NationStates Jolt Archive

Birmingham City Base, Birmingham Duchy, The Kingdom. (Seven Years Ago.)

Some people are walking stereotypes. Wolfram Von Marder, Captain in His Majesty's Army, looked like just such a stereotype. Tall, close-cropped hair a flaxen glitter on his skull, uniform creases sharp as razors and knee-boots you could probably eat off.
He looked like he'd just stepped of a Reich propaganda poster and as though he should be followed by a band playing Wagner.
Until he smiled, and then the Wagner was replaced with George Thoroughgood.
Because I'm bad to the bone...
Right now however, Wolfram was not smiling. Quite the opposite in fact. His blue eyes looked like chips of particularly unfriendly ice, and his face, the pinnacle of Prussian genetics, was a mask of anger and, curiously, sadness.
"So you have no idea where he's gone?"
The unlucky private he was glowering at wriggled uncomfortably. "No sir."
Wolfram's eyebrows inched upward.
"Despite the fact that he's the heir to the throne and you're supposed to know his location at all times?"
"Yes sir." The red-haired and, in her own mind, doomed private swallowed.
"Commendable." He leant back in his chair, looking at the heavily ornate ceiling of his office.
"Private, do you know why it is essential that we keep an eye on the good Captain?"
The private twitched nervously. "No sir."
Wolfram sighed. "Nevermind. Just put out an all points, check the bars. The usual places."
"The ah..." the private fished uncomfortably for words suitable for an officer.
"Yes, the whorehouses Private, I said the 'usual places' did I not?"

Officer's Quarters, Birmingham City Base.

It's cool in the linoed hallway, so Frank is comfortably asleep a few feet from the door, dreaming doggy dreams, paws waving in the air, when something heavy slams into the door. The glass rattles, and there's a muffled curse, and the scrape of someone who's hand-eye coordination is perhaps a little off, aiming his key for the lock.
The door swings open, and Frank, now fully awake, leaps forward to greet his stumbling master, who reels in, bouncing off the wall and sliding down it, the door falling closed behind him.
The master now slumped on the floor Frank is greeted with a semi-cheery "Hey mate.." and a blast of bourbony breath as his black and brown form dives for his master's lap. Thus ensconsed he sighs contentedly as his ears are ruffled.
His master looks down and smiles sadly, perhaps envying the uncomplicated cheer of his terrier.
Master, who is clad in the dress blacks of the C.A.Gs, lifts his bourbon bottle to his lips and polishes the last of it off, his head resting against the wall.
He sighs, then tugs his sleeve down and looks at his wristcom, noting without surprise the surfeit of messages.
"No rest for the wicked eh Frank?"
Frank grumbles in that traditional doggy way and shuts his eyes firmly.
A slight chuckle escapes his master.
"If only it worked like that eh. Come on muttley, push off." He pushes the terrier of his lap and rises unsteadily to his feet, the bourbon bottle left to rest on the lino. A gentle hiccup escapes the swaying soldier, who's twinned horizontal shoulder bars make him a Captain, or at least someone with Captain's insignia.
He rubs a hand across his face, glaring at it dully as his sleeve exposes his wristcom again.
"Assholes. 'm off duty. No call to be messaging a man when he's off duty." An other hiccup. "No call 't'all."
The offending piece of electronics bleeps at him, and he swears without heat, before prodding the apropriate button.
"Y'ello?"
A sigh escapes the device, and Wolfram's tired-sounding voice escapes. "Cousin, where are you?"
The young man lowers his arm, looks around carefully, noting his dog seated at his feet. Reaching a decision, he replies. "Ah...home."
An other sigh comes from his wristcom and Wolfram speaks again. "You really must stop doing this cousin. Stay put, I'm on my way round. Alright?"
The young man reaches out with the comless arm and steadys himself against the wall. "Sure Wolf...sure." He pushes off the wall, stabs the red "cancel" button on the com and stumbles further down the hall into his lounge, collapsing on the settee.
"Stereo, random play."
Gentle guitar emerges from the speakers, the slow tap of a drum before a man begins to sing.
Once divided, nothing left to subtract, some words when spoken, can't be taken back...
Captain Owen Warwick shuts his eyes and lets go of the world he's not felt like a part of for the last six months.
Walks on his own, with thoughts he can't help thinking, future's a ball, but in the past he's slow and sinking...
Frank clambers onto his sleeping master, licking the man's unhappy face with the gentle worry of a concerned pet.
Nothing Man, Nothing Man...isn't it something, Nothing Man?

Greer Family Estate, Kipling Massiv Conglomerate Factotums for Birmingham Duchy.

