NationStates Jolt Archive

(OOC: Public rp. All I ask is that you use grammar and capitalization. Do not, and you will be asked to leave. The setting is a dinner party immediately following the events of this post, and all the heads of state are to rub elbows. Any and everyone is invited.)

Magistrate-General Claudius Crassus marched contentedly up the steps of the Capitol Building. He hummed happily and tunelessly to himself as his ever-present bodyguards and officers discretely formed a ring around his person. The massive doors ahead of him gaped wide soundlessly, and he moved past their armored bulk into the sprawling complex of granite and steel before him.

Varrus was a small nation, and it's citizens acknowledged the sillyness of calling it an empire. But it spent lavishly on its government, and it showed. The old stonework had been seemlessly meshed with the modern metal and glass.

Claudius turned right sharply, leaving his shell of guards behind him. Nothing could touch him here. He walked up a marble staircase, past several hallways, and turned into one slightly grander than the rest.

He smiled wryly at the sound of virtually incoherent bellowing coming from the conference room that was his destination. The meeting had started without him.

The door opened to a cacophony of sound. The Defense Minister appeared to have seized the momentum.
"I'm telling you - for the last time I am telling you - that we can't look like a bunch of hicks and upstarts! We're only 5 million strong, but we are Varrians! We must make it clear tonight that we are strong, that we are here to stay, that we --"

The small, grey-haired man at whom he had been thundering broke in, and spoke sternly to the man half again his size.
"We are not brutes, Lucius. Tonight, we are unveiling ourselves to the world. We must be cosmopolitan. Witty. Erudite. We ARE Varrians, but we are too small to carve out our place with force!"

The smattering of half a dozen government officials that had been sitting silently took this opportunity to mutter either supportively or negatively at one or the other of the two men yelling back and forth. Some simply didn't take their heads out of their hands. The meeting had been going on for far, far too long.

Claudius cleared his throat. "I trust this meeting has been productive. But, in that I'm sure my trust has been misplaced." Some chuckles. The youngest Magistrate-General in the short history of Varrus gazed around the room. "Scipio, you are right. We cannot entrust our destiny to warfare with our limited numbers." The smaller man grinned wickedly at his vocal adversary. "Lucius - also right. As Varrians, we must show to the world that we are strong, and that we shall not go silently into the night of obscurity. Would you all take out a coin, please?"

Pagers, bits of paper and loose change cascaded onto the conference table as the heads of the various ministries moved to comply.

"Engraved on every coing yet minted in this country read the words 'Justice is Truth in Motion.' Now, Lucius, is it Truth that we as a people are destined for greatness?"

"It is truth."

"And Scipio, what did I say to the citizens of this nation when I assumed this office? What did I say I would see done to the last gasp of my earthly body?"

"Justice, Claudius."

"Quite right. The Truth is that we shall be great. All I want to agree on tonight, is that whatever we do toward that end is Justice. If I must kill every people from here until the end of the planet, if I must bribe or befriend every president, dictator, marshal or admiral on this Earth, if we have to sit at a conference table and cosy up to every country we find, it is Justice. Whatever we do, we do four our People, and it is Just."

Claudius Crassus' eyes focused again, found the world just as he'd left it when his words had carried him to a vision of his people's destiny. He looked about and smiled.

"Now, let's go welcome our guests, shall we? We have a great people to introduce to the world, and friends to make. They'll be pulling up soon, and I for one," he smirked good-naturedly at his friends and allies, "do not wish to miss dinner."

Resplendent in his dark grey dress uniform, left the room, and stepped into history.

Dinner was going to be interesting.

The stretch-car drove up the road, pulling to a stop before the Capitol Building. The driver exited, to hold open the passenger door. Out stepped a man wearing an elegant unifrom of the Royal Army.

Lord-General Donald Royceland raked his mind for the King's message. Establish good diplomatic ties, make small talk--Nothing too unconventional.

For a soldier, Royceland had taken an especially keen interest in international relations and diplomacy. His rival for the post of National Security Advisor to the King had been willing to point out to their fellow officers, "Seems Royceland's going soft. What with his hanging about with politicians, I wouldn't be suprised if he forgot how to fire a pistol." Of course, after Royceland's superb handling of the MoD hostage situation, he was a shoo-in for the job.

Royceland strode up the steps.

Waiters scurried frantically from kitchen to dining hall to reception room to kitchen to dining hall in a miasmic circle, trying desperately not to be anywhere near the Magistrate-General, who was leaning against the totally deserted dining table.

Things were not going well, Claudius Crassus reflected as he nursed a largish snifter of potent-looking intoxicant. For the grand unveiling of his tiny country, attendance was somewhat low. It hovered around zero.

Just as he was preparing to fling his glass at the wall, his earpiece chirped.

"Your Lordship, Lord-General Donald Royceland of Emaria has arrived. He's a distinguished military officer who-" The feed cut off as Claudius Crassus switched off the earpiece. The man he could now see striding toward him through the ornate double-doors of the dining hall was clearly a man of action, who must have missed the side-arm that was prohibited at diplomatic events. The Magistrate-General beamed. This man was worth and number of sycophantic civilian diplomats. None of which were here, anyway.

Claudius proceded to introduce himself immediately. "The King of Emaria must surely be a great man to place such importance on our little coming out ceremony by sending a man of action like yourself... whereas others sent no one at all...." Remembering the drink in his hand, he adroitly placed it onto a tray a passing waiter was carrying.

"Not to be overly formal, but is there a term of address associated with your rank? Here in Varrus we've had a... thin history of diplomatic contact." Claudius Crassus waited expectantly for a reply.

"Oh, you flatter me.

"If you must, you may call me Counselor, as that is my primary job now." Royceland glanced around the dining hall. "It is a shame that others did not see value in your nation."

"It is that, Counselor." Magistrate-General Claudius Crassus scowled. "They shall learn to respect us. Someday." His aspect brightened. "But tell me, Counselor Royceland, of your homeland. It's people, it's acheivements."

OOC: The uniform of the Colonial Military:

Male:
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/JC_Denton/ce4b6971.jpg

Female (Without optional turtleneck):
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/JC_Denton/529962d9.jpg

IC: Commander Lisa Brentmore and Commander Nigel Peterson sat in complete and utter silence as thier limo rolled along the cleanly swept roads of Varrus. "These Varrians sure do know how to keep thier streets nice and tidy, huh Lisa?" asked Peterson nervously, uttering the first words between them since they had landed in Varrus. Commander Lisa Brentmore's only reply was a grunt of agreement as she stared out of her window. The two Colonial Navy officers, the senior JAG officers of the CNS Achilles, returned to thier silence for the rest of the ride, until the limo rolled up to the entrance of the Varrian Capitol Building. The driver of the limo thought that thier silence during most of the ride was quite odd, but had he known the history of thier previous few hours together, he probably wouldn't have been too suprised by it. Brentmore opened her door and stepped outside into the crisp night air as the sound of gentle music could just be heard coming from the dinner party. While the Colonial Government had not been able to send up a formal diplomatic party from the Democratic Colonies under such short notice, the JAG officers of Colonial Battlegroups sometimes doubled as diplomats in thier duties. The greeters at the entrance to the dinner party seemed to be pleased to see them arrive, although an issue was made of the fact that the two officers were armed. The standard Colonial uniform included a sidearm mounted in a hip holster, and since they were traveling in a foreign nation without the protective detail usually assigned to diplomatic personel, both officers had opted to keep thier sidearms during thier ride from the airport to the Capitol Building. While Brentmore instantly offered to leave her pistol in the hands of the greeters, Peterson seemed more stubborn about it and defended his right to remain armed. As Brentmore tried to convince Peterson to just hand over his sidearm, she noticed one of the greeters rush off into the Capitol Building, perhaps to consult a superior on the matter.

The Magistrate-General turned from his conversation with the honorable officer from Emaria to speak to the imperturbable-looking security ranker who had appeared as if from nowhere. His unconcealed kevlar body armor and submachine gun were standard issue for the perimeter security, but not for the ceremonially dressed guards standing against the wall in full regalia. These guards were, in turn, flustered by the appearance of the officer talking to their General. Hands genereally went to holsters and eyebrows were raised.

"My Lord," the officer began after a polite nod to the important looking foreigner he was interrupting, "there are a pair of representatives from the Democratic Colonies, one of whom refuses to surrender his firearm. I beleive their rank designations are that of 'Commanders.'"

Claudius Crassus almost blanched at the insult of having two lowly ranked soldiers arrive at his door. But then he recalled that their invitation had been disastrously delayed, though he calmly avoided remembering that whole debacle.

"Right, right. The ones from that Democratic cruiser that requested permission to enter our waters when they were coming down the coast. I remember." He paused in thought. "It wouldn't be very neighborly of me to let you boys tackle them, so please allow them their pistols. Double the guards in the conceal wall panels in the balconies and we should be fine." Claudius grinned.

"At least this means that I'll have three guests instead of one!" He dismissed the trooper and turned back to his guest.

"Well, we are in a land of lakes, plains, hills and mountains. We believe in democracy, backed by a strong figure. We pride ourselves on learning and culture. Of course, our Kings usually see the value in a strong military to protect our land."

Claudius raised an eyebrow. "You believe in democracy... yet have Kings."

