NationStates Jolt Archive


Another day at the office, [ATTN: DL, Allied Nations]

Damirez
30-07-2008, 23:33
Nova.
Principality of Damirez.
Island of Delos.

It was a bit hard for Fatima to adjust herself at Delos. Until then used to serve on a ship, to feel the waves as one war machine or another traversed the seas was the way she lived, despite the numerous attempts made by her husband to convince her to get a job closer to home. Surprisingly he got what he wished and she was now stuck with handling the largest fleet ever commanded by a Damiran, yet without having the opportunity to be aboard one of the ships of war more than a few days at a time. Delos was in this sense like a prison to her. She knew what she was getting in the moment she accepted Librescu’s proposal, but this was just too much. If before she was commanding a ship sailing on the blue waters now she felt like she was sailing a desk on a sea of paperwork, and she was sinking!

The first weeks after her assignment she barely even managed to see or talk to her family or former subordinates. There was a lot of work to be done and the numerous warships that composed the fleet of the League organized and the organization up and running even if a lot of the preliminary work had been already done by the Damiran government, but little kinks and troubles with the mechanism required a lot of her attention. It was only recently that she enjoyed a bit of a break, being able to spend some more time with her family and spending less time at the office, despite her position. That’s why she almost expected for her relaxed life to end soon, because in her line of work, as much as she hated it, quiet times were rare times, the insanity of this world, something beyond her comprehension.

But as it was she was just enjoying another day at the office and a cup of coffee made by her secretary. It took some training but the younger finally learned how to brew the coffee she liked. Checking a few files, waiting at a couple of phones, drinking coffee, this was the life. And with clockwork timing the phone rang.

”Yes sir, no it’s no trouble at all, I’ve been expecting this call,” a sip of coffee as the man at the other end of the line continued talking, ”Are you sure sir? That’s a pretty big sum to be spent like that, a whole trillion?” she was curious about the facial reactions that the one at the end of the line had, she knew she could have used a virtual or video call, but the simple phone, as outdated as it was made for faster conversations. ”Yes, I’ll make sure all the preparations will be made, I just don’t know where we can stash that many Juumani missiles, and they’re not exactly standard equipment for the League,” a brief silence at the other end of the line before a reply, ”Yes sir, I’ll inform the appropriate parties about this then,” a polite thanks from the other end and another question, ”No sir, there’s no problem with that, the Budgetary Council gave its approval for the acquisition, we’ll be contacting the Lamonians in regards to their arsenal ships shortly , I think they’ll be happy about selling so many ships and it makes the politicians happy,” she spoke her mind on the affair, the ships were good, there wasn’t a problem with that, but it was clear that more than just the sailors were going to be happy about this. ”Yes sir,” and the conversation ended, short by her standards, but then again this talk was a daily occurrence and sometimes a conversation like this could stretch long into the night.

With this out of her way Fatima returned to her mail and the various documents spread on her office, but not before composing a short memo towards several commanders of League bases spread across various members. They would have the pleasure of informing the governments of their hosts about some incoming cargo that they had to house. ”Well, this should be about it,” she told herself, content about a day’s good work, before leaving the office for the harbor. She got to ride on the DLN ‘Independent’ Longsword class arsenal ship as it set sails towards Eastern Nova to join its sister ships the ‘Supremacy’ and ‘Equilibrium’ and their assorted escorts. The ships were truly engineering marvels, packed with missiles of many kinds, large monsters of steels and death and they were all produced right here at Delos as part of a twelve ship batch to accompany the League fleets. The numbers were mismatched, with the number of fleets of Isselmerian design being greater, but for economical reasons it was decided that only this twelve were to see this waves at this point. However, more were expected to come if the design proved its worth and the shipyards were open to other League members that used this ship. But thoughts about economics and future plans weren’t on Fatima’s mind as she headed towards the ‘Independent’, she was just happy about getting a chance to get her feet off the ground and above the waves. Truly the life style of the land lubers didn’t fit her at all!

---

Principality of Damirez.
City of Peteh.

”Sure, we’ll just go out for a barbeque before I leave honey,” a young man, one amongst the millions living in Peteh told his girlfriend as he was seemingly trying to placate the woman, proof of crying obvious on her face. ”Look I promise! I’m not going to miss our own wedding!” nothing seemed to work, the pout on her face the worst weapon that a man, no matter how prepared, had to face.

