NationStates Jolt Archive

It was fair to say that, in the vast spectrum of international relations, the relations between the Serene Fiefdom and the Eternal Republic were not what one might call overly cordial.
That wasn't to say that they were hostile, far from it. Xirnium and Otiacicoh had never been enemies and possessed no great 'differences-of-opinion' over any of the major diplomatic issues of the day. Both wanted a peaceful international stage upon which the great nation-states of the world could act accordingly. Their's, therfore, was a common interest.

Yet the history of Xirmiumite-Otiacicohan Affairs could be summed-up on a small post-it note. It was, as follows:
1) The Eternal Republic and the Serene Fiefdom ignore one another.
2) The Serene Fiefdom invades a small, war-torn Vasconian island.
3) The Eternal Republic objects to this.
4) The Fiefdom takes offense at this and threatens not to participate in peace talks alongside the Eternal Republic, citing their undue interference.

And that was pretty much that. Well, partly, for below the diplomacy of the high political level, the press of the Fiefdom had become more critical of the Eternal Republic and, in particular, her foreign minister Lady Eléanor Sabëlinà. These criticisms were, of course, totally unfounded in most cases, but being wrong does not prevent a growth of popular cynicism, a growth which reached a head when a leading opposition politican declared, on live television, that the Eternal Republic was good only for willowy noblewomen and complicated names.
Something, therefore, had to be done. Though the people of the Fiefdom were quite some way from being anti-Xirmiumite, the newly elected Communist-Socialist Coalition (the government of fraternal unity) were able to recognise that they could not let the issue fester any longer (as the former one-party state had done), save it boiling into open xenophobia. The Fiefdom, and the Eternal Republic, shared similar goals and, to put it bluntly, the last thing the free world needed in the face of Greater Prussia and the Reich were two squabbling nations of roughly equal size.

To that end, therefore, efforts were made to ease such tensions (as they existed) and bolster good bilateral relations with a series of talks in Port Sunlight. Top of the invite list, needless to say, was Lady Eléanor Sabëlinà (partly due to the common sensical reason that it was her job, and partly out of a desire in many within the Fiefdom's Foreign Ministry to see if her ladyship's reputation was anything akin to her actual personality).

With those intentions in mind, therefore, a invitation was promptly despatched to Naèräth. Hopefully, thought the government of Trevor Macmillan, they would accept. If not, then it was surely a sign that relations were much worse than originally predicted, and that no amount of talking would repair them.

ooc: For S.A.L.T. please read Strategic Arms Limitation Talks. I do this because I think I am more witty than I actually am.

The aristocratic menagerie and pheasantry at Andaúnien Palace
In the city of Värdlingén, located in the east of the Eternal Republic

When one thinks of the weather in Xirnium, even during the milder months, one immediately calls to mind the image of darkened clouds and freezing rain, howling wind and icy sleet. Although not unfair, this stereotype was not correct today. Chilly it was, and also blustery, after a fashion. Indeed, earlier that day the mournful keening of the early spring wind had wailed at windows and trilled piercingly at every cold gust, a frightening, disconsolate plaint. Even so, it was not currently unpleasant, for the wind had since transformed into a gentle, rather invigorating breeze, and even the feeble sun ventured to peek out from behind overcast clouds.

On such a lovely morning, the aristocratic menagerie in the park of Andaúnien succeeded in drawing quite a large number of elegantly clad visitors from throughout the coastal port metropolis of Värdlingén. Constructed sometime during the seventeenth century in a distinctly baroque style, the main elements of the pleasure complex consisted of two dozen different enclosures with equally sized animal houses arranged in a quaint, circular layout. At the centre of the facility stood a fancifully airy and light, octagonally designed pavilion. Intended to serve as a breakfast room, restaurant and salon, the structure was gorgeously painted and delightfully ornamented, with a high-peaked roof in the form of a rounded cupola.

In the days which immediately followed the major statutory public holiday of the vernal equinox, something of an air of languorous pleasantness prevailed throughout the realm of the Eternal Republic. One of the coldest and most dismal winters in living memory had finally come to a formal end, and countless traditional rites and festivals had been held to mark the beginning of joyous springtime. The unusually violent storms that had visited themselves upon the southwest coast of Xirnium during the annual celebration did not appear to have particularly dampened citizens’ exuberant spirits, nor (it seemed) their wild merrymaking. Indeed, by all accounts the Xirniumites appeared to have observed the festival of seasonal renewal with typically extravagant hedonism, with the very splendour and richness that was so characteristic of the Eternal Republic.

For the countess of House Numêsalquó, the days that had followed the end of the festivities had been rather quiet and subdued, a time for thoughtful introspection. If truth be told, this sudden shift towards contemplative reflection had partly been brought about by a need to nurse an unpleasantly mild headache, although no one would ever have dared suggest that such was a product of the copious quantities of wine that Eléanor had imbibed. Even as the snow slowly melted, so faded the wonderful memories of elaborate banquets, costumed dances, lavish pageants, and spectacular masked balls. Things were gradually returning to normal.

On a day in which most were still indolently savouring the pleasant, lingering after-effects of the spring equinox festival, Countess Sabelinà fancied that she had (very nobly, in her smug opinion) returned to work. In her own special way, perhaps she had. Prime Minister Gílda had recently decided that Xirnium’s diplomatic relationship with the People’s Fiefdom must immediately be addressed, for in its present state it was quite unsatisfactory. There was, perhaps, an element of self-delusion in this analysis, for the Eternal Republic had never really had much of a relationship with Otiacicoh to speak of. Indeed, the Xirniumite haut monde had long looked upon the New World with, at best, wary scepticism. Engagement with the People’s Fiefdom was thus regarded as something of an exciting and dangerous new epoch in the Eternal Republic’s foreign policy.

