NationStates Jolt Archive

A special-purpose converted Peacock Airlines jumbo jet made a gradual and graceful (as graceful as an over-sized, swollen 35,000 kilogram plus aircraft can be) descent through a thick black cloud of pollution towards Schiphol, Knootoss. As the aeroplane drifted down through the smog, its passengers were buffeted about slightly, possibly by turbulence, possibly by the sheer amount of solid carbon impacting on the aircraft's outer skin. Prince Andreus, Despot of New Constantinople and heir apparent of the Emperor of Pantocratoria, hated turbulence, and was a surprisingly nervous flyer. Nevertheless, he was eminently relaxed as he reclined in his comfortable purple leather seat in his private suite on-board the aircraft, a look of semi-conscious bliss on his face even as the landing gear hit the runway hard and the plane rocked as it ran across the tarmac, eventually coming to a halt.

"Ahhh..." the Prince sighed as if in relief. A moment later an attractive blonde leaned back into the seat next to the Prince and delicately fixed her lipstick with her slender finger tip. "Merci bien, Mademoiselle de Nicephorus. Most therapeutic."

"A pleasure to be of service, monseigneur." the Countess of Nicephorus said in a breathy, heavy voice.

"I'm sure it was." the Prince said almost dismissively as he stretched his arms. "Are you waiting for me to do that up?"

"Oh..." the young lady blushed, and leaned over again. The sound of the zipper was drowned out by a knock on the suite door, which one of the servants, who had been studiously pretending not to notice the strange landing ritual, quickly moved to answer.

"Your Highness," began the voice of the manservant who had just been admitted to the suite. "We've landed. At your convenience, monsieur, we shall attend to any last minute adjustments which might need to be made to your wardrobe, your hair, and so on."

"Well, these Knootians will be expecting quite a show, no doubt." Andreus replied as he patted the Countess on the arm before leaving his chair and turning to the suite door. "We can't disappoint them."

"Quite, monsieur." the manservant replied, his eyes moving down towards the Prince's waist before moving back up again. "A new pair of trousers will be in order."

"What?" Andreus frowned, and looked down. He scowled at the Countess of Nicephorus. "Careless twit! I told you not to make a mess!"

*****

The Peacock Airlines flight which had carried the Despot of New Constantinople from Pantocratoria to Knootoss had sat on the runway for half an hour by the time a servant in rococo finery emerged from the aircraft door and extended an umbrella of purple velvet over the head of Prince Andreus as he stepped out of the aeroplane and began to descend the purple carpet covered steps. The Prince wore a magnificently tailored business suit whose left breast pocket was decorated with the silver badge of the Order of the Pantocrator. The inside of the jacket, not particularly visible from the outside except when the jacket swished back and forth in the wind or as the Prince waved to onlookers, was lined with dark purple silk. As he descended the stairs he looked forward to the days ahead, for although this was largely a diplomatic visit, he had been sure to plan some interesting diversions as well. Prince Andreus had determined, in fact, to make it into a sort of working holiday.

A marching band started to play as soon as the doors to of the aircraft opened. First, they played the stately notes of God Save the Emperor, the Pantocratorian anthem, timed to the Princes glorious descent down the stairs. A few Knootian journalists had showed up to take pictures, hoping for a snafu. They were all of the picture-taking kind, as the Prime Ministers office had made it very clear that there would be no questions.

Looking somewhat disgruntled, the band then roughshodded through the first stanzas of the Knootian anthem, marching off in file towards the airport canteen. It had after all been drizzly all morning, and the inexplicable delay had not done much to cheer up their moods. To avoid doing even more acid damage to the aircraft's paint, the Peacock Airlines jumbo jet was quickly taxied into a nearby hangar, wrapping up the ceremonial pomp of the arrival almost as quickly as it had begun.

Prime Minister Jan Willem Daatman and his wife Irene were waiting to greet the Despot of New Constantinople and his courtiers away from the public, inside the luxuriously decorated VIP lounge of the airport. The surroundings were either grand or kitsch, depending on your perspective. The Prime Ministers opinion tended towards the latter, and he sipped uncomfortably on his beer as he waited.

Bonjour, Monsieur Les Prince, Daatman produced in his best French, when they finally arrived. "I bid you a warm welcome to La République Knootienne des Pays-Bas."