"I'm not giving up my pistol - it counts as part of my uniform, it's partially ceremonial, and I've just had it cleaned." said Commander Nigel Peterson, crossing his arms across his chest. "Peterson, just give them your sidearm, we won't be needing it in there. We're guests here, we should follow thier protocol" said Commander Lisa Brentmore as she removed her hip holster, pistol and all, to hand over to one of the diplomatic greeters. Peterson turned to face Brentmore with a sneer on his face. "I think I've heard that one before. 'Everyone leave your guns behind, we won't be needing them in there - after all, we've been helping the Somalis, they're our friends, what could possiblely go wrong?' well not this time Lisa. I'm staying armed. It's not going to happen again." The anger and resentment in Peterson's voice was clear as he quoted a commanding officer from one of thier previous missions that had ended in disaster. It had been years ago, but it had been thier last assignment together before circumstances once again drew them both to the CNS Achilles to serve together. The diplomatic greeters were growing increasingly concerned as the voices of the two Colonial Navy officers rose. "Dammit Peterson, that wasen't our fault and you know it! Varrus isn't Somalia, we aren't going to get jumped by a wall of AK toting Jihadists. Now give up your sidearm before you cause a major diplomatic incident." Brentmore had trouble controlling her voice as she addressed Peterson, as memories of the incident he mentioned flooded through her mind. The two officers stared at eachother for a long moment as the Varrian Security Trooper who had left them earlier returned to the front entrance of the Capitol Building. The trooper appeared to be slightly suprised by the heavy breathing and all too apparent tension that was visible between the two Colonial officers, but he began to speak, reasoning that it wasen't his problem. "The Magistrate-General has decided to allow you to keep your sidearms for the duration of the dinner party" he said stiffly. Commander Peterson immediately grabbed Brentmore's holster and pistol from the hands of one of the diplomatic greeters and shoved it into Brentmore's chest. "You can thank me for this later" he said, as he began to walk towards the dining hall.

Brentmore finally caught up with Peterson as they approached the entrance to the dining hall. Brentmore nearly had to jog to catch up with him after apologizing profusely to the diplomatic greeters and strapping her hip holster back on. She began to speak to him in a hushed tone as they entered the extravagently decorated dining hall. "You nearly caused a major diplomatic incident back there, we're just lucky that Magistrate-General Crassus decided to let the matter pass." Peterson seemed to ignore Brentmore though, as his eyes swept across the room, looking everywhere but at Brentmore. Brentmore grabbed a hold of his shoulder and spun him so he was facing her as she began to speak again. "And that was dirty of you to bring up what happened back in Somalia - none of us thought we would need to bring weapons into a wedding party. You can stew in your own anger and blame me and the rest of us for what happened back there all you want, but nothing is going to change how it all went down. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't wish that things had happened differently back there, but there's nothing we can do about it now. I know it's tough seeing me again after all these years, I know I just remind you of something you've been trying to forget, but we have a job to do. Varrus isn't some back water African hole where people eat eachother, it's an advanced, industrialized nation - just look around you for all the proof of that you need. Establishment of friendly relations is important." Brentmore let go of Peterson's shoulder as she realized that some of the security personel and the waiters were staring at thier hushed conversation. She thought that they must have looked extremely suspicious by now, by first refusing to give up thier sidearms and then by carrying out this oddly intense, albeit onesided conversation. As Brentmore smoothed out her red leather jacket, and Peterson walked away from her as fast as he could in the general direction of a rest room, she hoped that no one had connected any snippets of conversation they might have heard with the slightly battered engagement ring Peterson wore on his finger.

Royceland chuckled. "Yes. You see, our Monarch is actually elected--requirements being they must be a relative of the last Monarch, or a member of the Royal Senate, which is choosen by the Monarch. However, I can tell you, the Emersons, who have been ruling for the last six centuries of so, will not be going out of power soon. Our Royal Elections pretty much have one candidate--Unless there are two strong Emersons, in which there is a race between two brothers.

"We as well have the House, which is a legislative body elected by the people."

"Electing Kings! Charming! I'd never have thought of it!" Chuckling, Claudius Crassus glanced over Royceland's shoulder to see a man and a woman in Democratic Colonialist livery. The man, having instigated the incident outside, had the security staff's complete attention, universally administered with minute scowls. A regular scowl would be rude, but they chose a degree of disgruntlement which could be seen yet would not provoke an incident.

The Magistrate-General, however, thought the event had been harmless, if even a bit humorous. Until, however, the conversation between the two that had been piped into Claudius Crassus' earpiece had turned sour. He had switched it off with a casual gesture. A good host had an obligation to respect his guests' privacy, after all.

When the man charged off towards a restroom, Claudius felt compelled to engage the commander in conversation instead of making her stand there in the archway looking akward.

"Commander!" he called "Join the good General and I! Dinner will begin eventually, but I must hear of your trip."

Commander Lisa Brentmore was relieved when she heard the voice of Magistrate-General Crassus calling her over. She had been concerned that with all that had happened, diplomatic relations between the Democratic Colonies and the Empire of Varrus would be starting off on the wrong foot. She managed the biggest smile she could, and walked over to where Magistrate-General Crassus and Lord-General Donald Royceland were standing. She did feel more than a bit intimidated by the presence of national leaders and generals, but she would do the best she could. She extended her hand both of the men before her, careful to administer her handshakes with a careful level of pressure and releasing at the proper moment. Magistrate-General Crassus asked Brentmore to tell him about her trip, but to be honest, there wasen't much to say. "From the CNS Achilles, it wasen't a very long flight aboard one of our V-22 Ospreys to the city airport," she said as she mildly gestured towards a window that looked in the direction of the airport. "From there, we simply hopped into a conviently available limo and we were driven here." Brentmore paused as she accepted a waiter's offer of wine. "I must complement you on this dining room, and indeed, your entire Capitol Building. It's all very elegently layed out, and you've decorated this dining hall beautifully" she said, as she took a small sip of her wine.

Crassus grinned. "I can thank the Varrian people for lavishly providing for the government of which they are so proud. I can not take credit for the decorating, either, I'm afraid." He looked up at a chandelier. "I wonder who does my decorating... hmm. Ah, well." He chuckled. "Some things are not for us to know, eh?"

"Would you tell the good General and I of the Achilles? He may not be so interested, but it will be some time before Varrus will be able to boast powerful warships and glorious armies." Maybe not that long. And when we do....

"We have but the one port, but... you can imagine, peacekeeping, force projection...." ... the expansion of my country... He smiled at this Commander Brentmore, truly enjoying the conversation.

Commander Brentmore smiled. She had been wondering how long it would take for the conversations to move to the military technologies and numbers of the nations involved, as they usually did. Ofcourse, she didn't mind discussing such matters, and infact enjoyed it, since her interest in the area of military technology was partially what made her join the Colonial Navy in the first place.

"The CNS Achilles is a Pax Magellanic Class Aircraft Carrier, the lead ship of Colonial Battlegroup Three of our Fourth Fleet - Battlegroup 4.3, if you prefer. With a displacement of approximately 215,000 tons and capable of carrying 182 aircraft of various types, the Pax Magellanic Class Carriers serve as the centrepieces of the Colonial Navy. With each battlegroup assigned 4 of the Pax Magellanic Class Carriers, a single battlegroup is able to bring 728 fixed-wing aircraft, with 576 of them combat aircraft, into a theater of operations anywhere in the world within a few weeks at most." Brentwood paused to take another sip of her wine before continuing. "Ofcourse, the carriers themselves aren't sent out alone on deployments. The standard complement of escorts are composed of 2 Crusader Class Battleships, a class designed and built entirely in the Democratic Colonies like the Pax Magellanics, and a variety of the older American designed ships: 8 Ticonderoga II Class Crusiers, 14 Arliegh Burke Class Destroyers, 8 Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigates - which are paticularly effective in anti-submarine warfare, I might add, and 10 Sea Wolf Class Submarines, as well as a pair of Seabourne Resupply Ships. The Achilles herself, like nearly all Colonial Navy Carriers, Battleships and Crusiers, is outfitted with an onboard Artificial Intelligence to assist with ship operations. The AI Computer Core itself is 6 decks tall, taking up a large amount of space, and requires a huge drain on the electrical system, but the AI allows for the CNS Achilles to operate at a slightly higher efficently level than a ship manned entirely by humans, as well as lowers the crew requirements of the Achilles to 80% of what it would be without her. Battlegroup 4.3 was, and still is, in internation waters when we recieved word of this diplomatic function - which is why myself and Commander Peterson were available to attend. The battlegroup is currently investigating a report that a small number of boats operated by Islamic Extremists attacked and possibley stole a Colonial cargo freighter about 160 Kilometres off your shore a few days ago, but obviously, we could spare myself and Commander Peterson for this engagement while the rest of the battlegroup continues thier investigation."

Commander Brentmore smiled again, hoping she hadn't carried herself away with too many details and become boring. Her listeners didn't mind though, or atleast didn't appear to mind as took another sip of her wine. She stole a quick glance at the rest rooms to see if Peterson was about, but saw no sign of him. She returned her gaze to Magistrate-General Crassus and Lord-General Royceland, hoping they didn't notice. Assuming they had heard all they wanted to hear about the Colonial Navy and the CNS Achilles, although she was prepared to answer any questions they might have, she commented on the fine wine. "This wine of yours, it really has quite a fine taste, it has an excellent texture to it. Is it a vintage harvested here in Varrus?" she asked, taking another sip.

"I do hope the Achilles does not have the strength of heel that our Greek friend had."

Commander Brentmore laughed softly at Counselor Royceland's comment. "Oh, I assure you Counselor, the engineers at the Balmora Fleetyards have stuck much more armour than needed on every part imaginable on the Achilles. While like with many designs, the bridge remains more vulnerable than most of us would prefer and the AI Computer Core is more sensitive than anyone would like, the Pax Magellanics are really quite tough for aircraft carriers." Brentmore took another drink from her wine glass, emptying it. A nearby waiter instantly took her empty glass and offered her another one. She took another drink from her new glass of wine as she tried again to discreetly see what happened to Peterson.

She and Peterson had a long past together, and used to be quite close - closer than either of them probably wanted to admit now. They hadn't seen eachother for years when Peterson had been assigned to the CNS Achilles last week, and while they had a very akward meeting when he first came aboard, they had avoided eachother for the most part before they were ordered to go to Varrus together.