”But you promised! No more extended trips in work interest, no more military stages, just you and me and nothing in between,” she was a bit hysterical, but he could understand her. It was only yesterday that he finally proposed and even more announced her family about the wedding just so he could start packing and prepare to leave for affairs related to his secondary ‘job’ if he could name it so.

”Look honey,” he gently grabbed her shoulders trying to get her still so he could explain this to her, ”I signed that document and I’m proud to serve, you know how much they helped me!” the truth was that she did know, without the military it was entirely likely that they’d never meet. He was an orphan and the army provided everything for him the moment he left the orphanage and signed that paper. Education, discipline and even money to start standing on his own feet, he was just one of the many reservists in the same position, all grateful to the opportunity that the army offered them, a chance to do something in life. Not all of them were orphans and not all of them left the military afterwards, but the harsh training and comradeship were things they weren’t going to forget for all life. And for them, serving was less of a duty and more of a honor. Whenever the call was made they got ready to defend Damirez.

”I understand that! You know I do! It’s just that…” she was worried about him, despite the fuss, despite the agitation and the princess like behavior it was all related to her being concerned about him, ”Just take care out there.”

”Don’t worry, it’s just some basic training to keep us in shape,” and he knew that this was the most likely truth, ”A couple of the guys got called too,” he knew that after some brief conversations with them, ”And it’s not like I don’t get to spend some time with you before leaving!” he tried to placate her.

”Allright,” she sounded less than convinced but a smile bloomed on her face, ”But you’re going to pay for this soldier!”

---

Principality of Damirez.
Northern Halako.

”We’ve come for your blessings Old One,” one of three men, all dressed in Damiran military garb spoke to an elderly Halakian shaman. Respect was obvious in their gesture and despite having numerous high tech gizmos on them it was clear that they haven’t abandoned their culture. ”We’re leaving far away and we’d like for the Blessing of Travel and that of the Hunt,” they told him politely, keeping their heads bowed at all times.

”Wait here young warriors,” the shaman spoke as he prepared himself for the ancient rites, ”I will give you my blessings shortly,” such a sight was a common occurrence since the integration of Northern Halako in the Principality as an autonomous province, the Halakians managing to adjust to the novelty of modern technology and maintain in the same time their ancient traditions. Perhaps distance had a role in this, but despite the overwhelming Damiran influence and the fact that more than half of the Halakians saw at one moment or another, the megalithic Damiran cities they still held to the old faiths.

The three soldiers visiting the old shaman were actually members of an elite unit of the Damiran army, the renowned Halakian Brigade. They had proved themselves in conflict against the Manthian troops where despite being outnumbered and outgunned they inflicted heavy losses on the enemy. Nowadays they were just considered as crack troops, their ability to survive and inflict damage behind enemy lines almost legendary. As irony had it despite their origins being traced to the insurgence against New Manth they were often called upon to serve in the same theatres as Manthian units, but although some concerns existed, except for a very fiery rivalry with the Manthian elite units there was no bad blood from the Halakians.

”We’ll be going now,” with the rites completed the three soldiers paid their respects to the old man once more and took off. They had a long road ahead of them, one they had done before, numerous times for various military exercises with other units of the Damiran military.

---

Principality of Damirez.
Presidential Office.

For the past few years things had been peaceful for Librescu. Beyond giving a hand in establishing the Fedala Accord and a few meeting there and here there wasn’t really much to do for the president. But the seemingly state of hibernation that Damirez was going through had to end and he was just about to set in motions the events that would end the quasi isolation of The Principality. There were many affairs that needed to be approached and various political dilemmas to be placed at the table and no better way to start it than with a meeting between Damirez and the members of the Delian League and perhaps in addition a couple of friendly nations. There was much to be done and in the light of the events on the international scene many things to discuss, things that already caused him to send some rather lengthy messages to some League nations, and he couldn’t afford it to delay things much further.

”It’s about time I guess for another trip to Delos…”

OOC: In essence an invitation to Delos for League nations or otherwise allied nations of The Principality. I'd rather have it that you guys talk to me on MSN/whatever before posting though so you can understand what this is all about.
Wagdog
31-07-2008, 06:47
Semi-SIC
Port Butsky, Commonwealth Realm of Revguin, Wagdog…
“So… yeah, here it is.” Mattias Nilssen handed his call up papers to the Damiran supervisor for his particular shift at OnTime Inc, per the required procedure. “I need to report within three days, so I’m getting my affairs in order.” He scratched his lower back a tad, irritated by having almost forgotten to do this after cleaning up his cubicle for the day; notice was required and he wanted a job when he got back. If I get back… No, no point in getting that glum yet; not when this whole hullabaloo might very well be an additional mobilization-exercise like he and the rest of his regiment had to put up with once every year anyway. It kept ‘em sharp and made the Commonwealth’s displeasure known, short of actually smacking any heads of state, when showing such displeasure was nonetheless required; however the obvious problem however was the nagging alternative that kept echoing in Nilssen’s mind. What if it’s not just an extra annual MOBEX that old bat, Defense Secretary Millenhaus, decided to spring on us?

