NationStates Jolt Archive

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Dickens wrote that,

‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times’-

Though Henry had always hated Dickens, but his words even if he was paid for each letter of them did seem to fit his current outlook on the world surrounding his small mountain buffered industrial nation. He had sent out a casual invitation to a pair of large, yet specifically different nations in order to gain from their experience on the world stage. He couldn’t say that he was not quite curious about the habits of the men themselves, but he was also quite curious about how they had survives such world turmoil seemingly unobstructed.

The Reigning Monarch of Amastol, Sovereign of the Amastolian People, Defender of the Realm, Voice of the Nation, Equalizer of Rights, Slayer of Corruption Henry Karl Vasa the Third stood waiting in his office overlooking the Arquece Mountain range. Had seen his family line over the span of a thousand years degenerate from the proud rulers of the people reduced to a pet project to antiquity and enforced government position over the span of three generations. The last century had not been kind to the monarchy. The nation though doing well internally, was growing quickly through both foreign sales of military goods, and incoming tourism to hike its many thousands of pristine trails. This however did not draw in much in the way of foreign relations beyond the occasional request for a shipping inventory.

The office itself was little more than a mountain suite, its internal minimalist but warm and comfortable. Built entirely from local materials, river stone, mountain granite, and mahogany heartwood carved into simple yet vivid modern forms. Large walls of glass filled northern side of the office offering breath-taking views of the surrounding mountains that stretched fro some three hundred miles in all directions. A stone large fireplace illuminated the office as the early spring thunderstorms began to roll in. as the sky darkened Henry watched as the mist surrounding the mountains seemed to reach up and touch the descending clouds, the whole range of mountains no encircled in a thick curtain of Smokey fog.

Henry's meditation and taking in the beautiful dance of the clouds outside of his office was interrupted by a knock on his large office door, the strong hardwood used in the door made the mild knock sound like the first claps of thunder echoing across his office. Henry turned and dusted any dander from his jacket and collar of his casual well-tailored gray three-piece suit before he responded to his assistant.

“Yes?” he answered curiously, his tone mild and sweet to the assistant.

The door opened with the smooth precision of fine craftsmanship as the aide entered the room and stopped at the doors full arc, knowing that tradition did not allow him to enter any further without his lords permission. It was permission that was not about to come either and he knew it. In his ten years with Henry, Jeffery he had never been allowed in the office unescorted, or when Henry was present unable to enter the room at all unless ordered to do so.

“Have you been struck dumb Jeffery? Out with it.” His tone had lost its sweetness but it was no less mild, being the proper mix of authority and acceptance. A rare gift for those who had no been trained in such an art. Jeffery lost his hesitation and fell back into his groove.

“No sire, my apologies sire.” Pulling out a small piece of paper he cleared his throat before reading the transcript written on it. “Air traffic control has confirmed the arrival of your guests, and their transfer to the Helicopters, with the fog however they are expected to be a few minutes late due to safety concerns, though turbulence is fairly low, and the pilots are taking care to avoid the majority of prominent thermals in the valley.”

Henry nodded at the message and turned back to the window looking out at the constant dance of gray clouds that seemed to jump from mountaintop to mountaintop effortlessly.

“Jeffery, please do send in Miss Williams and have her bring the coffee set and six cups.” His sweetness was back but the authoritative tone had not left, this man was a ruler, and though his position within the country had faltered over the years he was no less the ruler of the people. It did not mean he was not questioned occasionally, and with the current state of world affairs, it was becoming more commonplace.

“Six cups sire? You intend to read our relations outcome in the grains?” Jeffery released his right hand from the doorknob, an act that might have sent him to an early grave in past times. Henry ignored it, it was not the first such time, and he no longer had the authority to order this servants suicide. A privilege lost almost two grandfathers ago. Sad day, that was for the Monarchy he internally sighed.

