NationStates Jolt Archive

This is the IC thread. OOC thread over here. (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=535809)

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“Taraskovya is not an ordinary Grand Duchy. It is an Empire in denial.”
______________________________________________Lord Adrian Sterling


“We are what we are. Our grandfathers never thought such a day would
come, but here we are: our banner flies across the stars and our regiments
are respected and feared across the worlds. Call us a Grand Duchy,
but we are an Empire. And you are soldiers of that Empire.”
_________________________________________General-en-Chef Mstivoy Dar


“We are the only country in the world where the Grand Duke is
styled His Majesty. Is it not about time we slap ourselves into
accepting that we are not small anymore?”
____________________________________________Duke Khaor Nakhart


July 20, 1152 After Strife

Vigvar was a beautiful city to visit in the middle of the summer, for while the spring’s bloom and its colourful atmosphere has passed, the city provided nonetheless quite a picturesque sight, ancient architecture drowning in infinite gardens. But this particular summer, something special was in the air. It could be seen in national flags flying from the windows and balconies, it could be seen in the even more rigid discipline of the Life Guards as they rode or marched out on patrol through the streets of the capital city. To an unaware tourist, all this just provided an excellent opportunity to bring home a good souvenir film. But observer well versed in all matters Taraskovyan would immediately spot it from the talks, from the news, from the very soft wind that chased away the heat of the sun, leaving instead only enjoyable warmth, he would immediately notice that an Empire was getting out of denial.

On the beautiful day of July the 20th of the year 1152 After Strife, Kornet Alexander Bogoslavskiy and his troop of Cavalier Guards were placed as part of a joinе squadron. Following the recent creation of the Cavalier Guard Regiment, the unit was still understrength, which explained why Kornets sometimes held the positions of Podporuchiks and Poruchiks in commanding a troop. The joint squadron itself regrouped a troop from each of the five squadrons composing the Regiment. The joint squadron was placed under the command of Rotmistr Melth Tash, ordinarily commanding the 3rd Squadron. It was on this day that the Imperial Regalia, crafted in secrecy deep within the Leib Guard’s Arsenal by Taraskovya’s finest jewelers and artisans, were to be escorted safely to the Pokrov Cathedral where they would await the coronation day.

None has yet seen the jewels but the Grand Duke and a few select individuals of trust and merit. Rotmistr Tash and his men would be amongst the first to have the honour and privilege to witness their beauty and splendour. It was a solemn moment which, while appearing trivial to many a foolish and unaware foreigner, meant the world for these young men who abandoned the luxury and privileges of an aristocratic life to serve their Liege, who were mauled and grinded by the military machine for years to make them into fighters that would instill fear and despair into the heart of the enemy. For them, it meant that their mission of protecting the sovereign would take on an even more sacred role, for they would not stand in between foes and Grand Duke. They would be standing in between foes and Vasilevs.

Those who have never served with the Leib Guard, who have never even been part of the Taraskovyan National Defence Forces and those who simply are not Taraskovyan and, god forsake them, those who are not monarchists would have to excuse the near two hundred elite soldiers for the additional time it took them to outfit their armours. The Cavalier Guards wore blue pants and a long blue vest, both trimmed and embroidered with silver. Black leather boots went nearly to the knee. Over the pants, but beneath the vest were plate cuisses, specially designed for horse duty, that covered the thighs and the knees.

On the chest the guards wore a silvered cuirass with ornate emblems, which extended into spaulders and rerebraces. There was no couter in between the rerebraces and the vambraces. While the armours were crafted according to the old designs, they were done so with modern materials, same used for the production of combat armours. This allowed the guardsmen to undertaken “emergency” combat duties, even if their ceremonial outfits were meant for ceremonial duties. The helms were integral and hid the faces of the riders entirely. They were also of old design, yet integrated all of the latest technology (the slightly protruded visors could give a clue). A white horse tail descended from the top of the helm to the neck of the rider.

But what the Cavalier Guards were most famous for were their wings of long white feathers, worn on wooden frames attached to the backs of their cuirasses. To lighten weight, the frames were hollowed out. The riders also wore “capes” made of three parts: two to each side of the wings and on in between. The capes were of regal blue with silver trimming and embroidering. The sabers were carried on the left side.

All in all, the dress uniforms were a majestic sight and, despite appearances, neither clumsy nor cumbersome. But they were not personal combat suits and required assistance to be equipped. As such, a group of regiment’s batmen were helping the guardsmen. The rank of batman was phased out in the military a long time ago, but it remained in a changed form with the Leib Guard. Batmen were orphan teenage boys and girls, renowned for their diligence and discipline. They were enrolled to assist the guardsmen with mundane and routine tasks, but were neither at their personal disposition nor their to do the dirty work. They were organized as a separate platoon or troop, subject to the full extent of military rules and hierarchy. Once attaining maturity, these now men and women would often continue their service as regular soldiers or officers in the TNDF.

Kornet Bogoslavskiy motioned his shoulder a little, verifying that his cuirass was well adjusted. He then stood up from his seat and walked several paces, ensuring that his outfit sat well on him.

“Helena, could you verify my right wing? I sense it is a bit off to the right,” he finally said to the fifteen year old girl behind him in the uniform of the Leib Guard’s batmen.

“Of course, Vashe Vysokoblagorodie*,” the girl said with a smile and set out to readjusting the ill fated wing. “Is it better now?”

The Kornet paced a little and nodded, smiling. He then put on his helm and, spreading his arms in a “look how pretty I am” fashion, looked at the girl.

“How do I look?”

“Excellent as always, Vashe Vysokoblagorodie,” the girl grinned.

“Eeeeh… I need a hand here with my wings. Somebody?” Came the distress call from Senior Guarsman Anton Novoselskiy.

The girl rushed off to help as the Kornet walked out into the courtyard, where the horses were stabled. His white stallion, called Shaitan, was standing with quite a bored look on his face, for the horses were fed a precise time ago and were not given further food to avoid “decorating” the road on the way. The officer patted his horse gently and then went to inspect his ceremonial weaponry. To the saddle were attached two “quivers”: the first with some arrows in it (the “tul”) and the second that held the composite bow (the “naluch”). Everything was proper, and so the guardsman verified his lance, that was on a rack with other lances. It was a wooden lance, hollowed in the middle, with a steel point and a silver and blue pennant beneath the point. In times long gone by this was what his predecessors would kill enemies with in a bold charge that crushed everything in its wake. Nowadays, the Cavalier Guards and the Horse Guards used them for parades and ceremonial duties. To help the soldier carry it, the saddle had a special metal cup into which the base of the lance was placed.

Finally and foremost, the officer verified his personal firearm, hidden discreetly on his suit. It was a handgun, capable of firing in short bursts and destined for close protection.

Since the order to mount was not yet give, the Kornet left his stallion to carry on with being bored and went on to check on his troop that began assembling in a part of the courtyard.

“Kak na chorniy bereg, da za grozniy Elek, vignaly horobry sorok tisyach loshadei!” he heard Vakhmistr Ruslan Kedrin singing to the cheerful accompanying of his fellow troop mates. “Da pokrilsia bereg, da pokrilsia bereg, sotniami porublennih postrelianih liudey!**”

“Vakhmistr, sometimes I wonder whether you would not be better of in the Horse Guards,” the Kornet said, taking off his helmet and smiling.

“Eh, Vashe Vysokoblagorodie, we’ve been Counts for too long me and my ancestors,” Kedrin answered, as he was as of now of a relatively distant Horobr background. “My place is with the Cavalier Guards, not the Horse Guards.”

“Since you say so. Alright, gentlemen guardsmen, line up for inspection!” the Kornet barked out as his soldiers did what they were ordered to.

The officer then passed each and every one of them in review, paying attention to the slightest detail. A Cavalier Guard had to be impeccable, absolutely perfect. The duty of being “spontaneous” was that of the Horse Guards. And to his entire satisfaction, his men were perfect.

It was not long from there on that Rotmistr Tash summoned the commanding officers for a briefing. Then the guardsmen were formed up on foot and a platoon of Alexander Guards came in, bearing with them several chests, which they put down. A Heroldmeister that accompanied then them opened the chests and revealed the beauty of the new crown jewels to the squadron.

“Our squadron is to escort these marvels to the Pokrov Cathedral. We expect no troubles what so ever. However, we shall be covered by sniper teams from the Alexander Regiment along our track, just in case some nostalgic white legionnaire decides to mess things up,” RotmistrTash spoke, with steel in his voice. “Otherwise, gentlemen guardsmen, enjoy the day and the attention. Saddle up!”

The guardsmen did not need to hear an order twice and in minutes the procession filed out. A particular detail about Taraskovyan cavalry is that they did not use bridles on their horses, instead steering them with the aid of belts on the horses’ chests. It took longer to train a steed in such a way, but the results were simply astonishing.

The crown pieces were put into richly decorated carriages, with ceremonially dressed lackeys. One troop opened the procession, riding in a square formation, with Rotmistr Tash and his officers with him. Right behind the officers and in front of the first troop proper were trumpeters and drummers. Two troops flanked the carriages, riding in columns. Kornet Bogolsavskiy and his troop were on the right flank of the procession. Two troops closed the procession, riding in square formation.

The streets were filled with people, waving flags and cheering. Foreign tourists were busy taking photographs and filming videos. All along the course of the convoy the streets were sealed off by gendarmes. The procession itself was of stunning beauty. Two hundred Cavalier Guards, in full armour and on snow-white horses, pennants flying high and proud, the sun reflecting off their armour. The convoy would encounter no incidents what so ever on the way to the Pokrov Cathedral, where they were met by a host of clergy by the stairs leading to the entrance of the seat of Taraskovyan Orthodoxy.

“Why come you here in arms?” asked none else than Patriarch Nikon II himself, the head of maybe the most powerful Eastern Orthodox congregation in the world. He was flanked on the right by Metropolite Alexy of Amal and on the left by Metropolite Kirill of Tin-Vilena and Tal-Nathil. Other Archierei and Ierei were seen behind him, all dressed into magnificent garments of silver and gold.

“Po vole Bojiey da po slujbe Gosudarevoi***,” answered Rotmistr Melth Tash as behind him the Imperial Regalia were unloaded.

“Enter then,” the Patriarch beckoned and led the party inside. Once there, the regalia were given to the clergy, led by the Patriarch himself, to be blessed in accordance with the Orthodox rite. Even while Taraskovya was a multicultural country, nobody bothered challenge the supremacy of the Orthodox Church any longer. The Grand Duke himself converted to Orthodoxy a year ago and there were rumours that it would not be long before the Patriarchate would be a state church again, along with the Church of the Seven Deities. After all, even if the latter lost of its ancient glory and power, it was still a power to be reckoned with.

The ceremony was not open to the public, only a select few were admitted, including officers of the Elder Guard, General Staff, political leaders. Representatives of various Taraskovyan confessions were also on the spot. As was the joint squadron, standing on foot guard, their blades drawn. The coronation itself would be by far more pompous, but for now the crown and the other symbols of the future Taraskovyan Empire had to be prepared to crown the first ever Vasilevs of all Taraskovya.

The joint squadron would carry out the highest ceremonial duties for the duration of the coronation. This was only the beginning of what was to be the greatest day in the nation’s history since the unification of the Taraskath city states and tribes under Lord Uidath. A new Empire was about to be born.




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* Ваше Высокоблагородие (rus.): Your High Honour, polite style when addressing officers of Class VIII to VI on the Table of Ranks.

** Как на черный берег, да за грозный Елек (On the black banks, beyond the cruel river Elek)
Выгнали хоробры сорок тысяч лошадей! (The horobrs sent forth forty thousand horse)
Да покрылся берег, да покрылся берег, (And the banks were covered, and the banks were covered)
Сотнями порубленных, пострелянных людей! (By hundreds of cut and shot people)
-- Russian Cossack song reworked for the needs of NS Universe. Apologies for not providing a good and rhymed translation.

*** По воле Божьей да по службе Государевой (rus.): By the will of God and for the service to my Liege, or something along the lines.

July 21, 1152 After Strife

Nobody really knows when the Horobr movement began, but it seems that for centuries now this branch of the Ros has contributed to forging the Taraskovyan national character. What are the horobrs, an unaware foreigner would ask? And he would receive an answer depending on the depth of his interlocutor’s knowledge. The horobrs are first of all not a sect, not a cult, not a people, but they are a cultural entity within the larger Ros ethnos.

The horobrs were always famous for their courage, which earned them their name. Indeed, horobr is the old Slavic version of the modern Ros word hrabriy and it stands for brave. As militarist and war oriented as the Taraskovyans in general are, only the horobr equal the native Taraskath in lust for battle and glory. Their discipline is strict and their settlements have always been exemplary. They raise their children in modesty and conditions that many would qualify as harsh in order to forge their character.

They are also known for their strict adherence to Taraskovyan Orthodoxy, their immense conservatism and limitless patriotism and love for the Motherland. Regardless of whether the Grand Duke is Orthodox or a follower of the Seven Deities, regardless of whether the Church has official status or not, the horobrs live and breathe for Taraskovya, they fight and kill for Taraskovya. Love for the motherland is instilled in their children to the point that some even joke that patriotism is encoded deep within their genes.

It is, thus, no wonder that the horobrs have been used extensively as a formidable fighting force in the past. Horobr regiments and squadrons always charged the enemy when others wanted to fall back, always gave courage to their comrades and always tore victory out of the jaws of defeat and in this they were slightly similar to the cold killing machines that are the Taraskath. And yet, whereas a Taraskath killed for personal fame and glory, a Horobr killed for the Motherland.

With the reorganization of the army into the Taraskovyan National Defence Forces, Horobr units were phased out and individual horobrs enlisted as part of regular units, where they spread their strict discipline and high moral values, contributing to forging one of the most formidable militaries in the universe and beyond. And yet, one unit drawn from horobrs remained. And it was the Leib Guard’s Regiment of the Horse.

Horse Guards, the Konnogvardeitsi, as they were usually called, wore blood red pants and tunics. Their leather boots went to the knee and they wore no cuisses. On their chests they wore golden cuirasses that extended into spaulders and rerebraces. There were neither couters nor vamraces. Of course, the armour was not made of gold, but it looked just shiny enough to contrast with the red tunic. Their helms were generally reminiscent of the old cuirassier style, with black horse hair crests. Unlike with the cavalier guards, they did not hide the face integrally, but did cover the eyes with a visor. They had no wings, which was the trademark of the Cavalier Guard Regiment, but instead they wore long red capes decorated with golden thread.

Just as the Cavalier Guards, the Horse Guards on ceremonial duty carried a bow and some arrows in the special quivers on each side of their saddles. And just as their aristocratic friendly rivals, the Horse Guards had a long lance with a white and regal blue pennant beneath the point, symbol of their service to the Shakhovskoy House.

The 2nd Squadron, 1st Battalion of the Horse Guards (the Regiment of the Horse was as of the moment larger than its Cavalier Guard counterpart and was organized into four battalions of four squadrons each) with four trumpeters and drummers and accompanied by a Heroldmeister of the Palace rode elegantly into the hushed interior of the Midnight Square.

It was 9 o’clock in the morning, and yet the large square opposite of the northern gates leading into the Great Gardens and, thus, into the Winter Palace was full of people. The trumpets rang out in the morning’s calm and the Heroldmeister steered his horse on a special tribune constructed for the occasion. The Horse Guards lined up in an arc and saluted, their lances high in the air.

“Hear me, people of Taraskovya. Hear me guests and friends of Taraskovya. Hear me country, hear me world!

“Let it be known on this day of the twenty first of July of the year eleven hundred and fifty two After Strife, that in nine days, on the blessed day of August the First, shall happen the sacred coronation of our Liege and Master, His Majesty Mikhail the Second, Grand Duke of all Taraskovya, as His Most August Majesty Mikhail, the Vasilevs of all Taraskovya, Autocrator of the Taraskovyans and Shokath-Kshas!

“Know this and rejoice, people of Taraskovya! For we are ascending to a new era of prosperity and glory. For we are an Empire!

“Long live Taraskovya! Long live the Vasilevs!”

A triple “Slava!” resonated from the Horse Guards. “Glory! Glory! Glory!” they shouted. The bystanders and onlookers applauded, most in a fervent show of celebration, others simply because the general mood was to clap and cheer. A similar scene was being played out on the Midday Square, opposite the Southern Gates leading into the Great Gardens. The Heroldmeister rode down from the tribune and the squadron of Horse Guards, upon regrouping into formation, rode out to a new location to repeat the same message.

Similar scenes were played out in other Taraskovyan cities. In Amal, duly considered by many as Taraskovya’s second capital, squadrons from the Amal Cuirassier Regiment were carrying out the same duties, albeit without their own Heroldmeisters and proclamations being read out by the commanding officer. The Amal Cuirassiers, unlike the Cavalier Guards and the Horse Guards, were not part of the Elder Guard. Instead, they were part of the Younger Guard, which meant they were in theory part of the Leib Guard, but in practice were regular combat units of the Taraskovyan National Defence Forces. Adorning their black vests and white pants, their ceremonial silver cuirasses and golden shoulderpads, magnificent silver helmets with rich plumes and black cloaks with silver trimmings was a rare event for these men and women used wear combat fatigues and ride around in levitating armoured vehicles. For the Amal Cuirassiers were part of the famous Black Hand Cavalry Division, one of Taraskovya’s fiercest fighting units.

In all major Taraskovyan cities a unit of the Leib Guard or, in absence of which, a unit of the regular army was carrying out the proclamation. In every corner of the gigantic Taraskovyan Empire was it read to the citizens and foreigners alike. And the proclamations were translated live by the local and national media.

In Krasgorod, on Mars, squadrons from the 39th Setarian Dragonns, Setarian Infantry Division of the Leib Guard were reading the proclamation. And maybe for them the ritual meant even more than for their comrades from the Elder Guard, for their changed the insides of their fighting vehicles to the backs of horses and rode in their dark blue uniforms reminiscent of Napoleonic times, with green facings on the coats.

In the city of Novodar, on Lagoon, squadrons from the 25th Hussars, “Sathala” Airborne Division of the Leib Guard galloped proudly. Never mind the “retro-chutes”, the cutting edge fire arms and the orbital dropped tanks! That day, these soldiers were in their ceremonial grey pants, dark green coats and the typical Hungarian vests hanging from their shoulders.

In Olonets, capital of Sortavala, an officer from the 87th Tank Regiment, 71st Armoured Division read the proclamation out in Russian with a very clear Sortvalian accent. Centuries of Taraskovyan rulership did not erode the local culture. And even if today Russian was spoken by the entirety of the population, a good half of that population spoke it with an accent that caused Sisgardian Taraskovyans many a hardship not to erupt into laughter over.

And even in the “most republican corner of Taraskovya”, in the Autonomous Republic of the Island of Atlantic, was the proclamation read. Squadrons from the 47th Uhlans, currently stationed on the island, set out from Freedom Square in the center of Libertyville to read the proclamation out in various corners of the city. And Atlantic Island was Atlantic Island. It did not take long for some crazy character dressed as William Wallace to start throwing tomatoes to the procession, yelling the sacral “Freedom!” And it did not take long for the local police officers to administrate a stunner and drag him off.

In Lorelei, in the Duchy of Zoria, Archduchess Vethara in her role as Colonel-en-Chef of the Lorelei Regiment read out the proclamation. She was dressed into the uniform of her regiment, a long black skirt covered over with chainmail, over which she wore a long white tunic. Her cuirass and pauldrons were silvered and her cape was black, with a swan drawn out on the cape with silver thread. She did not wear the helm, but the soldiers from the mounted squadron accompanying her did. The winged helms of the Lorelei Regiment.

From Tavaroth to Omeldor-1, from metropolitan Sisgardia to the outlying colony of New Crimea. From the hostile streets of Southern Tavaroth to the "patriotic heartland" of Borie. Everywhere the proclamation was being read.

Long live the Empire!

Long live the Vasilevs!

Slava! Slava! Slava!

August 1, 1152 After Strife

It was seven o’clock in the morning and the rays of the sun had only begun bathing the city in their light and warmth. It was still a little bit chilly on the streets, but this did not discourage a handful of extremely enthusiastic Taraskovyans from observing the first preparations for the upcoming culmination of an event that has been going on for the past week.

At seven o’clock exactly the silence of the morning was shattered by the firing of twenty one artillery shots by a battery of the Alexander Leib Guard Honourary Regiment. And then resonated the bells of the churches, informing Vigvar that the first part of the service had begun at the Cathedral of Pokrov.

But while the Patriarch and his Metropolites performed the service, back at the Winter Palace things were also beginning to get interesting. The Vigvar Winter Palace, residence and seat of the Taraskovyan monarch, was surrounded by lush gardens. The Great Gardens they were called, both because of their great riches and their great size. To say that the Great Gardens were a mere “park” was to commit the most insulting of underestimation. Adjascent to the Great Gardens, to the north, was the Arsenal of the Leib-Guard, another impressive complex that still could not rival in size with its lush and colourful neighbour.

It was, thus, no wonder that the two gates leading into the Great Gardens – the Midnight to the north and the Midday to the south – were in fact small castles. In fact, overtime some spacious halls have been “attached” to the Gate Forts as they are called, only adding to their size.