Once he’d filed the papers and left, Mattias got into his StreetWyze mini-SUV and made for home; passing the time with looking around. The scenes looked ordinary enough; those of a successfully-risen nation going about daily life, but the clues to something more sinister abounded if one could spot them and put in the effort to look. As a reservist Mattias Nilssen had no difficulty in spotting their sort at all. In fact, overhead through the sunroof he couldn’t help but see an Il-78M Midas tanker pass along; no doubt heading to its’ station where the stepped-up patrols of FA-15D Cardinal interceptors were keeping watch over the nation’s skies with refueling support for extra range and time-on-station. Granted seeing at least one tanker in flight a day was a common punctuating mark of life in this city, even in peacetime; but this was number four that Mattias had counted and it was only scarcely the late afternoon already.

Once he’d driven down by the waterfront, the signs of what was about became clearer still. The massive base that had formerly belonged to the Wagdian Revolutionary Navy’s Second Fleet was clearly still in use, and by now its purpose as a Delian League joint forces’ installation was known since the alliance had gone public… oh, long ago even if still perhaps recently in objective terms. In fact, the joint base looked roughly as busy as it had under Second Fleet prior to the… Holy shit. Thinking of the Ennuisian War some seven years back promptly brought that old sinking feeling to Mattias, even if he’d been just barely too young to be drafted before its’ end; teenagers notice the damndest things in any time and this was no exception even with him as a young man of nearly 25 now while his nation was still technically at peace.

A crumpled but not yellowed newspaper blew by, wafted by the salty breeze that so many in Port Butsky loved; even cited as reason to call this place home whatever circumstance of life might inconvenience them at any moment. On a lark, Mattias picked it up; more of the same. Word of the government in talks with Delian League and Damiran officials (not that there was an undue degree of difference, in many particular visitors’ cases…) but not specifying the topic of these discussions; yet more announcements of the Commerce Department in negotiations with allied counterparts regarding business unknown, again unspecified; embassies from certain nations getting more visitors and yet buttoning up about their activities more than had ever been done in the past decade. No bluffs about it; to Mattias’ Nilssen’s measure of things, this was officially not looking good at all. There was only one thing the subtle clues around him could lead a man versed in recognizing them to suspect, and it emphatically was not preparation for a mere ‘exercise’; Wagdog was very likely a nation preparing for war.

Too resigned to bother tormenting himself with a shortlist of whom specifically these measures might be intended against, assuming for the sake of self-assurance that what was happening was indeed the nation girding for conflict as subtly as was possible for a modern and massive military-industrial entity, Mattias consigned the paper to the winds yet again and drove towards home. Passing by the local branch of Smithy’s Wine Bar, he couldn’t help but notice the line forming; many of those queued being in uniform no less. Sensible of them; to get their ‘affairs’ taken care of now, before less enjoyable priorities impose themselves. Though not much of a ladies’ man himself Mattias Nilssen didn’t see fit to cast down his fellows over what was as often an innocent matter as anything more ribald.

Finally at home, Mattias decided to occupy himself with some writing rather than anything which might amplify the dour mood the national situation was inspiring. Various pastiched stories about nothing in particular, observations regarding the goings-on; it was actually easy to pass the hours if one simply let it happen. His uniform was all ready and on a suitable hanger, his single red-and-green-bordered orange rhombus on the crimson collar tab indicating the rank of a Corporal; his small crossed sabre-and-rifle pin preceding the rhombus signifying his membership in a regiment of Dragoons (the Second, specifically). “Corporal Mattias Nilssen; Alpha Company, 1st Battalion/2nd Dragoons, Second Cavalry-Mechanized Legion …” Hah! So pretentious sounding a phrase, the only way it could be worse was if he were an officer as opposed to a simple ranker or non-com. After a quiet dinner Nilssen turned to bed; he’d report in on time, in that pretentiously immaculate uniform, and the nation would roll on as it had all his life. The part he might come to play in that, for now, was the stuff of nightmares and fantasies both; each fueled by the speculations of sources both wise and ignorant that alas he couldn’t escape the opinions of even if he tried to…

