

"Yes, he is...I'm going to let that drop into the right ears soon enough...now then, why are you still dressed?"

OOC: I have no idea where you want to go with this, it appears only I have stuck around, but I'd say Bradsworth will be regretting the comment "I would support Marxism..."

Bradsworth shrugged. “I can’t see any reason why we’d try and disallow you. The New Highlands is an open bunch, from what I can gather.”

He fished a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and scribbled on it with a domestic ball-point. “Here’s the address of the Larkinian embassy here in Ianapalis. If Duke Williams isn’t there, they can put you in touch with him.”

There was just a brief second of hesitation before Bradsworth took her arm. He did not, it was worth noting, contradict what she said. Rather, he added “Thank you. I have a few things to put in order before I can relocate to Golden Agate. It has been a pleasure, however.”

((ooc: pshew! Sorry that took so long! It’s been slightly hectic around here...thank God for spring break!

Anyhow, this is about all I really wanted this thread to accomplish - a brief introduction of Bradsworth and growing discontent in certain parts of the Empire. There’ll be another thread continuing the story in a few days, probably.))

He fished a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and scribbled on it with a domestic ball-point. “Here’s the address of the Larkinian embassy here in Ianapalis. If Duke Williams isn’t there, they can put you in touch with him.”

(("Ambassador Williams is unavailable right now, he's currently getting boulders dropped on him in some god-forsaken part of Gallaga, if you would leave your name, number and message at the beep, we'll see he gets it as soon as he gets out of Dun Adien Infirmary... again ;) *beep* " )