“Do not ask such silly questions Jeffery, my requests are given for a reason, and you are bound to follow them. Now hurry, the winds are with our guests and I don’t believe you will have enough time for another such blunder.”

Jeffery snapped to attention his right hand on the doorknob as if a magnet had pulled it back to it, his training coming back to him.

“Right away sire, right away” And with that Jeffery closed the door slowly the door coming to a close with a cacophony of clicks as the door mechanism secured itself. Henry was once again left in peace to watch the ballet of clouds outside of his office. He heard the door open a second time and there kneeling in his doorway was Miss Williams her skirt arranged neatly around her knees as she waited with a forgotten elegance for his approval to enter. Behind him a pair of white Bell Augusta helicorpers painted white separated his ballet of clouds. A red stripe ran down the side of the helicopters, the Vasa family herald on the side of each. The pair passed over the office silently as Henry helped Miss Williams up from her polite request to enter and took the heavier tray of cups from the woman, as she carried the Turkish coffee pot and burner to a small granite table in the sitting area, a set of three comfortable leather seats near the fire.

She completed her work silently as always and Henry watched her leave with a strong stirring of his heart, even though they were separated by a decade of age the mid forties king of the nation was still drawn to the woman he could never have. It was for the best really, he often wondered if it would even be worth it to continue on his line, the pressures, and red tape had taken a lot of the fun out of ruling, and now he was merely a public figure living off the interest of his families vast land ownership. He had a seat in one of the seats near the fire and went back to watching the clouds dance around the former intrusion of the helicopters blades.

Outside he knew they had arrived, knew of the short walk across a windswept concrete walkway through the high altitude garden of robust shrubs and wild flowers through the library and its cathedral like arches and to his office door was not a long one, filled mostly with carved wooden statues and figurines, antiques from the industrialization of the nation and many stone fireplaces to keep the place warm on cold winter nights. When he heard a knock at his door for a third time he knew his guests had arrived. He stood up and prepared himself to meet some of the world’s most powerful men.

A helicopter

The first man stared out of the window, his face an enigma. There was very little to separate him from the masses of most nations - but his white skin (or light skin, it could rather easily be interpreted both ways) was a rarity in the Grand Democratic Duchy. It had never been the sort of thing that had bothered him, from what Jyorin Kiamelar could see, and that was a good thing. Of course, the man who stared out of the window was one of the few men in the world who the Foreign Minister of the Grand Democratic Duchy of Yafor 2 had difficulty reading. Reading people's expressions and their hidden meanings was an important part of Jyorin Kiamelar's job, and one at which he excellent. When someone, such as that man, resisted this, he could not help but to feel slightly angry.

The Foreign Minister was not the sort of man who wasted time on anger, though. Anger was an emotion for those who had little control over their bodies, who strove to act like they were somehow in control of everyone else. Jyorin Kiamelar had the first, did not try the second, and somehow, managed to succeed at both the first and the second. He knew, just as well as any other man, that this was no coincidence. Jyorin's tight control over his own body and his own emotions made every little decision of his own, every move of a muscle, every little inflection of his voice have a significance. Through Jyorin's study of humans and how they reacted, he had found manipulation easy. It was something that came naturally to him - something he did almost without thinking.

Nonetheless, the word "manipulation" can have several meanings in several different contexts, and Jyorin knew that what he did could not rightly be called "manipulation". What he did was standard for many professional diplomats - they could not all be called "manipulators"? Or could they? Being the Foreign Minister (and one who was good at his job), Jyorin had met quite a few diplomats who could rightly be called "manipulators". He hoped, and thought the same to himself whenever the subject arose and he pondered it, that he was not one of them, that what he did was not "manipulation". Not that it really mattered. It was more that the word "manipulation" had a certain connotation, one that Jyorin did not like being applied to himself. It was that. Only that.