When Peterson had mentioned Somalia back at the entrance to the Captiol Building, the weight of all the memories Brentmore carried inside of her hit her like a physical impact to the chest. The look on Peterson's face, the venom in his voice, made it clear that the anger and bitterness he had aquired in the aftermath of the Somalian mission hadn't subsided in thier intensity over the years. Ofcourse, Brentmore herself had lived the countless days and nights since that day in Somalia with the same memories inside of her, and she had spent many a sleepless night simply reliving the horror of what happened, running her memories again and again like a sick, twisted movie, but seeing Peterson again after all this time was like stepping right back into the African heat of thier mission that took place in what seemed like a different lifetime ago. He was a living reminder of what happened, and worse, was a living reminder that blamed her, amoung others, for what happened.

Brentmore tried to push it all out of her thoughts though, as she took another drink of her wine. She wasen't sure if Colonial Fleet Command was aware of the effects of assigning her and Peterson to the same posting had on both of the officers, but it didn't matter either anyways. The Democratic Colonies was seeking diplomatic relations with the Empire of Varrus, and it was her job to establish the foundations of those relations - with or without Peterson.

Magistrate-General Crassus discretely followed her gaze toward the lavatory where Commander Peterson had... ensconced himself, for whatever purpose. He turned back to the conversation.

"Ah, the wine? No, not ours, I am afraid. Varrus is a small, densely packed country, ringed by mountains. We have buy three or four large cities, without the space for vineyards and pastures. We import most of our foodstuffs from neighbors that are at once less populous yet similar in size to our fair land. That wine is Etruscan, I believe. They are a large and fairly cheap supplier of the bulk of our consumables. Our peoples have had an understanding since before the official birth of my nation."

He paused to accept wine from a passing waiter. "I have a technical question for you, Commander Brentmore, if I may detract momentarily from your discussion of wine. You said the principle escort of your flagship carriers are... battleships? I was under the impression that these were obsolete due to the widespread availability of guided-missile technology. Though I am a military man, my experience was with armor and mechanized infantry. What little I know of navies was learned when my government purchased the pair of missile cruisers you perhaps saw near the port. I was perhaps misinformed when I was told that the 16 to 20 inch guns used on battleships were inferior in range and firepower to easily available modern missiles." He sipped at the wine, which was, in fact, quite good, and waited for a reply.

OOC: A few references to things I refer to in my IC post.

(1) http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=342191&page=1&highlight=Doujin

(2) http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=346844&page=1&highlight=battleship

IC: "Ah, yes. The age old battleship guns versus long range missiles debate is one that goes on every day at Colonial Fleet Command." said Commander Brentmore. "It was decided some years ago though, that with the development of super-battleships by other nations, most noteably the Doujin Class Super-Dreadnought*(1) by the nation Doujin, that the Democratic Colonies should also develop a battleship class. Now, while our Crusader Class is much, much smaller than a Doujin, we do feel that battleships in general do have a role to play in our battlegroups, and we feel that our Crusaders can hold thier own against the pocket and fullsized battleships of most nations, albeit not the super-dreadnoughts like the Doujins that we occasionally see. The international discussion that was held sometime earlier this year*(2) also helped to sway the opinion of Fleet Command in favour of building battleships. The Democratic Colonies recognizes that our Crusaders aren't the end-all solution to every problem, but we have found in simulations that they excel in situations that call for shore bombardment, and armed with a slightly heavier loadout of Tomahawk and Harpoon anti-ship missiles than that carried by the Ticonderoga II Class Crusier, they do perform quite well in ship to ship combat. Still though, Fleet Command isn't in complete disagreement with you on the matter, as there are only a small number of battleships in the Colonial Navy. There are only 24 Crusader Class Battleships in service today, compared to 48 Pax Magellanic Class Aircraft Carriers and 346 Ticonderoga II Class Cruisers."

OOC: Had I been in the discussion you link to, I would have pointed out that the author's logic is extremely specious, and that the reference to the marines simply proves the point. Telegram me if your eyes haven't glazed over and you want to learn more, but the Commander's arguments are very good, so nevermind my rambling.

"Ah, well, I see. Certainly with a battlegroup as large as the one you described, there is a lot of room for specialty ships with specific niches." Claudius sipped again at his wine. "It will be some time before my Navy exceeds its current size. Our concerns are mostly land-oriented, after all."

Magistrate-General Crassus looked over toward the lavatory again, and coughed politely. "Perhaps it would be best to see if your friend does not require medical attention of some kind. He has neglected to join the conversation for some time, now."

OOC: I'm sorry that I previously refered to the sidearms of my officers as being mounted in "hip holsters" since I now realize that the holsters shown in the pictures I posted would be infact "thigh holsters". Please ignore the minor continunity error, as I'll just refer to them as thigh holsters from here on in.


IC:
"Ah, yes, my friend..." said Commander Brentmore. "I'm sure he's quite fine. He was just feeling a little ill, I'm sure it's nothing." Magistrate-General Crassus seemed to give Brentmore a slightly odd look as she attempted to brush off Commander Peterson's total disapearance though, so she decided that perhaps it would be a good idea to call Peterson over. "On the other hand ofcourse, you're right that he could be seriously ill - I'll call him at once and see if he's alright." Brentmore reached down to the holster on her left thigh and pulled her PDA out of it (OOC: Check out the picture of the male Colonial uniform for a reference of how the dual-thigh holsters are arranged). While the right thigh holster on the Colonial uniform was designed for the carrying of a pistol, the left was usually a varient designed for the carrying of a Personal Digital Assistant, like a Palm Pilot or similar device. Adaptable to function as a video-phone, radio, and personal organizer, most Colonial officers found thier PDAs to be indispensable in thier day to day duties. Brentmore scrolled through the contact numbers of the CNS Achilles senior staff until she found Commander Peterson's. She pressed down a key to engage a video-phone call and held her PDA about a foot infront of her face. Hopefully, Peterson would be good enough to pick up the call and rejoin the party.


Commander Peterson sat in a toilet stall, his red leather jacket hung up on the back of the door and his pistol in his lap. His pistol still had its safety on, and it didn't have a round chambered, but he felt slightly better just having the thing in his lap. He had been issued the sidearm upon his graduation at the Colonial Naval Academy in the city of Machen Alpha, and he'd had it ever since. With one exception, it had always been there when he needed it, but the one time when it wasen't there for him was the one time he'd needed it most. The memories of what happened were still as fresh in his mind as they were when it had all occured...

*****
It was 5 years earlier, what seemed like nearly a lifetime ago now. Peterson and Brentmore both held the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade, they were junior officers assigned to the JAG detachment of the CNS Persephone, a newly commisioned Pax Magellanic Class Carrier - Peterson remembered having his breath literally taken away from him the first time he saw the magnificent vessel in port. Peterson and Brentmore had known eachother for a long time at that point, having first met at the Naval Academy during thier junior year. They had become fast friends, but there always seemed to be something more with them, something just under the surface of thier relationship - there was always a noticeable bit of sexual tension between the two, but nothing ever came out of it. They always seemed to be involved with someone else, or one of them always backed away when the lines between friendship and something more were being tested. Peterson sometimes wondered what could have been had they simply let thier feelings out and let down thier inhibitions, but it had been a long time since he'd done that. At the time, the Democratic Colonies was engaged in a massive humanitarian campaign in Somalia. Sure, there was the occansional bout of violence from some minor warlord who didn't like the Colonials stepping in on his turf, but it was nothing the Colonial Marines couldn't handle. The Democratic Colonies was a rich, ambitious nation, and it was bringing civilization to the poor peoples of Africa - saving the world, one bit at a time. Peterson shook his head at the pure arrogence of it all, but he had believed it too. He had believed that the Democratic Colonies was going to spread freedom and civilization accross the globe, gliding from nation to nation like gods on thier gleaming ships of titanium and sythentic composite, with thier newly born Artifical Intelligences to reassure them of thier greatness. He had believed himself and the Colonies to be invincible, and for a time, it seemed like that was true.

The CNS Persephone was assigned as the command ship of the humanitarian relief efforts in Somalia, and so was always a hub of activity. There were always helicoptors and Ospreys bringing in tribal leaders, village elders, and all sorts of other authority figures to coordinate with the Colonial forces on how the the relief efforts should proceed and how things were going. Peterson usually found it to be just part of the job to work with such people, until one day, when he saw the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen step off a Seahawk and onto the flight deck of the Persephone, her long skirts blowing in the rotorwash and her long black hair as it flowed freely through the air. She was Nicole Hazcule, the daughter of one of the local tribal leaders and his wife, a Christan missionary who was there to spread the word of religion. Her father had sent her to the carrier to request that the Democratic Colonies build a new school for thier village, and coordinate with them on its construction. Peterson immediately volunteered for the assignment, and was granted it - he spent the next 4 months with Nicole at her village, overseeing the building of a school, a library, distribution of medicine and vaccines, and the installation of solar panels to provide electricity. They grew increasingly close during thier time together, and Peterson could still remember the milestones in thier relationship - 1 month in, he'd told her how he felt about her, shared thier first kiss. 1 and a half months in, they'd made love under the warm African sun, as the soft carress of raindrops falling gently on thier bodies seemed to bless thier love. 4 months in, he'd asked her to marry her. He'd saved up 6 months worth of pay and selected the best engagement rings he could find through the internet. Then Lieutenant JG Lisa Brentmore, then still his closest friend, had later flown the rings he'd selected in on a Seahawk for him - Brentmore had cried tears of joy and embraced him after she gave him the rings. She was happy for him, she seemed to share his joy. They were beautiful rings of the finest gold, capped with diamonds from his native Vedra Colony. He had presented the rings to Nicole one crisp Somalian night as the moon hung in the sky like a jewel for the taking and the very winds themselves seemed to whisper promises of a bright future ahead. Nicole had instantly accepted his proposal, and Brentmore, along with a few other friends from the Persephone JAG detachment let off a few improvised fireworks from where they were hidden on the other side of a hill. The short, but heartfelt display of pyrotechnics spread the joy of thier engagement to the entire village. The wedding was scheduled for next week, and it instantly became a favourte story of the Colonial news media - just another fairy tale of how the Colonies were bringing light to the world.