SIC
Palace of the Revolution, War Office Underground Bunker Complex Emergency Commuter Subway Station; Tailville DR, Wagdog. Some time earlier…
Though her particular travel mug of coffee had long run cold, not to mention the fact that it was normally well past when a healthy person would be drinking any sort of caffeine, Stewardess of the Revolution Christine Friedrich gazed over the underground platform of what was likely to be the last part of her home she’d see for a while if things went south. More like “When”, if our intel is on the ball… The thought rang sourly in her head but alas it wouldn’t stop ringing, it made too much sense.

Her briefcase wore heavily on her right arm, opposite the left with her mug in hand and coat draped overarm. Christine felt almost as heavy as the marine right nearby carrying The Football must, even though her case’s contents were nowhere near as esoteric. Reports of all sorts, from all departments; Defense Secretary and Field Marshal Millenhaus on mobilization timetables for the Revolutionary Guard and Revolutionary Navy both, together with subsidiary branches; Secretary of State Uralia Tíliel nós Kharlir with supplements from Lady Tóriel, the Ambassador in Vetaka, on coordination with allied nations regarding what policies may or may not have to be enacted if the worst indeed came true; Wally Shortclaw in Labor and Celine Longtail in Commerce both opining on the economic readiness of the nation in said event; it was all there or else uploaded at Christine’s destination: The mountain base complex at the geographic heart of Tailville Island itself that served the nation’s most important air unit and its’ supports.

“The Doomsday Plane...” That was what they called it, and though it wouldn’t be actively flying yet Christine was already reflecting on how Wagdog had taken the step of generally making sure her designated Il-86VKP Maxdome flying command center was as often used as any civilian Il-86 (earmarked this time) for her conveyance; more even perhaps. For now on the trip to Delos she didn’t expect much trouble given the secrecy measures enacted in this call up, so escort would be light to match the docile cover of her own aircraft: two Spiakov-Khudorozkina SiK-7S Falcons with refueling support from an Il-78M Midas at just shy of the max combat range they could escort her out. “Once off the train and at the base, it’s onto this 'ARG-One Lite' and off to Delos to quietly handle matters with the League.” The high-speed subway train arrived soon, and she boarded quickly; a not-inconsiderable part of the Wagdian defense and transportation budgets went into ‘continuity of government’ measures such as this secure and direct rail line to the base in question, so naturally there was no point in wasting good taxpayers’ money by dallying around now was there? Once in Delos all could be handled much better than was possible here…

OOC: And with that, alas I'm out for two weeks to Ye Olde Jersey Shore; simply assume that Christine is around in the backdrop at any relevant League proceedings and so on since arrivals = fail anyway. TG me developments anyway and I'll address them when I'm back.:wink:
Mephras
31-07-2008, 23:59
Peace Market Economic Cooperation Zone, Northern Mephras

Jim Westgate drowsily punched in his employee number at the breakroom time clock. The small device beeped in approval as he stretched his back in a futile attempt to lessen the strain from the first half of his shift. Finally, I thought break would never come. He yawned loudly as he reached for the pack of cigarettes tucked into his back pocket. As he took a relieving puff of the cigarette, he slowly scanned the sterile, fluorescent room. As usual, he was the last to take his break, and besides a pair of flies buzzing near the trashcan, he was alone. He sauntered slowly over to the schedule which had been newly posted on the dingy cork board near the vending machines.

Fifty hours again! Jim swore gently under his breath as his plans for his already scarce free time slowly faded to the reality of even more back breaking labor. The Peace Market Steelworks had always seemed to do a good business, as demand from both Damirez and the ever growing Mephrasian economy was high, but this was exceptional. About a week ago new faces had begun to appear in the forge, and it wasn't just a few, he had counted ten in the last week. Even worse, some of these new guys seemed to have zero training in their jobs. Jim looked down at the burn on his left arm, as he remembered the "incident" that occurred on Wednesday. That kid was damn lucky that I was there to pull his ass out of the way. Despite all of these mistakes, the works seemed to be producing steel at much faster pace than ever before. Trucks had been coming and going it seemed like around the clock, but none of the workers were told where they were going. Frankly, he really didn't care.