All around the outer perimeter of the Gardens ran a wall that kept unwanted guests out and, some claimed, served to keep extremely wanted guests in. Regardless, the area beyond the Outer Wall was actually open to the public safe for special occasions. The “private” area of the monarch was delimeted by the Inner Wall, which had another set of gates (albeit these were gates properly, not forts). The part of the Great Gardens beyond this point was not for the common of mortals. But considering that the Monarch’s area covered only a small portion of the overall Great Gardens, none of the common of mortals ever bothered complaining.

To enter the Great Gardens, one had to pass the security checks at one of the gates, defended by soldiers from the Elder Guard. But for the past week, the Great Gardens were closed to the public entirely. The gates were shut and the Life Guards guarded the way. But on August the 1st this changed as at seven o’clock, columns of guards from all of the Elder Guard’s regiments marched forth.

Companies of foot guards and squadrons of dismounted horse guards formed chains on both sides of the path leading from the Midnight Gates and over to the Cathedral of Pokrov. The chains were formed in front of the police riot barriers that have already been put in place by the Vigvar Gendarmerie during the night. Gendarmes were also out on duty in large numbers, as were medical teams and firefighters. After all, even if none expected any of the attendance to commit an attack against the future Vasilevs, it was a rule of thumb that each time a crowd came to celebrate, there was its lot of troublemakers and physically frail people.

By eight o’clock in the morning, the crowd began gathering along the delimited path and to settle on the spectator tribunes erected for the occasion. Indeed, it was deemed that providing important seating space would prevent any possible stampede triggered by overzealous fans of the Monarchy. Those who could not find seated spaces and would not have the opportunity to even stand along the barriers would still observe everything live on giant screens. Or on their own home screens in the comfort of their rooms.

Many came with flowers, even more came with cameras, to forever keep the moment with them, to show they were there when the Empire began. Taraskovyans not only of Vigvar, but from the full immensity of the Empire In Denial. The black and silver flags of the current Grand Duchy were mixing with the future flags of the Empire, people flew the white and teal flags of Dreamreach and the white and sky blue flags of Atlantic Island, the Nordic-style flags of Nyi-Gardarika and the characteristic tri-colours of Sortavala, the flags of Fiefdoms and Dominions. As the crowd became larger, so was the pool of the emblems waved around by the people, all so different and yet all brought together under Taraskovyan rule.

At thirty past eight, the representatives of various Taraskovyan religious communities, as well as representatives of foreign Christian churches and of other religious communities with which Taraskovya had ties, filed into the Cathedral of Pokrov. Of particular note were the seven High Templars, the supreme authority of the Taraskath Seven Deities faith. They wore hooded robes that hid their faces. Remarkably, the robes were not decorated with any excessive richness, but appeared quite martial. Also were present the bishops from the Taraskovyan Byzantine Catholic Church, a small congregation of Eastern Rite Catholics, and bishops from the Utharian Reformed Church, the protestant congregation having its powerbase in the Southern Fiefdoms.

The Cathedral itself, as the seat of the Taraskovyan Church, was representative of the might and splendour of the Patriarchate. Seen from above, it resembled a quadrate cross with a main central golden dome and four smaller domes on each corner of the central section. Apart from the main hall above ground, the Cathedral comprised vast halls beneath it that were also used for religious services. The vast hall which hosted the Council of Archierei was also located beneath ground.

The main ceremonial hall was richly decorated and situated in the central portion of the cathedral. Out of the four arms, three had doors that allowed access into the cathedral and the western arm was the one with the main gates. Opposite the main gates, on the other end of the gigantic main hall, was the altar, hidden in a small chapel situated within the Cathedral itself. The various non-Patriarchate clergy settled to the right of the chapel, as seen when facing it, in tribunes with comfortable seating.

At fifteen to nine, the foreign dignitaries, representatives and members of the foreign diplomatic corps in Taraskovya entered the Cathedral and was settled to the left of the Chapel. Yet again, there was comfortable seating to ensure the very important guests would not feel any hardships.

In between the tribunes was a large space, where stood on a wide pedestal a throne, over which was a canopy of black with silver eagles upon it. The eagles were with two heads, the coat of arms of Vigvar on their chests. The shields of the arms extended upwards in a pike between the heads of the eagles and supported the imperial crown. The wings were spread in Byzantine style, towards the bottom, as opposed to the Germanic style of pointing upwards. In the right paw the eagles clutched a sword, in the left a laurel wreath.

The other vast section of the hall was empty for now, even if Cavalier Guards from the joint squadron on foot had already positioned themselves throughout the space, including in front of the tribunes (which were elevated enough so that the Cavalier Guards’ wings did not hinder the view) and alongside the chapel. The chorus was also ready at each side of the chapel, in between it and the tribunes.

At nine o’clock, the first prayers ended and the Patriarch summoned a Heroldmeister to have him inform the future Vasilevs that everything was ready. The Heroldmeister answered with full accordance to the protocol and directed himself out of the hall, accompanied by a squad of Cavalier Guards. Once outside, the party mounted and made the journey to the Winter Palace, under the eyes of the now very impressive crowd that was cheering from the tribunes. The small party entered the Midnight Gates and they were shut again.

For thirty minutes there was silence and nothing happened. For thirty minutes the crowd awaited. And then, at exactly nine thirty of the morning, on the blessed day of August the 1st of the year 1152 After Strife, the Midnight Gates burst open and forth came a formation of the Cavalier Guards. Their lances were held high in the air, the wind battering their pennants. They rode silently and elegantly through the cheering crowd. Drummers and trumpeters played the Jaeger March, a magnificent composition full of upbeat enthusiasm and military coolness.

After the initial troop came the formation of Heroldmeisters in rich liveries. And behind them was a long train made first of the Minister-Chancellors of the Dominions and their Cabinets, followed by the Prime Ministers of Fiefdoms and Provinces and members of their own regional cabinets, in turn followed by the Overseers from some Dominions, as well as the Protectorates. The full extent of Taraskovyan federalism could be observed in the procession.

Then came a squadron of curious looking troops. Indeed, their uniform was of brown and white and their helmets resembled turtle carapaces. In theory, these men and women did not even owe their allegiance to the Monarch, but to the Parliament. The Parliamentary Guard Regiment was an autonomous unit, paid for from the Parliament’s budget and commanded by the Parliament. Its role was to prevent any foreign intrusion into Northwind Palace during session and outside of it, as well as to prevent overzealous deputies and senators from opposing factions to use the ancient Taraskovyan right of bearing cold arms in public to ill intent. And hardly a mystery, behind them followed the fifty six Taraskovyan Senators, in ceremonial red and gold outfits. Behind the Senators came the Deputies of the Duma, in green and gold outfits this time.

The entire procession was mounted, and for many of the regional ministers and Grand Ducal parliamentarians this was the first time on horse back, preliminary lessons aside. As such, it was no wonder that some members of the procession provoked smiles in the public with a slightly clumsy approach to riding.

After the Parliamentarians came a long procession of various people of note and worth, both noble and common, both military and civilian. And as the procession filed along to the tunes of the Jaeger March, the public awaited one thing.

And soon their wishes were answered as the Jaeger March faded away and the majestic tune of the Royal March resonated in the air. From the gates rode forth another troop of Cavalier Guards and behind them the seven ministers of the Grand Ducal Government. They rode in a line, in no particular order. Foreign Minister Ithun Khat, Defence Minister Anatoly Orlov, Interior Minister Karth Tal-Nash, National Security Minister Namel’lar Keth, Education and Science Minister Galina Vladimirova, Healthcare and Environment Minister Aibolit Lekarev, Economy and Finances Minister Illiar Lareth.

They did not wear a single kind of outfit or uniform, instead each was in his or her own attire. The female minister, however, did not wear a gown, instead wearing a ceremonial semi-military uniform of her Ministry. The aging Healthcare Minister wore a black suit, as he vowed to never wear another uniform than that of the white medical gown.

And behind them, to a thundering “Hurrah!” and “Slava!” from both the public and the Leib Guards standing along the road rode forth His Majesty Mikhail II, the Grand Duke of all Taraskovya. The soon-to-be Vasilevs. He was dressed into a dark blue ceremonial uniform. Behind him rode his sister, the Archduchess Vethara, in the ceremonial outfit of the Lorelei Regiment, his cousin, the Archduke Victor, in the uniform of an officer of the artillery. Behind the two closest heirs to the throne rode other members of the Shakhovskoy family closest to the Grand Duke.

The Taraskovyan ruler smiled at the cheering, extending his arm into the air in sign of salute as he rode towards the Cathedral. Hundreds of thousands of his loyal subjects were in the capital city to witness the events. And billions more, spread through the stars, were just as loyal. What more could a ruler desire?

The Menelmacari-C’tani attendance was considerable. The most important members of their delegation were of course, the heads of state themselves, in matching, if far from identical, outfits, in dark blue and bright orange, complimentary colours, that made one another brighter by their juxtaposition. Ranisath’s clothes were similar to the usual style in Menelmacar, but a little shorter, showing their four or so layers as they rose at the front. Mostly blue, they had a few highlights in the orange colour, especially at the back. His shoes were of a light brown leather, and appeared to be high boots of some sort. On his waist, he wore a long, curved sword in one of the several elven styles, bound with a long cord of gold that terminated in an irregular hexgaonal waxen shape, bearing the imprint of the seal on his flag, and painted in gold.

Though his people weren’t particularly fond of the ‘peace bonding’ tradition that had grown up over the years, they had to acknowledge its usefulness in international events.

Sirithil, on the other hand, had departed from her customary style of dress, and today wore a tight dress in the same blue, over which several layers of translucent blue or yellow-orange gauze ran, from a high, glittering topaz, fire opal and diamond choker at her neck, down to her high heels, with a vertical gap at the front, showing off maybe twenty layers of these cloaks, that obscured her body almost entirely, from heel to neck. Some of the outer ones drifted languidly whenever she moved, or whenever the breeze caught them, appearing to be feather light. Beneath these, the others were weighted with gold-clad oval rubies, spaced to a pattern that made a complete circle of them, though they were connected to different layers, at her feet. When her hands were exposed, to handle something, or to shake or be kissed they were elaborately dressed, rather than in her usual selection of rings, with just her wedding ring, and a number of light gold or silver filigrees that formed what seemed almost to be solid metal gloves, over an orange fabric, that extended to her elbows.

With them were others, Kestrel Amea, for example, whose title, as titular head of state (rather than ‘Sovereign’ per se) of the ‘province’ of United Indiastan, was ‘Samragyi Maharanidhiraja Rani,’ which accurately translated, went something like ‘Empress and ruling queen over kings and queens’ most of those, however, had, since their inception, suffered immense title inflation, which was the reason for the first term, when most experts held Elenaran and Elentári to be similar in prestige to Emperor and Empress respectively.

She was dressed in a very traditional sari, in the same dark blue as the others, with gold-thread bordered orange trim at the edges. In a nod toward the local customs, this was worn in a less usually seen ‘up’ style, draped over her forehead to form a hood.

Siri’s hair was covered in the same manner, though as she had substantially more of it, it required a more elaborate headdress, in this case, a silver crown held down with ornate jewelled hair pins that glowed slightly around the top sections, with white silk over the hair, tied back, which blended to tongues of blue and orange flame at the bottom of the silken cascade that fell down her back.

Given the limiting factor of how many of the nation’s leaders could safely attend any given event, the only Menelmacari minister present was Sirithil’s grandson, Celebrimbor, with his wife. With him, also, was Glorfindel, the renowned commander of the Mornahossë, and senators, governors – for example, Kasterairin Seidiacaun, the dark haired necrontyr vicereigne of the Imperial Necrontyr Province of United Indiastan, who was accompanied by her wife, Lijyatventivenua Adrianna Kasterairvenua née Mason – lords and scattered other notables, about twelve in all, including the Elentári and her husband.

On this occasion, the Menelmacari did not arrive by warship, as seemed to common, but for a relatively secure flight, travelled aboard a transport that seemed to resemble a commercial aircraft, albeit one under unusually heavy escort.

They were after all, there to pay respects (and enjoy the show) not upstage their hosts.

Wilhelm Stossel was young – or at least looked young, younger then any of the Taraskovyan officials that would stand in the Cathedral today. He wore a black dress uniform with simple, silver buttons and epaulettes that were a polite, unobtrusive mix of black and silver. On each shoulderboard there was a pair of simple, silver stars arranged horizontally. On his uniform there was pinned a simple bronze badge shaped like a skull. Another badge was also there, - a simple bronze badge, round, on which a torn chain was etched in silver filigree. But these were not the ones of which Wilhelm was really proud. It was his shoulder patch that made him proud –a dark-red patch shaped like a shield, with the image of a single arm outstretched with a sword stitched on it in golden thread

Speaking of a sword, Wilhelm’s sword, a heavy, rough-looking longsword was peace-bound to it’s scabbardon his back as the Taraskovyans have requested. Willhelm did not really mind this – he had no intent of drawing the sword at any rate, it was just there because it was part of his uniform. The absence of his pistol was, of course, making him uncomfortable, but then, s volkami zhit’, po volch’i vyt’, right?

He took off his wide-brimmed black Stetson hat as he entered the church, smiling and bowing respectfully when it was demanded by protocol. But when nobody looked his eyes glinted like the eyes of a madman – sometimes with sadness, sometimes with anger – as if he did not really understand why he needed to respect these people.

His voice and manners remained, however, polite at all times. Wilhelm was a good actor – this was part of the reason why he was sent here.

But he was not the only one. Pacing through the church entrance was Yehuda Kohen. He wore a uniform similar to the one Wilhelm wore, but this one was dark blue and the buttons were gold – the uniform of the Allanean Diplomatic Service. He did not remove his hat – unlike Stossel, Yehuda was of Jewish descent. He wore a dark, greying beard, as befitting a proper Jewish man in his thirties. Yehuda could trace his line thousands of years, right to the elite class of men who were trusted of maintaining the Lord’s Temple in Jerusalem and in Shilo.

He smiled kindly and respectfully at the Taraskovyans as he found his own place in the cathedral and waited patiently.

For the first time, Crown Prince Regent Damoen Wasterin was attending an formal international event. It was a shock to the Aerionian media and many, for the Crown Prince Regent was rather reclusive. To almost all such events he sent his sister, but this time as he was attending she was elsewhere. The Royal Embassy of Aerion in Vigvar had been planning from the announcement of the event for the Prince’s arrival in coordination with the Royal Travel Office as the coordinating body, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Royal Guard, the Royal Household, and various other agencies. It was a complex event. The entourage surrounding the Crown Prince, and those following the Crown Prince was rather large for this event. Despite it obviously not being an official individual State Visit, because of the scale of event. And few would obviously be able to actually attend the coronation even though they still followed the Crown Prince as part of his entourage.. No less than 4 130 ft Takares Business Jets, 2 Takares Heavy Lifters, and the Crown Prince’s own 239 ft double-deck wide body Superjumbo jet, designated for this journey as “Royal One”, had landed at Vigvar International Aerospace Port. The Takares Heavy Lifters had carried the Royal Guard, and Royal Limousine which was an Adinas Star Coach Limousine. Prior arrangements had hopefully been made for the rental of a large mansion for the Crown Prince’s staff, and entourage. . Though as Vigvar was large, the Crown Prince opted to travel in the provided Taraskovyan VTOL aircraft while his entourage made their way to the rented or provided accommodations.

After all of the arrangements, the result was the Crown Prince Regent, his seven year old daughter Princess Rasheena, along with the Royal Ambassador to Tarasovka Arnulth Eshoth, the Lord Privy Seal Aedklen Umvar, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs Danarth Kerson sitting in the tribunes on the left side with other diplomatic personnel in the Cathedral of Pokrov. The Crown Prince’s Royal Bodyguard, the men of the Royal Guard responsible for protecting his person, stood in the appropriate section in ceremonial uniform with their peace bound swords wherever other such guard units had been designated to go.

Crown Prince Regent Damoen Wasterin stood out the most perhaps, he wore an burgundy gala uniform with golden accents, golden Epaulettes, golden roping, double golden butons, and a golden belt with shinig black dress shoes. On his hands he was wearing white gloves. He wore the sash with star of the Royal Aerionian Order of His Majesty the King, the Grand Cross of the Order of the White Wolf on his left breast below the insignia bar, and several smaller appropriate decorations.

The other men wore uniformly modern cut black tie tuxedos, with a small style insignia pin indicating their positions.

The Religious Side

Having decided to come by a surprising decision, Archbishop Canroth of All Aerion was the head of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of All Aerion, an eparchy under Ecumenical Patriarch Stephanus III of Pantocratoria. Though less than 5% of Aerion’s population identified with the Eastern Orthodox Church, the Archbishop did try to keep relations with the other Orthodox.

The Cardinal Primate of Aerion, Ashveer Cardinal Waleeir, had also decided to attend as his counterpart in the Orthodox attended, and also subtly to attempt to get the attention of the Crown Prince Regent. Now that 10% of the Aerionian population identified with Roman Catholocism, perhaps he could have more attention for the Church.

Arriving each by their own 130 ft Takares Business Jets, it was the most popular method of air travel among the Aerion elite. Though the Orthodox one was chartered.

The Archbishop wore the traditional formal vestments of an Orthodox Archbishop, along with an Eastern Orthodox style mitre.

The elderly Cardinal Primate wore his formal red trimmed cassock with red buttons, sash around his waist, and red zucchetto (headcap). In addition he wore an scarlet ferraiolo.

They sat, notably apart, in the tribune on the side designated for representatives of foreign churches.

The Protocol Act forbid the Head of the Commonwealth or the President of the Confederated Peoples from personally attending the inauguration or coronation of a foreign head of state as that would be considered, by Confederal royal tradition, to be a tremendous insult to the host. Instead, therefore, Prince Peter and Grand Duchess Gwendolyn were representing the Confederals at the event. Both looked reserved but pleased as the watched the proceedings.

In comparison to the great suite of the Elentári, the Xirniumite delegation was rather tiny in size, though no less splendid in appearance. An ambassador, several diplomats, various counts and countesses, assorted government officials. A few had brought families, others their pretty mistresses. Half perhaps might have come from as far the Eternal Republic herself, the rest were members of the permanent diplomatic mission to Taraskovya. Notably absent from the group were any Government ministers. With the spectre of parliamentary elections looming over the country, no one, it seemed, had marshalled courage enough to make the journey abroad.

The expression that she wore was a study in boredom. Charlótta Elizavéta Arwanèssa, the marchioness of House Vanyánârien, had for the last three years served as Xirnium’s official representative to the Empire in Denial. That she was beautiful was undeniable, though aged in her forties she could no long have been described as young. Fair and slender, the marchioness was elegantly defined, somewhat tall in height and with a complexion the most delicate shade of milky blue. Her long, lightly powdered hair, once darkest brown but now greying somewhat at the roots of her temples, was arranged with the simplest elegance, in side puffs at the front and tied at the back in a low chignon fixed with a silver filigree comb.

Flecks of brown sparkled in the depths of green-tinged eyes. Those eyes were perhaps the most enduring source of her appeal, they were never wan, always contemptuous, smouldering with an expression of high-bred disdain. Her nose, sharp and aquiline, though perhaps a little too pronounced, continued this theme, ending in nostrils that could flare in an instant with the most exquisite fury. Years of wearing rouge had stained the delicate white skin of her cheeks, depriving the marchioness of her ability to blush and lending an unyielding coldness to her countenance. Only in her still sensuous mouth could be found some leniency, a hint of reluctant tenderness, of feminine warmth.

‘I can’t believe it, we’re actually early,’ remarked Charlótta, who wracked her brains as she tried to remember the last time she had arrived on time for anything. It might well have been as far back as her accreditation to the grand duke.

Helped out of a long white cape edged in fine swansdown, the marchioness took her seat and adjusted her heavy voluminous skirts. Around her was heard the rustling of beautiful fabrics, of satin damasks, of silk-lined taffetas, of velvets embroidered in silver and gold thread, as the rest of the ladies followed her lead. Narrow stiffened bodices appeared greatly in evidence, as were tightly fitting sleeves and long trained skirts, draped up at the sides to expose the pretty ruched petticoats hidden beneath. Beside the marchioness sat a pretty young lady with pearl and blue silk ribbons threaded carefully through her mass of brown curls, a jewelled aigrette holding them at the back of her head. To judge by the former’s frequent, jealous, hawk-like glances, she could only have been the ambassador’s daughter.

‘Do you know any of these people, mother?’ asked Cécile, her eyes languidly gazing from behind lashes of extraordinary length. In both the lovely shape of her quivering pink nostrils and the curve of her heavy underlip could be seen that same capacity for displeasure so notable in the marchioness.

‘I’m afraid nobody’s familiar,’ lied Charlótta, observing the arrival of the Aerionian crown prince. Some distance away, an Allanean barbarian seemed to have found his way into the tribunes, his unfortunate nationality instantly recognisable despite a lack of the traditional horrendous costume. Only the Allaneans would send a mere child as their representative.

