NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This will be the peace conference regarding the recent invasion of The WIck. The following nations will be allowed to post here:

The WIck
RomeW
Layarteb
Cotland
The Order Of Reptiles
North Germania
Gintonpar
Psychotika
Hawdawg
Andrehervia

The peace conference, unless other nations object, will be held on sunny Sanibel Island, which off the coast of Florida. It will be held at the Siesta Condominum, which is right on the beach and has numerous facilities including a pool and tennis courts. Having seen it myself, it should provide a nice stay. You will all have rooms at the Condominium. Right now, just RP your arrivals.

A grey Gulfstream V business jet fitted with the markings of the Imperial Cottish Air Force were on final approach to the airport in Sanibel Island. Inside the jet, a heated discussion was taking place between the three diplomats and seven military personell over what they could do in the talks. Lieutenant General Peter Vaughn, the 56 year old commanding officer of the Cottish troops that had been involved in the invasion of the WIck and one of the best Generals in Cotland, was growing tired of the entire debate, which had taken place for the better part of the 12 hour flight. He couldn't even get some sleep because of the debate.

"People, lets end this right now! I would very much like to get some rest before the talks. We will hear what the allied and Wickian delegates demand, and take it from there! Understood?" the General said with his command voice. He hadn't really used it since his days as a sergeant in the military academy, but it still were there. Funny. Anyway, the ten men and women nodded, scared stiff from the tone of the voice of General Vaughn. The rest of the flight went on in silence. The only sounds were the tapping on the keyboards of the various laptops and quiet talking between someone.

As the plane landed in Sanibel, Lieutenant General Vaughn were the first one out, followed closely by the diplomats and soldiers (3 Colonels, 2 Majors, 2 Captains and 3 armed Sergeants for protection). They exchanged plesantries with the Roman officials before entering the vehicles provided by the Roman hosts and drove off to the Siesta Condominium. Hopefully the talks wouldn't start for a little while. The General needed to rest. 12 hours of long and heated debates took its toll on the elderly officer.

The WIckian delegation was next to arrive at sunny Sanibel Island. The leader of the delegation Ludmilla Leonovna the women before the war was the assistant under-secretary of state. Now with the war and the casualties sustained in it she assumed to role of the secretary of state. Her second was Markus Cole a man aged more then fifty years, he would be Ludmilla's council in the deliberations, he also serve in the fighting south of Jelgava in the cities militia. About a half dozen staffers and aides accompanied them as well as a honor guard from the 21st Dragoons who were dressed in their ceremonial ridding leathers, but there was nothing ceremonial about the assault rifles they carried.

The party greeted the representatives sent to meet them as they landed and they followed them to the Condominium. The delegation had one goal at this summit and it was to secure a peace from this conflict before it consumed their country wholesale.

"Sanibel. Never been there." The diplomat said as he climbed aboard the C-21B Learjet 80. It was the standard ferry plane for low-level diplomats. "I heard it's warm this time of year." His entourage was already aboard, including a small detachment of bodyguards, six from Force Victor. In total, there were fourteen of them onboard. There were the six men from Force Victor, the diplomat, and seven other clerks and specialists. All-in-all, they appeared to be one group. The Force Victor people were not the least bit looking like soldiers, they were dressed in suits to match the rest of the diplomatic entourage.

As the plane lifted off for its short flight southward, the men inside all looked around quietly. "What if this turns into a fighting war?"

"Sir, there's a plan for that. We've got it covered." The team command from Force Victor said. "We've definitely got it covered."

The plane would land just over two hours later and then be escorted to wherever the peace conference was to be held.

OOC: I should mention that the island in RL does NOT have an airport...but I'll clear out some of the bushes at the SW corner of the island for a small airport. It's a backwater there anyway ;) .

OOC: I should mention that the island in RL does NOT have an airport...but I'll clear out some of the bushes at the SW corner of the island for a small airport. It's a backwater there anyway ;) .

I could land at a nearby airport and just be driven over.

The problem is that the nearest airport (the one Sanibel actually uses) is in Gintonpar's territory and we didn't discuss the use of the airport in the sale. The best thing you could do now is land in New Rome (AKA Houston) and take a ferry across the Gulf of Mexico to Sanibel. It'd be a long trip but you'd get there by the end of the day.

ooc: Perhaps you could provide helicopter transport from New Rome or something. That would be quicker.

OOC: Helicopters still need a port, although it's easier to construct a helicopter port than an airport. I'll have a small field in the SW corner that can take small planes and helicopters, but it won't be able to take huge jets.

OOC: Helicopters still need a port, although it's easier to construct a helicopter port than an airport. I'll have a small field in the SW corner that can take small planes and helicopters, but it won't be able to take huge jets.

Well, if need be, a G5 can land on a highway.. I think that it will suffice.