Heather Gílda, for her part, cared little for the engrained misgivings of the traditional governing establishment. The more romantically inclined, insular circles of Xirnium’s fashionable society might have wished that they still lived at the end of the nineteenth century (or perhaps even the eighteenth), but the Eternal Republic’s bourgeoise prime minister entertained no such longings. With disconcerting honesty, she recognised the unpleasant truth, that the People’s Fiefdom had succeeded in actually hurting Xirnium’s prestige. Oh they might never publicly admit it, but Kaitan-Leagran had embarrassingly demonstrated just how little clout the opinion of the Xirniumite government still carried in international affairs. For a people who had once harshly been characterised by the poet Anfaúgaldriel as “shamelessly selfish, unusually jealous, and extremely haughty”, such was a bitter pill to swallow, unbecoming of their ancient country.

To call this whole situation a “crisis”, however, would have been melodramatic, and Prime Minister Gílda had never indulged the sophisticated pessimism of the Xirniumite decadents. Nonetheless, something had to be done. Fortunately, events had largely been set in motion by the Otiacicohans themselves. The first step, therefore, would be to win over their sceptics within the People’s Fiefdom.

‘One can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,’ Heather had told the countess, a statement no less accurate for being trite.

Eléanor’s task was by no means a simple one. If Otiacicoh had been little more than a single-party Communist state, the countess might not have had so great a difficulty in determining just where to begin. The Cold War had, after all, taught Xirnium precisely how to engage productively with the proponents of Marxism-Leninism. The People’s Fiefdom was something more, though; at least, to Eléanor. Despite the distinctly European political ideology of its Communist government, Otiacicoh was unmistakably a New World nation, home to a rich, ancient civilisation that was both alien and strange to Countess Sabelinà. Angus Cozcacuauhtli had described the vast gulfs that existed between Xirniumite and Otiacicohan culture, his statements had not wholly been without merit.

‘Now what was it you said they call this strange beast, dearest sister?’ asked Eléanor Sabelinà, her voice refined and very soft. The countess’ delicately fair, patrician features frowned somewhat as she peered at a curiously long necked, small headed, and pale brown animal.

‘That, I think, is a guanaco, Eléanor. A wild mammal similar to the domestic llama,’ explained a smiling Lúcillia, her wonderfully pleasant sounding, continental lilt shaded with a charmingly affected, knowledgeable air.

‘What an ugly brute,’ observed the countess, momentarily quite fascinated by the exotic creature. Lúcillia giggled in agreement.

‘Oh careful, sister. Apparently they spit when annoyed,’ warned the younger sibling, doing her best to suppress an amused smile.

Eléanor took a rather concerned step back from the enclosure. ‘How odious. Do they really spit, Lúcillia? What an absolutely vile habit. And you say these repulsive creatures are to be found in Otiacicoh?’

‘Well… they are common enough to South America,’ replied Lúcillia evasively, shrugging her slender shoulders rather than choosing to admit, to the sister whom she so desperately admired, that she didn’t really know. ‘What does your book say on the matter?’

In her aristocratic, fair-skinned hands, Eléanor held a splendid, early sixteenth century codex, which detailed what little had been known of the Otiacicohian island in the great centres of European learning towards the end of the Renaissance. The ancient manuscript was something of an anachronism (elegantly handwritten the better part of a century after the advent of printing in Xirnium) and had been painstakingly produced at one of the very last of the great commercial scriptoria in the Xirniumite realm. Handsomely bound in fine, decorated morocco leather of a dark burgundy colour, its cover sported attractive embossed block ornaments and lovely gilt edges and type. A thousand pages of fine vellum parchment were exquisitely adorned with silver and gold leaf, vivid ink colours, and elaborate pictures and designs. Beautiful paintings illustrated the text on many of its pages, and florid decorations embellished initial capital letters and populated borders and margins.

Written in a northern, black letter variety of book hand, the manuscript’s stylishly ornate, serifed style of lettering was written in ancient High Xirnian, a tongue that few today but Xirnium’s nobles could fluently read. The svelte countess looked somewhat comical holding the massive codex, whose spine was about a foot in length. Why Eléanor had chosen to take such a dusty tome from the vast collection of Castle Vargaüránd’s ancient libraries, only the countess could ever tell. Lúcillia, for one, had not even the faintest idea.

‘Let me check,’ murmured the countess, as absentmindedly she licked her thumb and turned a leaf. Since nothing relevant chose to jump out at Eléanor after flicking through several pages, the noblewoman quickly decided that the answer would likely not be forthcoming, and abandoned the search.

‘Well?’ asked Lúcillia expectantly.

‘Never mind. It’s not important, anyway.’

The countess’ sister smiled at this and turned back to the guanaco. It certainly wasn’t that Lúcillia objected to coming here. In fact, the young aristocrat thought it rather a pleasant day to visit a menagerie, and in any case she always delighted in Eléanor’s company. No, Lúcillia merely doubted the supposed benefit that her elder sister (presumably) expected to derive from it. Eléanor, for her own part, had only used the pretext of “research for the upcoming visit to Otiachicoh” as a convenient excuse to leave Naèräth, so any question of benefit was purely academic.

‘Pray put down that book, lovely sister. You look a wan, worn out creature,’ spoke Lúcillia after a while, noticing Eléanor now studying a rather antique looking, botanical map of the island. ‘What is it that torments you? Surely they can’t be that bad.’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Countess Sabelinà with a weak smile, turning towards Lúcillia with that special look in her moistened eyes that she reserved for her sibling, one that conveyed the most fervent sisterly affection. ‘Although… well the newspapers in Otiacicoh have been rather hostile towards the Eternal Republic in wake of that sorid Kaitan-Leagran affair.’

‘And particularly cruel to you, dear sister,’ frowned Lúcillia, concern darkening her lovely countenance.

Eléanor waved a slender hand dismissively. ‘Their baseless criticisms mean nothing to me.’

Lúcillia certainly didn’t doubt the depth of her sister’s stoic fortitude. To the young noblewoman, infatuated by the myth of her elder sibling, Eléanor loomed larger than life. She was the consummate politician, utterly flawless and entirely beyond reproach. Nonetheless, any criticism of Lúcillia’s elder sister immediately engendered a passionately protective response in the young noblewoman.