Behind her two noblewomen giggled shrilly, and the ambassador felt obliged to cast them a reproving glance. The blonde bit her lower lip in a fairly good approximation of apology, but the brunette merely responded with a sheepish grin. Aspiring perhaps to terrify Taraskovyan gentlemen with the threat of eternal damnation, or else to entice them into sin, the two wore heavy, overpowering perfume, their intoxicating scent mingling with that of the cathedral’s burnt spices and resin incense. Eyes drawn to them curiously, one could not help but catch provocative glimpses of a raised breast behind gauzy décolleté trimming or a lacy stockinged calf peeking out from under a carelessly tossed up hem. Distracting, to say the least.

"Where is the Despot?" growled Konstantinos Peresopoulos, the Pantocratorian Ambassador to Tarasovka.

"As I said the last eighteen times you asked, Your Excellency, he's attending to urgent business relating to New Constantinople, and he'll be down shortly." said Henri Machiasini, the diplomatic aide who had been assigned responsibility for managing the Despot of New Constantinople's accommodation in the embassy while the Prince was in Tarasovka for the coronation. The Despot, the Emperor's eldest son and heir, was attending as the representative of the Pantocratorian Emperor, who could not attend the coronation of another emperor according to protocol.

"I had hoped that we'd have a lot more leeway than he is going to leave us... I wanted to be on our way twenty minutes ago!" the Ambassador complained. "You said His Highness was aware!"

"I assure you, after the well being of the people of New Constantinople, your desire that the Pantocratorian delegation be punctual is at the forefront of His Highness' mind." Machiasini said with a smile.

At that moment the door to the Despot's suite opened and a naked young lady burst out of it, redfaced and shouting in Russian. She ran past the flabbergasted Ambassador and out of the room in the direction of the embassy's foyer. Machiasini winced as the Ambassador turned back to him.

"What was that?" the Ambassador demanded.

"A woman, Excellency." Machiasini replied, turning to look at the now open door to the suite so as to avoid the Ambassador's glare.

"I know that, blast it! She was naked!" Peresopoulos barked.

"Your Excellency is most perceptive." Machiasini answered quickly. "And speaking of perception, I perceive that the Despot is off the phone to his municipal advisers back in New Constantinople... Highness?"

There was no reply from the suite.

"Your Highness?" Machiasini called, louder this time.

Prince Andreus strode out of the suite, more or less fully clothed but not exactly dressed on account of the dishevelled state of his apparel. His shirt was half-tucked in, the white naval dress uniform jacket he wore over it wasn't buttoned up, and the copious medals he had selected to hang on his purple sash had been severely disturbed by the sash clearly being taken on and off quickly with the medals still pinned to it. The Prince's hair was ruffled, not at all in its usually immaculate state, and he was sniffing the air so much it was very conspicuous.

"I shall need a new Taraskovyan dresser." the heir apparent to the Pantocratorian throne declared between sniffs.

"Yes, Your Highness, but considering the time, monsieur, may I humbly suggest that for the time being, Your Highness makes do with one of the four dressers who accompanied you from Pantocratoria?" Machiasini suggested hopefully.

"I'm afraid I rather find the idea of making do with one of those gentlemen to be unappealing." Andreus replied. "Perhaps a blonde this time, Machiasici."

"Of course, monsieur, and although you may of course call me anything you like, my name is Machiasini, not Machiasici..." the aide replied with a bow.

"Good God, you bow like a provincial." the Prince replied with some considerable disdain, his constant sniffing settling down. He looked at the Ambassador. "Time, Peresopoulos?"

"Time we were going, Your Highness." the Ambassador replied, barely managing to keep a civil tone.

Andreus looked between the Ambassador and the diplomatic aide a few times, before finally frowning and deciding that maybe they were right and if he procrastinated much longer, he'd be late.

"Very well. Then send for my real dressers Machiasini, or at least somebody who knows how to... fix... this sash and... button... this..." the Prince toyed with the button holes on his dress uniform jacket distastefully. "...thing. And be quick about it. Too many medals, do you think, Ambassador?"

"On the contrary, Your Highness. But what are they for?" Peresopoulos inquired.

"For a diplomat you are surprisingly blunt, you know." complained the Prince. "I'll be ready in ten minutes. Have the cars ready, I don't want to be late to the cathedral..."

As it just so happened, the political situations of the Taraskovyans and that of the Ba'ath National Command were heading in entirely different directions. As an Empire in denial came to terms with itself, a second empire prepared to cast itself into denial as a means to please those who would pass judgment on it. In truth, the region had been becoming far too progressive to remain a true empire for much longer. However, this was not the way His Grace, The Duke of Fife, Otto Von Bismarck viewed the situation. A loyal monarchist to the death, he could not have felt more at home than watching the proceedings within the Cathedral.

Von Bismarck was surrounded by his entourage, which was rather meager in comparison to that of other dignitaries. He had brought only six men. Two bodyguards, two aids, and two political advisors. All appeared rather platitudinous, as they sat, each rigid, with expressionless, phlegmatic faces. Every man wore a suite that was traditional and a requirement for any delegate who would represent the Imperial Family. By all accounts it was a rather handsom group of seven men. While the Duke was perhaps slightly to old to truly be attractive, his smooth oval facial structure, free of major projections, save his larger than average nose, was warm and kind. That is, until anyone was tactless enough to cross him. Despite the Dukes age, his eyes showed a great alertness and seemed to be constantly in motion. They seem to slide over people and objects creating the impression that Von Bismarck was trying to better sense their surroundings. Even more surprising, despite both his age and rather heavy build, the Duke showed a remarkable agility and nimblness in his movements.

For his attire, a matter that he had given much consideration, Von Bismarck had chosen a fine, traditional, four-layered suite, mostly black with tasteful flares of yellow and white (the Largentian colors) as a way to convey respect to his hosts; however, never one to be buried by a crowd he fully intended to stand out. The slightly thicker than usual gold chain attatched to his lavishly decorated watch, was clearly visible from several angles and the Duke had chosen an ornately carved, mahogany cane with a handle sculpted from jade. The Imperial seal had been embroidered just beneath the breast pocket leaving no question to either his stature nor nationality. And just for good measure his all white, handle bar mustache had been trimmed to be perfectly symmetrical only the day before.

The natrual question that the Duke was prepared to answer several times throughout the course of the celebration was his purpose at this event. Although plenty was known about the Taraskovyans, there had been little political interaction between them and the Largentians. It was simply a matter of networking, something Largent found themselves doing more and more of. Far too many international incidents will stand as a testament to the notion that having at least one friend in every region acts as a rather convenient safety net. However, it was certainly not the intention to abuse friendships, rather Taraskovyan and Largentian spheres of control are not separated by vast tracts of land by any means and the prospect of better relations with another nation with conservative, monarchial values so deeply rooted was an opportunity the Empress could not pass up.

Letting his mind wander slightly, Von Bismarck glanced over at the Menelmacari-C'tani delegations. They certainly had arrived in all their usual splendor. That would be one party he would have to greet later on. In fact, most of the attendees he did not recognize at all. He would certainly have his hands full trying to get acquainted with all of them, which he fully intended to do. Giving the elves one last look he wondered if it would have been more appropriate for a delegation from the elven half of the Imperial Family to be in attendance. But, than again, the Largentian Diplomatic machine was so hard at work that both the Crown Prince, his brother, the Empress, and the only high-power elven Dutchess were all unavailable, which left him, Von Bismarck, a man without a single drop of elven blood, to bridge the cultural gap. God, he loved his job.

Turning his attention back to the proceedings he retained his rigid posture that had slackened somewhat as he considered the job ahead of him.

As the front of the very colourful and very mounted procession reached the Cathedral gardens, the various dignitaries and personalities began to dismount, often not without the help of some assistants, specifically foreseen and arranged for the occasion. And as the mounted Leib Guards took their positions along the wide pathway leading into the Pokrov Cahtedral proper, back at the outskirts of the park the dismounting took place in a more or less organized manner.

As the personalities, dignitaries, leaders, parliamentarians and others would dismount, they would file in an orderly fashion into the hall of the Cathedral. Their horses would then be led off to specially arranged stables maintained by personnel from the Black Hand division.

And so the delegations from the Dominions and the Fiefdoms dismounted without any fuss and proceeded to the cathedral. They had no single type of outfit, but their styles still created a balanced theme organized along the general lines of “Taraskovyanism”, as translated in the presence of silver and black to signify the unity of the country and of regal blue to signify allegiance to the soon to be Vasilevs.

The problems (“As always,” would claim the defenders of a return to fully absolutist rule, as opposed to the current “semi-constitutional” order) came from the Parliamentarians, most notably from the Deputies of the Duma. Dragica Liubenova, the 30 year old leader of the Liberal Socialist party, managed to somehow get her long green and gold skirt stuck in the saddle. The assistants took particular care to ensure that her skirt remained attached to the rest of her outfit. Not that she had ugly legs, as she had proven during her participation at the “Mystery of Goddess”, but now was not the moment to show off pretty legs.

It seemed that other female members of the Duma also had similar difficulties, and to add to the problem the majority of them were not as relatively young and well-shaped as the Liberal Socialist Moesian. Apparently the female version of the ceremonial Duma outfit was not designed for horse riding. But any solution to the problem would have to wait. As opposed to their Duma colleagues, the few female Senators in their red and gold outfits had no trouble dismounting, which provoked many an angry glare from quite a few troubled Deputies.

Eventually, with five minutes behind schedule, the Parliamentarians were proceeding into the cathedral and off to their positions. Some were seated in the sector foreseen for that purpose, mostly some elderly politicians tired by all the horse-riding. But the overwhelming majority stood, especially some stubborn elderly Deputies and Senators from the National Patriotic Christian Alliance. “The true Orthodox stand. Period!” as they would say.

Then the various people of worth and note entered the cathedral. There were men in both ceremonial military uniforms and evening suits. Women in dresses that, while not being as open as many night dresses, still advantaged the female shapes and forms, even when such shapes and forms existed only in the imagination of the particular bearer of the dress. There were persons young and old, famous and not at all, but all had the privilege to assist the coronation first hand and not from gigantic screens.

Inside came many a spectator and guest, filling the gigantic hall, yet not to the usual extent of religious celebrations. By the time the Cavalier Guard escort of His Majesty the Grand Duke arrived to the cathedral gardens and spread out into an honourary piquet, everything was ready. Only one piece of the puzzle was left to place: the Grand Duke himself.

And so he went, along the wide pathway, to thundering cheers and applauses as the leib guards along the way saluted with their swords, extending them into the air in a manner as to form a semblance of arch. Of course, the two rows were too far apart to do it properly, but it did not diminish the splendour of the sight in any way.

The Ministers split at the stairs of the parvis leading to the entrance into the cathedral. Three went left and four went right, forming a cone at the point of which was none else than His Holiness Nikon II, the Patriarch of Vigvar and all Taraskovya, spiritual leader of countless Taraskovyan and even foreign citizens. Under his wise guidance, the Taraskovyan Church improved its standing with the Taraskovyan people, even those that did not profess Orthodoxy. The Church and the State kept working together. They were not united, they were separate, they had their own views, their had their own means, yet the combination of the two, and the continued cooperation with the Church of the Seven, allowed to strengthen the Taraskovyan society in the aftermath of the Time of Troubles, a bloody decade during which the most hardliner of Taraskovyans sought nothing else than to kill each other.

Nikon was an old man, with a rich white beard and blue eyes that radiated kindness and compassion. He was not particularly tall, but since the Grand Duke was standing a step lower than him, they were more or less on the same eye level. The Patriarch, and the Metropolites behind him, were dressed in silver and golden vestments.

“Blessed be the day upon which You come to us!” Nikon spoke, his voice amplified by hidden devices as to be heard by those near and far. “My heart rejoices, for today Taraskovya and her People ascend to their true place amongst the States of this world and beyond. This land, blessed and protected by the Holy Theotokos, of which this very temple bears testimony, stands proudly in the light of this new dawn. And yet, just as a body is nothing without a head, so is a State nothing without a Sovereign. And you are our Sovereign.

“You have achieved so much for Taraskovya, you have worked and suffered, and yet you have brought joy, peace and glory to us, to our land. You stand here as testimony to your own achievements. And also you stand here as heir to the labours of your father and his father before him, of all your ancestors that gave their life and strength for this land. So it has been and so it shall be that in Taraskovya, the Sovereign stands with the People, united and strong. And People stand with the Sovereign. Regardless of kin or faith or loyalties.

“Without Taraskovya, there is no Sovereign. And yet, without a Sovereign Taraskovya is nothing, either. Thus it has been decided by God and thus shall it be, today and tomorrow and for centuries of centuries and may the Holy Theotokos watch over us and guide us in our moments of doubt. And You, as God’s Viceregent, shall lead us through the tumultuous ocean that is the world to peace and happiness. So shall it be!”

And as the Patriarch finished speaking to the Grand Duke, who only smiled humbly in return for the praise and also for the taste of the duties ahead of him, the leib-guards shouted out a triple “Slava!” Mikhail then inclined his head and touched the cross presented to him by the Metropolite Alexy of Amal. The Patriarch headed inside the Cathedral, while the Grand Duke waited a little as he was sprinkled with holy water by the Metropolite Innokentiy of Arkhangelsk.

Then the future Vasilevs entered the main hall himself, his eyes fixed upon the altar and the throne. Archduchess Vethara, who covered her hair with the hood of her cape, and Archduke Viktor followed, and after them came the seven Ministers. Then came the other members of the Shakhovskoy family, such as Irina, Viktor’s wife, and their daughter Marina and son Georgiy. In came other cousins and cousines, aunts and uncles. Compared to their immediate relatives, Mikhail and Vethara were quite lonely, as due to various reasons none has established a household.

The choir began singing the royal psalm “Milost i sud vospoiu tebe, Gospodi”* in Church Slavonic, a myriad of soft voices filling the cathedral. The psalm represented the oath of the King (in this case, the Vasilevs) to behave in accordance to the God given rights of Sovereign and Judge, in lives both private and public, to administer judge and rule wisely.

And as the song filled the hall, the Grand Duke walked to the chapel, stopping in front of the icon to the Holy Theotokos, and, together with his sister and cousin, made the sign of the cross three times, inclining their heads. The Ministers of the Grand Ducal Government, as well as the various members of the Shakhovskoy family, stood on both sides of the throne place. The Grand Duke was standing in between the throne and the stairs leading to the “Tsar Gates” represented by the chapel. Archduchess Vethara, in the ceremonial armour of her regiment, stood several steps on the right hand of Mikhail. Archduke Viktor, in his uniform of captain of the artillery, stood several steps on the left hand.

Patriarch Nikon stood atop the steps, overlooking the Grand Duke. He surveyed the room and then looked the relatively young ruler into the eyes.

“Kako verueshi?”** he asked in Church Slavonic.

The Grand Duke smiled and, after several seconds of silence, spoke the “Symvol Very” as he did the sign of the cross three times. It could be of particular interest to some that the “Symbol of Faith”, or the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed (referred to as the Niceno-Tsargrad Creed in Taraskovya), was spoken by the Grand Duke in modern Taraskovyan Russian, and not in Church Slavonic as some would have expected. The exact reason of this would surely feed many a rumour in the coming weeks in all sorts of media and press, from allegations that Mikhail just couldn’t bother learning the Church Slavonic version of the text to claims that the choice of modern Russian (as it was spoken in Taraskovya) was a sign of modernism as opposed to the archaic times. Whichever of these claims was true would remain a mystery.

“Blagodat’ Presviatago Dukha da budet s Toboy,”*** said the Patriarch as the Grand Duke finished.

After this, began the great Ektenia. The service was sung and consisted in a dialogue in between the proto-deacon and the faithful, with the latter being represented by the choir. Obviously, those in the attendance that knew the words also sang, but others just did the sign of the cross at the required moment. In this particular ektenia, the Church in the face of all the faithful requests from “Tsaria tsarstvuiushih”**** to bless the “Tsar zemnogo”****, for the Holy Spirit to gift him with everything he shall need to accomplish His duty of Ruler. The Church asks for wisdom and strength for the Ruler, success in everything He undertakes, to protect Him and watch over Him, to aid Him, to ensure that his arms terrify the foes of His motherland and that all His enemies fall before him.

Following the ektenia, the Troparion of the Holy Cross (“Lord, save your people”) and is read a part from the book of the saint prophet Isaiah. Then comes the turn of the prokeimenon “Gospodi, siloiu Tvo’ieu vozveselitsia Tsar’!”***** and of the words of Saint Paul who instructed that the monarch’s power is bestowed by God and those who oppose it oppose the will of God himself. And finally, the Gospel is read and the famous words are heard.

“Vozdadite kesarevo Kesarevi i bojiya Bogovi,,” ****** the proto-deacon reads.

Once the proto-deacon finishes reading the Gospel, two metropolites bring the black chlamys adorned with silver imperial eagles to the monarch, which he puts on with their aid.

“Vo imia Otsa i Syna i Sviatago Dukha, amin’!” ******* the Patriarch proclaims.

His future Most August Majesty then inclines his head. The Patriarch, making the sign of the cross over the Grand Duke, places his hands upon the head in a crossed fashion and recites the prayer in which he requests from God to anoint the Vasilevs as David was anointed by Samuel, that the Vasilevs rules in strength and wisdom, that he protects his people and his land.

The Metropolite of Amal then carries out a cushion with upon it the Imperial Crown, in its full splendour. Unlike what many would expect, it did not comprise two hemispheres as was common for those imperial crowns that claimed their legitimacy from the Roman crown. It was a single sphere, drowned in diamonds and blue sapphires, over which toppled a gigantic blue sapphire, upon which in turn was a diamond cross (in this aspect the Taraskovyan crown was much closer to its foreign counterparts). In addition, the crown was surrounded by two a foliate garland. It was attached at the front and the back of the crown, yet extended into the air at an angle, before rejoining at the joint, as a laurel wrath wrapping the crown. It was also full of diamonds.

This was the very first crown of Taraskovya, as before only the Sword of Rulers, which was in its scabbard by the Grand Duke’s left thigh, was the symbol of power. It was also the very first Taraskovyan coronation in the proper sense of the term. And as the details were kept secret, nobody knew what would happen next. A crucial moment was nearing. Would the Taraskovyan Emperors follow the Byzantine tradition and crown themselves or would the Western tradition be realized?

The Patriarch took the crown into his hands as the cathedral was plunged into a full and complete silence. Archduke Viktor arched an eyebrow as he glanced at the part of the hall he could reach without moving his head. He knew what was about to happen. Archduchess Vethara was smiling and there were tears of joy in her eyes. The Ministers stood still. The relatives of the ruler stood even more still. The attendance was looking, full of attention, and those who had their view blocked peeked out from behind the shoulders of those in front. Out in the streets, people watched the proceedings curiously, holding their breath. Shall the Patriarch give the crown to the Grand Duke or shall he pose it upon the Grand Duke’s head?

Nikon smiled and in an elegant motion imposed the crown upon the head of the Vasilevs. “In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit, amen!” The cheers and applauding of the crowd outside can be heard very clearly in the cathedral as the Patriarch proceeds to put the chain of the Order of Saint Andrew upon the neck of the Vasilevs. Then two young church assistants carried forth cushions with the Imperial scepter and the Imperial orb. The one with the scepter stood next to Vethara and the one with the orb stood next to Viktor. The two took their respective relics and approach the Vasilevs. Vethara handed him the scepter, which was a rather plain silver rod with atop of it a giant black diamond and, atop the gem, a white imperial eagle. Viktor handed the Vasilevs the orb, which was also made of silver. Through the middle it was circled by pearls and atop it rested a giant white diamond.

Now bearing all the Impeiral regalia, the Vasilevs walked to his throne and sat upon it as the proto-deacon chanted a prayer to wish the Vasilevs a long life full of happiness, joy and success. In the prayer, the full title of the Vasilevs was invoked, which took the proto-deacon quite a few breaths to chant through it all.

Then, the Vasilevs handed the scepter and the orb back to his sister and his cousin and, standing up, walked several steps forward. Then, for the first time in the ceremony, he kneeled down.

“Let Your divine Grace be with me at all moments of my life.
Let Your wisdom shine upon me.
Let Your strength fill me.
Let me guide my People and my Country to glory and peace and joy.
Let me never stray and, should I stray, may You guide me back upon the path of truth.
May I never fail in my duty, and should I fail, let me be punished in accordance with Your judgment, for I am but a humble servant to You and to my People and my Country.
May the Holy Theotokos watch over my Country and my People and under her blessed gaze may we live without sin.
For thus it has been and thus shall it be, today and tomorrow, and for centuries of centuries.
In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit… Amen!”

And just as the fact of proclaiming the Symbol of Faith in modern Russian was a novelty, just was this prayer a complete one could say revolution, for there was none such prayer (at least in the exact wording) in the holy scriptures. This, however, does not seem to contrary the clergy much as the Patriarch begins chanting a prayer. That prayer is an oath of loyalty of the People to their Sovereign, and this time it comes from the Holy Scriptures.

Once this is done, the Patriarch invites the Vasilevs to come to the Tsar Gates. Two Metropolites chant the prayers of the Eucharist while the Patriarch takes a vial of chrism and anoints the Vasilevs on the forehead, eyes, nose, lips, ears, and hands.

“Pechat’ dara Dukha Sviatogo, amin’.”********

A Metropolite carefully brushes the places of anointment with a silk towel. Outside the cathedral 101 artillery shots can be heard. Once the anointment is done, the Vasilevs is led through the gates and on to the altar, where he receives the Eucharist.