Colonial Fleet Command, basking in the glory of its apparent success in Somalia, had Peterson's family flown in on a V-22 Osprey the day of the wedding. There were still the occasional bouts of violence caused by angry warlords, but the Marines had done much to quell the resistance in the months that they'd been there, and better yet, they'd done it with nearly no losses. The general concensus was that the warlords were simply to poorly equipped and trained to effectively fight the technologically advanced Colonial forces. The media was present at Peterson's wedding, beaming live footage of the wedding to fill out the news week, the people back home never seemed to tire of the feel-good stories coming out of Somalia. Nicole looked more beautiful and even Peterson had thought possible when he saw her in her flowing white wedding gown. It was truely to be the best day of his life. While the wedding was a blend of Somalian and Christan customs, it was decided that the Somalian custom of having the bride wait at the alter while the groom entered the ceremony would be honored. Most of the Persephone's JAG detachment was there in their uniforms, the same uniform that was being used five years later, including the thigh holstered sidearm. The Colonial Government had been looking for a proper dress uniform for months at that point, but having found nothing suitable yet, the military had decided that the standard uniform was formal enough to double as a dress uniform for the time being. As the last of the guests found thier seats and a band assigned to the wedding by Fleet Command began to play, Peterson and his best man, a close friend named Jaime Reyes from the Persephone's AI Maintenence Department began to stride forwards, into the wedding grounds. Somalian tradition was that the groom and his trusted blood brothers - in this case his best man and a few other friends - would begin thier walk outside of the wedding grounds, pass through under the scrutiny of an honor guard provided by the tribal leader - in this case, Nicole's father - and then meet with his bride at the front of the ceremony. Everything seemed to be going fine as Peterson, Reyes, and the rest of Peterson's party approached where the honor guard stood at attention, but one of them suddenly stood infront of Peterson, a basket in hand. "Somali tradition states that no one enters the wedding armed - please leave your weapon with us" he said, smiling. Petersonn found it a bit odd, since no one had told about this tradition earlier, but he supposed it made sense. "Everyone leave your guns behind, we won't be needing them in there - after all, we've been helping the Somalis, they're our friends, what could possiblely go wrong?" said one of the men with Peterson - Commander Charles Dufrain, head of the JAG detachment on the Persephone. Peterson and his party quickly unsnapped thier thigh holsters and handed them and the sidearms that were mounted in them to the still smiling Somalian honor guard. With a bow, the guard let them pass, and Peterson assumed he had probably been told of the custom and simply forgot about it. Nicole looked more beautiful than she did earlier if such a thing were possible, and the band continued to play with perfect precision as Peterson and his party continued thier way up to the slightly raised platform of the wedding alter. As he took his first step up, the men following him took up positions standing to the left and right of the alter.

Nicole gave Peterson a wide smile as he stepped past the third and final step to come to the top level of the altar, but her expression changed for some reason, changed in the space of an instant to what might have been an expression of any number of emotions. Peterson only had a split second to wonder why that was before the sounds of gunfire could be heard behind him. He turned around to see the Somalian honorguard charging at Peterson's guests, firing the pistols that he and his friends had given them only moments earlier. He watched in horror as his friends and family were swept by the fire, defenseless against the honor guard. Peterson felt the impact of someone landing on his back, sending him crashing to the floor. "Nicole! What's - What the hell is going on?" he cried, as he saw a group of men armed with AK-47 assualt rifles emerge from positions behind the altar. She didn't reply, so Peterson rolled her off of him looked around, not believing what was happening. He got up, only to see a one of the honor guard pointing a pistol at him, but being tackled by Brentmore before he could fire. Peterson was then attacked by a man that was unmistakably Nicole Hazcule's father, the leader of the tribe. He was swinging a club at him, nearly bashing Peterson's skull in. Peterson took a few hits, including one that he blocked with his hand, badly chipping his engagement ring, but Nicole's father went down as Charles Dufrain tackled the tribal leader from behind. The whole situation was sheer madness - Peterson spun in a circle, looking for what happened to Nicole, but when his eyes finally found her, she wasen't the sight that he had expecting. Nicole was standing behind the altar, her dress torn, the dead bodies of Jaime Reyes and one of the Somalian ambushers at her feet. She had the dead Somalian's rifle up against her shoulder, and she seemed to be aiming it at him, with tears running down her face. Peterson couldn't comprehend what was going on as he saw Lisa Brentmore once again enter his field of vision, firing the pistol she'd taken from the member of the Somalian honor guard she'd presumably defeated. Brentmore was firing at his bride-to-be, and he could only watch in horror as Nicole collapsed to the floor, as the impacts of Brentmore's .45 caliber rounds left a crimson mark on Nicole's chest. Peterson has frozen in time for that second that seemed to span an eternity when he saw Nicole die by Brentmore's hand, but he was taken back to reality as he felt the impact of a club against the back of his head. He immediately fell down, the last sight before falling into unconciousness the sight of Nicole's father standing over him, club above his head, preparing for the killing blow.

*****

Peterson was startled by the sound of his PDA ringing from his left thigh holster, indicating an incoming vid-phone call. He picked it up and opened it with a fluid snap of the wrist, to see that it was Brentmore calling him. "You okay in there Peterson?" She asked, looking a bit like she'd drunk quite alot. "Just fine..." Peterson replied. "Well, if you're feeling up to it, our hosts would like to meet you" said Brentmore. Peterson nodded a few times, and flicked his clamshell PDA shut. He released a long sigh as he put his sidearm back into his thigh holster and began to put on his red leather jacket. The eventual JAG investigation of what happened in Somalia concluded that no one was at fault, and that Brentmore had made the right choice in shooting Nicole. The JAG team was unsure if Nicole had helped Lieutenant Jamie Reyes or the Somali attacker in thier apparent fight to the death, or if she'd simply walked over to thier already deceased forms and picked up the assualt rifle. The JAG team was unsure if Nicole was aiming the rifle at Peterson, or if she was aiming at his attacker, her father, who was standing behind him. The JAG team was unsure of which side Nicole was on, or if she knew about the planned ambush - but in the end, they had cleared the then Lieutenant JG, now Commander, Lisa Brentmore, of any wrongdoing: something that Nigel Peterson could never bring himself to do. He finished with the last of the clasps on his uniform jacket and opened the stall door, immedately going over to the sinks to splash some cold water on his face. Satisfied with his appearence, he toweled off his hands and stepped back out into the dining hall.

OOC: Please note, I just made all that stuff about Somalian wedding rituals up - I don't know anything about actual Somalian weddings. As well, if anyone is begining to find my little soap-operaish side story annoying, please tell me and I'll knock it off.

OOC: Hope I'm not too late to join in. If you check on my nation, please ignore the shape and most of the stuff it has in effect. I made some wrong Issue choices and its spiraled out of control. I'm making amends, but let it be known Sarctic is still a Demoractic Socialist country.


The slick limo casually and slowly pulled up in front of the Capital Building. In the front and the back of the limo were two black cars, both having the look of guard cars. As the tiny convoy pulled to a stop, 4 para-military officers jumped out and took a quick stroll around the area before letting their main prize out of the limo.

President Onsorn was a casual and People's man. He wore a very average sport coat and slacks that were neatly pulled together by a black belt. He had short, dirty blonde hair that stopped short above his very light blue eyes. His face was fair also, a very light tone. As he exited the limo, the convoy dropped back out of the driveway, taking only two of the four officers. The other two made their way with him up the steps and dropped off to join the growing group of leader guards, all of them idily chatting or drawing smokes. As Larf moved towards the doors to the inside, two very butler looking people opened the big doors and admitted him to the party.

There was many world leaders around, a lot of them unknown to even Larf himself. But he had remembered Varrus's figurehead, a one Caludius Crassus. After taking a wine from a passing steward, Larf set out on his task of finding the leader to give thanks and perhaps mingle. In spotting him with two others, Larf calmly made his way over and waited until a break in the conversation allowed him to speak.

"On behalf of Sarctic Mr.Crassus, I thank you for your great hospitality in this grand dinner. And I sincerely hope I have not interrupted something important." As he said this, he glanced to the other two guests, at a loss for their names.

OOC: Just wondering for later Var, but would you mind if an assanation attempt was made on my leader's life? Might spice the dinner up, a lot later!

OOC: Not at all. That was exquisite. Really, truely very good. FYI, I won't be around for most of Sunday, but please feel free to continue if my absence doesn't screw up the storyline.

"No, you haven't interupted at all" said Commander Lisa Brentmore as President Onsorn from Sarctic came up beside her. She thought that it was a bit unusual for a national leader to be dressed in such casual attire at a formal event like this, but she supposed that every nation had its differences - afterall, she had once been assigned to work with a nation where the national pasttime was the juggling of geese, so she was used to the different customs and traditions one was exposed to in international affairs. Brentmore smiled and offered her hand to President Onsorn as she introduced herself. "I'm Commander Lisa Brentmore from the Federated Union of Democratic Colonies." she said.

"And I'm Counsloer Donald Royceland of the Kingdom of Emaria." A blazer? Come now, Donald, it's just a coat. Different ways. "I'm glad to see we will have more company here, Mr. President."

"A Commander Perterson may or may not also be lurking about. Also, like our dear Commander Brentmore, from the Democratic Colonies." Perhaps suffering from involuntary bowel movement syndrome, he thought wrly. "So, my dear Larf, your style of dress has not changed at all."

"Commander Brentmore just finished telling us of her country's navy, which so humorously dwarfs ours." He sipped at his wine, his second glass. "This, after first critiquing my decoration and choice of intoxicants." He grinned.