‘Am I given to understand that this will be an important visit?’ asked Lúcillia, absentmindedly brushing out of the way a stray tress of golden auburn hair.

‘Heather appears to thinks so,’ said Eléanor, and there might just have been the tiniest hint of a sneer at the mention of the prime minister. An intimate friend she might be, but her position always reminded the countess of the rather disagreeable fact that it was the haute bourgeoisie that governed Xirnium now, not the beau monde.

‘I wonder what they shall make of one of our “willowy noblewomen” in the flesh,’ mused Lúcillia.

‘I suppose that we will soon find out,’ replied Eléanor with a grave smile. ‘Anyway, let us not forget that it is they who are courting us. That itself is most encouraging.’

‘Why? Because the Lady Eldabêth is much too arrogant to ever be first to extend an olive branch?’ teased Lúcillia.

‘I always grieve whenever you speak of our beloved Motherland so cruelly, sister,’ murmured Eléanor in a bantering tone.

Lúcillia fondly hugged her elder sibling, and together they walked back to the elegant garden pavilion. Luncheon would soon be served.

The Palace of the People (a name whose irony never failed to amuse foreign tourists) was a very different place from Andaúnien Palace.
It was constructed, after all, in a style of Communist brutalism that (officially) signalled the supposed destruction of the very values that the countess of House Numêsalquó stood for. In reality, of course, it demonstrated the genuine lack of capital that had afflicted the project, and the nation, during its construction in the early 1970s. The prefabricated concrete blocks, as a consequence, possessed the singular ability to make the building insufferably hot during summer and freezing cold in winter. It was not; therefore, a pleasant building to work in, and thus a thought must be spared for the Macmillan-Hoogaboom family that was forced to live there.

The room in which Trevor Macmillan sat was particularly unpleasant. He had inherited the office from his uncle and had, at first, admired the view across Karl Marx Square and the capital. He had duly had the place cleaned, removing the associated fifty years of clutter that his uncle had left, and made the room more fitting for the man who now occupied it. Matters proceeded pleasantly enough until the sun emerged in mid-April and, as a consequence, the room assumed the characteristics of an oven. Even with the window wide open, the Cihuacoatl positively baked. Such a stinking heat was not helped by the presence of the Ahexotl Michin who now added to the already repressive atmosphere by producing a fug of cigar smoke.

"...and, of course, we're still watching the Graves expedition hearing in Pantocratoria. What's our line on that, if anyone asks?" said the Foreign Minister as he read through the notes prepared by his department.

The Cihuacoatl was, however, lost in an entirely private world. The heat of the room, and the fact that the Foreign Minister was the last meeting of the day, conspired to make Macmillan exceedingly sleepy. Only the rising nausea from the cigar smoke succeeded in keeping him awake.

"Comrade Cihuacoatl," said the minister leaning forward, "Graves? The trial?"

"Oh yes, yes," said Macmillan, shaking his head slightly and forcing his thoughts to the business at hand, "The extradition. Well we respect the workings of the Pantocratorian judicial system and shall respect any result that is reached, as (in fact) we expect all other nations so to do."

"I see," said Michin scribbling the comment on the report in pencil, "Well I think that is just about everything, Comrade. If there is nothing else then I have a speaking engagement at the Calmecac of Xipe Totec that I must prepare for."

"No no," said the Cihuacoatl with a weary wave, prompting Michin to begin to rise to his feet before being interrupted, "Actually, no. What's the current status of the Xirmiumite visit? I've not heard an awful lot about it for quite some time."

"The Xiriumites?" said the Minister, retaking his seat and flicking through his papers, "Umm, well, oh hear it is. Yes, they seemed rather sympathetic to the idea, not that they would confess it publicly."

"Yes," said Macmillan, "Xirnium would not dare approach you, one must approach Xirnium. A somewhat dated view of the world methinks."

"Well," said the Foreign Minister taking a large draw from his cigar, "The Eternal Republic is nothing if not idiosyncratic."

"Quite so, quite so," concurred the Cihuacoatl.

"Yes," said Michin, returning to his notes, "Her Ladyship, the Countess Sabëlinà, will be in attendance."

"And what have the Press said about that?"

Michin sighed internally at his superior's question. Now, admittedly, the Foreign Minister was hardly one to talk about the rigours of elected office. He had gained prominence in during the One-Party State days in pretty much the same manner that any 'politician' did so during that period, by being unquestioningly loyal and being prepared to debase oneself to sycophancy. He was, in many respects therefore, more a civil servant than a politician and treated his continuing ministerial portfolio, and his constituents, as though he was still operating in 1997 and not 2007. That said, even Michin recognised that Macmillan was not entirely suited to the top post. He, after all, should have known what the press said. That was his job as much as Michin's. But being the nephew of such a shrewd political operator as Noel Hoogaboom did not guarantee that such Machiavellian skills would also be the preserve of Trevor Macmillan. Some commented, rather unfairly, that the Dear Leader's nephew was more suited to the academia from which he originated. But, hoped Michin, there was every hope that the Cihuacoatl would grow into the role. And, besides, the Communist Party was just as hereditary as House Numêsalquó and none could challenge the dominance of the Macmillan Family.

"Mixed," said the Foreign Minister eventually, "Some of the more 'high-brow' publications have been rather supportive. The more 'popular' newspapers...less so. I'm afraid that the Lady Sabëlinà is still a rather popular figure of fun. Or satire, if you will."

"Do you have any examples?"

"Let me check," the Minister searched through his papers, "Yes, my staff cut this out of the last Friday's Voice of the Worker."