Yeah my Learjet could land on a 3-land highway if necessary. It's up to you what you want me to do. Hell helicopters don't really need a port to land, they can touch down anywhere.

We can land there. It's a Learjet basically. It needs 1,042m to land.

Scratch it...I'll have the tiny airstrip in the SW corner. That's my final decision.

Scratch it...I'll have the tiny airstrip in the SW corner. That's my final decision.

Yes bingo.

The Learjet touched down gracefully and halted to a stop in what was a makeshift airstrip in the southwest corner of the island. "Do you think they paved this earlier?" The pilot joked to his copilot. "Alright, we're down. Where's the motorcade?"

Yes bingo.

The Learjet touched down gracefully and halted to a stop in what was a makeshift airstrip in the southwest corner of the island. "Do you think they paved this earlier?" The pilot joked to his copilot. "Alright, we're down. Where's the motorcade?"
OOC: LOL...I'll take the heat...

By the way, for detailed information of where you'll be staying:

www.sanibelsiesta.com (NOT a creation of mine but the Condominium's actual Web Site).

IC: The Roman delegation waited for the other delegates to make their way over to the Siesta Condominium. Because of the distances each of them travelled, they scheduled the actual conference the next day, to allow the delegates time to rest and enjoy what the Condo- and the Island- had to offer. The Romans went all out here to ensure that their stays would be as enjoyable as possible, hiring extra security and extra Condo staff just to meet their every needs. The temperature at Sanibel was 25C (77F), with not a cloud in the sky. In fact, it was going to be a good week for the Conference, with the next storm not expected to hit until Saturday, and even then the weather forecasters said it would be weak. The Romans hoped that with the pleasent weather cooler heads would prevail- something they'll need for the whole week.

The General was booked in a personal suite in the top floor of one of the condos with a spectacular view of the ocean. His aides and other soldiers were in six other suites in the same building. The three Sergeants started a quick security sweep of the suites and building before they allowed the General and rest of the delegation access to the area. Once allowed in, the General changed to a lighter summer uniform (khaki, cotton, short sleeves) and started to unpack his gear before he took a nap. His last thoughts before he went to sleep were that he might take a swim in the pool later.

The others in the delegation save the Sergeants gathered in one of the suites and started to discuss who would sit where. One sergeant stood guard, in summer uniform and pistolbelt, outside the Generals suite. Another was outside the meeting suite, while the third Sergeant were out checking out the area. That pool looked attractive, and so did the young brunette in the ice-cream store...

OOC: I'm going to let all of you party a bit here until everyone has arrived or until the weekend is over, whichever one comes later. I can't start the conference any sooner than that.

"Excellent." The diplomat had only one word to say when he entered the suite of his hotel room, accompanied by the other men in the delegation. "This will do just fine." He sat back in the main chair and breathed a sigh of relief. As he did so, he pulled out a list of documents, they were the terms of the peace accord that they were about to sign. The biggest and most paramount condition was that The Wick not attack Kaliningrad under any circumstances.

OOC: Ha, I laugh at your landing problems. MY private jet has hover boosters like a Harrier and can land vertically. :P


This takes place after the funeral of the Psychotikan emperor.

IC: If Leon Alexei Adler, the single most powerful and influential man in the eastern hemisphere, had been tired prior to the funeral, he was dead on his feet now. Immortality did not grant him limitless stamina, patience, or love for politics. In truth, at the moment he rather wished that they had flattened Wick and gotten it all over with. This was a thought that he would not be making public at the conference.

Sanibel island was a pathetic spit of island in the middle of a relatively unfamiliar hemisphere. While the Legions and some of the Thirteen had fought entire wars over in the Americas and such, Leon himself had only been there a handful of times, generally at diplomatic functions. He didn't trust the area overmuch, and though all present (Except Wick) were technically allies, he didn't trust everything to go as planned.

For this reason, he had no less than thirty of his best warriors on his mid-sized private plane. Armed to the teeth and taking no bullshit, they would cut down everything with a gun at the first sign of hostilities. As if this would not suffice, the entirety of the Thirteen, minus the fierce diehard-warrior Rahab, was present. Their reflexes were on a hair trigger, which worked well with their unparalleled skills with their swords. They had each cut down their fair share of well-armed infantrymen, special forces, and all manner of other super soldiers, even when their foes had every advantage. That tended to be a perk to being immortal.

Feeling fairly sure that they could handle themselves, as well as retaliate tenfold, Leon gulped down his half-finished glass of fine Chardonnay. A sure sign of immense stress and annoyance, as he never scorned fine wines by gulping them.


Through the window he could see the tiny island in the distance, ETA twenty minutes. The trip had been long; too long. Although his plane was almost as fast as most modern fighter jets, the flight still took nine hours. To keep him occupied were contigency plans, overviews of the discussions that would take place, speeches, people that would be attending, and how everyone felt about everyone else. The intelligence was excellent, as usual, but felt inadequate. Tensions were almost as high as pre-World War II. Mass conflict was inevitable.