"Well, it's not my fault that the fine wine they're serving here is better than anything I've had in a long time," said Commander Brentmore in a good natured tone to President Onsorn. "Infact, I think last the time I had wine this good was back when I graduated from the Colonial Naval Academy years ago. The vintage was Vedra Colony Spring Port, I remember Peterson loving the stuff..." Brentmore seemed to drift off a bit when she mentioned Peterson and the Naval Academy, but quickly became alert again as Peterson, in the flesh, came up beside her. "I'm sorry about my not being around," he said in a neutral voice. "I was feeling a bit... I was wasen't feeling very well" he continued as he smoothed out his red leather jacket - Colonial officers were sometimes noted as doing this excessively when they were nervous. "Anyways, I apologize deeply for it, and I'm feeling much...much better now" Peterson continued as he shot Brentmore a look from the corner of his eye. He extended his hand to the assembled dignitaries for handshakes while he noticed Brentmore downing nearly an entire glass of wine in a single gulp.

Royceland shook the man's hand. "I'm glad to hear you're doing better. I am Counselor Royceland of Emaria."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Counselor Royceland" said Commander Peterson. "I hope that Commander Brentmore hasen't been boring you too much with what I assume must have been talk of the Democratic Colonies' military technology" he continued, as a waiter came over to offer Peterson a glass of wine.

"Oh, no, Commander. A bit envious, but not bored. I'm afraid Emaria does not boast that much of a navy. Or military, for that matter." Royceland replied. "Damn pansies..." he muttered into a glass of wine he taken from a waiter.

"That's good," said Commander Peterson, "Lisa has a bit of a -" Peterson was interupted midsentence though, as Commander Lisa Brentmore raised a hand. "Excuse me Counselor," she said with suprise in her voice. "Did you just say something? I couldn't quite hear if you'd said something."

Royceland put a face of slight confusion. "Hm? No, Commander. I was clearing my throat." Wonderful, Royceland. If you're going to mutter something, specify who you are talking about.

OOC: Oops, he was referring to his government and small military. Sorry, I wasn't specific. Though now, Brentmore might have a slight distrust of Royceland, which could add just a bit of interest.

OOC: Ah, I see. I'll try to include this from hereon in.

IC: Commander Brentmore continued to stare at Counselor Royceland despite his denial of having said anything. I'm positive that bastard just said something about my panties! Brentmore thought to herself. Well, if this crazy SOB wants to make dirty remarks about me, then -- Brentmore was startled out of her thoughts though, when Peterson snapped his fingers in front of her face. "What?" She asked, annoyed at Peterson. "You seemed to zone out for a second just now" said Commander Peterson. "I'm fine" said Brentmore, giving Counselor Royceland another suspicous look. She took another drink from her wine glass, finishing it off. I'm sure that man said something, and I'm pretty sure I didn't like the sound of it thought Brentmore as she picked up another glass of wine from a waiter.

Crassus leaned back to watch, hiding a mischevious smile. Since he was standing between the Emarian and the Colonialists, he had heard both the original comment of Rocyeland and could guess what it had sounded like from farther away.

However, while a diplomatic incident between his country and another this evening would be catastrophically bad, an incident between another two might just be amusing. He had, however, discovered a slight fondness for all involved, so he resolved to step in if it got too outrageous.

"Commander Brentmore? Were you saying something?" He sipped at his own drink, again hiding his little smile.

"What?" asked Commander Brentmore, her glass of wine partially in front of her face, as she was about to take a sip before Magistrate-General Crassus had spoke. It took Brentmore a second to realize what the Magistrate-General had said. "Ah, no, I didn't say anything. Nothing at all." she said, as she raised her glass once again to take a drink from it.

All the wine she was consuming was begining to have a negative effect on Commander Brentmore's diplomatic awareness, as she never would have replied to a national leader with "what?" had she been completely alcohol free.

OOC: I snorted out milk when I read the panties comment. I'll hold my assanation attempt for a few more posts.

As comment kept going between little group, Larf took a glance around at the building. It was very finely built, sturdily supported and designed to look nice at the same time. The top section appeared to look totally opaque, but good eyes good see it was just a long curtain of cloth that covered the topmost windows. His attention was brought back to the conversation group when some slightly harsh words began to become traded.

"Well!" Crassus stepped in, tired of the pregnant silence. "I believe the should have dinner ready by now, so let's enjoy ourselves and begin!"



OOC: Well, that's a sloppy ending, but everyone seems to have lost interest in the thread, so thanks for coming!

OOC: It's not that I lost interest or anything, I just kind of needed Emaria to say something for me to play off of. I thought it would be kind of weird for my characters to suddenly jump from one topic to another without resolving that whole thing first. I'm not sure if Emaria's coming back though.

Anyways, if the thread is over, I have to say that it was really fun for me. Good thread Varrus.

I wouldn't mind seeing this dinner party continue though...

OOC: I'd love to continue, if everyone wants to. Emaria, give a hoot and tell us what you think.

OOC: Sure, I'd like to go on. I should be able to get on regularly enough, now.

IC: Oh dear, Thought Royceland. Commander Brentmore seems to be enjoying her beverages. So just shut up, now, Royceland.

"Oh, that sounds lovely, Magistrate-General."

"Yes, I can't wait to see what's in store for dinner..." said Commander Lisa Brentmore with a nearly imperceptable slur to her words. If someone wasen't familiar with her normal speech patterns, they might not have noticed it, but Commander Nigel Peterson did. "You okay Lisa?" he asked. "I'm fine Peterson. Juuuust fine." said Brentmore before giving Counselor Royceland another suspicous look. That man....has the funniest hair in the world she thought. I love his hair, but I hate the man. I hate him! He made that rude comment about me earlier - well, I'll see to it that he gets his. Commander Brentmore took another swing from her wine glass as Peterson took a long drink of his own wine. Okay... Lisa's drinking alot thought Peterson. But it's not my problem as long as she dosen't cause a diplomatic incident... or shoot anyone his train of thought continued darkly.

Ooookay. The wine must be better than I thought. Claudius Crassus was... concerned... that his gathering would go down as the laughingstock of political history.

"Let's sit, shall we?" Commander Brentmore made a terrible show of getting over to the dining table, yet had set her eyes fixedly on the nervous-looking porter holding her chair out ready. She appeared to be gagueing the distance for some sort of speedy assualt.

Um. Umumumumum.

"Commander Peterson? Don't you think that Commander Brentmore's pistol could easily be caught on the tablecloth?" He darted closer to Peterson. "And that she might shoot someone with it if she has another glass of wine?"

Larf followed the motely conversation group to the dinner table and situated himself down into a rather plush seat. He readjusted himself so he wouldn't slip out or make a fool of himself if an accident occured, and unfolded the napkin that had beckoned him to be unfolded. As he set it on his lap, he glanced up at the top windows that were hidden but not hidden enough. A tiny shadow seemed to play off the curtain. Did I just see that correctly? I must be getting old. He dismissed it and turned back to the dinner



OOC: If its okay with you guys, the attempt on my life will happen very soon. I'll let dinner go a little ways before it happens

Royceland seated himself at the dinner table. As he did, he thought he saw a curtain move slightly. Is there a breeze? He leaned over towards Larf, whom Royceland thought had also spotted something, whispering,

"I bet they have guards and marksmen hidden all over this place--high ceilings, Heads of State..."

OOC: Could it PLEASE just be a breeze? I mean, it's the first diplomatic event of Varrus' history, apparently. Can you IMAGINE a more securely protected dinner party?
If you're going to do it, then I suppose that's fine. But let me deal with the assasin, after you're finished being shot at.

[OOC: Too late to join the dinner party? If so, the Duke will quickly bow out :)]

Duke Wilhelm Aldler, the nephew of the ruling Grand Duke of Vangonia, checked his antique gold pocket watch, a family heirloom. Clearly, it was not working as well as it had in his grandfather's day. He must be nearly an hour late for dinner. Adler instructed the driver to hurry.

OOC: The following excessively soap-operaish post may be slightly confusing if you didn't read page 2 of the thread

IC:
Commander Nigel Peterson nodded as Magistrate-General Crassus spoke. "Yes, I think Lisa has drunk a bit more than she should" he said quietly. "And you're right about the risk involved with giving her a gun....afterall, it wouldn't be the first time she's shot a -" Peterson was interupted though, as Commander Lisa Brentmore suddenly stood up. "I'm not bloody drunk, and I can hear you just fine Peterson" she said angrily. "Sit down Lisa, you've drunk too much. Christ, you never could hold down your alcohol, could you?" retorted Peterson. "And how the hell would you know if I can hold down my alcohol?" demanded Brentmore angrily. Peterson walked over to her and tried to guide her back down into her seat. "We might not have seen eachother for a while Lisa, but I remember the old days... before Somalia. You got buzzed on a single goddamn beer back then, and I see that hasen't changed." said Peterson. Brentmore gave him a look that could have been anger or saddness, there seemed to a flood of emotions going through her. "Screw you Peterson!" she said loudly, pain laced in her voice as she stood up again, inadvertently causing her chair to fall to the floor. "Alot's fracking changed since the 'old days', including me. Especially fracking me." she said, her voice quivering. Peterson's demeanor softened as a single tear rolled down Brentmore's cheek. Peterson began to speak after a moment of silence, his concerns about making a good diplomatic showing forgotten for the most part. "I know you've been through alot, and I know you've changed since.... since back then, but you are still you Lisa." said Peterson gently, his anger and bitterness gone. He found himself getting a little teary eyed as well. Lisa unstrapped her thigh holster with her sidearm still in it and slammed it onto the dinner table. "That's right Peterso-.... Nigel. I'm still Lisa and you're still Nigel, and I still shot the woman you were going to spend the rest of your life with. I may have changed, but not enough for you to forget what happened back then." Brentmore said as she walked a few paces away and averted her gaze away from all in the room and up at the curtains surrounding the top of the dining room. Peterson walked up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. She immediately threw it off. "You're right Lisa, I can never forget what happened." Peterson said to her. "But I can never forget what happened between us either, all that we've gone through together and all that we've felt for eachother." Brentmore turned so she and Peterson stood face to face. "But you'll never forgive me..." she said, nearly whispering the words. "Perhaps not," admitted Peterson, "but I realized a while ago that if I never were to see you again, I'd never get the chance to. I've missed you Lisa, and I've missed being with you. Nothing ever happened between us, but I think now it was because we were simply afraid of ruining the friendship that we had. That's why I requested a transfer with Fleet Command to the Achilles - it was no coincidence that we'd meet again after 5 years of not speaking. Maybe Nicole Hazcule was the woman I would have spent the rest of my life with, but you're the woman that I was made to be with - no matter what." Peterson felt a rush of mixed emotions go through him, the entire spectrum of feelings crashing against him like a typhoon, as he saw Lisa Brentmore break into a smile through her tears. She embraced him and began to whisper. "God Nigel....I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I would have done anything to change what happened" she said with her arms wrapped around Peterson. "I know..." said Peterson as he could no longer control himself and let himself shed the tears he had been carrying with him for years. "I know...." he repeated as he stroked Brentmore's hair gently. He wasn't sure what the gathered dignitaries would think of thier actions, or what Colonial Fleet Command would say when they heard about it, but neither Peterson nor Brentmore cared too much at that point. To them, they were simply two souls finally reunited after far too long of loneliness.