Michin passed the cartoon to Macmillan, who regarded it with a disdainful eye. It was the popular 'Freddy and Apanacat' cartoon, which chronicled the misadventures of Apanacat, a wise-cracking Aztec peasant, and a cartoon version of Frederick Engels, the co-founder of Communism (the reasons for this were never fully disclosed). The cartoon was simple enough, with 'Freddy' Engels drinking a cup of octli and, when his friend jumps out at him, proceeds to spill his drink over a nearby woman who (surprise surprise) is Lady Sabëlinà. Sabëlinà, enraged that her dress has been spoiled by 'you bumptious little oiks', proceeds to chase the pair into the clothing section of a department. Frederick collides with a mannequin and, via the laws of cartoons, promptly finds himself in a dress with a long blonde wig. This, of course, was in order that an unsubtle reference might be made to the Countess' supposed preference for ladies as opposed to gentlemen. Despite the prominent beard, her Ladyship mistook Engels for a Venus-like beauty and, only when Apanacat distracted her Ladyship with a large mirror, could the pair escape and scramble up a tree.
'So we see,' said Engels in the final panel, 'The bourgeois fetish with capital.'
'More like the Xirmiumite fetish for being a crazy!' responds his friend.

"Umm," said Macmillan, "Not particularly tasteful or funny."

"Well," said Michin after another puff of cigar smoke, "Oticicohans like to see themselves as a warrior peoples. Insult them in the midst of a military operation, and they'll not be particularly happy."

"The statement, as I recall," Pondered the Cihuacoatl, "Was issued by Lady High Protectress Seriendé, not the government."

"Facts," said the Foreign Minister, "Have never really bothered the tabloids, let alone their cartoonists."

"Yes, well," spluttered Macmillan, "We must see that this visit goes well, to dispel such allusions. Carry on with all necessary preparations, Comrade."

"Yes Comrade," said Michin, once again gathering his papers and rising from his chair, "I shall be in contact if anything happens on the Graves matter."

"Ah, very good."

Michin made his way to the door, pausing as he laid his hand on the handle.

"Oh," he said in a overly-theatrical exclamation, "I forgot to mention Comrade Cihuacoatl. The Xirmiumites have requested that they arrive by air."

"Of course," said Macmillan, "I thought we took it as 'accepted' that they would come by aeroplane?"

"Oh no," said Michin with a wink, "They're coming by airship. Good day Comrade."

Michin was able to hear a 'Good grief!' as he shut the door behind him and entered the relative coolness of the corridor.

It wasn’t just Otiacicohan satirists who were weighing in on Eleanor Sabëlinà’s proposed visit to their island. Certain Amestrian newspapers took the opportunity to poke fun as well. Particularly Le Figaro (The Barber), a major center-right newspaper that was aligned with the Centralist Party, generally supportive of President Liscel, and intensely nationalistic.

Le Figaro was in fact owned by Nicolas Coty, a prominent Centralist Party Departmental Councilor, Regional Councilor, and Parliamentarian. His eldest daughter, Mélissa Coty, was a Departmental Councilor for the Hunting, Fishing, Nature, and Traditions Party, and rumor had it that she was going to be appointed a Mayor in the near future. It was constantly debated how much of Le Figaro’s editorial line represented the views of its owner, how much of it represented the views of the government, and how much of it coalesced. For his part, Monsieur Coty did little to illuminate the newspapers inner workings, merely repeating from time to time that “newspaper editorials [had] a duty to promulgate healthy ideas” and that “Radical, Socialist, and Communist ideas are not healthy ideas.”

One of the paper’s “healthy ideas” was a black and white two panel editorial cartoon. The first panel featured President Kasumi Liscel and a happy, content, well fed, thick tusked boar. President Liscel cheerfully inspected the hog, all the while chatting with his good natured petit propriétaires owners. A large scale was nearby, apparently for weighing the pig. Off in distance stood a haughty looking Minister Sabëlinà dressed up in the full splendor of the Xirniumite beau monde, looking down her nose at the Amestrian President. “Disgusting…” the Xirniumite Countess sneered.

The caption read: Minister Sabëlinà Does Not Approve of Those Who Attend ‘Pig Weighing Contests,’

The second panel showed Eleanor Sabëlinà visiting a pigsty. Within the pigsty was a village populated by numerous horrid, thin, boney, filthy, buck toothed, wide eyed swine; miserable creatures that danced around waving spears and antique rifles. They wore drab tattered clothing, though the supposed leaders were dressed a little better and one even sported a battered and tarnished feather crown. Most of the pigs shouted jeers or made faces at their visitor, and some of them whimsically pelted her with globs of mud and excrement. Sabëlinà’s hair was dirty and mussed, her good clothes filthy and ruined. Despite such abuse she smiled and shook one of the leader pig’s hooves. “Sorry about the Kaitan-Leagran misunderstanding,” she mumbled. In the mud of the pigsty the word Otiacicoh was clearly spelled out.

The second caption read: For Minister Sabëlinà Prefers to Treat with Pigs on Equal Terms.


A one panel black and white cartoon satirizing the Xirniumite Foreign Minister also appeared in Nord-Ouest-Amestria, a significant Northwestern regional paper. In it Minister Sabëlinà was shown arriving home with a very unpleasant, cartoonishly drawn scowl on her face. As she entered the house she violently kicked a cute little dog that had to the misfortune of being tied to a table right besides the front door (apparently it was tied there for the sole purpose being kicked). Through the door the welcome mat could just be seen, it said: GO AWAY!

The caption read: Eleanor Sabëlinà returns home from a pleasant day at work.

If the Otiacicohan Press felt offended that Le Figaro had branded themselves, and their nation, as akin to semi-intelligent swine then (for the first week or so) no indication was given. Indeed, many international observers simply concluded that no one in the Fiefdom must have read Le Figaro, for such a slight to go un-noticed was exceedingly bizarre. The silence, said some, was positively deafening.

That was, until, an educational supplement in a well-known newspaper finally broke the silence.

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Education and Learning

Nations of the World

Altanar: The Constitutional Monarchy of Altanar is a massive, safe nation, renowned for its compulsory military service. Its compassionate, hard-working population of 1.328 billion have some civil rights, but not too many, enjoy the freedom to spend their money however they like, to a point, and take part in free and open elections, although not too often. It is bordered by Riverhills and The Violet Crown, and is ruled by King Aelkyn.