Finally, the Vasilevs walks out and, accepting the scepter and the orb again, he walks along the pathway to the cathedral’s entrance, along the rows of saluting Cavalier Guards. He has been presented to God, now was the time to present himself to the People. And so he did, to the cheering of the crowds and a triple “Slava!” from the leib guards, a shout caught on by the crowds.

Behind him appeared Archduchess Vethara, Archduke Viktor and Patriarch Nikon, as well as the two church assistants with cushions and the metropolite with another cushion for the crown. The sister and cousin accepted the scepter and orb and laid them upon the cushions. The crown was rested upon its own cushion and the relics then disappeared within the Cathedral.

The service at the cathedral had taken quite a few hours and it was already mid-afternoon outside. Now was the time for celebrations and, as the most enthusiastic of Taraskovyans stood and cheered, the crowds in general began dissipating, going to the various venues foreseen for the event. There would be concerts of all sorts of singers and bands, ranging from rock to military brass, for all tastes and preferences.

As far as the “elite” were concerned, a separate venue was organized for them, namely at the Kolyvan Palace next to the Cathedral of Pokrov. The Palace had its own adjascent park and, quite importantly, a ball hall where an orchestra was finishing in fine tuning its instruments.

The Kolyvan formerly belonged to a noble House of the same name, until it became absorbed by other families. The building, built two hundred years ago in barocco style, coloured in a white and sky blue theme. Today the Palace belonged to the Shakhovskoy, even if the Taraskovyan rulers offered the numerous halls and rooms of the Palace to house a museum of classical art. Of course, the museum was closed for the duration of the official festivities.

The particular point of interest in the palace was its impressive ball hall, situated in a separate builting. It was added on to the palace a mere hundred years ago, and was built in similar style. It was lavishly decorated on the inside, featuring two floors, with the ground floor and a second "floor" circling the hall, but leaving out the middle intact. All along the second floor ran a balcony which was neither particularly wide nor narrow, offering just the space for many people to enjoy the fresh night air without bumping into each other.

Foreign dignitaries and guests were led through the side exits and then on the five minutes walk to the party venue. Of course, if they so desired and upon the final end of the official ceremonial festivities, they were free to roam off to other venues beyond the security cordon of leib guards, National Security agents and gendarmes. But considering that during the festivities the population of the capital city proper almost quadrupled, namely due to the deployment if impressive security means in the face of gendarmes from other fiefdoms and even the discreet presence of the 201st Security Division, it was as safe anywhere in Vigvar as it was at the Kolyvan.

The program of the official high level celebrations at the Palace was to be the following.

To begin with, the Vasilevs would offer an audience to all those guests foreign and domestic that have requested one beforehand. Two Alexander Guards would seek out those whose turn it was to speak to the Taraskovyan monarch.

Outside, in the park, tables with various dishes were offered to the guests pending the Official Meal. There was an elevated table, obviously foreseen for the highest of Taraskovyan dignitaries, including the Vasilevs himself. Other tables, round this time, were foreseen for the guests. Those tables closer to the Vasilevs were intended for foreign guests. Those farther away for the guests domestic. The Official Meal would take place once the Vasilevs finished his audiences and rejoined the guests.

Once the official meal was out of the way, the guests were free to do pretty much whatever they wanted, whether sharing one of the many classical dances at the ball hall, or strolling into the City of Taraskovyan Power and finding something else to suit their tastes.

And as the Vasilevs began his audiences, of the highest of Taraskovyan guests in the palace gardens were all the members of the now Imperial Government, as well as the members of the Shakhovskoy family. Archduchess Vethara was not immediately present, having retired to change into something more suitable for dancing and partying than her regiment's ceremonial armour.

Of course, so were present numerous other Taraskovyan dignitaries, such as the two Speakers of the Grand Ducal Parliament, namely Duke Khaor Nakhart, for the Duma, and Count Anton Zirovin, for the Senate. Unlike the members of the cabinet, the current Grand Ducal parliament was not destined to be promoted to the Imperial level. It was intead to become the Parliament of Dakathia and Cardinia, the latter being the appelation that shall be taken on by what is now known as the "Grand Duchy of Taraskovya" proper, or the Sisgardian metropoly. The United Kingdom of Dakathia and Cardinia shall replace the Grand Duchy in the new Taraskovyan Empire.

But all these legalisto-administrative matters were for the days to come.

Right now, it was party time.


__________________________________


* Of mercy and judgment shall I sing to you, Lord – Psalm 100 in Eastern rite, Psalm 101 in Western rite.

** Whom do you believe in?

*** May the grace of the Holy Spirit be with you!

**** The Tsar of Tsars - God / The Tsar on Earth – Ruler

***** O Lord, the king rejoices in your strength! – beginning of Psalm 20 in Eastern rite, Psalm 21 in Western rite

****** “[Give] to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God” – Matthew 22 : 21

******* “In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

******** “The seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

Lord Erwin Reinstadler, Fourth Ministers for Her Imperial Majesty’s Foreign Affairs, and Dame Theodosia de Perigord, recently named as the new ambassador to the Taraskovyan Empire by the Sterling Government, walk together taking in the cool night air on the ball hall’s balcony. The two make idle conversation about the coronation ceremony and the various foreign delegations in attendance.

“I thought the size of the Menelmacari and C’tani delegations was particularly unusual,” Theodosia adds as she looks off into the grounds.

“Yes, it has been some years since I have seen that sort of activity out of the Menelmacari at any function I have attended, Theodosia. But Lady Sirithil does stand ready to defend her considerable reputation for grand appearances.”

Reinstadler takes a moment to look back inside the Kolyvan Palace at the mingling pool of Taraskovyan elites and their honored guests. He had carefully avoided any entangling conversations after arriving from the cathedral. The presence of the Allanean ambassador irked the old head of imperial diplomatic affairs on Earth, and he intended if at all possible to avoid the bizarre man with his ridiculous hat. But some of the other delegations had caused the Sterling Government to send Reinstadler out to Vivgar rather than leeting Theodosia represent the Star Empire alone.

Reinstadler’s eyes suddenly light up, “It looks like some of the other parties may be arriving. I wouldn’t mind speaking with the Largent delegation. And if anyone knows what happened to the state of Excalbia the Pantocratorians will.”

“What about the Prince-Regent of Aerion?”

“An unknown as far as I know any details, our contact with Aerion has been virtually non-existent. Still, from what the Taraskovyan news feeds have had on his appearance is unusual. Aerion’s news services have said the same thing.”

Reinstadler hastens his step slightly and opens a door for his younger companion. He makes a slight bow as Theodosia walks past. After taking a moment to straighten his great coat and adjust his waistcoat, Reinstadler follows the ambassador to Tarasovka.

The two imperial diplomats start to speak with a small party of Taraskovyan nobles while waiting on the other dignitaries to arrive. Their steps are followed at a respectful distance by a pair of Imperial Sovereign Protectors who are present largely due to Reinstadler’s rank within the imperial bureaucracy.

The Crown Prince Regent, his daughter, and the others in the Aerionian group sat quietly as they observed the coronation ceremony. The Crown Prince did have to instruct his daughter with a subtle shh at times, though only three times in the entire ceremony. The Crown Prince had showed a calm contemplative face through the early ceremonies despite the possibly uncomfortable medal-laden uniform, but as it came to the actual crowning a look of emotion seemed to fill his eyes. The Royal Ambassador to Tarasovka Arnulth Eshoth could be seen at times craning his neck to observe the ceremonies very closely, and seemed interested in the proceedings.

Archbishop Canroth of All Aerion had sat stoically, though at the point of the crowning by the Patriarch and the Eucharist had an almost proud appreciative look on his face as there was few if hardly any Orthodox coronations held in the world in a lifetime

The Catholic Cardinal Primate of Aerion, on the other hand, had paid half-attention to the longer ceremonies until the crowning. His attention seemed more to note the Crown Prince, and those around him across the large space if he could see them. It was well on his mind to attempt to convert the Crown Prince Regent, and when the Crown Prince chose to have his long overdue coronation, to crown him in an Catholic coronation ceremony.

At the Ball

The Crown Prince Regent, and his entourage had stepped out of the Cathedral where the other dignitaries were walking and toward the Kolyvan Palace. The Crown Prince had one of his Royal Guard take his daughter, and meet up with other Aerionian Royal Guards waiting a few feet from the cathedral in order to escort the young Princess either to the mansion that had been rented, or the nearest safe place she could rest.

On the short walk the Crown Prince, and Aerion's Royal Ambassador to Tarsovka Arnulth had spoke mostly. The Crown Prince was probably asking several questions about the personalities at the Coronation, and what to expect at the Bal.

The Crown Prince Regent had already officially requested an audience with the newly crowned Emperor, in order to present him with gifts either as coronation gifts if appropriate or simply diplomatic gifts.

For the moment the Crown Prince Regent, his Minister for Foreign Affairs, the Lordy Privy Seal of the Royal Aerionian Court, and the Royal Ambassador to Tarasovka stood together in the park. The Minister for Foreign Affairs had stepped over to the table to get himself something to eat.

If appropriate, the Crown Prince's burgundy uniformed Royal Guard had accompanied him though perhaps were sent to where other such guards were being told to stand if not in the park.

Archbishop Canroth had stepped into the park, and was largely alone other than an Archdeacon who accompanied him as an attendant.

The Cardinal Primate of Aerion Ashveer Cardinal Waleeir shifted his formal scarlet ferraiolo cape as he stepped into the park, accompanied only by his personal assistant Father Rostark Valski S.J wearing a strangely Jesuit cassock.

Interestedly the religious side, neither the Archbishop nor the Cardinal Primate approached the Crown Prince and neither did he approach them. It was possible even that the Crown Prince did not recognize his own nation's religious leaders, as most had had only one or two audiences with the Crown Prince so far. The Aerionian media did not really cover the activities of religious leaders as of yet either, though the Makan Buddhist High Lama had been covered recently because of his personal spiritual counseling with the Crown Prince.

So the religious, and secular dignitaries from the Grand Kingdom of Aerion remained separate for now. The Cardinal Primate attempted to see if there were any other Catholic dignitaries present, and the Archbishop Canroth was looking to approach some of the Orthodox bishops. The Crown Prince, and his entourage mingled with the officials of the new Empire if possible.

Peter and Gwendolyn joined the other foreign dignitaries. Gwendolyn was dressed in an elegant gown of light green with formal white gloves. Her golden tresses were worn up in an ornate pattern popular in the Shieldcrest court. Prince Peter had, interestingly enough, chosen to wear a Confederal rather than an Excalbian uniform. Ever since his homeland had vanished from the international scene, Peter had been rather quiet about it. Both he and Gwendolyn had appeared quite distraught the first day or two after the incident but since then neither of them had done much more than tell their friends not to worry. This was the couple’s first public appearance since it happened.

The couple moved with quiet grace, Gwendolyn lightly resting her hand on her husband’s arm. They seemed, at first, to simply be making the rounds, making sure that they saw and were seen, giving polite nods to those they recognized. This was not, of course, simple vanity. The Grand Duchess of Shieldcrest had been sent to the coronation to show the strength of Confederal good will towards the new Emperor, a policy of good will which had existed ever since the old Danaan High Kingdom had recognized Grand Duchess Vethara’s government-in-exile as the true Taraskovyan government. More personally, the Grand Duchess and the Prince wanted to show that they would not be cowed by the twists and terms of fractal reality, even when it came between them and his side of the family.

After mingling quietly for a few moments, the young couple found themselves standing near the Duke of Fife. Neither of them had ever seen the man before but, unlike the duke himself, Confederals made it their business to learn to recognize anyone of relevance at any official function they attended unless that person’s identity was actively kept secret. Still, there had been no prior contact with Largent and the young royals found it necessary to be delicate in their approach.

The grand duchess withdrew her arm from her husband’s and Peter stepped forward, giving a courteous bow. “Your Grace, I was hoping we would have the chance to make your acquaintance. I’m Peter, Prince of … Prince Consort of Shieldcrest and this is my wife, Her Most Esteemed Royal and Imperial Highness, Gwendolyn, Grand Duchess of Shieldcrest.”

Gwendolyn, who had considered it improper to approach a gentleman without an introduction, especially in such a conservative setting, approached and made due courtesy to the duke, extending her gloved hand politely, palm down, “It is a pleasure, Your Grace. I’m afraid that we have been, until now, rather ignorant of Largent, a shortcoming my brother hoped I would be able to rectify here. What do you think of the proceedings so far?”

“Taraskovyans can certainly never be accused of lacking a sense of style,” Peter commented. “Although I doubt my wife much approves of the view we had of a few of the lady parliamentarians.”

It was known by those who had previously had dealings with the Corporation that it was quite rare for a Grummian to be in attendance of an event hosted by those with whom they had very little diplomatic relations, and it was even rarer that the attendee would be completely alone. But such was the case with Alakantar Aleanrahel O’Neill.

Even though he was the son of the co-leaders of the massive corporate state and the remaining descendant of the ruling house of Shal’Thassan-nal, he found it unnecessary to arrive with such a large entourage that others did. It just seemed too pompous and too needless for his liking. Some have attributed his stance to his schooling. Never had he been taught anywhere where he would be treated as privileged. He had attended public schools with every other normal child in his nation and graduated with a master’s degree from one of the many public universities that the Corporation maintained.

Others have believed that it had to do with the unique Grummian culture itself. In most cases, the Chairman and Chairwoman could walk freely within the streets of the capital city and elsewhere without being hounded by reporters or having to deal with anything remotely approaching fanfare. Foreign dignitaries, when they visited, found it strange that no one would fawn over them or that nothing would appear in the newspapers detailing their visits. But it seemed improper by the citizens to do otherwise.

A few others have attributed it to his own personal beliefs. Alakantar almost always treated the lowliest mill worker with the same courtesy as he would a head of state, speaking with him or her as if they were a close friend. From his own experiences, he found that it was not a rule that leaders would be respectable people nor were those in the working class always the dregs of society. It seemed fairer to him to treat everyone according to their character and not by the position they held.

However, as “informal” as his demeanor was to others, he was not one to disobey the dress code of an event such as this. In most cases, a suit, or perhaps a more formal tuxedo, would have been the norm for a civilian Grummian, or alternatively, a dress uniform for those within the military hierarchy. But, he being Drow presented a few problems with color coordination. A black tuxedo presented the chance for him to disappear into the shadows but that did not seem to be the wisest of choices. With the security at the coronation and ball being on alert due to the immense amount of dignitaries, there was no doubt in his mind that they would not particularly care for him to appear suspicious and may be somewhat “trigger-happy”. On the other hand, a white or more colored tuxedo would make him stand out much more than one Drow in a crowd of humans and elves already would.

Alakantar’s solution to this problem seemed to be in the form of an outfit designed specifically for his race, but yet was comfortable and stylish enough to be worn at formal events. Coal-colored silken pants made up the lower half of his clothing as did a shirt of the same material for his upper half. Also, a crimson sash lay across his chest and back with a belt of the same material and color strapped around his waist. And finally, around his neck, he proudly wore the pendant that signified the royal house of his homeland. Yes, it was certainly a strange outfit for most people’s tastes, but he felt it was appropriate for this occasion and was the best that he had – at least, until he finds something else that catches his eye.

Now, as he moseyed from the cathedral, the young Drow kept to himself, as he had during the coronation, recalling all the intricate details in that event. He had never attended anything of that nature before or even anything remotely close to it. Those things simply were not done in Northrop-Grumman, at least, not in recent times. But he did find particular interest in the Taraskovyan Church’s importance in the crowning of an Emperor and what its significance was for their society. The two entities were separate but worked together for a common goal, yet it seemed to be plagued by fewer problems than did Christianity within Grummian society.

Maybe this is something to look into…, he mused to himself. …but then again…creating a single church or even two churches would be an unimaginable feat. It’s far too fragmented at home to even attempt that…

“Ah well,” he spoke aloud when he reached the location of the ball. “That’ll all get worked out eventually.”

Alakantar paused briefly as he peered inside, gently readjusting his long snow-white hair, and noted the foreign dignitaries milling about. He recalled that he knew almost none of them personally, aside from the Menelmacari leadership, whom he had met a few years ago on a hunting trip. But that did not matter to him as much as it would others, for these sorts of occasions were meant for meeting new and interesting people, and with that, he walked in.

Making his way to the Kolyvan Palace, Von Bismarck waved off all but his closest political advisor, telling all who had accompanied him to enjoy themselves while casting them a stern glance and reminding them that they would constantly be on display and wanted to be absolutely certain they remembered who they represented. Waving to the only man who would be accompanying him, Overseer Blume, one of four Department Overseers from the Foreign Ministry, they made their way into the palace, flowing with the traffic of other foreign dignitaries.

Taking his time and enjoying the late afternoon sun and simply the experience of being out doors, the Duke chatted with Blume, reviewing their "to do list". As is customary with many parties of Largentian delegations, Blume's job would be a simple one. Know everybody in advance, know their nation, its customs, and while seen but not heard, inform the Duke of any necessary information.

Having not had the opportunity to examine each face during the ceremony, the Duke cast an expecting glance at the Overseer. Racking his brain, Blume rolled off a list of important names. Some obvious, others not so. Obvious delegations of interest would be the their hosts, the Menelmecari, the Prince Consort of Shieldcrest, the delegates from the Sterling Government, and those visiting from the Corporation.

Their presence had been noted by the Duke. Plenty was known about the Corporation, as they were not only neighbors in the Martian but also Mercurian spheres of influence. The Duke and their representatives would have much to discuss.

Catching a glance from a man Blum would identify as Lord Erwin Reindstadler, the Sterling Government was quickly moved to the top of the "to do list" out of simple courtesy now that the Lord and Duke had acknowledged eachothers presence. However, that introduction would have to wait as Von Bismarck had already been approached. Spotting the couple approaching jsut in time, the Duke glanced at Blume who mouthed the word "Sheildcrest" only moments before the two were standing before the Duke.

Giving the two a genuinely warm smile, the Duke bowed deeply. "It certainly is a great honor to make your acquaintance Your Highness," the Duke said through his rather thick Scottish accent. "And of course yours as well My Lady." He added turning to the Grand Duchess and taking her hand, and giving it the traditional and polite kiss. "I am Otto Von Bismarck, Duke of Fife, and as you already seem to know, I represent Her Imperial Highness, The Empress of the Ba'ath Naitonal Command of Largent."

Losing some of the rigidity and formality in his speach he went on. "The proceedings were splendid of course, but then again we elderly gentlemen tend to favor the grandeur of a stylishly overdone ceremony. It is always a joy to watch a people put such faith in a single figure and give them the power to lead them, in my opinion anyway.

"As for the parliamentarians, perhaps they are more fit to entertain than to rule," he offered rather light heartedly, making no effort to conceal his preferred form of government without actually insulting any of his hosts, who he had checked for only moments ago.

Switching gears slightly the Duke went on, "I truly lament the fact that no previous relations have existed between the Largentians and Confederated Peoples, although there will be plenty of time tonight to change that." Noticing that most of the dignitaries seemed to be migrating into the ball hall the Duke decided perhaps some fresh air was in order. Motioning towards the hall's adjacent park he suggested, "Perhaps it would be worth the effort to explore the surroundings more. After all we have been inside for several hours now. Prince Peter, why don't you tell me more about your home. I have never visited and must admit am far more ignorant that I would like to."

The Duke knew full well that his question was meant to steer the conversation, at least briefly, towards the subject of Excalbia. Of course he had left plenty of room for the Prince to avoid the topic and the Duke would simply smile and go on pretending to be woefully more ignorant than he was in truth. As the three made their way just outside the hall the sound of brass insruments began wafting through the air.

Blume, who had remained unintroduced for the time being simply followed along about a pace and a half behind the Duke, dutifully performing his job.

“That is one way to look at it, I suppose,” Gwendolyn answered. “But remember, the Confederated Peoples is also a parliamentary nation.” Her tone was light and she returned his smile. It was clear that she had not taken offense and did not mean to give it, but was merely stating her position as he had stated his. “One only wished that they might be more stable.”

“My wife has given her mandate to no fewer than three First Ministers in the past two years,” Peter explained with an amused grin.

Gwendolyn nodded, “Our political system has seen quite a bit of change in the last decade and a half, since the Danaan Civil War. However, it seems that now have stabilized at last and we can move on with the business of the nation.”

“As for relations between our countries,” she continued “it is also my hope that we might change that. As you might be aware, there is no great difficulty, at least on the Confederal side, as far as formal diplomatic relations are concerned. One of the few points of policy which has remained consistent for at least a hundred years is our willingness to exchange missions with any nation with whom we are not actively at war and which is able to reasonably guarantee the security of our diplomats and likewise, on our part, to respect a whole host of diplomatic norms established in the Vienna Convention.”

