NationStates Jolt Archive

It had been a very poor decade for the Holy Empire of Novar Ohan. Having three Emperors in 20 years tends to cause a blow to public morale and confidence in the Imperial System. Coming as it had on the heels of Tsar Daniel's untimely death, the unfortunate fate of Adrik Alexei, presumed deceased on the fields of the Grand Empire of the Shield (or, as even the most conservative of Novar Ohan's aristocracy now felt obliged to call it, when they called it anything at all, the Gull Flag Republic) had been too much to bear on the international stage, and the Holy Empire had just...withdrawn. Even abandoning its colonies in Africa and Micronesia, to pursue the long process of silencing internal dissent.

Decolonisation had always been a dirty word to the Novarians, and it galled them immensely to have to accept the reality of the situation, which was that their colonial policies had, on the whole, been an unmitigated failure when compared to that of their erstwhile rivals. So, humiliated, beaten, and forced to recall a child in order to be Emperor of Novar Ohan, they had taken what seemed to them the only real choice to avoid worse, and withdrew from international society as well.

And so the minority of Emperor Sebastien Chyornyev, by the Grace of God Lord of Terre del Agua, Prince of Roan, King of Oriental Ruthenia, Leige of Arquis, Suzerain of Al-Tai, Protector of the Liberties of the Free Cities of Whiteport and Novy Archangelsk, passed in the care of the finest regents his nation could provide.


ArchDuke Simon d'Arquis VIII paced back and forth outside the Emperor's room. Inside, raised voices heralded another dismissal of a tutor. The Duke pinched his nose and sighed. "It was better when I was younger, you know. C'est la vie, mon ami, hm?"

"Don't speak in French at me, ArchDuke." The little Altaian stroked his long, white beard and gazed up at the ceiling. "That poor man..." Hou Lan Chai sighed when he heard a bottle break. "I think one of us needs to have a good long talk with the boy."

"I nominate Simon." The young Slavonic woman in the middle said, staring fixedly at the wall. She brushed back her long blond hair and groaned when another burst of angry shouting in Russian rent the air. Prime Minister Svetlana Grey was not having a good year any more than her country. Her mother had spoken highly of the office, so once out of school Svetlana had devoted herself to taking over Clarissa's post. Only to find, once elected, that being Prime Minister was not the glamorous role she had expected.

"Seconded." Francisco DelaVonte, the Aguan representative on the council, nodded. "Come on, Simon. In you go."

Simon shuddered. "You can't make me!" The Archduke clung tightly to a pillar. "Don't make me go in there!" The door opened, and Sebastien stormed out. "Oh. Hey, Bastien. So, how are you and the new tutor getting on?"

The boy didn't say anything, instead going into a quiet mope in the middle of the crowd. "Don't like him." The Emperor finally replied.

"That's the eighth tutor this month! Listen, your father wouldn't have let you get away with this if he was alive now, would he?" Francisco demanded. "We know you can do better."

"But he's not alive!" Sebastien shouted angrily. "He went and got himself killed by some smelly common people! Filthy, repulsive, treacherous common people! And that tutor is just as bad as the rest of his class!" Sebastien shook his head. "I'm going to the Stronghold." And before they could stop him, he was already running down the palace's hallway, faster than any of them would have been able to follow.

Simon squeezed his eyes tightly. "He'll get over it, right?" He asked the others. "I mean, he sounds like a caricature of a 19th century Tsar. Or a Callahan." The others looked away from him, and he sighed, kicking his heels slightly. "He'll get over it." Simon repeated, less certainly than before.

OOC: Novar Ohan is the posting account for this (http://www.nationstates.net/roa) nation. I'm not sure if any of you actually remember me, or if you do remember me, do so with any fondness, but I'll basically try to make it short. First, I'm sorry that I departed Modern Tech like I did, without any explanation. There were a variety of factors for that, mostly OOCly, and most of them I'm still not comfortable with discussing. I'm sorry to anyone who's storylines I messed up by first my disappearance in the middle of 2005 and second my return in 2006 to do FT rping. Not really asking for forgiveness, of course, as it's a lot to forgive. I've tried to wrap up loose ends on my part as best I could (Why Sebastien never married Zoe, what happened to AA, and so on.)

Anyway, I chose Roa for this because before I left the population of Novar Ohan, as represented by my then main nation, and its empire was about 4 'billion', with the Empire having not only the most population but also the highest growth rate. Shorn of that, and assuming a reasonable growth rate over the next few years...yeah.