Ambrella: The Republic of Ambrella was recognized as an independent nation inside Ohio in 1996 by the United States of America. It is known as a vacationing spot for conservative Americans, and its borders are the former borders of Montgomery and Greene counties in what used to be part of Ohio. The second, and current, President is Michael Anthony Pitt, Sr.

Amestria: An area of little or no interest.

Amidonia: The United Islands of Amidonia is nation made up of a series of islands located in the northern International Democratic Union (IDU). The nation is mostly known for its citizens who have a compassion for others, great sense of patriotism, and leading intelligence. The population enjoys a great number of civil rights and political freedoms along with a prosperous and powerful economy. Industry is focused on information technologies which supplies to many nations around the world.

Continued on page 4

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Cartoon from The Chronicler Newspaper, Wednesday 30th May, 2007

It didn’t take long for Le Figaro’s editorial section to celebrate what it considered an official reaction from the Otiacicohan government with a multi-panel black and white editorial cartoon featuring The Barber, a character who symbolically represented the newspaper itself.

The first panel set the scene, a friendly small town neighborhood barbershop. The shop was empty except for the gentlemanly mustachioed Barber and a lone male Customer, who sat in the chair getting a trim. Suddenly a horrid, thin, boney, muddy, buck toothed, wide eyed, poorly dressed Otiacicohan swine creature burst into the barber shop. It was weeping uncontrollably. Upon catching its breath, it pointed a dirty hoof at the Barber and his Customer.

Swine-Boy: I may be a pig (sob) and live in a filthy sty, but your country’s not interesting! (sniff) So there (choke)!

The pig then turned, sobbing with tears rolling down its almost skeletal cheeks, and fled the barber shop. The Barber and his Customer looked at each other.

Customer: What was all that about?

The Barber: It seems to have been an attempt at an insult.

The Barber returned to leisurely cutting the Customers hair.

Customer: ‘Attempt’ is the key word, it wasn’t very good.

The Barber: And definitely not funny.

Customer: Yeah… That was the best it could come up with?

The Barber: It was an Otiacicoh Communist Pig, they aren’t really creative.

Needless to say, the second cartoon did not go unnoticed...
_________________________________________________________________________________

11:14 31.05.07
To: Oliverp@pravda.otic
cc:
From: Coszcatlt@pravda.otic

Hey Olly,

Don't know if you've seen the foreign papers from yesterday, but it looks like Amestria has responded. Do you want me to have something drawn up in reply?

Ta,
Coszcatl

________________________________________________________________

13:28 31.05.07
To: Coszcatlt@pravda.otic
cc:
From: Oliverp@pravda.otic

Hi Cosz, yeah I saw what they came up with. What is it with Amestrians and animals? Xipilli from the Foreign Affairs desk says that you can't get elected there unless you're willing to fondle a cow's arse at some god-awful farmer's fair.
But it seems as though they got the wrong end of the stick. We weren't saying that Amestria is boring (which I'm sure it is) but that, in the eyes of the editorial team, it's a non-country.
Now, happy though I am that staff at The Barber have sufficient time to think up stuff like this, I don't. And we don't respond to non-countries.

Hope that helps,
Olly

________________________________________________________________

14:47 31.05.07
To: Oliverp@pravda.otic
cc:
From: Coszcatlt@pravda.otic

Yeah, thanks.
I'm not complaining, less stuff for me to do :D
Cosz

Like some vast, silver albatross, a diplomatic Xirniumite jet aircraft soared gracefully above the Atlantic Ocean, at an altitude almost sixteen kilometres above the sea. The sleek aircraft was one of a newly purchased fleet of quieter, greener aeroplanes, built with advanced carbon composites for increased lightness and fuel efficiency. Representing the public’s newfound desire for an eco-friendly and environmentally sustainable aviation industry, it embodied fashionable modern attitudes and concerns.

Inside its luxurious interior, the cabin lighting had been dimmed to simulate night-time. Eléanor had found it impossible to sleep, however, and since she could not, the Countess seemed intent to make sure that none of her staff could either.

As a humble instrument of the public’s will, each member of the Xirniumite Government was possessed of an impressive number of dazzling personal qualities. Unimpeachable integrity and devotion to the motherland, intellectual brilliance and loyalty to the people, altruistic compassion and generosity of spirit. Fearlessness, too, was one of those essential civic virtues that a Xirniumite politician must possess. Indeed, one could scarcely imagine a more courageous individual than a Minister of Cabinet. There were, however, two words in the English language that could strike terror into the very hearts of even these the most stalwart champions of parliamentary democracy. Cabinet reshuffle.

‘It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Eléanor said, absentmindedly tapping her signet ring against the cabin window as she reclined languidly in her gilt leather upholstered seat.

‘Quite so, Minister,’ agreed Lord Vórtimer Naúderthorn, Permanent Under-Secretary of State in the Foreign Ministry.

A gentleman in his early fifties, Vórtimer was of at best average height, with a narrow, pale face inclined to wear a supercilious expression, a somewhat beaked nose, a receding hairline, and a long, narrow chin. His eyes were grey with drooping lids, but clever and possessing a trace of hardness.

‘I mean, it was original, imaginative… bold,’ the Countess went on, sighing as she picked up a glass of sherry.

‘Indeed, Minister,’ nodded the permanent secretary.

‘Truly, I haven’t the faintest idea why Heather reacted so badly to it,’ Eléanor sighed. ‘You’d have thought it was some kind of vulgar stunt or an extravagant waste of money.’

‘Both actually, Minister,’ said Vórtimer.

‘Pardon?’ asked Eléanor.

‘I mean, very likely the Prime Minister felt your proposal was both a vulgar stunt and an extravagant waste of money,’ the permanent secretary clarified.

‘Ah,’ replied the Countess, musing thoughtfully. ‘You didn’t like it either?’

‘Well of course I liked it, Minister,’ explained Vórtimer. ‘It’s just that an airship might have seemed too eccentric or peculiar for the Otiacicohans. This is supposed to be a serious visit, not a farce.’