Edmund Greer stares out of a window frame, chewing a protuberant bottom lip, sipping from a heavy brandy glass, utterly ignoring the protestations of his niece as he glares out into the statue-haunted darkness below.
Whatever the girl was maundering about, Edmund didn't much care. His brother had spoilt the girl disgustingly, even allowed her to attend university!
He harrumphed mentally at his elder sibling's weakness, lips curling at the slow decline of the Greer fortunes.
The Greers had been the power in Birmingham since the city's foundation, the Dukes either away at Court or vacationing in the restful backwater of Withybrook.
Thus, until the war twenty odd years ago, the Greers had run Birmingham for all intents and purposes, the city and the Family synonymous.
Alas for their fortunes, Edmund's father had been a partisan of Lotho's, at least until the siege of Poitiers, where he'd been taken prisoner by, and then hanged on the orders of, Alois of Poitiers, who'd been made Duke of Birmingham after Lotho's execution.
For all that Edmund's brother had been a Crown loyalist and estranged from his father, the Greers had suffered post-war, and, with the Lavenrunzian Von Marder kinsmen of the King being gifted the city Barony, Birmingham had suffered too, the two families barely polite in public and in a state of low-grade warfare in private.
Edmund's internal rage must have shown on his face, because the girl ran down from the complaints she'd been listing to an uneasy silence.
Glaring at her, he twisted a lip.
"I don't care. Your father is dead, I am the Greer now, and I say you will attend this damn ball, aye, and find a husband too. No useless mouths, not anymore."
Green eyes flashed, but no speech escaped the bow-lips, a hand knotting itself in the straight scarlet hair which ran to to the base of elegantly-suited shoulderblades. A fierce tug of that hair.
"No argument Juliet. Leave me now."
A choked down snarl and Juliet spins on her heel.
Greer sneers after her. Spineless hussy, useless just like her damned mother.
Now, to prepare for the masque...

Officers' Quarters, Birmingham City Base.

The shower rumbles steadily, hot water blooming the air of the small bathroom into thick clouds of steam.
Owen closes his eyes, he doesn't like steam, reminds him of cloud.
And these days he really doesn't like cloud.
Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die!
Still, slumped against the shower wall the hot water's sting and the drum of the shower provide enough non-stimulus for him to, blessedly, not think.
It's like booze, but without the barfights and with wrinkling.
He knows that he'll eventually have to get out. Wolf is sitting in his lounge even now, where he's been all day. Watching Owen so the Heir doesn't take it into his head to do something...silly.
Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die!
Officially.
Unofficially...he's watching to make sure the Heir doesn't throw himself in front of a bus, just in front of a bottle. Regrettable as the choices are, it's the best one.
Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die!
Owen sighs, rubbing water-reddened hands across his face.
Just a little while longer and he can escape his cousin for the evening. Wolf will be on duty and Owen won't be, and he can be away from a world of duty and responsibility and a host of other concepts that make Owen want to puke.
And he ain't gunna jump no more!
Not from any loathing of the ideas, no, he is a Warwick, in this at least.
No, from the shame of failing those ideals.
"Sir, the weather's gone pretty ugly on us, Control've suggested we call the show off..."
Damn. There he goes, thinking about it again.
"Nonsense. We'll be fine, press on!"
Don't think. Don't feel.
"Alright sir. We should be fine anyway."
It never happened.
The worst had been the funerals. People burying their children, while he stood and spoke words of duty and honour, writhing inside.
One old lady, burying her only grandson, had taken pity on the young officer obviously so distraught over the loss of his men and, laying a gentle hand on his arm, had shaken him to his core.
"Those men were so proud of serving with you sir. Very proud."
She'd smiled uncertainly at him and he'd fled.
Had been fleeing ever since.
"Ever so proud of you sir..."

"It is the finding of this Board of Inquiry that Captain Warwick's decision to press on, despite the inclement weather, while perhaps unwise, was however, in the best tradition of His Majesty's Service in continuing forward till the objective is achieved. The accident which resulted in the devastation of Combat Assault Group 32, therefore, is merely unhappy circumstance and no blame is attendant to the Captain. Ergo, we exonerate him and urge the return of this talented young officer to duty as soon as possible."
~ Conclusion of Combined Services Board of Inquiry in the C.A.G. 32 Incident.

An other evening of Owen sitting.
Wolf runs his hands over his face and sighs. He'd had it quietly explained to him that his "duties" now consisted of keeping an eye on the Heir full-time.
"Till he snaps out of it." had been the phrasing.
So here comes Owen, eyes puffy and hair still damp from his shower, a smile lurking at shedding his watchdog.
"So coz, if I remember correctly, you're on duty this evening. I w-"
"I'm not."
Owen blinked, pushing a hand through dark hair. "Um."
"So you were saying?" Wolf smiles internally.
"Ah. um. There's a masquerade this evening. I was intending to go."
"Well, that sounds healthier than your usual round of carousing and picking fights with foreigners."
Owen's mouth tightens, but he doesn't reply, just shrugging. Wolf smiles slightly and jumps to his feet, dusting his dress pants and then grinning openly at his confounded cousin.
"Well, coz, have you got masks for us then?"
Owen scowls at Wolf's amusement, before stalking over to a bureau, reaching inside and flinging an elaborate bear's head mask at the chuckling Captain, contenting himself with a unhappy Janus-mask.
Inside, he grins a little.
Last laugh's on you Wolf, if the Greers catch you you'll get the thumping you deserve, and more.