"Lush." Elan Morin's voice bore a hint of coldness. Simply a hint, nothing more. He was the first man, the one who had been looking out of the window, the one who had a face that could only be described as an "enigma". That would have been an excellent description of him, too. No one was entirely sure who he was, what he was, why he was here, and what he even wanted with the Yaforite government. Jyorin had talked to him several times and Elan Morin was probably the least likely person to have ever joined a government. He was like no other Yaforite Jyorin had ever met - he held no patriotism (few did, but few was still more than none), no love of humanity (few did), and no wish to improve the world (most did). If anything, he was the polar opposite of just about every other member in the government.

Nonetheless, his role in the government was not only unique, but it was also entirely separate from any other part of the government. When Eliana Dagora had disbanded the SRACH, they had split the organization into two groups, each with different functions. IATOR became a spying agency, one whose job was to keep tabs on other nations, to look at intelligence from other nations, to decipher what those others from other nations were intending. PERNAS had become a protection agency, a secret service of sorts, a higher-up internal police department. Both were under the Ministry of Clandestine Operations. That was the role of Elan Morin in the Grand Democratic Duchy. That was his position, unassailable, irreplaceable. Elan Morin was spymaster.

"What's that even mean, Elan?" Minister of Protection, Arman Adro, had always had a rather happy and excited method of talking. As he had grown older, he had also developed a keen interest in debating and verbally fighting, and a reputation for being rather contentious. "I am merely describing the scenery, Minister." Theoretically Elan Morin had a lower rank. In truth, he had far more influence than the Minister of Protection did. On this trip, at least. Elan Morin glanced back at Arman, his face locked in that same smile that it was always locked in. He seemed to be perpetually sneering, in a condescending manner that irritated a lot of people, Arman Adro included. Of course, lots of things irritated Arman Adro.

"Boys, we're about to land, so shut up, and let's act like we are who we are, okay?" Elected Duchess Eliana Dagora looked tense - almost pale. She was in deep, deep, muck, politically. She needed another diplomatic success, to show Wagdog wasn't just a fluke. "Let's go, and act like we are who we are." Jyorin liked her choice of language. It could mean just about anything.

[OOC: The ending is a little bad, but it's the best I could do.]

Fedor I sat in one of the crown's intercontinental aircraft, looking outside his small window towards the sprawling Amastoli capital of Marsa. He quietly contemplated the Arquece mountains, taking in their beauty. Although there were mountains south of Fedala, you could not really see them from the city as there were over four hundred kilometers worth of distance. All you could really see in Fedala was a city housing over one hundred million plebes, promenaders and merchant men. There was no doubt Fedala was a burgeoing city, although it could not compete with Macabea in regards to the income in trade, given that the latter was the Díenstadi port - at some point, almost everything in the region had spent its time in Macabea's ports. She had suffered during the War of Golden Succession, but after the war it did not take much to bring her back on track. Regardless, there were few cities in the Second Empire which could boast of such natural beauty. Such things appealed to Fedor, who was tired of urbanization. That's all he had seen his entire life - urbanization and war. The end of the Great Civil War had brought the formation of the Second Empire, which had catalyzed the resurrection of the mainland's industrialization and urbanization, and then the Empire had again dissolved into a state of war. It was a shame that such a powerful and prosperous state could not stay in one piece for long - it was a trend that Fedor I wanted to reverse.

One of the stewards, a beautiful young woman, came up to Fedor and left a glass on his table in front of him. Most would have thought that a person of her category would bow before him, but he and the workers that were always near him that grown into a special relationship, where they were treated like equals behind closed curtains. He looked up and smiled and said, 'Thank you, Naserí. This country is quite lovely, don't you think?'

He looked out the window for a second and smiled back, replying, 'Yes your imperial majesty.' She then backed away and let him be, once again.