‘Mm, yes,’ agreed Eléanor. ‘Well, they visited Pantocratoria in a decommissioned battleship. Anyway, it was only an idea. How long until we arrive in Port Sunlight?’

‘Several hours, Minister,’ explained the Countess’ private secretary.

‘Have you read what the papers are saying?’ asked Eléanor.

‘Oh, Minister, surely you don’t take any notice of what is said in the tabloids?’ Vórtimer asked with a smile.

‘“Your ladyship must prepare for the rigours of modern democracy...”’ the Countess read from an Otiacicohan paper, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

‘A little harmless fun, surely?’ asked the permanent secretary.

‘It’s hypocrisy, Vórtimer, not fun,’ replied Eléanor as she lit a cigarette. ‘The Otiacicohans simper and stumble about in a foolish, sycophantic effort to ingratiate themselves with Pantocratorian royals, they fawn over their Communist Party overlords, and yet they poke fun at a democratically elected foreign politician.’

‘I beg you, Minister, not to refer to “Communist Party overlords” during your visit,’ the permanent secretary said.

Eléanor waved a slender hand unconcernedly.

‘I don’t understand this one,’ she said, pointing to a rather tasteless cartoon that showed the Countess swooning over a man in drag.

‘Slapstick is a staple comedy of the vulgar masses,’ remarked Vórtimer with a shrug. ‘There is never really any intelligent meaning behind it.’

‘And it seems that the Amestrian newspapers have waded in on this matter as well,’ Eléanor noted, pulling a number of press clippings from a folder.

‘Yes, I noticed that as well, Minister,’ said the permanent secretary.

‘“Minister Sabelinà prefers to treat with pigs on equal terms?”’ read the Countess, raising a slender eyebrow.

‘The pigs are supposed to be the Otiacicohans, Minister,’ explained Vórtimer with a helpful smile.

‘Yes, I know that,’ Eléanor snapped. ‘What I really want to know is why the Otiacicohans are such unpopular figures in Amestria. See, there are other cartoons disparaging them here,’ the Foreign Minister pointed out.

‘My understanding is that those are in response to a perceived slight against Amestria in the Otiacicohan press,’ Vórtimer explained.

‘I wish our press was so fervently nationalistic,’ Eléanor grumbled darkly. ‘I’ve never seen them defending me. Still, I suppose it could be worse, at least the media is focusing on someone else for a change. The Ministry of Defence is in a lot of trouble over that business of buying avionics upgrades for jet fighters it had already scrapped.’

‘Quite the scandal, Minister,’ agreed Vórtimer with a nod. ‘Word is that the Defence Minister will be sacked, although really it was his predecessor who was really responsible for the whole sordid farce.’

‘Have you heard anything about me?’ asked Eléanor with a frown.

‘Well nothing really,’ the permanent secretary said. ‘Of course, as Foreign Minister you are perhaps the one person who can’t safely be replaced, so I’m sure you needn’t worry too much. Even after that airship idea.’

****

If media observers had perhaps expected the Foreign Minister to dress down slightly after the Otiacicohan tabloids had accused her of vanity they were gravely mistaken. Emerging from the aeroplane to glide quickly down its steps, she looked quite enchanting in a pearlescent, pale pink gown in chiffon and silk trimmed with inky black lace. The heat was far more oppressive than Eléanor had expected, and although she put on a brave face the Countess sweltered in her narrow, ruffled stays and impractically long skirts.

The countess of House Numêsalquó was a lady of many different vices. Most of these habits she made not the slightest attempt to hide, at least not amongst her intimate friends and confidants. Some vices, however, are unforgivable or at least they seem so to the people that possess them. There was one secret in particular that Eléanor jealously guarded from others, that she shared with no one at all save her sister. It was her strange, curiously distasteful fondness for trashy daytime soap operas.

For such an elegant, refined society lady, this addiction was a particularly embarrassing one. It smacked of the middle class, of bad taste and conventionality, of uncultured banality. The head of one of the most distinguished noble families in Xirnium, someone who regularly attended the finest art galleries and theatres, a member of the Neúvenärta State Opera House’s board of governors, simply could not watch such rubbish. Or, if she did, she should never dream of admitting so. Not one to abandon a guilty pleasure, Eléanor fell in the second category.

Although she confessed to their lurid attraction, Lúcillia did not share the same partiality for soap operas that her sister did. Eléanor preferred not to miss any of the episodes of her most favourite programmes if possible, but because of her own self-consciousness on the matter she avoided ordering her servants to make sure they were recorded. Generally, the countess made her own private arrangements. Occasionally these slipped her mind, as Lúcillia was only too well aware.

‘Please, dear sister, don’t forget!’ Eléanor had said over the telephone after her flight had taken off.

This was how Lúcillia came to find herself, on the afternoon of her elder sibling’s departure, sitting in front of a shiny, silver-chrome coloured digital video recorder with a rather confused look on her pretty face. Why the manufacturers of the device should have designed a product so complicated to use the noblewoman could not imagine. No, she did not want to connect to a home network. No, she did not want to search for programmes starring certain actors or actresses. And what on Earth was a “live television buffer”?

Eventually, those pale slender fingers of hers seemed to have found and pressed all the correct buttons to make the machine do what Lúcillia wanted it to do. Hopefully, anyway, thought the noblewoman. She had remembered Forbidden Lies, Scarlet Lane, Revenge and Desire, and Two Good Sisters, counting each off on her fingers. Lúcillia hoped she hadn’t forgotten any. Apparently one of Eléanor’s soap operas was playing right now, Scarlet Lane. Curious, the noblewoman turned the television to the right channel and sat at the edge of the sofa to watch, flipping her heels off and tucking her legs underneath her as she absentmindedly smoothed her long skirts.

On the screen, an attractive young actress played a character named Horténse. Her gorgeous fair skin had the quality of pearl, and her hair, naturally wavy and flowing gracefully down her back, was flaxen gold. Although tall and elegantly slender, she possessed the loveliest of contours, the most beautiful curving lines. The noblewoman could not help but feel somewhat jealous of Horténse. Absentmindedly pushing up her pretty lace bra, Lúcillia pictured herself in profile, deciding that the actress wasn’t really that pretty.