Irene Daatman in turn curtsied and smiled, repeating the greeting. Daatman accepted any return greeting, and continued more comfortably in English. Even four years of being the Prime Minister had not eliminated his Dutch accent, a slightly Germanic lisp that was often mocked at home and abroad. That did not however make him any less anxious to please his Royal guest.

"I hope this visit shall be a nice mix of business and pleasure. I personally reviewed the programme that our two governments prepared, and I hope it shall be both successful and entertaining."

He smiled slightly, beckoning in a somewhat effeminate-looking man to move closer.

"This is Pierre van der Donk, a child to a Pantocratorian and a Knootian parent. He will be with you for the duration of your stay. If you have any question or desire anything, he will be your first point of contact."

Pierre repeated a carefully studied greeting, though appearing to do it far more professionally than the plagued Prime Minister.

"I shall be happy to serve you for the duration of your stay" he offered in rapid but accentless French, smiling. "We will meet Monsieur Daatman and his wife again several times this week, during formal ceremonies and events. For now, however, may I offer you anything? Or would you like to proceed?"

"Merci très bien, Monsieur le Premier Ministre." the Prince replied to Daatman's initial greeting, shaking the Prime Minister's hand. "I am sure the programme is a very fine one. I'm sure it shall be both productive and pleasurable."

While the Prince's manner towards the Prime Minister was charming in a business-like fashion, he stepped the charm up in his dealings with Mrs Daatman. When Irene Daatman offered her hand, no doubt to shake in the crude Knootian fashion, the Prince accepted and kissed it.

"You curtsey like a practised courtier, madame." he said warmly. He glanced back at the courtiers who had eventually followed him off the aeroplane, at the Countess of Nicephorus in particular. Some were very practised indeed. he reflected.

The Prince regarded van der Donk with some amusement, although an amused look from the Despot was not always amusing to its subject, for Andreus had inherited from his father a searching, penetrating gaze. Unlike his father, however, the Prince was very rarely interested enough in the feelings of other people to study them particularly closely, and so the elder Andreus' eyes were rarely seen on the younger Andreus' face. Something about van der Donk's manner clearly got the Despot's interest, however, as he all but stared at the young man with the sort of uncompromising gaze which caused most people to look away. The momentary intensity soon faded, and a sparkle of recognition appeared in the Prince's eyes as a bemused half-smile came across his face.

"I'm sure you will." he replied. "I shan't inconvenience the Prime Minister and his lovely wife any more than I already have. Let's proceed, Monsieur van der Donk."

As Prime Minister Daatman went back to work, the Prince and his entourage were escorted to an especially prepared VIP train, with little Knootian and Pantocratorian flags decorating the sides. From there on, they where whisked off at high speed to The Hague Central Station.

The gigantic terminal itself had not been cleared of traffic, and normal trains passed departed and arrived at all points, creating an impression of organised chaos. Visual and audio messages in different languages (mis)directed visitors to their platforms, and shops sold everything a Knootian heart could desire at a premium price. Waiting Knootian security personnel made sure that the Pantocratorian visitors had enough space to pass through it all, to reach a bus.

The vehicle had an especially comfortable seat mounted at the front, for the Prince to sit in. This gave him a good view of the city, subtitled by Pierre's witty commentary in French, to provide a historic and social context.

Modern The Hague was a hodgepodge of different architectural styles. Much of the 19th century architecture was still intact, contrasted by the hyper-modern ministries - giant monstrosities which looked more like works of modern art than actual buildings; giant shoes, bizarro building-size pieces of holed cheese sporting windows, and a suspiciously phallic-looking tower looked like they had been ripped straight from the warped mind of some popular government architect.

As the bus proceeded deeper into the inner city, the images became more akin to the situation in Pantocratoria - ancient but impeccably maintained patrician buildings lined stately moats, stony squares ringed by greenery sported statues of the old stadholders and the nations most famous admirals. Small parks (which always seemed to include an element of water) provided breathing space for the urban populace. Bikes passed through at every place, crossing the streets with reckless abandon.

Whatever God the Pantocratorians believed in, today he had blessed the city with only a light smog from traffic congestion. A healthy breeze from the nearby sea helped to make the city smell almost fresh.

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As they reached the binnenhofa banner came into view, over one of the main gates leading to the parliaments inner sanctum. Here, the vehicle stopped, and Pierre gestured for everyone to get off.

Knootoss welcomes the Pantocratorian Delegation