He was twirling what he would say to the Amastoli king upon arrival. Amastol had just joined the Fedala Accord, making it an allied state, and Fedor I was prepared to treat his new allies with the utmost respect. But, he would have to hide his more mischievous plans - those natural to an empire the size of the Golden Throne. This were mostly related to 'economic exploitation', although exploitation was perhaps the incorrect word to use. The investment of capital in Amastol would quite large, although the Amastoli economy was not small per sé, and there would be vibrant competition from the local Juumanistrans - another Fedala Accord member state. In these days, post-war, all the Empire thought about was expandings it economy. Fedor had learned the tough way that continued territorial expansion perhaps was not the wisest decision. Due to the war in Theohuanacu the demobilization of the Fuermak would take longer than expected, and there were many lives being lost - it was turning into a money pit. It was not coincidence that he supported the obliteration of the locals, although this was physically and politically implausible. Nevertheless, Imperial troops were not playing nice. Ironically, some of the most inhumane were Amastoli hunters organized into the Díenstadi Régulies.

Naserí came back and asked, 'Do you want something to eat prior to landing, Your Imperial Majesty?'

Fedor looked at her, his train of thought being interrupted, and answered, 'No thank you. I suspect there is a short time left.'

The young girl nodded her head and replied, 'Yes Your Majesty, less than half an hour until landing. The captain is simply asking for permission to land.'

Fedor smiled. The flight had been long. Despite the fact that he was in a colossal jet, capable of flying from one end of Díenstad to the other, it had to make four to five stops in order to make it to Amastol. The distances between nations on this planet was incredible. Technically, the aircraft could be refueled in the air, but nobody wanted to risk a mishap with Fedor. The flight had taken over thirty hours, not including the hours spent on the ground. Each time the aircraft landed, the patron nation would have to deploy security around the airfield, frequently blocking flights. It was a pain, but it had to be done. Going by ship was considered more attractive, although a Macabee aircraft company was currently working on two major programs - an atmospheric passenger liner and a nuclear powered airliner. Expensive, but worthy. It would gain huge dividends, most suspected. In any case, Fedor looked back at Naserí and said, 'Thank you. It's been a long flight.'

The landing went well, with the captain lowering the aircraft little by little. Fedor was quite annoyed when fast decensions caused his ears to pop. He had gotten used to chewing gum while the plane was landing, although this time he found it wasn't necessary. Good, he thought. He rather not have to masticate flavorless gum for thirty minutes. He looked at the city, as the plane landed. It was quaint, but beautiful. It's architecture was similar to that of the Empire, although both nations had similar historic roots. The skyline was dominated by temples built hundreds of years prior to their current occupants, with beautiful rose windows, flying butresses and spiralling towers. The city's palace was illuminated with sparkling grace, and its late baroque architecture was particularly eye-catching. Fedor could see many parks, and the dashing architecture used for the flats near the center was amazing - it was similar to the older cities of the Empire. This was another difference to Fedala, which had been founded by Jonach I - it was a completely modern city. Fedor was a man of the arts, and so he preferred cities which resembled Marsa. He had once toyed with the idea of returning the capital to Macabea, but he could not dishonor his grandfather - the man who had given him the throne - with such a decision. In any case, his attention moved back to preparing to disembark, as the aircraft's landing gear hit the pavement with a thud. From afar he could hear, 'Your majesty, we have landed!'

He smiled, but did not respond. Instead he prepared his briefcase and waited for the aircraft to finish landing, and then taxi to somewhere where Fedor I could disembark. It did not take long, and before one could count he was on his way to ground. Waiting for him were some agents which had been shipped by aircraft days before, preparing for his arrival. A black sedan was parked in a convoy of similar vehicles, and a man in dark shades opened the rear door for him and helped him in. Fedor did not pay attention, and soon enough the convoy was on its way to the ultimate destination - the conference grounds. Fedor admired the city's architecture for some time more and then fell asleep; he had not gotten much during the flight, unfortunately. He was awoken as the automobile came to a halt, and the door opened. He shook his head until he was fully awake and then got out of the car. Quickly, he and his entourage made it into the building and to the conference room. As the door opened he could see King Henry Karl Vasa and he smiled.