OOC: If the assasination is to go ahead, remember that Brentmore's sidearm is still on the dinner table in a thigh holster.

Pic:
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/JC_Denton/NationStates/6c5fc4b3.jpg
It's a SIG P221, DC Edition. 13 round magazine, .40 caliber with integrated laser sight. Brentmore had her safety on and no round chambered. I'm okay with it if someone wants to grab it off the dinner table and use it.

As the black towncar pulled into the ornate driveway, the Duke Wilhelm jumped from the vehicle almost before it stopped. He hated being late. However, there was no need to scrimp on appearance. As he stood at the base of the steps, he checked his attire carefully. He was dressed in the dark blue uniform of a colonel of the Imperial Guard, his chest decorated with medals, and a golden cord knotted carefully over his shoulder. The Duke carefully smoothed his waxed mustache and strode up the stairs, personal bodyguard not far behind.

"The Grand Duke of Vangonia sends his respectful greeting to the government of Varrus," Wilhelm announced to the butler. "I, Duke Wilhelm Adler VII, am his emmissary, and speak with his full authority. If you would direct me to the dinner party?"

After navigating the corridors, the Duke arrived in the dining room, where it appeared that an emotionally charged scene had just occured.

"The Duke Wilhelm Adler," the butler announced, "Arrived from the Grand Duchy of Vangonia."

One of what were many failings that Magistrate-General Crassus endured when it came to emotion was an inability to deal with an akward situation. The silence was deafening, as well as akward.

While what had just occured was apparently beneficial in nature, he still had two foreign envoys embracing each other emotionally at his Debue to the World Gala. Which had just now accumulated its fifth participant.

"Well, Duke Adler. I welcome you to both my nation's coming forth into the great community of people's, and...." Crassus let his arms fall from the grand, sweeping geture they had previously been occupied with.

"Our freakish managerie. Please, before the silence settles in completely and our tongues atrophy, tell us of your people and your homeland."

OOC: I'm sorry if my antics have derailed the thread somewhat. I started out with the whole Somalian thing early on, then expanded on it, but I didn't intend to have it come out quite so publicly IC until now, when I just felt the need to resolve thier story somehow. I guess it's just the romantic in me or something. Anyways, my apologies. Peterson and Brentmore will engage in diplomatic type small talk in a more usual manner from here on in.

"Your hospitality is most gracious, Magistrate," the Duke noted with a small and formal bow. "Vangonia is likewise new on the international stage. Our people have been ruled by a member of the Adlerian dynasty for three hundred and fifty years, although the world has taken little notice of our small Duchy. My uncle, the Grand Duke, has instituted broad reforms, including the innaugeration of a parliament. Before the parliament was created and a constitution established, the Grand Duke was the unlimited autocrat of Vangonia. My uncle has also overseen the modernization of our economy, and the discovery of new natural resources, including oil reserves off our shores. For these reasons, my uncle is considered by the people to be a great visionary...some have even appended the suffix "The Great" to his name. He himself leaves that to history.

The land itself is rugged, but the people are hardworking and devout. Their loyalty to the royal family runs deep. But I have spoken for too long. Magistrate, if I may be permitted to extend to your government the formal recognition of Vangonia, and the friendship of the Grand Duke Henry IV Adler. You are of course welcome to visit the Grand Duchy at any time of your convenience." Having delivered this address, the Duke sits down at the table with military precision, and perfection of posture.

Commander Nigel Peterson looked up and around the room long enough to notice the akward glances of a few of the diplomats and various representatives around the room. "Umm.... Lisa?" he said quietly. "Yeah Nigel?" Commander Lisa Brentmore asked, her face still against his chest. She looked up at his face when he didn't reply. "Oh....right..." she said as she too noticed the gazes directed at them. "Maybe it would be a good idea if we let go of eachother now." Peterson said quietly. The two officers released eachother and akwardly smoothed out thier red leather uniform jackets. Brentmore and Peterson glanced at eachother again before Brentmore began to speak. "We...ah... we apologize for any disruption of diplomatic activities." she said calmly, wiping the remaining tears from her face. Peterson leaned over to her. "Perhaps we should head to the rest rooms for a minute. You know, clear ourselves up for the rest of the dinner - 'cause you know Fleet Command's going to be pissed that this happened, right?" Peterson said, ending up nearly laughing at thier situation. Brentmore broke into a wide smile. "Yeah...yeah, maybe when we come back out they'll be talking again and they'll quit staring at us like this" she whispered as she brushed back her hair with a hand. The two officers shuffled off to thier respective rest rooms to regain some of thier composure and hopefully allow the other guests of the dinner to begin discussions of somesort to draw attention away from what just happened.

Claudius breathed a mental sigh of relief as the two colonialists went to seperate bathrooms.

"Well, then. Tonight we shall be dining on fresh stakes, lobster and oodles of other savory yet fattening things." The Magistrate sat at the head of the table, spine ramrod straight, head up, shoulders back. "I trust that the journey was not entirely an unending horror, good Duke. Where, geographically speaking, is Vangonia, if I may ask so frank a question? Embarrasingly, previous Magistrates have insisted on being somewhat... cloistered."

"Not all, Magistrate," the Duke said, waving away his host's concerns. "Vangonia too, under previous Grand Duke's, has been greatly isolated from the world stage. My country is an island of moderate size located in the Pacific. While my family has ruled there for centuries, as I said, our nation has regrettably drawn little notice until recently. And you will forgive me if our academies teach us little about Varrus, or any of the nations represented here. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me a little of your nations' characters and histories as well? My uncle is always anxious to learn more of the world." As the Duke spoke, well-dressed waiters began bringing the first course of the banquet on silver platters.

"I'd be only to happy to render a brief history of myself and my nation. But, as I am the host, it would be unseemly to gab on forever. Perhaps another would like to go first?"

OOC: Sorry, I'm doing this with one hand while I'm working. :( I'll do it properly later.

The silence stretched on for a bit.

"Well, nevermind, then. Varrus is a geographically tiny nation, with a population concentrated in several major, heavily fortified cities. The population is mostly of Northern European descent, with Irish, German, Norweigen, Swiss and Anglo-Saxons more or less equally represented. But we left those countries behind long ago. We are Varrians now." He sipped again at some wine.

"Mostly, the Varrian people were subjects of the surrounding countries who each controlled what is now Varrus. Varrians are a fairly proffesional-minded people, so when the revolution came, we had all the jobs that mattered. There was little fighting, and now, we and our geographic neighbors share a series of strong friendships." More or less.

OOC: Its go time. Gotten too slow for my tastes :) Please correct me if something seems bad or unrealistic in the attempt. Also, take note Onsorn was a Freedom Fighter before becoming a leader.

Larf casually followed the talk to his right and left, making polite nods and properly changing his attention as people talked. He kept having to push down that bad feeling in his gut. He didn't know why, but something felt extremely wrong. He chuckled at someones joke and wiped his mouth from his meal, glancing up to the top most windows again. And he froze.

There, one of the panels was open, and just wide enough, three shadows seem to be standing perfectly still. The center man crouched and placed some kind of object through the window. It had a round end and a tiny circle on top, connected to a large body. The man steadied it out and placed his eye to the top circle-

With only a second to move, Larf kicked out of his chair and placed himself down under the table. The shot wrang 30 miliseconds later and punctured the spot where he was sitting, tearing apart the nice chair and splintering it like it was nothing. The two panels side by side of the sniper hole opened up and automatic fire began to ring out.

In a smooth motion, Larf flicked out his Vector CR-14 pistol and flicked the safety off. Without a flinch or a grit of his teeth, he came up at a sprint towards a stone colmun across from him. He rang out 3 shots, and seem to down the sniper. The automatics, which he could identify as AKMs now, continued to ring out against the column and where he had ran. He emptied the clip towards the window, and as a way to check the damage. It didn't seem any of the other high class people inside were damaged at all, just in a state of panic as the bullets flew. He clicked the old clip out and jammed a new one free.

At this point, the front doors burst open and his guards and some other came in, guns a blazing out the windows. It seemed some firefighting was going on outside too, though it was diminishing with each second. With a deft battle roar, he came out firing.

OOC: Just let me know if something seems wrong

OOC: Well, your possesion of a concealed weapon is somewhat grating, but I guess that'd be fine, since I let Democratic Colonies bring their sidearms in.

The problem, though, is this: There is absolutely no way in hell that, upon hearing multiple gunshots fired, my (as previously mentioned) large number of security troops would let armed guards of anyone charge onto the premises.