Trembling like a frightened mouse, yet curious at what sounded like muffled cries and chairs being toppled over, Horténse made her way cautiously towards the end of the hall, a poker in her small, dainty hand. Her glossy red lips were slightly parted, quivering a little with excitement. Beginning to open the door, Horténse stopped when she noticed what was going on inside. Her large, sea-blue eyes widened with shock as she was transfixed by the scene, stunned by the sound of breathless, urgent gasps.

There was a dark mahogany table in the middle of the room. Its surface was mostly uncluttered, save that two glasses had been carelessly knocked over and lay in an expanding puddle of wine that dripped steadily onto the floorboards. A gorgeous, leggy young woman with long, raven black tresses was bent firmly over the edge of the table, leaning heavily on her unsteady elbows and grasping with her hands. Her slender long legs looked lovely in their seamed silk stockings, and her fine curved lashes lent irresistible charm to her distant, doe-eyed stare. One of her strappy, daringly high-heeled shoes had apparently come loose in the confusion. It lay discarded on the floor. Her narrow black skirt was tangled around her pretty feet, which arched in a way that compelled her to teeter on the tip of her toes.

The slim brunette was being taken energetically from behind by a handsome, tall, dark-haired gentleman. Lúcillia did not need too many hints to figure out that this man was Horténse’s husband. Horténse for her part gasped in shocked recognition when she saw him. Her hand flew to her small mouth, stifling a squeak of horror. The man, however, was still quite unaware of her. Oblivious to his wife’s presence, he had the unknown lady panting, groaning and screaming with delight.

From the jealous and resentful conversation that followed, Lúcillia eventually recognised the other lady as Eugénia, a popular and much hated character on the show. Scheming, manipulative, and spiteful, Eugénia took great pleasure in stealing the husbands of her rivals and ruining relationships. From what little Lúcillia knew, in the past year alone she had had a passionate tryst with her sister’s fiancé, seduced the wife of someone who had spurned her advances in order to exact her revenge on him, and been caught sleeping with the bridegroom during the last wedding on the show. She was regularly involved in shocking affairs and her stories always amused Eléanor.

The noblewoman found her show interrupted about twenty minutes later by the arrival of a gentleman whom she had been expecting but, between all the backstabbing, seduction, and scandalous antics of Scarlet Lane, had quite complete forgotten about. Of course, Lúcillia had given directions that the porter was to allow the eagerly awaited visitor, her mysterious new sweetheart, to come straight up to her apartments, and so here he was.

‘What are you watching?’ asked her special admirer with an amused smile as he sat next to Lúcillia, kissing the preoccupied noblewoman’s neck affectionately.

‘Hmm...? Oh, it’s nothing,’ she murmured, turning the television off with her remote control.

The gentleman raised an eyebrow at this. He soon forgot his question entirely, however, as Lúcillia kissed him on the lips and snuggled comfortably against him . It was the easiest way to put an end to the man’s inquiries.

‘So where are you taking me today?’ the noblewoman asked her admirer with a smile.

http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e221/Xirnium/Intelli7.png

VAL's cartoon
Sep 24th 2007
From The Intelligencer print edition
Illustration by Verônica Valánniel
The Intelligencer was a weekly magazine of news and opinion, published in Neúvenärta and internationally renowned for its critical essays on political, cultural, and economic issues. Eléanor Sabelinà had always been a popular target of the newspaper’s caricaturists, and so whilst serious articles analysed the implications of her latest foreign visit, illustrators could not help but poke fun.

This week’s cartoon depicted the countess shopping in an Otiacicohian department store, supposedly the “People’s State Shopping Centre in Port Sunlight”. Naturally the representation of the store ascribed not to any notions (popular or otherwise) of reality, but instead to a caricatured version of late nineteen seventies Soviet commercialism.

As such the building that the countess was in very strongly resembled GUM, the most famous department store of the former Soviet Union. Of course none of the Otiacicohians had money enough to shop in the univermagy, which appeared to charge exorbitant prices for its products (“ten million rubles” for an apparently Courrèges-inspired trapezoidal dress), and virtually all of the aisles were empty of patrons. Eléanor, however, had already pulled several outfits enthusiastically off the racks.

‘What with the taxes so low in Otiacicoh I couldn’t help but treat myself,’ remarked the countess as she turned to her shopping companion, a similarly elegantly dressed Xirniumite society lady. The viewer was expected to interpret the cartoon as a criticism of Xirnium’s exceedingly high cost of living, in general, and her burdensome value added tax system, in particular.