Entering, he stretched out his right arm and grasped the Amastoli's king forearm, in the usual Macabee 'handshake', while saying, 'Greetings brother.'

All the while, his escorts remained outside ...

(OOC: I hope to get this rolling again after some distractions.)

Great streams of mist poured off the sides of the illuminated concrete slab that acted as the mountain retreats helipad. The red and white of the Armed Royal Air Force roundel stood in stark contrast to the mist gray paint that covered the helicopters skin. The mists the covered the landing platform parted as the rotors forced the air and mist outwards at great speed revealing the helicopter dramatically. As the helicopter finally came to a smooth rest upon the concrete platform a pair of men carefully hunched over hurried forward from a covered stairwell to the cabin side door of then gray beast. The first man was obviously a military officer, dressed in a gray-blue uniform. His uniform was impeccably creased and clean, and wearing such a similar color to the mists around the helicopter he would have easily disappeared if the shear forces of wind form the helicopters rotors weren’t keeping the mists at bay. The second man wore a dark blue pinstriped suit and blue and gold tie, he unlike the military officer stood out in great contrast the hazy blue gray mists that surrounded the retreat at this altitude. His short hair was meticulously well groomed considering the swirling winds from the rotors and his green eyes sparkled with an obvious intelligence. No matter what witty remark he may have wanted to share with the Yaforites, it would have been instantly consumed by the cacophony of the helicopters motors and high-speed winds that whipped around the landing platform. As such he simply politely motioned for them to follow and keep their heads down and walked away from them towards the covered stairwell, the officer remained to assist them with their luggage and or exit from the vehicle.

Once in the relative seclusion of the covered stairwell he introduced himself formally to the assembled diplomats and colleagues. He seemed a jittery nervous kind of man, though obviously bright eyed and amiable. So it came as no surprise when he spoke his tone was more than a tad energetic, flowing too quickly from one topic to another. A flaw for part time diplomat of course, but one easily forgiven considering the usually vague and long winded topics discussed.

“On behalf of the Prime Minister, the Monarchy, and the Mountain I would like to welcome you to the Democratic States of Amastol, My name is Andrew Serville, and I will be acting as your assistant and political liaison during your stay in the plantation. Currently the temperature is a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius, and we are at an altitude of seventeen hundred meters above sea level currently. We are also expecting a slight chance of rain, so I may suggest you avoid the non-covered balconies for this evening.

I apologize for the many changes of transport, but the drive to this location from Marsa is neither as quick or as pleasant as a helicopter, and it was felt with the coming weather it would be best to remove you from the dangers of the roads, as much as we have developed our roadways in the past nature does occasionally intervene in this sort of terrain and does havoc with road conditions.”

His rapid dialogue subsided with his apology as took a well timed half turn on the stairwell so as to still address them but prepared to continue down the stairwell with little more than a continuation of his momentum..

“ Now if you’ll follow me we will enter the actual plantation. I must request though that if you are carrying a weapon, you mist register it with the officer at the main gate. We will not confiscate it, but we do pride ourselves on providing the proper defense for the king as may be needed”

Andrew then nodded for them to follow him and walked down the covered stairwell to a long covered walkway protected by guardrails that crossed a short chasm to what appeared to be a well-decorated and illuminated concrete porch with a set of large French doors decorated in what appeared to be wines and leaves artistically reproduced in cast iron as an artistic highlight. As they neared the doors, it was obvious though that these were not merely attractive, but also suitably thick, in fact both looked remarkably heavy with a large pain of what appeared to be bulletproof glass in the center. A pair of guards, young, fit and severe in attitude raised their bull pup assault rifles as the group neared the end of the walkway in a mock salute. Reaching the porch, Andrew approached the guard on the right and spoke to him briefly and addressed him in an unfamiliar language, the guard quickly snapped the rifle to a rest state at his shoulder, the guard across from him duplicating his moves in perfect timing. The guard merely saluted in recognition and took a set back his heel depressing a switch built smoothly into the porches concrete surface. Once done, Andrew turned around as the two French doors behind him opened silently with the assistance of an electric motor and approached the Yaforites at the end of the porch.