Think about it. My security personnel hear gunshots, and your men come rushing in. What are they to think?

So, basically, we could play it as it is, have my troops tackle yours in the confusion and do a lot of screaming, or you could just tweak it a bit and be satisfied with what must have been a very nice shot at the sniper, and let the host kill the other two.

But, otherwise, it was great writing.

Commander Lisa Brentmore looked at herself in the mirror of the ladies washroom. She had just finished wiping off the last of her then slightly streaked makeup, and was trying to figure out if her hair looked alright. She was still riding an emotional high from what had happened with Commander Nigel Peterson earlier, and was uncertain of what the future would hold for them or what had prompted Peterson's seemingly abrupt emotional showing, but she was glad it had happened - although she did admittedly wish it hadn't happened while they were supposed to be on a "medium importance diplomatic mission". Deciding that her jet black hair was more or less in the Navy-approved bun she was trying to keep it in, Brentmore was starting towards the door back out to the dining hall when the sounds of gunfire shattered the relative quiet Brentmore had been experiencing.

Instinctively grabbing at an empty space on her right thigh where her sidearm usually was, Brentmore let out a curse as she realized she had unstrapped her holstered pistol and left it on the dining table earlier. The door to the washroom burst open as one of the wine dispensing waiters that had served her earlier stumbled through the doorway, a sickly red wound on the lower left side of his chest. "Help me!" the man cried as he collapsed through the doorway and gunfire could be heard tracking accross the dining hall behind him. Brentmore immediately grabbed the seriously wounded waiter under the arms and dragged him further into the washroom and away from the door he had just entered. While the door appeared to made of a handsome, sturdy wood, Brentmore seriously doubted that it would stop a spray of bullets. "What the hell is going on out there?" asked Brentmore as she pressed a mass of handtowels against the waiter's wound. "I - I don't know. Someone's shooting at us, they - oh God that hurts!" The waiter grimaced in pain as blood continued to flow from his wound despite Brentmore's best efforts. "It's okay, it's okay, you'll be fine" Brentmore assured the bleeding man as she looked around for something more to stem his wound with. The waiter continued to groan in pain as Brentmore, finding nothing else handy, snapped open the clasps of her jacket and took it off. While leather certainly wasen't the best material available for first aid, it was the fastest thing Brentmore could think of. Handtowels were probably not enough to save the man's life, although Brentmore wasn't sure if anything could at this point. "Here, you're going to be fine" Brentmore said calmly as she grabbed another handful of handtowels, pressed it against the wound and then partially strapped her jacket around the rapidly reddening improvised bandages. The man simply groaned in pain again as the sounds of more gunfire were heard outside. Brentmore continued to apply pressure the wound, hoping help would come in soon. The waiter was rapidly bleeding out, and despite what she had told him, she wasen't sure how long he would last if his bleeding wasen't stopped.


OOC:
The top that Commander Lisa Brentmore was wearing under her jacket. A black turtleneck is the usual duty-uniform top for both genders, but not expecting any trouble at a diplomatic function, Brentmore had opted for the lower-cut leather top uniform varient:
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/JC_Denton/NationStates/7ceb7cbe.gif
Note that this isn't a pic of Brentmore, just the top she's wearing.

EDIT: oh, and I apologize to Varrus if you'd prefer that I leave your waiter out of it. I can just edit that whole thing out if you'd like.

(OOC)I means out of character right? may i join

If yes please give me a run down of whats happening and why

The shooters were down moments after the first round was fired.

This was not terribly impressive, considering the sheer number of security forces that had been crammed into the hidden alcoves and balconies in the dining hall. Varrian soldiers erupted from everywhere, and the wall that the assasins had been standing in front of was a terrible mess of ruined masonry, blood and bullet holes.

For some odd reason, tensions were high.

The sudden intrusion of the Sarctic bodyguards was unexplained - were they supporting the terrorists? Who WERE the terrorists? Who had been their target?

Anyway, this uncertainty led to the delicate situation of a half-dozen or so Sarctican (sp?) bodyguards clustering around their embattled charge... surrounded by thirty or so Varrian soldiers screaming for them to drop their weapons.

Each of the foreign representatives had four or five security officers standing about them, asking questions. "What happened? What did you see? Are you hurt?" Combat medics were tending to the wounded, of who there were remarkably few. The waiter Commander Brentmore had pulled from harms way had been evacuated immediately. Aside from that, there were a couple of security personnel thanking the makers of Kevlar body armor or having flesh wounds tended to.

Also, there was a very quiet seeming waiter holding a serving tray, staring at the 7.62 mm round that thick metal tray had stopped from entering his colon.

Amidst it all, a furious looking Magistrate-General shouted orders, waving a heavy calibre pistol he had pulled from God knows where.

After the shooting broke out, Royceland sprang from his chair to take cover behind a column. He instintively reached to his holster, but a pit grow in his stomach as he realized he didn't have his weapon.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. The gunners were killed, and now four Varrusian(sp?) security officers surrounded Royceland.

"Sir, are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm fine...I don't know, I just saw Mr. Larf jump from his chair..." Royceland struggled to get a grip.

OOC: I'm guiding this towards what I may make as an RP later, just some Sarctic backstory

Larf clicked the clip and it dropped to the floor, as he jammed home, he glanced to the totally dissembled hall. People screaming, yelling......and all the Varrusian soldiers. They were prepared. In any case, Larf knew he do it. He was furious too. Grentenko........

Commander Lisa Brentmore was relieved when Varrian personel had rushed into the restroom she and the wounded waiter were hiding in. Hearing the gunfire come to a halt, Brentmore had begun to shout for a medic since it sounded like the fighting was over. She still wasen't really sure what the fighting was about, who was attacking or who thier target was, but none of that seemed too important at the time since the wounded waiter seemed to still be bleeding heavily. The security personel who had initally burst into the room were a bit confused at first as to what was going on, but the waiter managed to tell them what had happened. Although a Colonial military officer crouching beside a bleeding Varrian was the last thing they had expected to find, the security personel were quick in calling over medical aid for the waiter before escorting Commander Brentmore across the blood streaked floor of the restroom and back out into the dining hall. Brentmore noticed Commander Peterson having a minor flesh wound to his shoulder treated by a Varrian medic as he spoke into his PDA in video-phone mode. She walked over to him through a small crowd of Varrian security personel and international representatives.

"I'm fine Achilles. I don't need a medivac, the Varrians are patching me up onsite." Peterson said into his PDA as Brentmore approached him. Brentmore was still too far away to hear the response from whoever he was talking to, probably the CNS Achilles shipboard AI, but Peterson simply gave them a nod and a quick "aye" before he turned his PDA off and put it back into his left thigh holster. "You okay?" asked Brentmore as she walked up next to Peterson. "Just a flesh wound, I'm fine" said Peterson as he indicated his right shoulder. "What about you?" he asked, a bit concerned about why there were blood stains all over her arms and her jacket seemed to have gone missing. "I'm fine." said Brentmore, shrugging. "One of the waiters was hit - they got him pretty bad. I had to use my jacket to try to stop his bleeding, but it was still bad. The Varrians got him though, the medics said they'd do what they can." Peterson nodded as Brentmore spoke and the Varrian medic beside him continued to treat his shoulder.

The two Colonial officers had already answered the immediate queries from the security officers about what had happened and if they were alright, but they weren't of very much help since neither of them knew anything about what happened. Peterson, upon hearing the sounds of gunfire, had immediately pulled out his sidearm and peeked outside of the restroom to see what was happening. It was then that a spray of bullets, perhaps directed at the door movement of the restroom, perhaps simply a random spray at that area of the room, landed a hit on Peterson's shoulder. With his right arm wounded, Peterson knew he probably wouldn't be able to aim his pistol very accurately anyways and hastily backed into the restroom and called the CNS Achilles to inform them of what was happening. The fighting seemed to die down rather quickly though, and Varrian security personel had burst into the men's restroom before too long. Peterson immedately reholstered his sidearm when he recognized them as Varrians, and had answered thier questions as best as he could while the medics gave him a healthy dose of painkillers for his wound. Surveying the grand dining hall, Peterson couldn't help but be impressed with the large number of Varrian security personel who had managed to enter the room in such a short time. There were many more security officers than Peterson had noticed when he first entered the room, as well as a fairly large number of medical staff that had seemingly come out of nowhere. Magistrate-General Crassus seemed to be shouting orders to the Varrians while waving a large looking pistol in the air.

OOC: I'm assuming that Magistrate-General Crassus is waving about his own weapon and not Commander Brentmore's P221. If that's the case, and you're okay with it IC, I'll have Brentmore go over and retrieve her sidearm in my next post.

OOC: Knock yourself out. It's your pistol. :D

The Duke had been listening politely to his host when the chaos broke out. With his back to the window, trusting almost entirely in the security apparatus of the Magistrate, he only had time to notice the frozen faces of those facing the action before he heard the gunshots.

By the crown ! he thought, a traditional--if somewhat cliche--expression of the Duchy. Respecting his host's stipulation, he had not brought a firearm to the dinner party. His small security detail had been positioned at various places within the dining hall and the antechamber outside. His only weapon was a ceremonial sabre, part of the ducal state uniform. Small chance that would come in handy. As the gunshots continued to sound, he dove under the table and crawled to the other side, where he met the Magistrate's eye.

"Tip the table," the host of the party said. Together they heaved the heavy oaken table on its side, spilling it's delicious and well-seasoned contents on the ground. A few bullets thudded solidly into the table, but in a moment the firefight ended with the overwhelming presence of the Varrian guards.

"You certainly know how to throw a party, Crassus," the Duke noted. The Magistrate did not reply, as he was suddenly rather busy.

"Your Grace!" shouted one of the Duke's bodyguards, running to his side, weapon drawn. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, John, I'm fine," the Duke said, checking himself over. Then, loudly, "Damn!"

"What is it, Your Grace?" the bodyguard asked.

The Duke had salad dressing on his uniform.