Just as Jim was about to reach for the Euphovan Herald Sports Section, scattered about a table in the corner of the breakroom, his eye caught the time on his new watch. The watch was nice, and while the long hours were difficult, the overtime pay had allowed him to treat himself to quite a few things that would have been unthinkable even a few weeks before. Well, I guess I better get back to it. He shuffled over to the time clock, punched in his number, and walked out of the breakroom as a small smile spread to his face. Someone needs to keep these new grunts in line.

---------

Eastern Palace, 125 kilometers east of Euphova, Mephras

Mei strolled slowly over a wooden bridge in the garden of Inner Solitude. As the name might suggest, the still grace and beauty of the garden always seemed to bring peace of the often troubled Empress. Gently weeping willows hung delicately over mirror like ponds while small streams gently flowed by moss covered rocks and lush patches of wildflowers providing a calming and everpresent noise. If only the whole world could be as this garden. Mei sighed heavily as her hands moved slowly downward and clutched the slight protrusion of her abdomen. Her mind returned to the varied problems and responsibilities that plagued her and her nation, personified in the various ministers she would meet in only thirty minutes, problems even the serenity of this garden could not pacify.

As she walked on, she caught the eye of an aged gardener, hunched over from a mixture of age and devotion to his work. Even now he was attending to a new plot, in which new shoots had just begun to sprout. He moved slowly around to each new shoot, checking for development, and providing it with just the right amount of water to assure steady and strong growth. Yet as much care as he offered to the new shoots, it seemed his main focus were those seeds which had not yet sprouted. At each unmoved dirt mound the gardener sat and placed his ear to the ground. He then would delicately place his fingers in the soil, and finally administer a precise amount of water and nutrient mix.

Suddenly the gardener turned and noticing the presence of the Empress, ceased his work and bowed, yet this act of reverence startled Mei, who had become entranced by the caring routine of the aged master. Mei bowed slightly and asked the gardener to rise, smiling gently, thanked him and suggested that he take the rest of the day off in honor of his dedicated service. The old man smiled wryly and replied. "Oh no your highness, that would be irresponsible. This is my garden, and my life. It I do not maintain it, all would decay and die. Yet do not despair, for it is also my love, and I derive all my joy from its continued life and beauty."

The sage words of the aged gentleman pierced deep into her heart. Cloudiness became clarity as she realized what she must do, no matter what might be the cost. She saw the door to the garden slide open as the Prime Minister Anthony Summerhill stood waiting for her, ready to accompany her on their latest journey, which would be the first plane trip of the pregnancy. She approached the Prime Minister and smirked. "I hope this thing travels well." They both laughed and moved to leave the garden, yet as she turned, she could not help but look back at the old gardener, who had given her peace, even in this troubled time.
Lamoni
02-08-2008, 11:46
A Private Lamonian Home

James Hutchinson was a worker in a steel mill. He had only signed on for the Army Reserves in order to help supplement his paycheck, but he was a Reserve Captain for a reserve Infantry Battalion; so when his number came up, the proper letter came to his door, and he groaned when he read the call-up order. As was normal with such things, there was no mention of why his Battalion had been called up; but he figured that he might find out soon enough.

Captain Hutchinson packed his bags according to regulations, and drove his car to his Battalion's base. Once there, his Battalion had been flown to LAF Karakan near the Lamonian coast, his unit's inspection having been done on the C-10 Minotaur transport aircraft that his unit (and it's supplies) had been flying on.

Scenes like this were happening all over Lamoni, and remarkably, most of those who had been called up had no knowledge of why all of this was happening.

---

Presidential Palace

President Stinson was reading over the meeting request from Damirez. It looked like President Librescu wanted another Delian League meeting on Delos. Stinson called his wife to his office. Since she was also his secretary, it didn't take long for her to get to him.

"My love, we have received an invitation for a Delian League meeting on the island of Delos in Damirez. The Foreign Minister will be going with us, but I thought that you would like to come along with me on this trip." President Stinson knew that his wife wanted to with him on an official diplomatic trip for some time now, and this would give her the chance to do just that. Of course, she wouldn't actually attend the meetings, but Andrew Stinson would not have it be said that he was a bad husband.
New Manth
02-08-2008, 23:19
No official announcement was made, though the ever-hotter conflict in the Deserted Territories was tens of thousands of kilometers distance from Egypt. The great sprawling urban belt of the Mediterranean coast bore no scars of war, nor could the placidly rolling Nile tell any tale of violence to the traveler - the heartland was secure and untouched. Nevertheless wartime security would have the President's location concealed from any possible danger, and so the latest trip to Delos was kept secret from the public.