“I should mention this is not the proper exit in case of an emergency, the door has a tendency to crush people who try to force it open. Now, Do you have any questions?”

--=--

It was a good thing that Fedor had fallen asleep in his limo on the way to the Plantation, simply put the drive from Marsa to the mountain plantation was neither quick, nor for the feint of heart. If there was one blessing to his travels, it was that the rain had held out long enough to ensure a safe journey up the mountainside. Arriving at the complex the limousine would come to a stop at the front door of the plantation its door opened by a single military attendant. His close creased to a presentation edge, his white gloved hands quickly and efficiently opened the door of the limousine holding it open while at a state of attention. As the door opened, the two guards flanking the front door also came to attention their weapons held in mirror states of readiness and presentation as their eyes scanned the driveway for any possible threats. Beyond the military entourage outside the front door, there was little fanfare, the feint sound of a distant helicopter winding down on a landing platform somewhere out of sight was the only sound that broke the nearly perfect silence of the wind whipped mountaintop.

Just as the Yaforite delegation had encountered by entering through the back door to the plantation, the front door as well was far to heavy to be opened manually and required a mechanical assist. The door despite its size slip open quickly and silently allowing passageway for the Emperor and his aides, just inside the doorway Fedor would be met by Jeffery who recognizing the Emperors urgency quickly lead him and his aides to the lobby of the conference room, and directed his aides to stay here while he took Fedor to the king. Before he would let Fedor in however he opened the door to the conference room, to find the king grooming himself in the mirror, getting his attention with a course grunt in the guise of clearing his throat. Once the king had realized what was going on he turned suddenly and approached the couches sitting near the center of the room. Jeffery then introduced Fedor formally, Jeffery’s right hand firmly on the door knob as he recalled the emperors formal titles and holding before setting back in to he hallway and opening up the door handle for Fedor to use in a proper introduction… Jeffery was quite agape when Fedor ignored that and made his way quickly to physically touch the king, Jeffery moved to stop him but the king waved him off, leaving Jeffery feeling more than bit disgruntled.

To touch the king was a privilege only given to the spouse or children of the king, secondly to approach without showing peaceful intentions by keeping ones hand on the doorknob before being let in by personal order of the king himself he had completely thrown proper Amastoli customs out the window. Jeffery waited to see if the king would need him further and was surprised to see the king wave him off silently without so much as a word. This was an insult and Jeffery could not help but think of the savages we were now so closely allied with…

Henry however was not so prude about the whole encounter being more diplomat than king, he embraced Fedor in kind, and returned the shake as good as he had received it before releasing the grip and motioning to the set of couches located in the center of the room around a small table covered with a small coffee pot.

“I hope you don’t mind coffee…” he said in a polite and gentle tone. “Its all locally grown of course the elevation does wonders for the flavor. Though I must warn you we drink it quite strong here.”

The King set the silver coffee pot on a small stove like hot plate at the center of the table and set three small almost shot-glass sized glasses at the ready. “I do apologize for bringing all this way, but diplomatic introductions can be quite difficult over distance and if we are to trust each other and grow together I feel its best that we have more than just a name on parchment shared between us.”

Taking a moment to wiped his hands clean he placed the white hand towel back on the table and leaned back into the couch he was sitting on opposite of Fedor. “ I must confess we have another delegate joining us, the Duchess of Yafor, Dagora I believe her name is. I must ask first though, is this your first time in Antarchon?”

Waiting for Fedors response the king indulged in his minor obsession and carefully angled the coffee pot at a nearly perfect forty-five degree angle to himself to allow him to follow the coffees brewing more closely. Brewing coffee was a ritual in Amastol, much like the tea ceremonies of Japan, but much more social and inviting, good coffee was something that was best shared with friends and relatives.