What's love?
A feeling that whatever else happens, this is better.
What's love at first sight?
It's a glance across a crowded room, a sublimation of good sense in the moment.

Juliet Greer stands stiff and proud in the corner of her uncle's soiree, the face under her simple domino mask red with embarassment and rage, her uncle was treating her like some kind of prize filly for the love of Eru, parading disgusting old lechers past her and expecting her to smile till her face hurt.
She'd tolerated as much as she could stand, before abruptly leaving the last of the men her uncle wanted her to simper at to go and acquire a drink.
Or maybe two.
She knocked back the fluted glass of the rather inferior wine her uncle had chosen for the evening and sighed, thumping the glass down on the table she'd acquired it from.
A throat cleared behind her, and she angled her head to glare over her shoulder, ready to snap at whatever flunky of her uncle's had come to chide her. The young man standing rather stiffly behind her, face half-invisible behind a bear-mask stepped back.
"Hrm. I had intended to ask you to dance M'mselle, but from your impressive scowl and gusty sigh, I shall instead adopt a practical policy of retreat for more armour 'gainst the slings and blows of outrageous fortune." This last was accompanied by a lift of the speaker's wine glass, followed by a sharp bow, and Juliet laughed out loud, both at the good humour in the clippedly-accented voice, and in the ridiculous exuberance of the response.
"Ah, the M'mselle finds my insignificant person amusing, perhaps I shall stay a short while in the hope that anon she may dance..?"
Juliet, smiling now, reaches for an other glass. "No sir, I'm not yet so pleased with thee that I'll dance, but stay and speak and that may yet change."
A bob of the bear-mask and the sharply-but-conservatively dressed young man clinks glasses with her.
"Very well. I shall endeavour to maintain decorum in the hope of continued company, though it does fall 'pon me to ask what would drive a woman of such elegant and sculptured form to find her evening's companions so unsatisfactory?"
Juliet shrugs slim shoulders, taking a sip of her wine before replying. "The demands of family are oft o'er onerous when concentrated."
"Ah..yes, 'tis truly so." He looks back into the main body of the gala for a moment, before turning his attention back to her. "I'm actually here to supervise my idiot cousin, ensuring he makes it through the night without being stabbed by an outraged father, so the demands of family are particularly pertinent."
Juliet smiles even wider. "Troublesome cousins? Ah me, I should tell you about the troublesome brood I have."
The bear-mask tilts, and the mouth underneath grins. "Then why don't you? We've got time. All the time in the world."

Owen is bored.
Owen is also drunk.
Well, drunk by most people's standards.
By his own, he's comfortably numb and the constant background guilt-ache is quieted.
He's still bored though, throwing a bottle from one hand to the other, slumped back on a rather garish couch, Janus-mask still carefully in place.
Owen is drunk, not stupid.
The Greers would just as cheerfully cripple a member of House Warwick as House Von Marder.
In repose, head lolling back and booted feet stretched out, he stares idly up at nothing, halfway hoping for one of the disdainful looking footmen moving past to make something of his somewhat exaggerated inebriation.
Alas, the Greer footmen show disagreeable restraint, so the young officer continues his perusal of the ceiling.
Which is also ugly and rather remarkably overdone, plaster forming the House of Greer's crest around every light, geometric swirls linking the bright bulbs into an eye-watering blur.
It's confusing enough that Owen begins to feel rather nauseous, sitting up and groaning, burying his masked face in his hands.
The couch he's seated on backs onto a rather impressive aquarium, running along the middle of the room he's been lurking in, and as Owen gives serious thought to puking in it, a giggling couple drop onto the identical couches running along the other side of it.
Preoccupied with his own thoughts, it takes a few moments for Owen to realise he recognises the male voice.
Acting on this, and a desire to avoid Wolf's disdainful gaze, he slides below the aquarium's glass before realising it to be an unnecessary effort as his cousin is fully occupied with the woman he's talking animatedly too.
Thus, the heir to the Throne can safely peer at the two through the aquarium.
At first Owen is pleased, a woman is a nice distraction for his cousin from his own activities, there's some pleasure in Wolf having found someone, but mostly it's glee that ideally Von Marder will be too busy to keep an eye on Owen.
However, drunk or not, Owen's brain does work, and it cudgels at him to process what is nagging at him about the young woman.
Domino mask. Fine. The hair. Scarlet hair. Scarlet.
"Oh shit."
Owen snaps upright, just as his cousin pushes up his bear-mask to kiss the woman Owen has just realised has the once-in-a-generation Greer scarlet hair.
"Oh shit."