Peter grinned at the duke’s suggestion. He first gestured graciously for his wife to precede them. Ladies first, of course.. He then fell in step beside the duke, presumably leaving the other and as yet unintroduced gentleman to follow. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that you’ve asked me a rather broad question. I suppose, to begin with, Excalbia is a quintessentially Atlantic nation, primarily settled by Norse and Celts but also with a strong American element introduced by settlers and missionaries from Virginia. It was actually these predominantly Baptist missionaries who first converted the Excalbians to Christianity and founded the Church of Excalbia. Excalbians tend to be a devout people, often conservative in their personal mores but rarely intolerant. Most Excalbians belong to the Church. Other Protestant denominations and Catholics are well represented. There’s a notable Jewish and Orthodox population and a smattering of other religions. There’re fairly few outright atheists and agnostics although there’s no law against it. The Church of Excalbia is, however, the state church, just as the Evangelical Methodist Episcopal Church is official in Shieldcrest. Fortunately, my wife has been remarkably tolerant of my declining to convert,” he smiled somewhat playfully up at Gwendolyn. “English is the state language. Outside of immigrant communities, Old Excalbian is really the only other language spoken. We enjoy sport. Baseball has always been a favorite of mine. That is, I suppose, the general overview. I am happy to answer any more specific questions you might have but I am afraid I won’t be able to answer the question which is likely on your mind. As absurd as it sounds, there are certain things in this world, especially in its recent history, which simply defy explanation and sometimes, after exhausting every other line of inquiry, one must simply accept this fact. That is, at least, the conclusion I have drawn from recent events.”

Valinon Delegation and Imperial Foreign Minister

“Well, gentlemen, we can enjoy our last moments as High Dukes and High Counts for those of us who are!” spoke Senator Alexei Voznos-Darskiy, an independent senator from the Fiefdom of Tal-Nathir, also bearing the title of High Duke of Dolovan. He spoke with a touch of humour to his words, clearly trying to provoke some kind of reaction from fellow colleagues from the NPCA.

“The prefix “High” has been in use for hundreds of years now,” scoffled Nikolai Danirin, High Count of Sarov and Kar, but more known as a very vocal senator from the National Patriotic Christian Alliance. “The Vasilevs may not expect us all to just sit on it and be happy!”

He snorted. The NPCA, it was known to all, was in quite an opposition to the government, which it saw as far too moderate on many a matter, namely on Slavic and Christian and other traditions and all sorts of customs.

“And I believe, honourable senator, that you shall have to be happy about it,” came a voice as a relatively young man in the uniform of a captain of the Airborne joined the circle of conversation of senators and several high ranked army officers, as well as of the representatives of Valinon. The nobles of conservative leaning smirked at his commentary, while the few Christian Patriots only frowned. After all, they were in opposition to the government. And this man was part of it.

“Ah, unless my memory suddenly betrays me, I have the privilege of meeting Lord Reinstadler,” the young man said. “And it is a joy to meet you again, Your Excellency,” he added this time addressing the Ambassador.

The now Imperial Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ithun Khat, paused and pondered.

“It is a pity that Lord Sterling could not see his precious quote being made history in person, do you not find?”

Aerion Delegation and the Vasilevs

The two Alexander Guards were quite easy to spot. Just as the Cavalier Guards were used extensively during the previous phases of the coronation, so were the Alexander Guards, albeit more in the background. And while the Cavalier Guards made up His Most August Majesty’s personal escort, it was not really practical to have them walking around guests with their wings tall and wide. So who was chosen for the duties? It was a simple guess.

The Alexander Guards wore black garments, over which was a darkened plate set. It was not silvered, as the case with the Cavalier Guards, and in fact the ceremonially dressed Alexander Guards were the least “shiny” of all the ceremonially dressed guards. Of particular interest were the helms in the shape of wolves’ heads and batches of fur dislocated at the top of their capes and on the collars. In this, the Alexander Leib-Guard Honourary Regiment resembled the most the Taraskath warriors of old, a style which suited it entirely as the oldest unit of the Elder Guard. And as the most senior of all Taraskovyan regiments.

The two life guards saluted the Crown Prince Regent with all appropriate protocol and informed him that His Most August Majesty Mikhail, Vasilevs of all Taraskovya, was now granting His Royal Highness audience. His Royal Highness and whoever he chose to take with him were prayed to follow.

The Prince and whoever of his delegation he took with him was then guided inside the Palace and, through some hallways were other Alexander Guards stood on duty, into the room in which the Vasilevs was granting his audiences. It was a spacious room, both in size and because it was not cluttered with useless furniture (unless one counts two Alexander Guards standing against the hind wall as part of the furniture). There was a low table and sofas around it, by which the new Emperor could talk to his esteemed guests.

The place was chosen by the newly crowned Emperor himself. He wanted a place both official and yet fit for a more personal approach to audiences (as compared to sitting high on the throne and blinking phlegmatically as some monarchs do). As such, this room suited perfectly.

The Vasilevs stood by the window, watching over the proceedings out in the park as Prince Damoen and his party was announced. He wore the same attire as at the coronation, and the guests could see that his chest was not laden with all sorts of orders and honours. Such were only limited to those he really earned, namely for his daring personal assault against the rebel capital during the closing stages of the Plague.

The Vasilevs did not speak first, allowing his guests the honour of doing so.


Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

“Quite a gathering, is it not?” said a man in a business suit as he also surveyed the scene. The man was none else than Gregoriy Delavoy, formerly known as the chief officer responsible for “exterior relations” of the VerTech Conglomerate and who, for over a year now, was none else than the Chief Administrator himself. For a man half the way into his forties, he was holding quite a position indeed.

VerTech was often described as a state within a state, a corporate hegemon owning daughter companies in a bit every sphere of Taraskovyan and foreign economic life, from weapons development and manufacturing to mineral exploitation and even planetary colonisation. And yet, a majority of shares was held by none else than the Vasilevs himself. A good portion of the remaining stake was held by the Taraskovyan state. A minor portion of shares (which, due to the company’s sheer behemoth proportions, were immense) was held by private individuals.

“Oh, where have my manners gone off to? I am Georgiy Delavoy, Chief Administrator of the VerTech Conglomerate,” the man paused a second, pondering on which way was best to greet the drow, finally deciding to opt for the universal hand shake that became quite common in the Taraskovyan business circle.


Archduchess Vethara, fashionably late

The woman entered the park without any fanfare or announcement. She wore a white sleeveless evening dress, which hugged her body from the top and down to the hips, ending in a free floating skirt going down to her ankles, revealing heeled sandals. The dress was not of plain white, however, as golden and silver thread met together to create many a shape and motive on it. The woman wore no gloves.

The woman was loved and adored within Taraskovya and was known to many outside of it. She was often called a symbol of grace and beauty, generousity and kindness. She was none else than the heiress presumptive to the Taraskovyan throne, Archduchess Vethara of Taraskovya. Even if with the upcoming reshuffle of the peerage, she was to become the Grand Duchess of Taraskovya.

And as warrior like as she was at the church, clad into the armour of her regiment of the Leib Guard, just as feminine and charming she was in an evening dress after having changed into her present attire.

She shared a couple words with the Patriarch of all Taraskovya, before leaving the men alone to his most important debates with other important clergymen of churches both Taraskovyan and foreign. Then she could be seen taling to the wife of her cousin Viktor, the latter himself engaged in discussion with a party of Taraskovyan guests.

The Crown Prince Regent would choose to take surprisingly only the Lord Privy Seal Aedklen Umvar, a man whom it is was rumored he deeply trusted. The Lord Privy Seal of the Royal Aerionian Court was always an position appointed on the basis of the King’s favorite, rather than political consideration.

The Crown Prince Regent Damoen Wasterin, appeared to be in his thirties with Eastern Aerionian features appearing a mixture of what one could say resembles Italian and Arabic in appearance. He had on the same elaborate dark burgundy uniform with dark purple sash bearing the badge of the Royal Aerionian Order of His Majesty the King, and various decorations in contrast to the Emperor’s uniform which had fewer decorations though well earned. The Lord Privy Seal wore an more simple contemporary black tie suit with an small pin.

The Crown Prince stepped into the room, gazing around only briefly as he was escorted by the Alexander Guards. He gazed at the Vasilevs as he was (presumably) announced. He then stepped forward, “Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He greeted the new Emperor by extending his hand rather than bowing with the feeling that as they were both heads of state that it was appropriate considering the situation. He had gestured to the Lord Privy Seal, “And this is Aedklen Umvar, Lord Privy Seal of the Royal Aerionian Court.” Aedklen on the other hand did bow slightly with his hand across his chest, and inclined his head.

Grinning slightly at Gwendolyn the Duke added, "Well, tolerance certainly is an admirable virtue. In my opinion only second to temperance: eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation. So I gather from your desire to abstain from converting that you are a devout man, Your Highness, is that not a fair assumption?" The Duke wasn't particularly surprised by Peter's response. As the Prince had suggested it would seem that despite what line of inquiry you chose to persue, each you prove more futile than the last and eventually every option would become exhausted. Most likely, any more discussion of the subject would turn the conversation sour and so, the Duke decided it was best simply not to persue the subject any further.

Nodding slightly at the comment about political change the Duke smiled although slightly gloomier than he had before. "The Ba'ath National Command is going through its own set of political changes at the moment, although we are actively making the effort to keep such changes quiet until all disputes have been settled." The Duke sighed slightly, "However, it would appear that such disputes will only be settled when several parasites have been taken care of and our Empress cedes any real exexutive power to an entirely parliament-based govnerment. Nevertheless, national unity is more important than the form of government who rules that nationality. That is the Largentian stance on the subject anyways.

"However, our own internal problems certainly wont prevent any sort of exchanging of missions and when this celebration is over, I will see to it that one occurs in the near future."

“It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, Chief Administrator,” responded the young drow politely to the man, followed by a slight bow of his head as a sign of greeting and respect. Even though it was his preferred method of greeting a new person, he was no stranger to the handshake most people used within his nation and also firmly grasped the man’s hand.

“I am Alakantar Aleanrahel O’Neill, son of the Chairman and Chairwoman of the Northrop-Grumman Corporation and the First Son of the First House of Shal’Thassan-nal.” He shrugged some and smiled. “It’s a long, cumbersome title, I know - and I’m never one who cares for the vast amounts of formalities it comes with - but it probably best describes who I am at this point.”

“Enough about me though…hrm…so you say you are from the VerTech Conglomerate?” Alakantar paused briefly, recalling to mind what he had studied concerning the Taraskovyan state and its internal workings, even that of the VerTech Conglomerate. He then mumbled for a bit as he collected his thoughts, “VerTech…VerTech Conglomerate…yes…I’m somewhat familiar with it, but not through direct dealings, of course. From what I’ve read, it does bear some similarities to the Corporation as they’re both immense conglomerates that dominate the economies of both nations and are also owned by the families of the heads of said states. However, in our case, the Corporation is the state.”

There was a saying in Snefaldia: "Always at ease at home." The converse was generally true, and the five men from the Tuhran Bel who had made the trek from the isolated nation were doing a passable job at hiding their unease at being away from the mountainous homeland.

The Centralized Mountain States, so recently opened to the world, had learnt through their ambassadors in Xirnium and the Resurgent Dream of the political metamorhposis that Taraskovya was going through, and the Inner Council of the Tuhran Bel had decided it would be prudent to open more diplomatic channels by paying respects to the new sovereign of the new Empire.

Bel Councillor Taunganbeid-ar-Ta'un, the Chief Librarian of Cnidaran, led four Bel shahry, junior members of the Bel and of less rank in Aatem Nal, in their delegation, which consisted of the five of them and their assistants, making it ten total, a very small group. The assistants were taking pictures and copious notes during the entire trip, not for any espionage but simply to fulfill the religious obligation of Aatem Nal by amassing as much knowledge as possible for deposit in the great libraries of Snefaldia.

Each of the Bel-Ha'ad was dressed simply, in black fur-lined coats extending to the ankle. Councillord ar-Ta'un wore a brocade dalmatic in gold and black, and a high rabbit-fur hat. Each man wore necklaces bearing the symbols of the Bel and Aatem Nal, signifying their dual role as religious figures and political leaders. Snefaldia was a quasi-theocracy, with the religiously studious adherents of Aatem Nal forming the major membership of the Tuhran Bel, the supreme ruling body.

"Natchu, just look at those horsemen! The colors are most interesting- and are those horsetails" Fascinating, simply fascinating! You, aide, get a picture and description!" Hartelan Buxtehude, Archivist at Narha, beamed to another Bel-Ha'ad.

Natchu Visankanju, Inquisitor Grade 12 and fifth-year member of the Bel, was busy looking at the other delegations and making mental notes about their cultural dress and forms of conversation. His specialty was xenolinguistics and language studies; less of a statesman and more of a scholar.

Of the five, Councillor Ta'un was the most politically astute. At 64 years old, he gave the appearance of a man who understood a great many things, and he had grown a great grey and white beard to show his devotion to loftier pursuits than vanity. He was trying to comprehend the magnitude of the Taraskovyan political situation, something that was no mean feat for one so unfamilia with the world outside Snefaldia. Snefaldia had no history of republicanism or democracy, so it was not difficult for him to understand the desire of many to see a supreme leader elected, but his mind was occupied more with the political wranglings of the Senate and Duma.

"Remember, brothers, we are here as representatives of Snefaldia, and not just Aatem Nal. From what I understand, the Taraskovyan faiths do not look fairly upon other religions- it is prudent, brothers, to simply speak as scholars and statesmen. Show every respect when it is due, and try not to think of returning home all the time."

The other men nodded, some smiling, others frowning. This entire endeavor was an entirely new experience for Snefaldians- hopefully, they would not offend anyone who could do them serious harm.

Gwendolyn returned the Largentian's grin with one of her own, "I would certainly concur with that sentiment, sir."

Peter grinned and looked like he was about to say something but then changed his mind. When he did speak, he said, "I am afraid Your Grace attaches too much gravity to a passing comment. I certainly consider myself a Christian man but I am not nearly enough of a theologian to consider the differences between one mainline Protestant denomination and another great matters of conscience. I am comfortable that both Gwendolyn and myself belong to the Church Universal."

Gwendolyn inclined her head to Von Bismark, "I will make the necessary arrangements on our side. It is always a pleasure to make new friends. It was, after all, on a diplomatic event that I met Peter. He took me to a baseball game, of all things. He even had me change out of my gown and put on this ridiculous cap..."

"She always distorts this story," Peter said with a vaguely amused smirk. "It was all her idea."

Ranisath drifted toward Vethara immediately upon her reappearance, but rather than immediately making for her, he entered orbit, as it were, picking out the first unattached Tarasovkan gentleman to say hello to. In the local Russian dialect, of course. Sirithil followed with him, while the rest of the group split up to pursue whatever amusment took their fancy, keeping in mind the imperative to socialise, most immediately defaulted to ‘stretching their legs’ or hunting for places to sit after standing throughout the ceremony.

Glorfindel, meanwhile, took it upon himself to pay careful attention to Araveliar Leilithar, the ambassador to Menelmacar of the nation of Giltheran, who’d joined the Menelmacari party mostly to show support without having to worry about sending someone from the less accessible island nation to Tarasovka directly.

He was similar looking to Glorfindel, in general terms. He had blue-grey eyes, blonde hair, and a regal and confident bearing, though he had shorter hair. And Glorfindel, aside from being older and more famous by far, seemed to be somewhat friendlier, (which wasn’t to say that the arch ambassador wasn’t personable, it was a difference of degree) albeit in a paternal kind of way, very proximity to him seemed to warm the soul.

He was also giving a most disrespectful look toward Alakantar Alenrahel, though he managed to keep it from being outright hostile. More… Shocked, in some way.

Elsewhere, the Menelmacari-C’tani group simply wandered, exchanging quiet hellos.

Lord Reinstadler offers a slight bow to the young man’s greetings, “The privilege is mine, sir. Allow me to take a moment to introduce Theodosia de Perigord, Dame Commander of the Order of the Twin Suns. She recently assumed the leadership of our mission to the Vasilevs’ domains.”

De Perigord nods to the assembled Taraskovyans.

“Duke Sterling was not the only one disappointed he could not attend this event. He and several other supporters of the continuing relationship between Valinon and Tarasovka are still working to better the new government in the Congress of Lords. They send their apologies, of course,” Reinstadler says with a small smile, “but there are some pressing concerns closers to our home front. Some of our less stable neighbors are seeing fit to involve as much of their local stellar neighborhoods as possible in their internal affairs. But I am sure it will be nothing to endanger Dreamreach or your nation’s investments there.”

“If you do not mind me asking,” de Perigord suddenly enters the conversation, “is there anything you can disclose that influenced the Vasilevs decision to embrace Duke Sterling’s rather brash statement? From our perspective it all seemed to come on rather suddenly. But I do realize observing Sol from the distance of Alpha Centauri or the Raumreich gives a certain distortion to issue that seem a matter of fact from Earth.”

The Duke chuckled as he invisioned the scene unfold in his mind. He vaguely recalled the specifics of the game. It was certainly not common in Largent. Perhaps in an age of instant gratification, such a slow moving game had no place, or perhaps the game was simply boring regardless of the day and age. Largentians, oddly enough were largely sailing, soccer, and alpine skiing fans. Granted they were only slightly more enthralling than baseball, but appearantly "slightly" was enough.

"My first baseball game was quite a cultural experience. Penuts and beer everywhere...I can't imagine sharing the moment with a future spouse." He chuckled slightly again.

"Simply out of curiosity, what past relations have you had with our hosts? We Largentians have had none to speak of."

Vasilevs and Aerion

“It is an honour for me to welcome you and your people to Vigvar,” Mikhail spoke with a small smile. “I hope the proceedings and the hospitality have been to your tastes.”

The Crown Prince Regent of Aerion, Damoen Wasterin nodded slowly, "Yes, it is a pleasure to be here."

Damoen was distinctively an Eastern Aerionian as other members of the Royal Family, a look that could be described as resembling a mix of Italian and Arabic. He had black hair, naturally tanned skin, and was average height. He had extended his hand to shake Mihkail's.

The Vasilevs shook the offered hand in a polite manner before gesturing over to the low table and the sofas.

“Pray, shall we sit then?”

At this moment a member of the Palace Staff entered the room and stood waiting for the rulers to sit down before inquiring whether they wished anything to drink.

The Crown Prince nodded, and stepped over to take a seat in one of the sofas. He would wait until the Vasilevs first took his seat. He gestured to the older Lord Privy Seal who took a seat next to him when he sat. The Crown Prince placed one leg over the other.

The Taraskovyan Emperor took his seat and, as his guests took theirs, the woman in the livery of palace staff stepped forth.

“Do Your Majesties and Your Exellency desire anything to drink?”

Mikhail made a slight dismissive gesture with a hand, inclining his head at the same time.

“I shall do without for now,” he said. “Maybe our guests wish anything?”

The Crown Prince smiled cordially, perhaps unusually for a royal, to the palace servants. He nodded, "Yes, some wine made within Taraskovya would be good."

The Lord Privy Seal, however, simply shook his head.

The woman inclined her head in understanding and retired from the room. In less than a minute she was already back with a tray upon which was a cool bucket with a bottle of “Sviatodar”, a famous Taraskovyan winter wine. And judging from the date of the bottle, it was not of the previous year, either, but was truly a drink worth of kings. The woman placed a goblet opposite the Prince Regent, let him taste some of the wine before pouring him the full glass. She left two more goblets handy in case the Vasilevs and the Lord Privy Seal decided they wanted to sip some. Upon that, she retired to a wall of the room where she stood waiting, as no order to retire followed.

Damoen nodded, taking the wine, and thanked the servant. He took the sip, placed the wine on the table, and then began speaking.

"I would like to congratulate you on your coronation. I have heard of your great strength, and wisdom in leading the Grand Duchy...well now Empire of Tarasovka. You are truly worthy of the title of Emperor."

The face of the Vasilevs did not register much emotion, even if the length of the congratulatory speech did surprise him. This coming from such a convincingly monarchic state as Aerion.

“I thank you for your kind words and I hope I shall live up to them in the future,” Mikhail spoke. “The Empire, however, and this title are not simply about me. They are about my people, my country. They are a proof of our success, of our strength and might.”

The Crown Prince Regent of Aerion nodded, "Yes, indeed. Your subjects have much to be proud of." He cleared his throat, "I hope that we can continue to strengthen our relations with Tarasovka, the Empire that it is. Monarchies become fewer, and fewer. Despite my reservations and hopes for more democracy in the Grand Kingdom, I still believe in the tradition of monarchy."

He continued his thoughts, "I have, however, because of personal reservations refused the Crown far beyond what is appropriate. I do not wish to lead as a King, but by tradition I must, and I would not trust the Crown to anyone else. By keeping the Crown as an institution unattached to myself as a person, as of yet, I had hoped to encourage my government to look more toward ideas exchanging."

And he concluded, "Rather than looking to only one individual, one man for all of the answers. The Royal Government has stepped up well, in the absence of my constant direct control, to leading the nation rather well. I still contend with the megacorporations, who I must acknowledge as another center of power in the Grand Kingdom."

The Vasilevs inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“I do not think that monarchy and democracy are separate entities that may not co-exist together. Look at Taraskovya as an example. I am proud to say that we are a conservative monarchist nation, and yet we have semi-direct democracy on all levels of power. Even as far as old style veche being held in rural communities all across the Empire.

“However, I can understand your worries as of the crown. In Taraskovya, there is a saying that the “Grand Duke rules as long as the Gods will it and the people tolerate it.” The monarch is there to lead and guide his people and, thus, to serve them. The monarch symbolizes the unity of the country, to whom each and every subject may turn to for protection.”

