NationStates Jolt Archive

Winter still clutched the capitol city Anduras (http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b184/Upum/Modern%20Tech%20Thrashia/Concept__Irontown_by_I_NetGraFX.jpg) like a child did his mother; strong enough to be felt but no more powerful than a cool breeze. The last frost had come a week before and almost as soon as it disappeared flowers began to bloom. Construction that had before been halted during winter on some of the massive sky scrapers were resumed and meteorologists across the island continent predicted warm sunny weather for the next month or so before the rains came.

Too optimistic in the mind of Jacob Heydrich (http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b184/Upum/Modern%20Tech%20Thrashia/Preventer_Class_A_by_jaubrey.jpg). Lucky for him his long blond hair kept his head warm from the early day chill. He stood at the end of a red carpet laid out upon the tarmac of the landing strip of one of three Thrashian international airports. A line of soldiers, in dress uniform and armed with ceremonial rifles, stood to either side of the carpet. A small band stood to one side. Two flags, one bearing the bronze Thrashian Falcon and the other the upside-down roman numeral that was the Lyran national symbol, where held high next to them.

“Foreign Minister, you look well this morning,” came an oily voice behind Heydrich.

He turned to see Erik Manstein walking up to him, his meticulous night-black uniform a stark contrast from his own. The shining lightning bolt and runic ‘S’ sitting beside each other on his lapel shone brightly as the sunlight hit it.

“Colonel Manstein,” nodded Heydrich. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Well I am a sort of representative for the Field Marshal. He’s out reviewing maneuvers,” replied the smooth talking Waffen SV officer. He stood next to Heydrich and folded his arms over his chest.

They waited quietly for a few more minutes before a jet came roaring down the tarmac, its landing gear screeching as it was unwillingly brought to a stop by the pilots. It taxied in from the strip and came quite neatly up to the red greeting carpet.

“Our guests have arrived,” smiled Manstein. The military band struck up a boisterous march, the drum section and trumpets melding into a chest-puffing tune. As the ramp was lowered from the plane each of the ceremonial soldiers snapped to attention. Heydrich admitted that he enjoyed the sound. Manstein and he both snapped to attention as well as the Lyran dignitary stepped out.

bump

Bump for Lyras...

Field Marshal Wallington exited first, his wide-brimmed hat tucked firmly under his black-uniformed left arm, and waved, looking a tad awkward as he did so. He was the senior officer of the flight, present by virtue of his command of the Lyran Protectorate Research and Development Commission that was being duly honoured by the Thrashians, but he was most decidedly NOT a diplomat. Nor was he really a combatant, but was one of very few Lyran officers that had risen to prominence by virtue of his aptitude for science. Breathtakingly intelligent, he was nonetheless something of an eccentric, and was thus normally kept as far away from diplomatic gatherings as possible.

This time, that option wasn't available. Warmarshal Krell had, however, left him in the capable hands of General Wallins (the joke about Wallins and Wallington having done the rounds several years ago, and having now expired..), the head of the Lyran Diplomatic Corps. It was understood by all, save possibly by the good Field Marshal, that it would be General Wallins actually negotiating, while Wallington would do the handshakes and be in the spotlight.

It wasn't a slur at Wallington. Quite to the contrary. It was his efforts that were enabling this diplomacy to go ahead, and he was to be well rewarded for it.

But this was Wallins' skill, not his. Wallins stepped out next, just as the Field Marshal began to walk down the steps that had rolled up to the door of the Lyran diplomatic flight. Wallins had been Lyras' spokesperson for years, and was a very shrewd, if affable, negotiator. He had never, not once in eleven years, threatened the use of force in negotiation, but he'd never had to. He spoke for Lyras. All that dealt with him could not escape that fact. Cultured, suave and relaxed he may have been, with a pleasant, easy smile and softly spoken, he may have been the consumate diplomat.

But he wore general's stars. Four of them, in fact. That, and his uniform was black as pitch, and sported the distinctive Lyran lambda emblem. The Protectorate was a military state, and no amount of nice words, chuckles and Shakesperian reference would obscure the military uniform that Lyras' senior diplomat wore.

This was not a mission of war, or peacemaking, or tension diffusion by veiled threat of Lyran intervention. This was a genuinely friendly overture to a well-regarded foreign power, and after the dramatic stand-off over Strator, and before the coming peacemaking efforts to resolve the Greal-TPF-Mokastana blowup, Wallins was looking forward to a change of pace.

He looked out over the tarmac, and spotted the red carpet, band and ceremonial guard. Lyrans rarely had time for it, but Wallins had seen an awful lot of parades in his or others' honour, and he had to admit that the Thrashian drill was certainly exceptional.

He may have to discuss it with the military representative over a cognac, and see what the Thrashian logic behind it was.

He took another step out from the shelter of the aircraft, and then the morning chill caught him. He was a Lyran, and would not react... but he certainly felt it.

Bloody hell. He was definitely glad that he wasn't the poor sod standing out there waiting for the plane to arrive...

Reply coming soon.