Simon sighed and placed his feet up on his footstool, flipping through the bible. "I'm sure it's in here somewhere." He said, insistently. "Here. Thou shalt respect your mother and father. Right there." His wife seemed unimpressed. "And since his father and mother are dead, that means respect the regency council!" He lifted his fist and slammed it down on the chair's armrest. While a decade of soft living and comfort had taken its toll on his physique, he was still an impressive sight provided you didn't notice that your finger could now sink up to the first joint if you poked him.

"Of course it does." Raisa Darquis settled down on the armchair next to him and played with his hair. "What is wrong with children these days that they won't listen to an fat old man who thinks he has their best interests at heart when in reality he's just inflicting them with restrictions because he's jealous of their freedom?" She kissed her husband on the cheek and threw open the bay windows, obtaining a look out on the clouds drifting over the mountains. "Another lovely day in Arquis."

"Fat?" Simon repeated, stunned. "I'm not fat! I'm only 30!" He looked up at Raisa. "Do you really think I'm decrepit?" His wife simply stood there, framed in the sunlight, a small grin on her face. "I'm not fat." He said again, standing to his full height, effecting to ignore that when he stood to attention, parts of him took longer to stop moving than they once had.. "And I'll prove it to him!"

"Try not to strain yourself, dear." Raisa said as her husband hurried from the room.


"And that was the last I saw of him." She mumbled, crying into the arms of her maid, as the militsya officer took down the details later that night. "I thought he was just going to go to the gym or something, but..."

"We found him!" Three militsya officers came into the room, carrying a semi-conscious ArchDuke. "He was fast asleep on top of his horse in the eastern stables."

The officer gave Raisa an embarassed smile. "Plainly nonsense, Your Grace. I'll have the three of them flogged for their impudence later."

"No, that definitely sounds like my Simon." Raisa laughed in relief. "Just drop him down, we'll handle it from here, officers." With much bowing and scraping, the militsya left the castle. Raisa shook her head and stared up at the ceiling. "God protect the Empire."

"Amen." Her maid said.

"Because my husband isn't up to the job." Raisa reached for, and optained, a bucket of water to pour over Simon's head. Her husband spluttered awake. "And here the dashing hero is, fresh from his heroic sleep in the stables."

"I was not asleep! I was...resting my eyes!" Simon struggled to get up, only to find himself trapped on the ground. "A little hand here?" The former inquisitor requested, struggling.

Raisa sighed and summoned footmen to help her husband up, shaking her head tolerantly. That week, Simon went on a crash-diet.


"Intolerable."

"We're glad you agree, Simon." Delavonte said, adjusting his reading glasses. "The question is, though, what are we to do about it?" The Spaniard seemed within his element at the head of the table, and was determined to make the most of his occupancy of the revolving office of Regency Council Chairman.

"I think we should go over to my wife, and force her to take me off this abominable diet." Simon said, glad that for once he was on the same page as everyone else.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Delavonte shook his head and slapped his newspaper, the Port Agua Evening Sun down on the table. "I'm talking about this."

Simon tilted his head on its side in an attempt to read it upside down. "Enkakenemt ov Emperur Sebatsien and Pincess Zoo en dahnger." Simon considered. "Well, more money in the education budget for Port Agua seems to be the best solution." The ArchDuke very determinedly took a solid bite out of a carrot, and made a face. "And we'll add a rider forbidding the placing of high-ranking members of the nobility on diets."

"That's not what I'm referring to, though I do admit the quality is...poor. Think of what it would do to public confidence if Emperor Andreus I Capet broke the engagement with Sebastien!" They all quietly contemplated this, decided the picture was disquieting, and gave Delafonte their full attention for once. The Count ran with it. "I suggest we have Zoe visit Tarnaqin and meet her fiance again."

"Um...meet Sebastien?" Svetlana enquired, a disbelieving expression on her face. "I thought we wanted them to keep the engagement. The Emperor's a thuggish little brute these days."

"Then we'll just have to make sure he stays on his best behaviour, won't we?" Lan said, looking over from where he was idly playing with a fingertrap. "Promise him a present if he does well. A trip to an amusement park. Or something. Is it not said that if you want someone to do something, you should hit him with the reward really hard in his face until he agrees?"

"I don't think anyone's said that." Francisco said after a few moments silent contemplation. "Ever. In the history of the world."

"Well, it might have been said. That's not the point. For is it not said, if the roots will not grow, you should look for a locust?"

"No, I don't think that's a proverb either." Simon muttered. "Look, I'll just write my old friend Andreus a letter and ask him to arrange for Zoe to spend a month in the land she will one day rule. And may she treat her husband better than my wife treats me."