Damoen nodded, "Of course, however your nation has an long tradition of a well structured monarchy. Mine is an restored monarchy, restored by King Wasterin X several years ago. After the fascist government of the New Aerionian Order, a few enterprising men supported by King Wasterin X built these megacorporations. The megacorporatons in turn was what rebuilt the nation to what it is today.

"So the situation is complex. I have planned to institute democratic reforms in Aerion for some time, but I fear any democracy would be immediately corruptible by the megacorporations. Ahh, but these are situations I must contend with, I would like to speak on them some time with you from monarch to monarch but some other time." He takes a sip of his wine, "This is your night."

“I do not deem it wise for me to speak of interior matters pertaining to Aerion, for I am not the lord of that nation. You are,” the Vasilevs said with a smile, happy to end the discussion which was, from his point of view, drifting a bit too much into Aerionian matters. “And thank you. This is not only my night, but that of my people as well.”

Damoen stated, "And on that subject, I have an gift for you for the occasion."

The Prince Regent gestured to the Lord Privy Seal who withdrew two thick golden vellum envelopes. He handed them to the Prince, who held them out either awaiting an servant to pass them to the Emperor or for the Emperor to take them himself.

The Vasilevs was not really all that haughty a man as many deemed he was. Accepting an envelope from somebody seated right across the table from him was not problematic. And so he accepted the envelopes, resting them on the table and smiling politely. “I may only express my gratitude for your kind attention,” Mikhail spoke as he proceeded to open the envelopes, one after the other.

The first envelope contained an high quality digital photograph of two vehicles, the first one was the Adinas Star Coach V, an super-luxury elegant sedan along with an very high quality glossy pamphlet outlining the numerous features, and also an photograph as well as pamphlet on the Adinas Star Coach GTC, an hardtop convertible coup car with a similar body style to the Adinas Star Coach. The second envelope contained an beauitful picture, golden paper blueprint, and pamphlets on an medium sized luxury airship yacht.

The Crown Prince smiled somewhat, "I would like to present to you three gifts. The first is the Adinas Star Coach V, an super-luxury sedan with numerous features that was configured to use the engine style used in Taraskovya, the second is the Adinas Star Coach GTC, an hardtop two-seater convertible configured with the engine style. I own both of them, and they are the finest cars Aerion has."

The Crown Prince continued, "And the third gift, the grandest of all and the gift from our Royal Family to the Taraskovyan Crown is an luxury airship yacht designed by the Royal Aerionian Airship Corporation. It can accomodate thirty passengers, and twenty luxuriously. It has the luxuries, and more than you would find on an sea yacht including the cabins, kitchen, and etc."

The Crown Prince concluded, "The furniture, and rooms were custom crafted with the finest materials safe for airships. We believe you will enjoy it."

The Vasilevs arched an eyebrow at the words and descriptions and inclined his head in gratitude.

“I express my gratitude for the fine gifts. I am sure these shall be the jewels in my collection and shall take the place worth of such marvels.” He paused and grinned. “I also promise to take all due care of them!”

The Crown Prince nodded, "I hope you enjoy them, the cars are here. They arrived with my entourage, and the airship will arrive here in a few days." He spoke diplomatically, concluding. "I know you have a busy night ahead of you, and would like to enjoy your coronation night as well. I hope that we can look forward to good relations, Emperor, and congratulations once again."

The two rulers shared some further words of courtesy before the Aerionian Prince departed.

And then the duo of Alexander Guards began hunting for their next “victim”.


[OOC: I believe Snefaldia is next. But I am not sure.]


Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

Georgiy smiled and inclined his head. “I do indeed know of your homeland and its particularities. A decade and a half ago what is now known as the “Southern Fiefdoms” was land held by the Vortex Corporation. Until VerTech and the Taraskovyan State… hmm… one could say we bought them out, albeit the process was not so simple.”

He paused, pensively, for a moment before speaking again.

“And then was the military junta who quite logically decided that if Taraskovya managed to buy out a nation, then its territories held by its various corporations could suffer the very same fate. And since then the corporations have been drastically limited in their administrative authority over Taraskovyan soil.”


Archduke Viktor and the Snefaldia

The curious and sometimes amazed gazes of the delegation from the Centralised Mountain States did not escape the eyes of another rather curious man, who was none else than Archduke Viktor, the second in line to the Taraskovyan throne. The man, having finished his discussion with a circle of his countrymen, then directed himself towards the group of five.

“I have to admit that I have experienced a certain difficulty over the past few minutes of identifying from exactly which country you hail from, gentlemen,” he spoke as he approached them. He did not present himself, for he was quite used to being recognized and known at least by those that come to an official event in his own country.


Valinon Delegation and Imperial Foreign Minister

“But of course, I already had the pleasure of meeting Dame de Perigord during the hand in of the introductory letters,” the Foreign Minister smiled and inclined his head politely.

“And as of your question, I believe there is a certain confusion. The realization that Taraskovya was not a mere Grand Duchy came step by step. Many prominent Taraskovyan political, social, cultural and even military personalities spoke in that sense. What Lord Sterling has done during that talk we had with him was to resume the entirety of the situation in a simple, catchy and symbolic phrase.”

He paused as he sipped some of his drink before continuing.

“From there on, the Imperial Reform as it is called was initiated by a wide circle of Taraskovyans, with support from His Most August Majesty, of course. The process is not over yet, many a Statute and Law need to be passed yet. But we believe everything shall go smoothly.”


Archduchess Vethara and Archduchess Irina

The two Archduchesses, namely the Vasilevs’es sister and Viktor’s wife, kept walking at a slow pace, discussing something in between them. Their duo was then joined by Dragica Lubenova who, despite pretty much being the leader of the leftist opposition, was known to be friend with quite a conservative Vethara.

The curious and sometimes amazed gazes of the delegation from the Centralised Mountain States did not escape the eyes of another rather curious man, who was none else than Archduke Viktor, the second in line to the Taraskovyan throne. The man, having finished his discussion with a circle of his countrymen, then directed himself towards the group of five.

“I have to admit that I have experienced a certain difficulty over the past few minutes of identifying from exactly which country you hail from, gentlemen,” he spoke as he approached them. He did not present himself, for he was quite used to being recognized and known at least by those that come to an official event in his own country.

Councillor Ta'un crossed his hands over his chest in greeting and inclined his head solemnly. The other, younger, delegates bowed slightly move, actually moving their torsoes. The benefits of seniority.

"Taunganbeid-ar-Ta'un, Councillor the Tuhran Bel and Chief Librarian at Cnidaran. My colleagues and I are from the Centralized Mountain States of Snefaldia." He quickly glanced over the man's attire and bearing; judging him of high rank Ta'un continued. "I hope that his excellency takes no offense, but I confess I am not familiar with his personage. It is the unfortunate byproduct of a nation so recently emerged from the shadows of isolationism, but boundless in its possibility for good connexions."

Archduke Viktor and the Snefaldians

The Archduke grinned and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No offense taken, gentlemen.”

He paused and sipped some of his drink before giving a glance around the attendance. Then he looked back at Taunganbeid.

“I am Viktor, currently Archduke and soon to be Grand Duke of Taraskovya and I have the privilege of being the closest cousin to the Vasilevs. As such, if His Most August Majesty the Vasilevs renounces throne and his sister, the Archduchess and soon to be Grand Duchess Vethara does the same, I shall have the honour of leading the legalo-administrative puzzle that is my motherland.”

As the second in line to the Taraskovyan throne finished speaking and his interlocutor had the time to respond, two Alexander Guards politely stepped in and, after saluting all those present, apologised to the Archduke for the intrusion. Then the invitation to the Emperor's audience followed.

Ah, the airs of nobility... Taunganbeid smiled.

"I have the honor of your name, sir. Allow me to introduce my colleagues."

He gestured with his hand, proceeding to introduce each of his junior colleagues and explaining their titles. He was quite sure the Archduke didn't much care, but it was in the spirit of diplomatic friendship he did it. Tuanganbeid had the unfortunate fate of being something of a cynic, and so rarely trusted any person to be truthful or entirely pure in ideal.

"I am correct in thinking that the line of succession for you nation proceeds through both male and female lines? The son first, and then the daughter take the throne? Quite interesting, quite interesting."

Buxtehude spoke up. "The political situation is intriguing to us all. It is unusual in our eyes to see the formation of an Imperial system out of one that has developed popular instutions... I gather that your nation's democratic supporters are less than pleased with the current situation of things?"

The Alexander Guards entered the group, waiting politely, and Taunganbeid motioned Buxtehude to quiet. "Your Excellency needs feel no necessity to respond. I believe that we are to make our introductions to your august cousins- I would dare not make the host wait. If it is amenable, Holiness Buxtehude would continue the discussion at a later date."

Bowing, the Snefaldians attended to the Alexander guards and moved toward their Imperial hosts, the purpose of the entire visit. Natchu looked slightly cross. "Such rudeness on behalf of aristrocrats. I am glad the Sringi Daal are less than whole now*." he muttered in Bagura. Taunganbeid shot him a glare of death. "Quiet your tongue. The Archduke was kind enough to approach us first- what Daal would do that? Now shut your mouth and say no more, unless I or one of our hosts speaks to you."

Natchu nodded in submission. Taunganbeid was hardly satisfied with himself or his explanation. Members of the Tuhran Bel were used to being referred to deferentially, their appellation "Your Holiness" becoming almost a first name. But it was to be expected that foreigners would not be aware of their customs. He was right, though, in disagreeing with Natchu. The Sringi Daal were the pitiful remnants of the old Sring Issan nobility, disenfranchised and impoverished three centuries before but still clinging to their lost glory. Aatem Nal had displaced them and eliminated their influence, but it was a curious day when a Daal would bow to a Loremaster or show respect to an educated gentleman.

At least the Taraskovyans were well-dressed and smiling.


*"less than whole" is an idiom that implies weakness or impotence. Usually used to refer to the old class of disenfranchised nobles, or those that had influence but wasted it.

The Vasilevs and the Snefaldians

“And our next guests are?”

“Snefaldians, Sire,” the cold, composed voice of the interlocutor could be heard in the Emperor’s ear. “Quite an interesting entity, too. A particular mixture of theocracy regrouping a whole three religions.”

“I know all this, anything more… consistent that you would wish to share?”

“Oh, forgive me, Sire. From what I could fathom, there is at least five Bel. Of which the senior is one Taunganbeid-ar-Ta’un,” the interlocutor said, not without some hardships in pronouncing the name. “Others are…” and some more names followed, not without some hardships at some. “They are all part of the religious current known as Aatem Nal, but I shall skip you the details unless you require them. Just know that our guests come from the majority and often can be seen wearing attires quite similar to those of the Patriarch’s cavalry and the Patriarch’s men…”

The Vasilevs chuckled. His interlocutor was a true Taraskath and a faithful of the Seven Deities, never to miss a pun against the head of the faith that dethroned the native Taraskath religion from its place of predominance.

“I believe the similarities end there, then?”

“Yes, Sire. But rest assured they are dressed in a more… secular manner on the occasion.”

“Good. I am informed that they shall be here shortly.”

“Then I shall end the communication, Sire, and stand by for further orders.”

And then the door opened and the Alexander Guards in the room snapped to attention, swords in front of them as the foreign dignitaries proceeded through the aforementioned entrance into the room. The Vasilevs met them with a smile and, yet again, spoke not first. After all, the guards outside the room had already loudly proclaimed his identity, it was up to the guests to introduce themselves now.



Archduke Viktor, Archduchess Vethara, Archduchess Irina, Honourable Deputy Dragica Liubenova

“So then, Vik, had your interlocutors stolen from you by my Most August brother?” Vethara spoke as the group of three women caught up with the Archduke.

“So he has, Vetha,” Viktor said with a grin as he looked at his cousine. “And in retaliation, I shall hereby proceed to steal my Imperial Highnessy wife from you.”

With that, the Archduke extended his arm towards Irina who was none else than his wife. The woman accepted the arm with a light smile.

“Well, Vetha, Lady Liubenova, it has been a pleasure.”

Viktor and Irina departed, ordering some drinks from a passing waiter. Vethara and Dragica were left alone to their chatter which did not revolve around politics, but mostly about the design of parks. Lorelei, the capital of Vethara’s own little corner of the Empire, was expanding and more parks were needed.



Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

Georgiy sipped some of his drink before continuing on with the chat.

"I am curious, Mister... Aleanrahel or Mister O’Neill? Pardon me for mixing up in your national naming conventions... Pray, tell me, do you come to this event with a purpose or have you been sent here just to act as a ceremonial representative of your Corporate State?"

- - - - -

OOC: I hope nobody minds if I attempt a ressurection of the thread? Real life always hits when it's needed the less, and buggers off when it's kind of needed the most >.>

During a slight lull in the conversation with the VerTech Chief Admin, Alakantar’s eyes idly scanned over the crowded ballroom, noting to himself how the various representatives mingled about. It seemed as if a sizeable portion integrated themselves into a few cliques. While others seemed to float around and divide their time equally with others.

He did, however, notice the rather irreverent expression from one of the Menelmacari elves in attendance. But it certainly did not come as that much of a surprise to him as he was quite used to the numerous condescending looks he received from the light elves. It was a price one had to pay for being Drow. Alakantar merely smiled and gave a polite bow of the head, to hopefully give the impression that he was here to be friendly not for a slaughter, and turned himself back to the Tarasovkan businessman when he began to speak.

“Ehh…either one is correct, to be honest. The former is more of the traditional Drow name while the latter is the Grummian name. Whichever one works for you or you can call me Alakantar, if you like.”

He paused briefly and considered the man’s question carefully before he responded. “A little of both actually. But…I hope you don’t mind me for saying so, but the latter has always sounded a bit…cold. It always gives the impression that people send representatives just so they can look good. Yeah, I do understand that happens, but still. We do care. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t send anyone at all. Anyways…back to what you were saying. I’m here as the representative of the Northrop-Grumman Corporation to offer congratulations from myself and the people. It’s not every day that a nation becomes an empire, and an emperor crowned. And I am also here to offer a hand of friendship to Tarasovka, and if the opportunity approaches, anyone else here.”

The Vasilevs and the Snefaldians

“And our next guests are?”

“Snefaldians, Sire,” the cold, composed voice of the interlocutor could be heard in the Emperor’s ear. “Quite an interesting entity, too. A particular mixture of theocracy regrouping a whole three religions.”

“I know all this, anything more… consistent that you would wish to share?”

“Oh, forgive me, Sire. From what I could fathom, there is at least five Bel. Of which the senior is one Taunganbeid-ar-Ta’un,” the interlocutor said, not without some hardships in pronouncing the name. “Others are…” and some more names followed, not without some hardships at some. “They are all part of the religious current known as Aatem Nal, but I shall skip you the details unless you require them. Just know that our guests come from the majority and often can be seen wearing attires quite similar to those of the Patriarch’s cavalry and the Patriarch’s men…”

The Vasilevs chuckled. His interlocutor was a true Taraskath and a faithful of the Seven Deities, never to miss a pun against the head of the faith that dethroned the native Taraskath religion from its place of predominance.

“I believe the similarities end there, then?”

“Yes, Sire. But rest assured they are dressed in a more… secular manner on the occasion.”

“Good. I am informed that they shall be here shortly.”

“Then I shall end the communication, Sire, and stand by for further orders.”

And then the door opened and the Alexander Guards in the room snapped to attention, swords in front of them as the foreign dignitaries proceeded through the aforementioned entrance into the room. The Vasilevs met them with a smile and, yet again, spoke not first. After all, the guards outside the room had already loudly proclaimed his identity, it was up to the guests to introduce themselves now.

OOC: I hope nobody minds if I attempt a ressurection of the thread? Real life always hits when it's needed the less, and buggers off when it's kind of needed the most >.>

Ritual and ceremony play and important role in the life of an Arsathae; from the time they entered a Repository as a Cenobite every adherent of the religion was taught to perform rituals and observe the minutiae with deep patience and reverence. And even though Aatem Nal had emasculated the old aristocracy and obliterated all the monarchies in Snefaldia well over 400 years ago, Taunganbeid was not so naively egalitarian to think that other nations did not have aristocrats, with all their attendant ideas of supremacy and proper treatment.

The delegation of the Centralized Mountain States entered the presence of the Taraskovyan Emperor, formed as a sort of wedge with Taunganbeid at the head, their aides moving in solemn procession behind. Taraskovyans; whether they were faithful to the Seven Deities or not, would see an interesting similarity between the liturgical vestments that the delegates wore- an Orthodox adherent might be slightly offended by particular combinations of colors, motifs, and icons- but of course, the opposite could be true if the Patriarch visited one of the more right-wing villages in Snefaldia's countryside.

At the appropriate time the procession stopped, and Taunganbeid bowed low at the waist, with the rest of the group following him in perfect timed stages.

"Your Imperial Highness. We humble Arsthaes of the Centralized Mountain States of Snefaldia come with blessings and the gifts of the Snefaldian people and the Tuhran Bel. We speak for the Bel as we give your Highness congratulations on your ascension to the throne."

The aides came forwards, backs bent and heads bowed, bearing polished mahogany boxes- five in number. Each aide presented the box to the Emperor, opening it a suitable distance away from the monarch so as not to alarm the guards. One contained a polished pearl the size of a baseball, the second a necklace of jewels and gold leaves, the third a potpurri of fragrant wood and flowers in a fine silver-mesh bag, the fourth a polished obsidian ceremonial knife. The fifth box, however, contained a book- bound in red leather and embossed in golden words.

"The Tuhran Bel sends to the bounty of Snefaldia, and for Your Highnesses' pleasure, a copy of our holy Amershaman Medrahov, the book of our faith. We hold sacred in our nation education and the accumulation of knowledge; we hope that the passages in the Medrahov will be enlightening to his Highness."

The other Bel bowed again. Taunganbeid straightened. "I am Taunganbeid-ar-Ta`un, and it is a great honor to be in this beautiful country. I hope that a friendship between my country and your Highness' will be a strong and long-lasting one."

OOC: No worries, no worries! I was hoping it wouldn't just fade away; I don't often get to roleplay like this!

"There is Lord Glorfindel, and Celebrimbor, the Elentári's son," the young, Gaia Calpurnia briefed. As Coronation and following celebrations marked an important diplomatic opportunity for the Imperium, she had been working overtime to insure that her charge knew the important person who attended. Since the coronation itself she had been researching those present so as to be able to properly greet. "We will want to make sure to greet them."

Her charge, Marcus Sutherland was no stranger to diplomacy. Although, he preferred the battlefield. He listened intently as he surveyed the room, making a effort to remove the brooding look from his face that often masked. He was tall and much darker skinned than any of the other Drakonians. His hair black and cut short, in a military fashion, close to his ebony skin, and he wore the Full Dress Uniform of a Captain in the Imperial Drakonian Armed Forces. The same Red and Gold-Trimmed Jet Black Uniform he had worn at the Coronation, although without the traditional rapier. A number of medals also shown off of his uniform that he would rather not be there. His left hand was hidden behind a black glove that disappeared up his sleeve, while his right was uncovered, and there was something odd about the way he held the arm.

"The Crown Prince of Aerion, Damoen Wasterin, was at the Coronation as well. The Pantocratorian Heir as well, Prince Andreus. And, I believe I saw the Duke of Fife, Otto Von Bismarck, from Largent. I also noticed some dignitaries from Confederated Peoples of the Resurgent Dream we should make time to meet them."

Marcus was the Drakonian Aristocratic Representation, as the Crown Prince of Trinidad, and Heir Apparent to the Praetorship should his Brother-In-Law and his Sister have no child. Therefore it was his duty to represent his nation to the nobility here, and with no child yet from the Royal Couple, it chagrinned him to think just how far his duty might take him. Absently he rubbed his left arm. Catching himself in the action he made an effort to straighten himself and important.

"We could hear about our requested audience with the Vasilev at any time, so be ready."

Their escort, Mars Atella, peeled away from his fellow Drakonians. The Praetorian Guard Captain had been sent as a token head of security for the dignitaries, a job he quickly found to be devoid of much more than making the appropriate show of security. He commanded a small attachment that had accompanied the group on the Drakonian Jumbo Jet ride to Taraskovya. Mostly his command remained on that plane, waiting out the visit, but Mars had accompanied Marcus and Gaia.

He like Marcus wore a jet black uniform, however his was trimmed in the Purple and Gold of the Praetorian Guard. Mars was muscular, had the tanned skin, and like most Drakonians he was tall. His eyes kept dart back to his charges and dwelling far longer than was appropriate on Gaia.

And it was easy to see why they stayed so long on the Drakonian Diplomat. Gaia was dressed much less formally than she had been at the coronation in an elegant red dress, with a matching purse, the latest style in Drakonia. She was tall and thin, with long golden blond hair. Her skin was fair, a rarity to those who live long under the Caribbean.

It showed off her figure quite well, the Captain noticed, realizing he was staring and forcing himself to look away. Fortunately, she could not see and he moved onward to find the nearest bar where he could keep an eye on his fellow Drakonians.

The Vasilevs and the Snefaldians

“Quite secular indeed,” the Emperor thought sarcastically to himself as he saw the Snefaldian procession enter the audience chamber. None of his thoughts appeared on his face, however.