It has often be said by some that, thanks to modern telecommunications and transportation, the world today is a great deal smaller than the one that confronted our grandparents only a few generations ago. And, to a great extent, such a statement would be entirely correct, as the journey from Port Sunlight to Blood Beach would attest.
It has long been a custom of Port Sunlighters, regardless of race, creed or class (for no one was of the opinion that such a thing had been eradicated, despite the best efforts of The Party), to spend the weekend by the sea during the summer months. And, while the journey is quicker, cheaper and more comfortable by car, many still insist (for often no more reason than the fact that they have always done so) on travelling by the ancient tramway that links the capital to the coast. These electric trams, some now entering a century of dedicated if sedate service, allow the people of the 21st century to see just how large the world must have appeared to their forefathers, especially when a distance of only a few short miles can take such an inordinate amount of time.
But those that eulogise the interconnected modern world in which live are often the people who stay at home, or at least only travel once a year for either holiday or business. For international travel, for those like the countess of House Numêsalquó who engage in such things on a regular basis, is an incredibly boring affair, and none more so that the flight from Naèräth to Port Sunlight. It was a particularly long one, crossing as it did several oceans and a continent, and that the Countess emerged so refreshed was a testament to either her constitution, her staff or the luxurious interior of the metal craft that stood on the tarmac at the capital’s international airport. It was a ‘craft’, noted several government observers, simply because it could not qualify to be an aeroplane in the Fiefdom-sense of the term. When compared to the noisy and old-fashioned Tupolev Tu-134s that populated the airport, the Xirniumite diplomatic plane was like something dropped from heaven. It was with this in mind, therefore, that some hoped that the talks would be wholly positive, if only so that the Fiefdom could themselves acquire such potent symbols of technological supremacy.
With such a long flight, it came as no surprise, therefore, that the Foreign Minister would arrive in the early hours of the morning. The morning she would emerge (or burst) into was, alas, not a particularly pleasant one. A strong Southerly breeze had been roaring about the capital for several days, bringing with the heat and humidity of the equator. Such was the metrological circumstances that senior members of Otiacicoh’s diplomatic service had considered advising the Foreign Minister not to wear a dress, lest the first twenty seconds of her arrival collapse into an embarrassing farce at the unexpected sight of noble undergarments. The nomenklatura had, thankfully, talked themselves out of such advice, and instead hoped that Xirniumite fashion would allow for such eventualities.
Stood in the blustery heat of the Otiacicoh night were those that might be dubbed the ‘usual suspects’ for such occasions. The Press Corps, waiting at a respectful distance for the elusive first shot of the woman who had helped sell so many papers, and the Jaguar Corps Military Band, sweltering under their synthetic hides and desperately hoping that their sheet music for Hail to thee, Xirnium Eternal would not blow away. And, of course, there was the government delegation standing under the amber spotlights that lit the entire spectacle.
Head of such delegation was, of course, the Cihuacoatl. Trevor Macmillan stood in the traditional Zhongshan suit common to all leaders of the Fiefdom since the end of the Empire. Macmillan was not a particularly tall man but, thanks to be of Caucasian stock in a country of Mesoamericans, he towered above the rest of the delegation. He possessed a head of immaculate black hair, kept in such a state by the regular partaking of hair dye. He also sported a trim handlebar moustache and, as a result, often wondered the lack of facial hair on his fellow ‘world-leaders’. Not that facial hair would be encouraged with his impending guest. If anything it was to be frowned upon.
Standing to his right was Ahexotl Michin, the countess’ counter-part. In contrast to Macmillan’s height and grace, Michin was short and somewhat rotund. His appearance was such that, in emails surreptitiously circulated around foreign ministry staff, it was supposed that but for the inclusion of a bowler hat and moustache, the Minister could well pass for an Aztec Stan Laurel. Not that the minister ever acknowledged such things, or knew of their existence.
To the left of the Cihuacoatl, and in contrast to the other two, stood Finduilas Nénmacil. Elves were not a particularly common sight in the world, save for Menelmacar and other such places. To find them as a minority in human country was rare, and to find them engaged in politics rarer still, which was why Nénmacil had become such a noticeable figure in the Fiefdom. Everything about her stood as a contrast to those around her, both in politics in general and on the tarmac in particular. Her long, golden hair fell about her shoulders while a simmering silver dress of Menelmacari design announced her heritage to all around her. Such a dress could, indeed, only be matched in beauty and intricacy by that worn by the countess of House Numêsalquó as she descended to the sound of her national anthem.

“What’s the name of that anthem again?” whispered Macmillan to no one in particular.

“Hail to thee, Xirnium Eternal,” replied his elven deputy as she watched the Foreign Minister approach with all the dignity a woman from the Artic Circle could muster in such fetid conditions.

“Xirnium Eternal,” grumbled the Cihuacoatl while his face maintained a fixed smile, “What is it with these people? Why do they think that their little country will somehow last until the very end of time?…Ah, your Ladyship,” he said as the Countess finally neared where they stood, “Welcome to Otiacicoh. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to welcome you to our island, even in such tempestuous conditions. I trust your landing was not affected by this accursed wind?”

Nénmacil, who had a much better grasp of eternity than most, smiled to herself as looked upon the famous Countess of House Numêsalquó for the first time. Needless to say, she looked taller on television.

Her country might have had aspirations on outlasting eternity, but Eléanor would gladly have settled for the end of the day. She had developed the most unbearable of headaches, a sharp, stabbing feeling against the inside surface of her skull, like the jarring of an ice-pick. It had begun as a sort of tiredness behind her eyes and now throbbed obnoxiously at her temples, made worse when she turned her head. A member of her staff had suggested smelling camphor, yet even after half an hour Eléanor had noticed little effect. She was beginning to suspect that perhaps the dangers of alcohol at high altitude were more than just myth after all.

‘Cihuacóatl Macmillan, sir,’ attempted the countess, trying her best to approximate the correct, bizarre Aztec pronunciation. During the trip, in the plane, she had managed to get it perfect; naturally now that it counted, though, it sounded completely off. ‘I’m so excited to be here.’

Eléanor gave the man her hand to squeeze, and leant forward to kiss him on both cheeks. Seeing this Vórtimer raised an eyebrow – the countess ordinarily never went near people with moustaches or beards, regardless of the dictates of politeness.

‘Our landing was perfectly tolerable, thank you,’ continued the countess. She glanced distractedly at her flounces and frills and tried to smooth her pale-coloured ribbons, but very soon gave up; the wind constantly pulled at everything. Fortunately, though, with her stiffened petticoats there was little chance of the type of spectacle that the Otiacicohan protocol office had feared. ‘I daresay “accursed” is just the right word, though, isn’t it? Maybe we’ve displeased Quetzalcóatl; you didn’t forget the human sacrifices, did you?’

Forced laughter cut across the conversation, and Vórtimer tried not to look horrified at the minister’s incredibly poor joke. She picked up on his concern but could not understand it, having thought her words rather clever. One never could account for touchiness.

‘I should think you probably aren’t familiar with our permanent secretary, Vórtimer Naúderthorn,’ introduced the countess. ‘Of course I recognise your colleagues,’ she added, glancing especially at the woman’s strikingly pretty features, admiring her complexion and her nose and teeth – but trying to ignore those silly pointy ears.