"Since when was Andreus your friend?" Francisco inquired. "Last time the two of you met, didn't you hire assassins to remove Prince Joseph from the running for Princess Anna's hands, severely clobber another suitor on the jousting field, severely clobber Andreus' champion on the jousting field, but not before he belted you a good one, and laugh at his performance of the Mikado?" Simon very quietly rolled over and buried his face in his hands. "Simon? Simon Darquis? Your Highness..."

"He gets like this every time someone mentions the Mikado." Svetlana explained. "It seems to be a sore point for him. Watch what happens when I do this." She whispered into Simon's ear, loud enough for the others to hear, "So please you sir we much regret if we have failed in etiquette..." Simon rolled under the table and started to shake.

"Was the performance that bad?" Francisco asked, curious.

"All our ambassador at the time would say about it was that it was...memorable." She answered, and then tapped her hands on the desk. "Forget it. I'll call up our ambassador and ask him to approach the Emperor through official channels. The assorted Poo-Bahs at the court will eventually..." Simon burst out from under the table and took off screaming from the room. "Remind me to ask his wife about a counselling session for our dear ArchDuke, Balthazar." The secretary made a note in the minutes.

OOC: Bring up the Mikado will you, you bastard!?! A post will be appearing here shortly...

To say that the Emperor was unenthusiastic about the prospect of sending his youngest daughter away, again, to a foreign country for a protracted period of time. He was even less enthusiastic about sending her to Novar Ohan at that moment, in the light of all the recent instability and the scheming he knew would surround Sebastien's regency council. He could remember the court cabals and the plots which plagued his early reign, and knew that Tarnaqin would be at least as bad, if not worse in the wake of the untimely death of Adrik Alexei. There could be any number of reasons why Zoë might be invited to Tarnaqin at that particular time, the Emperor considered, and even assuming that the Regency Council's intentions were honest, there could well be groups at the Novarian court who would see Zoë's visit as an opportunity to somehow dispose of her, or otherwise sabotage the marriage.

The motivations of the council were easily resolved - the Emperor quietly told the Ambassador in private that if the Regency Council no longer wished to proceed with the marriage, he would take no offence, and would find some suitable reason for disposing of the engagement which would embarrass neither party. He also made it clear, however, that if the Regency Council wished to proceed, then so did he. He didn't add "for the moment", however accurate the sentiment may have been.

The Emperor's official response to the request was to agree to send Zoë to Tarnaqin, although only for one week, and naturally, only with her household and her tutors. He didn't want Zoë to fall behind in her studies, he explained - she had neglected them enough in Menelmacar. Amongst Zoë's tutors was numbered the Emperor's sister, Princess Irene, to whom the Emperor entrusted the task of observing the Novarian court and ensuring that neither Zoë personally nor the Emperor's dynastic ambitions were endangered by plots and schemes by court cabals with delusions of grandeur.

"So, what do we want?" The Regency Council's monthly full meeting was going as smoothly as ever, helped along by the fact that Svetlana had helpfully provided enough alcohol to float the royal yacht in. Even men with family rivalries dating from Job could communicate peacefully with one another in a warm, alcohol induced haze.

"More alcohol!" Francisco catcalled from where he was leaning on the shoulder of Basil Kolbe, Marshal of Draksted and current figurehead of Agua's ancient enemy, the Kingdom of Oriental Ruthenia.

As a commoner, Svetlana was not technically allowed in to the meetings of the Regency Council without an invitation. In practice, though, no one ever thought to prevent her, since meetings tended to flow so much more smoothly with someone around who had actual knowledge.

Sometimes, though, she reflected that maybe meetings would go easier with no one having any actual knowledge except her. This was one of those times. "I meant," she called, slamming her shoe against a table, "that do we want to accept the Princess as a visitor."

"I think that would be an excellent idea." Simon said, morosely staring up at the ceiling while his fellows caroused, a glass of lemonade in front of him. "Could strengthen the dynasty immensely. Raise the profile. So on."

"Anyone else have any comments?"

"Is she pretty!" A minor noble calledm swigging another glass of vodka.

"I am not qualified to judge." Svetlana said, grumbling about the uncouthness of Novar Ohan's upper classes and wondering how a young girl from a more civilised country would find them. "But I believe that, for a child, she is quite comely."

There was another cough. "I believe we have no choice but to keep our current arrangements." Basil Kolbe said, a look of hard-edged sobriety in his eyes. His vodka sat empty in front of him. "The Capets, while not... our kind of people... nevertheless have the only pedigree worthy of joining the Imperial House of the Chyornyevs. After all, our relationship with the House Pantocrator dates back to that of our blessed father of our nation, Aleksandr Chyornyev."