The Emperor did not speak a word, inclining his head in sign of acknowledgement as the guests bowed in greeting. He also did not utter a word as Ta’un presented their delegation and as the assistants moved forward with the gifts. And only once the guests presented the gifts and finished speaking that the Vasilevs proceeded to speak himself.

“It is with great pleasure that I accept this generous gift,” Mikhail spoke as he made several steps forward to take a better look at the book in question, looking with interest at the cover. “Quest for knowledge is also held in great esteem in Taraskovya, albeit I have to admit most of my countrymen do not attach religious value to this. As such, I can only express my gratitude for this opportunity you’ve given me to get a closer look at one of the many, from what I could understand, facets of Snefaldia.”

His eyes then moved to the other gifts. The knife looked like a knife and, as such, did not attract any immediate attention. The necklace was marvelous and the Emperor could judge, for his own country was famed to be a land of fine jewelers. To such a point that the Empire considered the gem mining and jewelry sectors of “outmost national importance” and was fully decided to not allow any foreign competition to take over. The potpourri provoked a mental arch of the brow, even if physically his face remained composed. But what captivated the Emperor’s attention the most was the pearl of impressive sizes.

“Pray, explain to me the symbolism of these other gifts, for you have awoken my curiosity,” the Emperor spoke, his eyes yet again resting upon Ta’un.

- - - - - -


[OOC: Well, in line of traditional Taraskovyan modesty and simplicity *cough* the Emperor’s style is “His Most August Majesty”. "His/Her Imperial Highness" is reserved to the other members of the Imperial family, like his sister and cousin and all.

I believe yours are to be referred to as “His Holiness”, which might run into a problem with the deeply encrusted Taraskovyan logic of “One Church = One His Holiness”. Oh well, looking forward to finding out what the gifts symbolize!]

- - - - - -


Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

“Well, I shall not speak for the Foreign Ministry, for it is the domain of His Excellency the Minister, quite obviously,” Georgiy said with a smile, giving a glance around the park and the ballroom to check if he could spot the now Imperial Minister. But amongst all the guests, he did not, and so his eyes returned upon Alakantar.

“But the Empire is always open to establishing friendly ties with foreign powers. All in line with the general policy of the more friends you have, the least fronts your soldiers have to hold,” the Chief Administrator chuckled, seemingly content with his own joke. “From there on, on the purely economic and commercial level, VerTech is always open to exploring new horizons and entering new markets. As such, it is quite fortunate for us to have met on this occasion, I deem. Establishing high level contacts before exploring any ventures is always beneficial, do you not think?”


The Archduchess and the Drakonians

In their calm stroll through the guests both domestic and foreign, the Emperor’s sister and the leader of the largest opposition block in the Parliament have stumbled upon the Drakonians. Neither Vethara nor Dragica knew much about the Imperium, as none of them was tasked with matters foreign. The former lorded over her corner of the Empire and concentrated on her immediate neighbours. The latter was far too busy running the unified left-wing opposition to the Conservative Party, which was not only the political hegemony throughout the Empire, but also a staunch supporter of the Emperor. The Conservatives or their regional allies held majorities, whether alone or in coalition, a bit in every single corner of the Empire, which did not make the comparatively young Moesian politician's work any easier.

Some might actually find it curious that the Emperor’s sister was friends with a woman who did not entirely approve of her brother’s initiatives and acts. But then again, the Liberal-Socialists dropped their Republicanist approach and, while still leading extensive debates in attempts to delay the passing of Conservative-proposed legislation, were not as hostile to the present day leadership as they were before. Of course, the elections to the Imperial Parliament were only to come and the Liberal Socialist Party had yet to come forth with a well defined platform.

Of course, the Archduchess could always request information via commslink, the problem was that her “all-in-one” ear piece was in her purse and not in her ear.

“Forgive our intrusion,” Vethara said with a smile, “but me and my friend here have to admit that we are a bit at odds at identifying clearly what country you hail from.”

The Vasilevs and the Snefaldians

“Quite secular indeed,” the Emperor thought sarcastically to himself as he saw the Snefaldian procession enter the audience chamber. None of his thoughts appeared on his face, however.

The Emperor did not speak a word, inclining his head in sign of acknowledgement as the guests bowed in greeting. He also did not utter a word as Ta’un presented their delegation and as the assistants moved forward with the gifts. And only once the guests presented the gifts and finished speaking that the Vasilevs proceeded to speak himself.

“It is with great pleasure that I accept this generous gift,” Mikhail spoke as he made several steps forward to take a better look at the book in question, looking with interest at the cover. “Quest for knowledge is also held in great esteem in Taraskovya, albeit I have to admit most of my countrymen do not attach religious value to this. As such, I can only express my gratitude for this opportunity you’ve given me to get a closer look at one of the many, from what I could understand, facets of Snefaldia.”

His eyes then moved to the other gifts. The knife looked like a knife and, as such, did not attract any immediate attention. The necklace was marvelous and the Emperor could judge, for his own country was famed to be a land of fine jewelers. To such a point that the Empire considered the gem mining and jewelry sectors of “outmost national importance” and was fully decided to not allow any foreign competition to take over. The potpourri provoked a mental arch of the brow, even if physically his face remained composed. But what captivated the Emperor’s attention the most was the pearl of impressive sizes.

“Pray, explain to me the symbolism of these other gifts, for you have awoken my curiosity,” the Emperor spoke, his eyes yet again resting upon Ta’un.

- - - - - -

[OOC: Well, in line of traditional Taraskovyan modesty and simplicity *cough* the Emperor’s style is “His Most August Majesty”. "His/Her Imperial Highness" is reserved to the other members of the Imperial family, like his sister and cousin and all.

I believe yours are to be referred to as “His Holiness”, which might run into a problem with the deeply encrusted Taraskovyan logic of “One Church = One His Holiness”. Oh well, looking forward to finding out what the gifts symbolize!]


The Arsathae bowed his head. "It is my pleasure. The knife you see comes from the eastern province of Allasha, a region rich in history- the earliest civilizations in Snefaldia arose here. Volcanic obsidian is found in great amounts in the Zogor mountains which border this region; and have been much prized as symbols of wealth and status. This knife was made by one of the most accomplished artisans in Allasha; cut in the ancient style of the Taaru river- in Snefaldia, such an ornament indicates great prestige."

"The necklace hails from Bae, sitting at the feet of the eastern Seril mountains. Bae has also a storied history, and a powerful kingdom dominated the cultural landscape of Snefaldia in from 200bce to 500ce. This necklace is fashioned in the style worn by the great rulers of ancient Bae, a style which is still seen on higher officials."

"The scented woods and flowers come equally from Neer Dal and Sring Issa, in the south and north respectively. Fragrant cedar and pine, as well as myriad flowers and oils, is a testament to the great natural gifts the land gives us. The potpurri tradition is rooted deeply in Sringi thought- this particular blend is said to evoke the feeling of sitting at the side of a cool lake while the flowers bloom in the spring."

Taunganbeid took a step forward, picking up the box that held the pearl.

"And finally, an Oceanus Pearl. These are very rare, grown in the islands in the bay of Fuschal, using an ancient method that is known only to three families, who have carried it down from time immemorial. I confess that even the most knowledgeable Arsathaes do not know where they came from or when it started. This came from the island of Lagas, grown by the Udim family. The largest Oceanus ever to be grown is 15 inches in circumference; grown in 435 it was dubbed "Heart of the Sea" and sits in the Grand Library of Serasarda. These pearls are given to devout rulers and holy figures, with much ceremony."

Taunganbeid took a breath, pausing before his next paragraph. "I will say, however, that in my country the most prized possesion is the Medrahov. Families pass theirs down from generation to generation, regarding the epistemology contained within more precious than any Oceanus Pearl. Our greatest philosopher, Ta'us Ala'a, once wrote that "the pearl of the south bay is a marvel because it is made with human knowledge; and the book is worth more than any pearl. Why? Because a pearl is a pearl- but the book is the gateway to all things."

Bowing his head again, he took a step back to let the Emperor process his speech. Deep in his stomach, he felt a tiny pang of something, some feeling, some emotion- one he had never felt before. For the first time in his life he had felt afraid at sharing Aatem Nal's message- surrounded by stony-eyed priests, aristocrats, and guards, he had only with great trepidation stated in plain words what he and his colleagues believed to be true.

As he stood there, in a foreign land of foreign thoughts, he contemplated how different the world at large was from Snefaldia. Taking a breath, he smiled, vowing to discuss the day with his fellow Arsathaes as soon as they had a chance.

OOC: Ah, my mistake. Chalk it off to the delegates just being naive and earnest. I'll avoid using styles for now- we can assume that they later got the memo.

If "Holiness" is too much for the devout to handle, "Honored Scholar" or "Honored Arsathae" is quite alright to use. In Snefaldia, there really isn't a distinction between "secular" and "religious" in the conentional sense; Snefaldia religion isn't really religion in the common sense of the word.

Yes, I know it's confusing- I don't really understand it myself. :D

Damoen, Crown Prince Regent of Aerion, returned to the grounds earlier after his audience with the new Emperor. The Lord Privy Seal, Aedklen Umvar returned with him Danarth Kerson, Aerionian Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Arnulth Eshoth, Royal Ambassador to Taraskovya, had been awaiting the Crown Prince Regent somewhat nervously.

Ambassador Arnulth himself, an older man of high breeding, appeared as if he were more fitting for the position of the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Minister Danarth was an larger man, and appeared more fitting as an banker or perhaps some unscrupulous businessman. The two men looked very different in their suits, and they had been debating what the Crown Prince Regent and new Emperor had perhaps discussed in the audience.

Damoen returned, and the Aerionian entourage had a brief discussion. The Crown Prince informed the Ambassador that the coronation gifts had been presented, and for the Royal Embassy to take care of some of the details.

Upon completion of their conversation, Ambassador Arnulth glanced across the grass at Archduchess Vethara. He spoke to Damoen, “Your Highness, that is Archduchess Vethara, soon to be Grand Duchess of Taraskovya, sister to the Vasilevs and second in line to the throne. I believe I already pointed her out earlier?” He glances at the woman with her, “And that woman with her is Dragica Lubenova, a surprising friend to the Archduchess as she is leader of the opposition in the government.”

The Ambassador glanced at the delegation the Archduchess was speaking to, raising an eyebrow and glancing to the Minister for an answer. The Minister glanced at the Drakonian delegation, “Hmm, I am not..exactly sure.” Damoen frowned disapprovingly in a surprising frown. He knew that Minister Danarth was an politician, and not truly suited to actualy fulfilling his duties. Though he kept him as a concession as he had been an appointee of his uncle, King Wasterin X.Damoen glanced over, “Well, perhaps we shall go join them? We may find out what nation the others hail from as well.” The Minister nodded, and the Ambassador nodded as well. The Lord Privy Seal remained silent.

The Aerionian entourage began walking led by the Crown Prince Regent toward the Archduchess, and the Drakonian delegation. Their approach would definitely be noted, with the Crown Prince Regent in his elaborate burgundy gala uniform with golden accents, golden Epaulettes, golden roping, double golden butons, and a golden belt with shinig black dress shoes. The red sash he wore bore the star of the Royal Aerionian Order of His Majesty the King, the highest order in the Grand Kingdom of which the Crown Prince Regent was Grand Master pro tempore. On his left breast was the Grand Cross of the Order of the White Wolf, and several smaller appropriate decorations. All indicated him to be royalty of some kind.

The Allaneans and ARIA Minister-Chancellor

The sight of two seemingly lost and confused Allaneans did not escape the experienced gaze of Jonathan Darrington, the freshly elected Minister-Chancellor of the Autonomous Republic of the Island of Atlantic. He was known to be quite a supporter of Vigvar, in contrast to his predecessor McFlintock who was often quite cool towards the Taraskovyan overlords. And ended up letting various "independentists" and "sovereigntists" so loose that the then Grand Ducal Parliament had him removed from office and full powers bestowed upon the then Overseer.

But apparently the citizens decided that time has come to bridge the gap with Vigvar and their will was carried through free and fair elections. One thing that had to be given to the Taraskovyans was that they respected elections and referenda, they were even quite fond of them. And now the island was a full Imperial Realm and no longer required any Overseers.

“My, my, I dare admit I did not expect to see any representatives of Allanea at this event,” the Ministerl-Chancellor spoke as he approached Yehuda Kohen and Wilhelm Stossel. “Forgive my intrusion and allow me to present myself. Jonathan Darrington, Minister-Chancellor of the Autonomous Republic of the Island of Atlantic. The formerly piece of Allanea you used to call Freedom Island, lest I be mistaken.”

[OOC: Because Allanea asked. Other replies forthcoming a tad later.]

The Crown Prince Regent of Aerion's approach was indeed noted. Gaia hesitated in her response a moment as she tried not to lose control. This was her first major assignment so some anxiousness especially in such important company was to be expected. Despite her internal condition she was careful to keep it from her face.

"The Drakonian Imperium, your majesty," Gaia responded as Crown Prince Regent came into earshot. "This is the Heir App--"

"Marcus Sutherland," Marcus interjected before she would proceed. "No need to stand on ancient Drakonian traditions and titles." Despite his high position he really did not feel better than any citizen in the Imperium and hated to dreg up such things as his title and position.

Gaia tried not to miss a beat. "And I am Gaia Calpurnia," she said, inclining here head slightly in a Drakonian show of respect. "Representative of the Praetor and his Government."

Meanwhile, across the room, Praetorian Guardsman Mars Atella had glanced back at his fellow Drakonians and at his surprise at the those gathering around him had nearly ran into someone. He quickly realized how dangerous a mistake he had nearly committed and turn to give his apologies. He was met with the representatives from the Resurgent Dawn. "Pardon me, Sir, Ma’am," he said straightening his uniform.

Wilhelm smiled as politely as he could, and even saluted the Minister-Chancellor – Allanean military codes required that a military officer of any rank would salute non-uniformed a civilian official first. It reminded the men in uniform of their proper place in society.

“Greetings, your Eminence. I see Tarasovka is now officially claiming the place that already belongs to it in the world. I am happy for your people. I hope the Freedom Island inhabitants haven’t been giving you too much trouble, have they?” – the boy blurted out rapidly – yet with a polite tone.

Yehuda Cohen was uniformed, so he saluted the Taraskovyan as well. “I beg your pardon for my colleague’s rashness. He is very young and impressable. This is Lieutenant Wilhelm Stossel, and he’s screened for the office of Military Attache to the Eternal Noldorin Empire. If he keeps talking this fast and being this excitable, I don’t think he’ll make it. I am Ambassador Yehuda Cohen, with the help of God the Allanean Ambassador to Taraskovyan Empire. I am extremely pleased and honored to meet you, Your Eminence. I too congratulate you and your glorious Empire.”

“I agree entirely,” Alakantar responded to the man with a slight nod of the head. “It’s more personable, I guess one could say, instead of having two faceless entities negotiating contracts and the like. We’ve found that it’s far better to actually know the person at the top and vice versa. It makes dealing, contacting, and general relations overall that much more rewarding than the opposite.”

He paused briefly at the end of his sentence, his eyes roaming about the room as the mind pondered. “And it makes the paperwork required for a foreign company to enter the Grummian market that much easier. Yes, the regulations are stringent in most cases. But they’re there to prevent a foreign power that isn’t that trustworthy from seizing key portions of the economy then…pulling the carpet out from under us, as they say. Though…there are exceptions to the rule…”

The Vasilevs and the Snefaldians

The Vasilevs listened attentively to the words of the Snefaldian dignitary, his eyes attentive upon the gifts as they were presented. Here and then, a slight arch of the eye brow could be seen, but Mikhail spoke not, letting his guests do the honours.

“I can only express my gratitude for your generous gifts, Honored Arsathae,” the Vasilevs spoke as Ta’un finished his speech. “They shall be honoured and valued in my domains and abode.”

As the Vasilevs finished his brief intervention, members of the Palace Staff quietly entered the room, taking possession of the gifts to carry them off to an adjascent room, before transportation to the Winter Palace proper.

“Now, pray, let us have a seat and allow me to ask a few questions of you and your people. I admit that you have aroused my curiousity,” Mikhail said as he invited the Snefaldians to the seats.

And after the group was seated, having respected all due and proper protocol, the Taraskovyan Emperor listened to his guests talk about a distant land whose social and political and cultural structure was very particular to the Taraskovyan mind. And yet, as curious as the Emperor was by nature, the talk was only brief as other guests awaited an opportunity to pay their respects.

The Snefaldians were given their leave and a pair of life guards set out to hunt for Duke von Bismarck.



Otto von Bismarck und die leibgarden

The pair of dark clad Alexander Guards did not take long to locate the Largentian representative and, upon presenting all the appropriate apologies for interrupting his discussion, they politely invited him and whoever of his party he decided to take along to follow them. The Vasilevs would receive his delegation.

[OOC: I guess real life is harsh not only on me as Largent seems to also have vanished.]



Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

“Oh, protectionist measures are not something proper to your realms only,” Georgiy said with a laugh. “I often hear from my foreign colleagues about how hard it is to breach into some especially protected sectors of the Taraskovyan market. Which is not always a good thing for the domestic producers that might wish to specialize in more profitable branches, but simply cannot get rid of some stagnating branches because of local laws.”

The man paused pensively, before sipping some of his drink.

“But well, in Taraskovya companies do not make laws, they abide by them. Even such a behemoth as our little Conglomerate.”



Vethara, Drakonians, Aerion

“It is an honour to meet you then, Pan Sutherland and Panna* Calpurnia,” Vethara said with a smile. “I am Vethara, sister to the Vasilevs, bearing a title and style long and fancy that shall change within the coming days. And this here is a good friend of mine, the Honorable Deputy Dragica Liubenova.”

The Archduchess motioned to the Moesian, the latter inclining her head respectively in sign of greeting. And as the Emperor’s sister did that, her eyes came upon the rather noticeable figure of the Aeronian Crown Prince Regent.

“Mmmm… unless I am mistaken, we have the honour of the presence of Damoen of Aerion,” the young woman spoke with a smile as the Aeronians came to join their little circle.

[OOC: * If Gaia is married, then the adress is "Pany" instead.]



The Allaneans and ARIA Minister-Chancellor

“Eminence? Oh, nah! My official style is His High Excellency the Minister-Chancellor of the Autonomous Republic of the Island of Atlantic,” Jonathan spoke with a touch of irony in his voice, a joyous glint in his eyes. “But I prefer to be called Mister Darrington, makes it easier.”

He paused, giving a glance around them before resting his eyes upon Yehuda again and chuckling lightly.

“So Allanea has decided to appoint a Jew to the position of Ambassador to Taraskovya? My, my! Quite an interesting choice, considering Taraskovya’s highly entrenched… what do they call it? B’iy-tov’-oy anti-s’ie-m’ee-t’ee’sm, that’s it.”

Darrington had an excellent understanding of spoken and written Russian. He could write perfectly well himself… but when it came to pronouncing all these sounds and letters, it all just want to smithereens, which must have caused quite a few smiles or angry glares from other fellow Imperial politicians.

"Well, I would believe the Taraskovyans would consider me a step up from the previous breed of Allanean ambassadors - especially given the gap in professionalism. As you know, the United States recently implemented sweeping reforms in the training of its diplomats, widely known as the Johnson Program. I am one of its earliest fruit - though I am sure I will be removed once a more appropriate candidate is found. Besides, antisemitism has it's advantages - consider the average Jewish joke."

Damoen nodded to the Archduchess politely first, as she was to him the highest ranked before him, "Archduchess, I just had the pleasure of speaking to your brother, it was an very productive conversation. Our coronation gifts will certainly please him, and your family. You can enjoy them for years." He smiled cordially, "Your nation is truly beautiful, and the coronation ceremony was an perfect expression of your culture. Inspiring."

Then the Crown Prince Regent introduced his entourage, "This is His Excellency Aedklen Umvar, Lord Privy Seal." The older man smiled cordially, "Your Highness." He addressed the Archduchess. Then he did not look at the Minister when he introduced him, seeming to speak of him quickly, "This is Mr. Danarth Kerson, Royal Minister of Foreign Affairs." Danarth nodded, "Your Highness." And then Damoen smiled, "And this man I am sure you certainly know. His Excellency Royal Ambassador Arnulth Eshoth." Ambassador Eshoth smiled widely, "Your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you again, I remember seeing you at (insert event here)." He introduced the man any way.

Then once the Archduchess would finish responding he looked as if in need of an introduction to the Drakonians, glancing toward them politely.

“Ah, but in Northrop-Grumman, the Corporation makes all the laws without opposition. Anything the Chairman or Chairwoman wills, happens with just a word or strike of the pen. This is how most things work where I come from, and it is painfully obvious how much it dominates our lives,” Alakantar gave a slight shrug before he continued.

“A large portion of our economy is solely controlled by the Corporation…air travel, space travel, a majority of the air and space ports, power generation, rail systems, defense contracting, naval and space construction, communications, and numerous other things. They’re either monopolized through laws enacted by the Chair intended to secure valuable sectors of the economy from outside nations, or they’re simply a natural monopoly. Who can try to get into the power generation sector when there are primary, secondary, and tertiary power grids that only the Corporation can control? It’s just not feasible to fight to break the monopoly so most don’t even try.”