People would die.

Empires would fall.

The world would change forever.

Leon Alexei Adler and his Torian Dominion would be there, through the flames, standing tall when the dust settled. Smiling to himself, Leon took a shot glass of strong Vodka from the tray of the attending steward and drank it down in one go. Putting it down hard on the table next to him, he seemed to grow bigger, more confident, more imposing.

Let them talk, let them come. We will meet them, and they will fall. If peace is their path, then so be it. The North Germanians and the Torians will be as one once again, none shall hinder that great design. Come, my brothers, my warriors: Today, the peace conference. Tomorrow, Asia!

All present on the plane chuckled at Leon's mock dictator speech. He himself grinned and sat down again, running his thumbs over the intricate carvings on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. It would be an interesting time indeed.

Ah, what a time to be alive (and immortal)!

OOC: Make what you will of that. I had no direction other than to kill time and procrastinate on my biology homework.

OOC: Ha, I laugh at your landing problems. MY private jet has hover boosters like a Harrier and can land vertically. :P


This takes place after the funeral of the Psychotikan emperor.

IC: If Leon Alexei Adler, the single most powerful and influential man in the eastern hemisphere, had been tired prior to the funeral, he was dead on his feet now. Immortality did not grant him limitless stamina, patience, or love for politics. In truth, at the moment he rather wished that they had flattened Wick and gotten it all over with. This was a thought that he would not be making public at the conference.

Sanibel island was a pathetic spit of island in the middle of a relatively unfamiliar hemisphere. While the Legions and some of the Thirteen had fought entire wars over in the Americas and such, Leon himself had only been there a handful of times, generally at diplomatic functions. He didn't trust the area overmuch, and though all present (Except Wick) were technically allies, he didn't trust everything to go as planned.

For this reason, he had no less than thirty of his best warriors on his mid-sized private plane. Armed to the teeth and taking no bullshit, they would cut down everything with a gun at the first sign of hostilities. As if this would not suffice, the entirety of the Thirteen, minus the fierce diehard-warrior Rahab, was present. Their reflexes were on a hair trigger, which worked well with their unparalleled skills with their swords. They had each cut down their fair share of well-armed infantrymen, special forces, and all manner of other super soldiers, even when their foes had every advantage. That tended to be a perk to being immortal.

Feeling fairly sure that they could handle themselves, as well as retaliate tenfold, Leon gulped down his half-finished glass of fine Chardonnay. A sure sign of immense stress and annoyance, as he never scorned fine wines by gulping them.


Through the window he could see the tiny island in the distance, ETA twenty minutes. The trip had been long; too long. Although his plane was almost as fast as most modern fighter jets, the flight still took nine hours. To keep him occupied were contigency plans, overviews of the discussions that would take place, speeches, people that would be attending, and how everyone felt about everyone else. The intelligence was excellent, as usual, but felt inadequate. Tensions were almost as high as pre-World War II. Mass conflict was inevitable.

People would die.

Empires would fall.

The world would change forever.

Leon Alexei Adler and his Torian Dominion would be there, through the flames, standing tall when the dust settled. Smiling to himself, Leon took a shot glass of strong Vodka from the tray of the attending steward and drank it down in one go. Putting it down hard on the table next to him, he seemed to grow bigger, more confident, more imposing.

Let them talk, let them come. We will meet them, and they will fall. If peace is their path, then so be it. The North Germanians and the Torians will be as one once again, none shall hinder that great design. Come, my brothers, my warriors: Today, the peace conference. Tomorrow, Asia!

All present on the plane chuckled at Leon's mock dictator speech. He himself grinned and sat down again, running his thumbs over the intricate carvings on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. It would be an interesting time indeed.

Ah, what a time to be alive (and immortal)!

OOC: Make what you will of that. I had no direction other than to kill time and procrastinate on my biology homework.

OOC: I like your writing and your writing style. Very dramatic. I think we'll definitely have charisma at this meeting. :D

EDIT- I'd also like to know why you think Sanibel is a "pathetic spit"...the side where everyone land is near a swamp and the whole island is very vegetated. I won't chastize you for it I'm just curious.

The NG-12 personal transport plane, standard for high-ranking officers, touched down on the airstrip on Sanibel Island. On board was Helmut Kahn - High Commander of the European Theater.

He was being escorted by fifteen RS Guards, the personal bodyguards of the Chancellor and the highest-ranking officials. Kahn was irritated at having to land and spend time on this heat-ridden island.

He sat wearing his military uniform with all of his decorations, and a Walther P99 on his side. He tapped the rim of his glass full of Gerolsteiner Vodka, in an irritable manner.

Kahn was not looking forward to the hail of condemnations and insults that were sure to come from Wickish representatives.