"Larf." The Magistrate's voice was cold and businesslike. As were the many, many soldiers standing about him. "What, exactly, is going on? And, until that is explained satisfactorily, please put down your weapons." He frowned.

OOC: Sorry for my last post, was a little bit hurried.

The President turned towards the Magistrate and frowned as he placed his CR back into the folds of his suit, clicking the safety squarely back to ON.

"It's.....complicated. Is there anywhere private we can talk? I'm sure this could be worth your time" As he spoke, his eyes wandered around to his guards. They were already calling in the strikes. Good.



OOC: When Larf thinks calling in the strikes, he actually means strikes in his own country against some terroist opposition, no one else.

Commander Lisa Brentmore watched a Varrian medic lead Commander Nigel Peterson out of the main dining area. Saying that the dining hall was simply too crowded and busy for him to properly stitch up Peterson's shoulder, the medic had insisted that they leave for a side room for the time it would take to seal the remainder of the wound. Left with nothing more to do and not wanting to get in the way of the Varrian security personel who still seemed to be rushing about, Brentmore made her way across the now much messier dining hall until she thought she had reached about where she was seated at the now overturned and bullet-riddled dinner table. While she was fairly certain that no other incidents like the one they had all just undergone would occur for the remainder of the night, she felt that it was best to be prepared. She searched through the overturned serving platters and plates, looking for her sidearm. She noticed a few Varrian security personel eyeing her cautiously, but she supposed it was nothing out of the ordinary for them to be a bit jumpy now. She finally noticed the silver glint of her SIG P221 under the remains of a stuffed lobster and feeling the gaze of Varrian security every millimetre of the way, slowly reached under what was earlier a finely prepared component of the first course, and tugged her hip holster and its mounted pistol loose. After wiping a bit of what appeared to be a sauce of somekind off of the holster, Brentmore unbuckled its sheath and slid the sidearm out of its holster just enough to see that the safety was still on and the magazine was still inside before rebuckling the sheath and restrapping the holster to her thigh. After losing her jacket to try to stop a man from bleeding away his life and huddling unarmed in a restroom uncertain if the bringer of her death would burst through its doors at any moment, the weight of Colonial steel was comforting against her thigh. As Brentmore stood up once again, noting that Varrian security was still staring at her, she noticed that President Larf of Sarctic speaking quietly with Magistrate-General Crassus. While she didn't want to intrude on thier conversation, she couldn't help but notice the abosolutely furious expression on President Larf's face. Ofcourse, anger was a natural reaction to what had just happened, but there seemed to be more to it then that... Brentmore wasen't sure though, and she certainly wasen't about to intrude upon thier conversation. Under the watchful eyes of Varrian security, Brentmore made her way over to the well dressed Grand Duke Henry IV Adler, from Vangonia. Although he seemed to be trying to wipe off some salad dressing that somehow ended up on his unifrom, nothing could disguise the high-quality, well cut nature of his clothing. Armed with an impressive looking sword of some sort, he struck an imposing figure amoung the small crowd of people that surrounded him. Although Varrian security personel had already asked Brentmore thier share of questions about what happened, they had all left to ask someone else the same battery of questions before Brentmore had the chance to ask them what was going on and exactly what had happened. While she was hidden away in a restroom for the duration of the short gunbattle, perhaps Duke Adler, who she assumed had been out in the dining hall during the incident, would be able to tell her what had happened from his better vantage point.

"Ah, Commander...Brentmore, is it?" the Duke asked as the woman approached. She answered the question with a nod. "I trust you were not injured in the fighting?"

"No, Your...Highness," she began, unsure of the formal address for a Vangonian duke, "I'm afraid I missed out on most of the action. What exactly happened here?"

"To be honest, Commander, I really don't know," the Duke replied, smoothing his mustache. "It would appear that someone is none to pleased that our friend the President of Sarctic is still drawing breath. There was a single shot from a rifle, which President Onsorn managed to avoid. After that, automatic fire came from the windows and I, it must be admitted, took refuge behind the table. Onsorn displayed a level of bravery that borders on--shall we say--recklessness, and actually charged the would-be assassins head on. He produced a handgun which, as I understood it, was forbidden at this particular affair of state. Not that I'm complaining, of course. Things might have been much worse had the President not been armed. The whole thing ended quite well, considering a brazen attack on such a dinner party. Despite the...regrettable state of my uniform. At any rate, I expect that the Varrian guards or President Onsorn himself will clear this mess up for us presently." He bent down and picked up an unbroken champagne glass, and filled it from a nearby bottle. "Regardless," he said, taking a sip, "This party had been growing a little dull. Champagne?"

Claudius Crassus' grim visage did not improve. "We may speak away from the other guests, but in an overt or covert fashion, a certain number of my bodyguards will be present." He clicked the saftey for his sidearm off, and returned it to its holster at the small of his back. "I must be frank about this, Mr. President. I am not in a position where I fully understand what is going on; and therefor cannot trust you, not knowing the story. If the presence of my security men is not of great import to you, then you may follow me." Turning sharply on his heel, the Magistrate-General led President Onsorn out of the dining hall, around a corner, and into one of the secondary security centers.

The large, reinforced steel door was decidedly out of place amidst the neo-modern architecture of the building - but, hey, there were maore than a few scattered throughout the structure. Repetition mitigated the eyesore.

The door opened before the Magistrate to reveal a surprisingly large room filled with surveillence feeds and communications stations. Techs and security troopers alike turned at the unexpected arrival of their leader.

The still non-plussed Magistrate cleared his throat. "Give us a moment."

The personnel filed out quietly and efficiently.

Once the last man had left, Claudius closed the door. Turning, he waved the two bodyguards who remained to a console further from where the national leaders stood. Once they were out of earshot, he raised an eyebrow. "Would you please enlighten me as to the circumstances of this evening, Mr. President?"

Larf took a heavy breath and figured that it was better out then in.

"As you must have known, even remotely understood, is that my country was ruled by a Communist Regime just under a year ago. The people were oppressed, the military was the law and on top of all of this was our glorious leader. A freedom movement had been brewing for sometime, and it had taken little more than a massacre to pull the government down." He paused, reflecting on the carnage and bloodshed before continuing."On March 5th, a rally against the savage and unjust laws put in place by the government was being held outside the Presidential Palace in Romenko. The "President" wasn't happy about this, and , without a regard to the consequences, he told his men to open fire on the crowd. Over 100 men, women and children were cut down before the crowd got sensible and backed off. This single even was what had brought the freedom movement together. And, even though being a nieve and foolish young man, I had found myself at the head of this movement. You see, my mother and father were cut down in the rally, so I had just cause enough." He took a breath again, his head held to the ground before looking up again.

"In any case, we got organized and began fighting the regime, first with just terroist attacks and light raids. Eventually, the secret police found a good deal of our homes and we were forced to flee to the countryside and surronding countries. The explusion from our homes had fired up our cause even more, and with a lot more people joining everyday, we began lare scale attacks. Eventually, it escaladed to a full war. We won, taking the capital and putting the former regime to exile." Another pause.

"Now, to me, it had seemed the military had not put much of a fight up for the country. Sure, a lot of our people died, but not nearly as many as I had feared. This seemed odd to me, and, while a democratic government was being set up, I set myself to investigate this. What I found was startling. Unknown to me, a former commander of my movement had brokered a deal with the Communist regime to give us the country. In turn, they would be allowed to enact a full retake and revenge in a subsequent year. I had the man tried for crimes and put away, but the damage had been done. The former regime had converted itself to a militant army. Five months ago, terroist attacks began against various sites in the country. The administration has been at its wits ends to stop it, but we have no idea of Grenteko's capabilities. We've been fighting a hit and run war for months, and everyones dreading when the year is up. And thats why that sniper was gunning for me. They're trying to sofen up the government before a take over. Now, believe me, they won't harm your country. I'll leave as soon as possible to prevent incidents."

The Magistrate nodded sagely, and furrowed his brow in thought. "Yes. It would be best if you left, if only so that more innocent Varrians are not hurt."

Crassus held up his hands as the President was rising. "But first, it would be nice if you could answer one question." He looked straight into Onsorn's eyes. "How can we help?"

Commander Lisa Brentmore was a bit suprised by Duke Adler's offer of champagne, but quickly accepted. Pulling an unused glass from where it was laying on top of a plate, Brentmore quickly filled it with the bubbly drink. She continued to monitor the conversation between President Larf and Magistrate-General Crassus out of the corner of her eye though, and thought it was odd as the two men made thier way out of the dining room with Magistrate Crassus leading the way with a brisk walk. Brentmore had suspected that the conversation had something to do with what had happened, and this only served to further her thinking along that line... still though, thought Brentmore, no Colonial personel were seriously wounded in the engagement. Sure, Commander Nigel Peterson had a fleshwound, but he would heal quickly. Brentmore took a small sip from her glass. If they want Colonial help, they'll ask for it. Otherwise, it'll be thier problem - a simple domestic security issue. Since it isn't a concern for now, I might as well make conversation with Duke Adler. "So you Highness," asked Brentmore, "that's an impressive looking blade you're wearing there. Are you trained in it's use?" She indicated the sabre Duke Adler was carrying as part of his uniform.

"Why yes, Commander," the Duke replied. "Most children of the ducal family are trained in the classical arts of warfare. This particular weapon however is largely ceremonial. It has been a heirloom of my family for six generations. The Vangonia Royal Family prides itself on tradition and its noble history. That is partially why we continue to train our children in swordplay when more...destructive weapons," he indicated the still-chaotic scene, "are clearly in favor. The world becomes more troubling day by day. An attack like today's would have been unthinkable in times past. Ah well," he took another drink from his glass, "such are the challenges to which history calls us." He paused, looking into some far-off time, somewhere over Commander Brentmore's shoulder. "Forgive me," he said, coming back to the present. "What about you, Commander? How long have you served your country?"