“Then of course, there are the regulations for foreign companies to come in. One of the largest problems that others deal with is concerning the integration of banking systems, identification, medical records, and other vital daily needs into one system that is controlled by the Corporation. Oh yes, every citizen and visitor is provided one of these ID cards that contain that. And all businesses are required to be a part of it, no exceptions. This all does make any foreign investment, that much more difficult…”

OOC: Not only is this late but I didn't have time to make sure all my facts are right so if there are any errors just ignore them and prentend like they never happened.

The Duke excused himself from his conversation and followed the Alexander Guards to wherever it was that the Vasilevs would be receiving him. He had chosen to take no members of his party seeing as they really would serve no purpose other than to look offical and their time would be much better spent enjoying themselves and introducing themselves to the other guests.

Taking a moment to ensure that he looked presentable, the Duke straightened out his jacket and was led into the room where he would be received. It was rather spacious and besides a few pieces of furnature rather simple in its decoration.

After all the necessary introductions were made between the Duke and the Vasilevs the Duke bowed and paused waiting for his host to begin.

Gwendolyn and Peter said their farewell to the Duke. Peter smiled lightly at his wife, "He seems like a pleasant enough man."

Gwendolyn nodded, "It was nice meeting him. What do you think of Taraskovya so far?"

Peter shrugged lightly. "It is certainly an interesting country. It's been going through the same sorts of radical changes your...forgive me...our country has and there are even certain similarities but there's also more than a few radical differences in directions." He leaned closer to his wife and whispered, "Then there's also the attitudes towards the average Confederal citizen..."

"I don't think we should be worrying about that now. We're honored guests at a wonderful reception," Gwendolyn said, shrugging off his concern.

Thanking an attendant and forgetting him almost as quickly, Clytemnéstra sighed as she turned to rest her narrow elbows against the railing of the upper balcony. She wore a gown of violet grenadine, an elaborate, ostentatious affair, with long hanging sleeves and a gigantic twelve foot train. The skirt was of foulard silk, covered with side-plaited ruffles and with a drapery of looped crêpe tumbling elegantly at the back. Her hair was dark golden brown, piled high in layered pleats and dotted with pearls. Marking her as a noblewoman, it bore the unmistakable frosting of perfumed powder.

She seemed aged between thirty and forty; tall, grave and thin; attractive though not at all conventionally so, with a look more than anything else of complacent arrogance. Her eyes were large and full, sort of blue-grey in colour, perceptive and full of mockery. Make up and face powder heightened an already marble pallor; lipstick made her lips shockingly red and glossy, like a bloody wound.

As the noblewoman took a tiny sip from her glass of milk and champagne, her favourite drink in the evening, as it made her seem fascinating and unusual, Clytemnéstra allowed her mind wander. With a glass in her hand, any gentlemen interested in catching her attention would need to go to slightly greater effort than the usual, boring expedient of offering her a drink. It was a form of artificial selection, designed to eliminate banal utterances.

‘I’m thinking of calling it... Venus without a Dancing Partner,’ announced a gentleman from behind Clytemnéstra. ‘Although how she intends to dance even the slowest of waltzes with such an absurdly long train, I really can’t imagine.’

‘Maybe she’s already been to too many balls? Or perhaps she wearies of dancing,’ shrugged Clytemnéstra, not bothering to turn around. ‘Or of men,’ she muttered to herself.

‘Oh but if true that will surely break the hearts of a thousand admirers,’ remarked the gentleman with mocking sadness. ‘Although like any goddess, I suppose Venus is not without her cruelty.’

Clytemnéstra sighed and look distracted.

‘So will this painting of yours be in oil or watercolour?’ she asked eventually, still watching the people milling on the ground floor.

‘Watercolour, I think. The transparency of the medium is most alluring.’

He was rather handsome in appearance; tall and well-built, with a fresh complexion and piercing blue eyes. Extremely elegant and distinguished looking, he was immaculately turned out, dressed in tails and white tie, with a starched white shirt, flashy purple cravat and patent leather shoes. A brilliant gilt signet ring identified him as a minor Xirniumite count.

The gentleman, Aurélien, searched for something new to say, sensing that his company was becoming tiresome to the lady, but straightened as their country’s ambassador approached the two.

‘Behaving ourselves, I hope?’

‘My Lady Marchioness,’ replied the count, reverently kissing her hand. ‘Madam,’ he added as he showed the same deference towards her daughter, who if anything looked every bit as stern as the ambassador.

‘And how are your Ladyships finding this evening?’ asked Clytemnéstra, bringing a wineglass to her lips in order to hide her smile.

‘It’s torture,’ complained Cécile, sighing and fiddling with her aigrette. ‘Oh I’ve never been so bored.’ She asked her mother’s colleague what she was drinking, and when the young lady seemed to show some interest Aurélien offered to get her a glass.

‘He’s rather charming, isn’t he?’ observed Cécile idly. Clytemnéstra snorted but otherwise held her tongue.

‘My daughter was hoping there would be more people her age,’ explained Charlótta Elizavéta to her cultural attaché, ‘or that we might get to meet some kings and emperors.’

‘Or perhaps instead a prince?’ Clytemnéstra added, giving Cécile a conspiratorial wink. The young lady looked sour.

‘Look at how annoyed she is, you would think she were still back in that church. Come dance with me, sweetheart,’ said the ambassador, taking Cécile’s white arm. ‘This song will cheer you up, it’s one of my favourites.’

‘It’s embarrassing, mother. No I won’t,’ said Cécile stubbornly. ‘No one else is dancing.’

‘You really should not concern yourself with what others say and do,’ Charlótta Elizavéta frowned. ‘Anyway don’t be absurd, you love dancing. Come dance the mazurka with me.’

‘Go on, I’ll watch from up here,’ added Clytemnéstra, her smile broadening.

When the count returned he was disappointed to find both mother and daughter gone, and no one to give his champagne to. Draining the wineglass he set it on the railing, stepping up beside the noblewoman. Clytemnéstra could feel his tall form behind him, and without turning pointed them out below.

‘Isn’t she very lovely, all mutinous and defiant? Such cross lips, what an irritated little nose! The very vision of her mother, although less expressive,’ observed Aurélien.

The noblewoman’s eyes seemed unable to decide whether they were irritated or bored.

‘Not half as lovely as you, of course, my Lady, but that goes without saying,’ Aurélien continued. The count contrived a pretext to excuse himself, making for the nearest group of Taraskovyan nobles, glass in hand for a toast.

‘My lords and gentlemen, His Majesty the Emperor of Taraskovya.’

Bismarck and the Vasilevs

OOC: This part shall be typed out pending on what we come up with the Largent player.


The Allaneans and ARIA Minister-Chancellor

“The average Jewish joke? I believe you shall be getting lots of these, Your Excellency,” Jonathan said with a smile.

“And as far as foreign politics are concerned, I admit that I am curious to see what all of this shall come to in the end. You have to admit that Allanea has built itself quite a reputation over the years.”

OOC: Due to my real life business, this thing has dragged on too slowly for everybody’s liking. As such, I assume this happened before the latest Kazansky-coup.


Vethara, Drakonians, Aerion

“And yet, what you have seen is only a brief glimpse, and a rather one sided one, of the exquisite fabric that is the Empire,” Vethara said with a charming smile. “But I am glad that what you have seen has pleased you, Prince Regent.”

This, of course, after all the proper presentations have been made. The Archduchess took it upon herself to present the Drakonians to the Aeronians.



Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

“This particularity of your state structure has not escaped my attention, I admit,” the Chief Administrator said pensively.

“But as of centralized records and citizen information, your nation is far from being so eager to know all and everything. The Grand Duchy… I mean, nowadays the Empire, is also quite keen on this.”

The man paused for a second pensively before smiling politely.

“But, pray, tell me how you find my fair homeland? I understand that the coronation ceremony might have a bit tiresome for foreigners. I admit myself to struggling from falling asleep at some points. Never been much of a faithful, you see.”


The Younger Generation

Despite what the Xirniumite ambassador and her daughter deemed, there were representatives of the younger generation. Most notably those unfortunate enough to not having been able to avoid being forced by their grandparents or parents or aunts and uncles to come to the event, because otherwise the Vasilevs would find it inappropritate, because otherwise it would be an insult, because everybody had to be there because the Vasilevs was there, because of this, because of that, because the Vasilevs most surely and most certainly knew every single Taraskovyan nobleman and noblewoman personally and would notice if only one missed. As if, as if…

There were young people, there were teenagers, there were even little children that huddled by their mother’s skirts with sleepy eyes and kept on asking when could they go home. By a table only steps away from the dance floor was a group of young people in their early twenties.

There were three young men and two young women, clearly twins. Three of them, namely one of the women and two of the men, wore the black dress uniforms of yunkers from the Prince Zimoriev Academy. This was one of the most renowned in the Taraskovyan military, and one to which no favours or well placed relatives could grant passage, but only hard work on the part of the yunker himself, or herself. The other two were dressed in a civilian fashion. A formal suit for the young man and a dark blue evening dress for the young woman.

The group seemed taken in a chit chat about something, with one of the future male officers clearly taken in story telling, something funny enough for the ladies and even the gentlemen to laugh heartily from time to time in between a sip or two from their glasses.

The sight of two women dancing together did not escape the curious eyes of one of the young men, as he arched an eyebrow. Not that there were not people dancing already, for the party was more or less informal, as much as it could be for the very first Imperial coronation ball of the Taraskovyan Empire. Having waited for the music piece and with it the dance to finish, the future officer directed himself in a composed fashion towards the pair of Xirniumites.

He stopped a couple steps away, clacking his heels together in the typical Taraskovyan military tradition, inclining his head ever so slightly forward. Taraskovyan etiquette, after all, knew no bows.

“My Ladies, I pray you forgive me for my interruption,” he spoke in a composed, almost cool manner. And yet, it was slightly apparent that he was slightly overacting the “cold and calculating Taraskovyan officer” routine. “My name is Anton Delnitskiy, Count of Zelenaya Poliana, and I was wondering whether I would have the privilege of the young lady’s company for the next dance.”

- - - -

OOC: Taraskovya maintains a military education in parallel to the standard civilian one. The two institutions mirror each other in many aspects, albeit military schools have longer days due to many lessons on all aspects military: physical training, war theory, practical exercises, firearms training, etc.

Children of the age of seven to sixteen are cadets and study at Military Schools. Past the age of eighteen, they integrate an Academy and become yunkers. Upon finishing the cursus, a yunker usually obtains the rank of Podporuchik, depending on his or her final results

It should be noted that the two phases are distinct: cadets may opt out of the system to rejoin the civilian education, and those who have followed a purely civilian education can opt to enter a military academy.

Yunkers are not to be confused with aspirants – enlisted military personnel who are completing the course to attain officer rank.

“Admittedly, I’m not much of a religiously-minded person and never really have been.” Alakantar gave a bit of a shrug before he continued on. “But things of that nature have always interested me, like the way the coronation ceremony was done today. It was amazing how intricately planned each portion of it was, from the selection of psalms to the manner in which people entered to the crowning of your monarch. Everything seemed to have some sort of significance to the ceremony. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a grand event before in my life. And it was quite interesting how much the Taraskovyan Orthodox Church played an immense part in all this and how well it meshed with everything. And last but not least, how well the Church and State seem to work together, yet remain entirely separate, and still not create any problems…at least from what I could see. Where I am from, if one of our leaders would do anything that would favor a set religion, or even denomination, it would infuriate the others and quite possibly incite people to violence.”

The drow grinned and realized that he was being rather energetic to a man who had almost fallen asleep during this very event. But that did not stop his enthusiasm. “Oh, and as for the rest of Tarasovka, I rather like what I’ve seen so far and certainly wish I could spend more time here to get more acquainted with everything. The architecture would take a whole day in itself to examine and study. It makes me a bit envious at times, especially considering how Grummian design isn’t as ancient nor has so much history behind it. The structure of government, the kingdoms and all, the hundreds of years of detail put into them and how well they’ve seemingly kept the Taraskovyan state rolling along would be something else I’d like to see. Oh! And last but not least...the people here are anything if not polite, present company included of course. ”

Bismarck and the Vasilevs

The Taraskovyan Emperor met with the Largentian representative and many things were discussed, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties.

OOC: If anything, we can always IM something out and edit it into here, fluid time style :o

The Confederals and the Vasilevs

The next on the list were Gwendolyn and Peter, the Confederal dignitaries. It did not take long for the dark clad messengers of Imperial audience to locate them and most cordially invite them to see the Vasilevs.

Northrop-Grumman and VerTech Chief Admin

“I believe that the Church and State cooperate well enough simply due to Taraskovya’s often rich mixture of cultures,” Georgiy said pensively. “You surely know that this land has been inhabited by Tarathians for dozens of thousands of years. I believe they are somewhat close to your own kin, albeit I admit I have not really studied all the ethnic bloodline history. They have their own faith, the Seven Deities, and albeit being nowadays a minority, they hold a strong presence in various spheres of Imperial life.”

The man paused for a moment to sip some of his drink, giving a quick glance around before continuing on the subject at hand.

“And whilst the Taraskovyan Church is extremely powerful, it tends to work with and not exclude the Church of the Seven Deities, which still holds significant sway through the Tarathian community. Then we have the Utharian and Sortvalian Lutherans, the Byzantine Catholics, the Roman Catholics all of whom are meager minorities in the Empire overall, but form large majorities in some given portions of our realm. The Orthodox Church gets along perfectly well with them, too, albeit some heated debates erupt ever so often on some dogmas and whatnot.”

Another pause, to let the information sink in properly.

“All in all, call it the Taraskovyan Consensus,” the Chief Admin chuckled. “The State would be ill advised to poke its nose deep into the matters of faith, except for banning bloodthirsty fanatics and regulating the activity of some faiths considered “alien” to the Empire. And any single Church would be ill advised to poke its nose into matters political and secular.”

‘Very well then, fine,’ replied Cécile to the count, before her mother could say a word. Slightly out of breath, her nostrils flaring in precisely the same way that they did when she was mad, she fiddled with one of the buttons on her long left glove. ‘Excuse me, please, mother.’

The young noblewoman offered Anton her limp hand with indifference, her features sternly self-confident to match the Junker’s own calculating coldness. The mazurka was a very lively dance and Cécile was still rather flushed, although she had much enjoyed the brisk clicking of her high, curved heels and the stamping of feet. Wilful corkscrew ringlets had come loose from her coiffure at her temples and nape, but she left them free, preferring their casual appearance. She looked forward to a slower valse, or at least a less energetic one.

‘My dearest mother, the Marchioness á Arwanèssa zée Vänyänarien,’ explained the young noblewoman, tilting her head in the vague direction of where the former watched her with hawkish eyes. ‘I’m Cécile Mariétta.’

Raising her hand to the young count’s shoulder, Cécile gestured for him to put his arm around her waist. In Xirnium it had always been something of an essential part of every noble’s education to be able to dance and move with grace. Dance was no mere divertissement, no decadent or effeminate pastime. It was serious art, meaningful aestheticism. To be able to dance and sing was to be civilised and educated. That it was popular at all levels of society had never been equated with it being common.

‘Thank you for rescuing me, by the way,’ Cécile whispered as they started, her lips frozen in smile. ‘She’s like an old hen, I thought she’d never leave me alone.’ As the first, not yet quick, steps of the valse began the noblewoman moved with lightness and precision, demonstrating a perfection of style and a practiced step.

The Younger Generation

Whilst not treating dancing with the same veneration as the Xirniumites, the National Defence Forces ensured that their men knew not only how to kill, maim, terminate and liquidate, but also how to behave in high society (but then again, the military and the high society were closely interlinked in the Empire) and not appear as ruthless barbarians out of the battlefield.

It was needless to say that along with putting apart assault rifles, putting them back together, then adorning a heavy backpack and running a full combatant’s course, little cadets and later fully formed yunkers also dedicated some of their weekly hours to dancing lessons, with yearly exams in classical dances. Thankfully for some, however, the mark obtained at this exam did not influence the end results and was largely consultative. Consultative as in ensuring any lazy bones who failed would see their weekly dancing hours increased, which meant they would have less free time to do homework in other branches, to practice at the gym, to get the chance to spend a weekend at an active combat unit and maybe even ride around in a Cerberus heavy battle tank… or do an orbital jump for those studying to integrate the Airborne…

Anton Delnitskiy succeeded at his dancing exam, albeit with a 4.5 of 6. He obtained a good result, but was far from excellence, which would surely come apparent to Cécile. He was not clumsy, he moved with great precision and a certain dose of elegance, but somehow there lacked a lightness in his steps, as if his brain had to constantly calculate the position of each limb before making any motion, instead of his body just moving naturally with the flow.

“If you shall pardon me for the old joke, my Lady, but there is no task a Taraskovyan officer would dream of more than to rescue beautiful women,” Anton whispered back. “Albeit, in this particular case I did not have the opportunity to adorn my not so shiny chameleon armour…”

[OOC: Pardon me for the question, but I am curious as to what age exactly Cécile is. Reading back, it might appear that she is not as young as I first thought when I set out to write the previous posts o.O Anton would be around 22, give or take a year.]

OOC: Oh, Cécile is barely twenty without her makeup and that well-bred Xirniumite complacency.

The first hint that Anton might have said something to displease the temperamental noblewoman was a narrowing of her eyes and an awkward look away, as her gaze fell from over his shoulder to the slippery parquetry of the floor.

‘Oh god... another line,’ Cécile murmured to herself, sighing irritably. She took a couple more, distracted, steps, although they were no longer quite so light and lovely, and then stopped altogether on the dance floor, her train flaring out, fan-like, behind her.

The noblewoman seemed unfocused and cast an eye around the ballroom, half-searching for her mother, not really minding at all that she was standing rudely in the way of others trying to waltz. She unfastened and refastened the three buttons on her glove, then touched at the ribbon in her hair, then sighed. Chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip, Cécile returned her stare to the polite young Junker.

‘Actually, I’m bored of dancing,’ she announced, child-like, ‘I think I’ll just go and get a drink.’ The noblewoman didn’t want to seem overly cruel to the poor young count so she softened her lips a little, if not her eyes, and cast Anton a look halfway between reprimand and sympathy. ‘Come with me, my lord,’ she spoke at last, pulling bossily at the sleeve of his military tunic.

Cécile led the count to the nearest bar and retrieved her fan, resting her head against her pale wrist, a parody of bored cynicism, as she waited impatiently for her glass of black currant wine. When the attendant returned she called for a cigarette, and even offered one to the count, a conciliatory gesture. Suddenly she laughed.

‘I’m sure I’ve read less awkward phrases in supermarket romances,’ Cécile mocked, although she gave him a little smile, not a sneer, to soften the harshness of her words.

The Younger Generation

“Thank you, my lady,” the count said simply as he accepted the cigarette. His mind was still working through whatever it was that he said, and apparently his division of humour suffered a crushing defeat, with its component regiments of thoughts and battalions of ideas in disarray and retreat.

Anton excracted a silver lighter with what appeared to be family arms on the sides and helped the lady set her wrapped dose of nicotine alight. And as the two puffed the first clouds of smoke, it had to be noted that the ventilation system in the hall worked marvels. The air was always at the right interior temperature and even if quite a few people around could be seen with cigarettes, cigars and other pipes, there was no scent of smoke hanging beneath the ceiling.

“Supermarket romances? Hm, maybe I should read some!” he said with a light smile as an attendant brought over a goblet of cognac. “Or maybe not, as it seems you do not fancy them much.”

He paused for a second, giving a glance around, spotting his friends at a distance, before his eyes returned to his Xirniumite company.

“But enough of that. Tell me, how do you find the party? I admit myself to having expected something else from this ball… with all the rumours and stories going on about the Vasilevs. But hundreds of nobles and people of note and worth crammed into a hall with classical music is somehow far too… well… boring.”

‘Mhm!’ Cécile managed to exclaim as she brought her lips to the glass, pointing a white, slenderly tapering finger at the count for him to wait a moment. She finished her sip and crossed her legs, replaced her glass on the table, smoothed the flounces of her skirt and quietly cleared her throat, all in quick succession.

‘Actually it’s not that I don’t fancy them per se,’ Cécile began, waving the hand with her cigarette and making little twirls of blue-grey smoke that vanished as they floated towards the ceiling. ‘It’s rather that I’m not sure I fancy the thought of being in one,’ she clarified.

The noblewoman took another sip from her glass, noticing the Taraskovyan glance around the hall and experiencing a curious surge of annoyance. She thought of saying something but paused as he asked his question.

‘Oh I suppose this ball isn’t too bad,’ Cécile lied, not at all convincingly, as she shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘I guess it’s always a little difficult and boring when you don’t know anyone,’ she confessed.

The noblewoman hesitated, as if considering whether to elaborate further, but drained her glass and decided not to.

‘I was playing the harp this afternoon when I managed to blister my finger,’ the noblewoman suddenly complained, changing the subject without preamble. She held out her hand to the count, touching gingerly at her middle finger with her thumb, her brow furrowing a little at the pain. ‘It’s been annoying me all evening, in fact it’s driving me absolutely crazy. God, what a torment.’

The noblewoman sighed and looked over her shoulder to the Taraskovyan’s friends. ‘I get along quite well with my harp, only I never practice...’