'Ah, how the worm turns. My grandmother says she can remember when anyone speaking of the Imperial House of the Chyornyevs would have been thrown in prison by Prince-Regent Aleksandr.' Svetlana looked up at the sky, a serene expression on her pretty face. 'And now he's being called the Father of Our Nation.' To that sadist's credit, of course, he would have found the idea hilarious. "Of course. Very well. With this council's permission, I shall send the Emperor of Pantocrator our affirmation of the engagement, and our acceptance of his conditions."

"I don't suppose anyone thought to ask Sebastien what he thought?" Patriarch Dmitri VIII put in, a small glass of wine in front of him. "Our Holy Father does tend to approve more of mutually acceptable marriages these days."

Simon paused. "He's..." a thousand years of Gascon heritage leapt up and encouraged him to bend his words to the audience's ears, "delighted."


Sebastien sat in the sand-encrusted palace of the Stronghold of Roan, a bleak expression on his face. Around him hundreds of servants continued the constant business of keeping the Chyornyev family's ancestral manor relatively clean and free from the grit that blew in from the surrounding desert. "Go through it again."

"Your fiancee, Princess Zoë Capet, is meant to be coming all the way from New Constantinople for a visit, My Lord. The council would like it if you were on your best behaviour for the week. That means no pushing people out of windows just to hear them scream, no shouting out loud, and definitely no mistreatment of her or your entourage." The aged servitor Bartimaeus refolded the letter and nodded. "We will go through the protocol of such a reception tomorrow, after we've confirmed with Emperor Andreus. Andreus knew your great grandfather, after a fashion, so I'm sure he's expecting you to maintain the traditions of House Chyornyev when it comes to acting as gentlemen."

Sebastien stood up and pulled on his imperial robe. Despite undergoing a growth spurt recently, it was still three or four sizes too big. He swept to the door. "Is Zoë nice?"

"I'm sure she is. If you don't like her, well, you are the Emperor now and you can make or break your own engagements. How about that?" Bartimaeus closed his eyes after he said that, knowing the Archduke was going to come all the way from Arquis to bawl him out for that comment.

Sebastien brightened up, something that was only tempered by, Bartimaeus adding, "Of course, if you like her, but she doesn't like you, we'd consider ourselves conscience bound to advise Andreus that maybe the engagement should be broken. Can't have upset Empresses moping around the palace. People talk. There was all that trouble with Prince-Regent Eduard and Lucille Edonia Stuart. They barely spent a moment in the same room together after the birth of their children."

Sebastien shrugged and left. "I'll do my best to make her feel at home." He promised, scurrying off to the library to force someone to find him a book about just how to do that.

The Imperial Family's chartered Peacock Airlines flight landed at Tarniqin International Airport just after the scheduled time, having been delayed only slightly by storms as it entered Novar Ohan's airspace. Princess Irene regarded the storms as an ill omen, and might have warned her niece as much had Princess Zoë not been busy being desperately ill, apparently, as a result of the comparatively minor turbulence. Still feeling a little fragile from the turbulence as the plane landed, Zoë found herself once again bent over with her face over a paper bag (a purple paper bag, of course) being held for her by a young lady of the middling-to-lower nobility, about Zoë's age, whose parents had purchased for her the very sought after privilege of being the Princess' aide d'émèse. Marie-Claire Tekros, daughter of the Baron of Mervue, held the bag for the Princess and tried not to look, her pretty young face twisted with displeasure - her role as aide d'émèse had been fairly pleasant until now.

"Hold on, dear, we've almost landed." Irene told Zoë. "It might be a little bumpy as we hit the runway..."

The aircraft hit the runway, and it was indeed a little bumpy. Marie-Claire squealed with alarm as she lost a grip on the bag for a few moments, and then made all sorts of squeaks and groans of disgust as she spilt some of the contents on herself.

"Ugh...." Zoë moaned, taking deep breaths and bracing herself, hoping desperately that she wouldn't need the bag any more.

"Oh Turksp..." Marie-Claire began before starting to throw-up herself.

"Oh you stupid girl... Attendants!" Irene bellowed, undoing her seatbelt hastily and abandoning her chair as fast as possible. She certainly wasn't going to hang around next to two vomiting teenagers any longer than she had to. "Help Her Highness recover, clean her up and get her changed, it wouldn't do to have her meet the Tsar looking sick as a Knootian. And somebody... deal... with... that. I'll be in my suite!"

"Yes mademoiselle..." replied half a dozen attendants as they fiddled with their seat belt buckles and quickly moved to assist the younger Princess.