Kahn: "This is going to be a pain in my ass", he said while strapping on a bullet-proof vest under his uniform.

Kahn: "The Wickish only wish to hurl insults at us and insult our pride. Gentlemen, if someone even so much as pulls a decorative sword, keep those laser sights on their forehead."

The RS Guards nodded to the Großfeldmarshal, and checked their assault rifles, pistols, and SMGs to be absolutely sure there would be no mishaps.

Kahn: "The Torian Domain will no doubt support our case, and I wish to be seated next to Mr. Adler. Make sure this is arranged."

The transport plane opened its doors and five RS Guards stepped in front of Kahn before he exited, followed by the rest of the Guards.

Kahn: "If peace fails, we still have the upper-hand. The Wick apparently does not realize we've only mobilized 1/4 of our stationed soldiers in Lithuania.

This should be quite the interesting conference, agreed?"
_________________________________________________________

- N.G.

BUMP

OOC: Do we have enough to stage a conference or should we wait on others? I think all the major players are here at the very least.

Marcus Cole was still in the bar, he was alone as it was quite early in the morning hour. He was almost through the bottle of Bourbon, and he contemplated the coming conference as he puffed on a long cigar.

He laughed for a few moment as he found it funny that none of the other delegate were enjoying the mind numbing benefits of alcohol...apparently they found other more healthy ways to defeat the demons of soul that haunted men who have seen death. If that was true he merely pitted them.

Well it was 2AM the first meeting is in six hour he supposed he wouldn't be sleeping tonight either...



OOC:I say we start it up...

OOC: Okay then.

IC: The Baltic Peace Initiative began bright and early at 9AM, two days after all the delegates arrived (to counter jet lag). The Roman Delegate, Rufus Titus Martianus, was to chair the proceedings, and sat at the head of an ellipitical conference table in the condominium's large conference hall.

"Hello everyone. I hope all of you got enough sleep," said Rufus. There were a few groans, but he carried on.

"Anyway, enough with the pleasentries- we have important business to get to. To lead off, I'd like every delegate to take up to half an hour (OOC: one post) to explain their positions and state what they would like this Conference to achieve. Who would like to begin?"

OOC: EEK this has been neglected no?

IC:

Ludmilla Leonovna stood wearing a black-grey pin striped business suit, and cleared her voice before she spoke,

"I think it should come as no surprise to those gathered here that my nations wants only a lasting peace and the withdrawal of all aggressor units from our borders. My nation not once threatened any of those gathered here today, lets make things clear, all we did was issue a statement of public support for the Aequatio position, because of that we were invaded the blood of all those who have died to date is on your hands, admit that to the world."

Then her voice turned icy,

"The brave solders of the Torian Dominion took it upon themselves to bomb civilian targets, nothing more then a terrorist attack upon our populous, we would demand reparations for these losses, so far over 1.5 million civilians have been confirmed dead, all of us here are aware of the pure destructive power of those warheads." She took a breath and calmed herself before continuing...

"With those three conditions met we shall be at peace."

The Layartebian delegate scribbled a few writings onto a pad. Interesting. Our sources put the dead at just over 800,000. He stood and nodded his head, "I am the representative of Layarteb. We come to this conference with no demands. We wish not to claim any grievance from The Wick nor return any. Targets struck by our warships and missiles were entirely military and therefore, not of a nature to demand reparations. However, we do wish to see some sort of agreement. We are all aware that non-aggression pacts are only as good as the one's who sign it and too often they are broken. In addition, we know full well the impossibility and lack of necessity for a DMZ. What we wish to see is a broadening of diplomatic relations, rather than demands and bickering." He sat down and adjusted his tie. Well I hope that came out alright.

Lieutenant General Vaughn rose and straightened his khaki summer uniform. It glittered from the various ribbons and medals on his chest and three gold stars on the shoulders, collected over more then 30 years of military service to his nation. Then he started to speak, watching every representative while he spoke. The room was dead quiet, save the occational pencil writing something down.

"I am Lieutenant General Peter Vaughn. Commander of IV Cottish Corps. We of Cotland do not wish anything else from the Wick then a promise of peace and an end to the hostilities. We do also, as our Layartebian friends, wish for opening for diplomatic relations between our nations.

As you probably know, Cottish forces have only engaged military targets, and therefor any economical compensation will be out of the question from the Cottish point of view.

We do not really have any other demands other then peace and diplomatic relations to be established."

The Cottish General was about to sit down when he clearly remembered something.

"Oh yes. I almost forgot. I also wish to extend the heartfelt condolences to the Wickian people after the devestating casualties from the Emperor Thomas I of Cotland."

The General sat down and checked his little list to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything. He hadn't. 'God I hate conferences.'

"Thank you Lieutenant General. Who would like to go next?", said Rufus after a pause set in after Lt. Gen. Vaughan spoke.