"Honest to God, an aide d'émèse has just one thing to do!" Irene scowled as she left the cabin for her own rooms on-board the modified jumbo jet.

***

The Peacock Airlines Imperial charter flight had been sitting on the runway for some forty five minutes when the passengers finally disembarked. When they did, both Irene and Zoë had changed into fresh gowns, and there was no indication that the younger princess had been so violently ill less than an hour ago. Whilst not radiant - that would require a degree of genuine enthusiasm - Zoë looked very much that perfect combination of being regal whilst still accessible, aloof and noble whilst still soft and innocent. With the size of the dressing and make-up staff which formed part of the household the princesses had taken with them to Novar Ohan, the dramatic transformation was less surprising - the costume departments at most Pantocratorian film studios were smaller (although Pantocratorian films weren't necessarily highly regarded anyway). For her part, Irene looked stern but nearly friendly, like an over protective matron with a degree of affection for her charge which was perhaps more easily discerned than demonstrated. Both princesses wore a sash of purple silk decorated with a few small medals. Unlike the sort of medals which decorated the chests of the men of their dynasty, the princesses preferred tasteful medals, badges of a modest size and pleasant colour, and there wasn't a military medal in sight.

The princesses were followed by a household which might have concerned any Novarians watching it disembarked by virtue of its size. It included, for each princess, eight ladies of the privy chamber, twelve ladies in waiting, and sixteen chamberers like Marie-Claire Tekros, along with servants for all of them, not to mention the princess' own private secretary and servants, dressers, maids, attendants, and so on. Accompanying this household was a surprising amount of luggage given the stay was only scheduled to be one week long. Clearly the jumbo jet had been fairly full, especially when one considered that a good proportion of the regular seating had been removed in order to facilitate the construction of appropriate suites for members of the Imperial Family.

The men waiting to meet the Princesses were not, in fact, overly happy to learn the size of the task facing them. Novar Ohan's recent isolation meant that they had not been entirely up to the task on their first practice run, and it had taken many threats and entreaties to encourage them to work harder. Without appearing to do so, once the red carpet had been rolled to the waiting Firebird EngineDrive Limousine, the workers withdrew from the aristocratic delegation and began a quiet conference about the possibilities of obtaining a coach for the retinue and if an appropriate one could be arranged.

Grand Duke Simon Darquis, self-appointed expert on Pantocratorian matters, took a step forward to greet the princesses, expecting to be recognised, a reasonable expectation as even in middle age he retained the striking appearance of his youth; even if it was necessarily softened by now. Before he got close enough to do so, though, a trumpet sounded next to him. A figure in a traditional Slavic robe took another breath, blew a passable imitation of the Pantocratorian anthem, and then took another deep breath. "Presenting Her Imperial Highness Princess The Most Pious Purple-Born Princess Irene!" In a deferment to local sensibilities, the trumpeter refrained from mentioning her parliamentary seat. "Presenting Her Imperial Highness Princess Princess Zoë Porphyrogenita!"

"Thank you, that will..." Simon began, with a mildly irritated expression that only increased as the northern wind began to bring with it a hint of rain.

"Presenting His Grace the ArchDuke Lord Regent Simon Darquis, by the Grace of God the Eighth of that Name, here in the name of His Most Christian Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Novar Ohan, Sebastien Chyornyev!" The trumpeter stepped back.

Simon felt safe enough to take another step forward, and with a quick glance at the trumpeter, another step. The trumpeter remained still. The ArchDuke sighed and bowed. "Welcome to Novar Ohan, Your Highnesses. I was chosen to meet you both because I am Emperor Sebastien's uncle and because Her Excellency the Prime Minister thought it would be good if you saw a...mildly familiar face when you first landed. I trust the flight was comfortable?" He coughed slightly. "My apologies for what might seem the paucity of our welcome. It is the custom of the Chyornyevs to truly welcome their most noble guests within the palace of Tarniqin, and so His Majesty is waiting in the recieving hall, with, yes," his eyes twinkled slightly, "the band, which has been practicing your anthem for months until even your ambassador was satisfied."

His eyes drifted over the retinue of the Princesses, and his expression soured just slightly. He opened his mouth and framed the beginnings of a word in French, then realised his audience so the second syllable was in German, then remembered a conversation in the past with their father and the third syllable, and the rest of the sentence, was in Ruthenian. The workers blanched and hurried off. "Further transport shall be along for your retinue softly," He said, all smiles once more. The military honour guard parted the way for their Archduke and the foreign princesses. "Shall we go? Traffic has been cleared and we should be at the palace in less than twenty minutes." Behind the limousine earmarked for the princess, several smaller limousines lined up for the lesser nobles in their entourage.