Similarly, new military stirrings were easy to conceal in the midst of a state already producing for several wars, although one of the latest measures, a plan which at a stroke would triple the size of the neglected surface fleet, had drawn its share of budget-minded protest. But when the Army submitted orders for new Questarian missiles, when the Air Service announced a force expansion of over four thousand aircraft, when the Navy planned to enlist an additional three hundred thousand into the Naval Infantry, these things were easy to attribute to causes such as the Corporate conflict, or the brewing storm in Haven. Perhaps an observer aware of rearmament initiatives in other League states might have been suspicious, but even then, the burden the military machine placed on its country had always been large. It grew larger in such times - who would be surprised?
Weccanfeld
03-08-2008, 00:02
Nothing quite like a breath of cool, fresh air after eleven hours of work in the steel foundry. Hot as hell, and smelling like the same place, yet another worker looked forward to the ending of this daily torture. It wasn't called Purgatory for nothing.

Sixty, Forty-Five, Thirty. Ceorl had counted down in his head, endless miniute after endless miniute, yet time seemed to stand still. Only the knowleadge that this endevour was to end soon stopped him from jumping into the fiery lava that he surveyed. So, when the surveyour and his predictable message came slowly to him, he nearly broke down into tears.

"Sorry, I'm afraid, since we have a big order in, your going to have to work overtime"

Overtime. He repeated the word in his head several times, cursing it over and over again. And then, he did something he never did before. He questioned the decision.

"Why can't you get someone else to do it?"

Raising an eyebrow, his superior replied "How dare you. Why don't I get someone else, someone who isn't a rude idiot to do your job? Either you stay on for, say, three more hours, or you get yourself a new job. I don't like insubordination. Neither does the boss. Esspecially since most of the orders recently have been going to Delos. We need this steel. You need to keep your job."

Despite a near uncontrollable urge to do otherwise, Ceorl did indeed stay on for another three hours. He went home that night exhausted and broken. He did the same thing for the next couple of days. At the end of the month he got the same pay as he did the last one. But at least he still had a job. If a horrid one.

* * *

"Transport?"

"Something fast. And stable. Get me on the ground again as fast as possible. Or I won't be happy"

Yet another summon to Delos, yet another ride in the air, one that the First Minister of Weccanfeld certainly didn't look forward to. Luxury or no luxury the trip for this aged man was a living nightmare, and had been for all his long life.

"Who is to come?"

"Er, let me think. You, Kenkyoan, Wenkers, Laehwitatun, actually no, scrap Wenkers, he'll cock it all up, just bring a rep of Brondboga. Er, Ackermann, junior and senior, usual security staff and er, me, of course."

"So, your Batman, the Head of the Þingalið, the Foreign Minister, the Economics Minister, a Diplomat, and some others."

"Yes. That just about covers anything the Damirans want to discuss. I reckon, it's about the LION issue..."

"Drink sir?"

"Yes, yes please. Yeah, the LION issue. Either that or they want to discuss about general military things, or Myakka, possibly. Hopefully not the later. Or maybe economic stuff..."
Vetaka
03-08-2008, 17:23
Undergrowth on the Foothills of Mt Doom, Lands of the White Phoenix Tribe, Rogers Mountain Range, Southern Vetaka:

Jonathon Stone crouched behind the the massive fallen Oak Trunk that had recently collapsed, a stark reminder of the thunderstorm that had battered the Rogers Mountains a mere 12 hours ago. Stone a man of now 32 was Supreme Operational Commander of the Vetakan Defence Forces and second in line to the Throne of the Chieftain of Vetaka. He rested his handmade bow on the fallen trunk using its natural shape and indents to rest the bow whilst he waited for his prey to appear. Surely enough after 30 or 40 seconds their was a rustling in the bushes some 30 metres away from him. A few seconds later the lone Gazelle appeared into Stones line of fire, Stone had tracked the young male for some 2 hours now during which time he had been presented with some 3 times to make the shot but he had waited for the opportune moment. Not only allowing the Animal a fair and honourable chance but also allowing it to drink and feed thus making its meat healthy and tender. Stone gazed at the peaceful creature for a few moments both of them in peaceful harmony but alas it had to end. Stone tensed himself he extended the bow and closed his right eye bringing the animals eye into sight he allowed his breathing to become shallow and slow for a few seconds he held his shot watching and waiting. The young male Gazelle turned to the left presenting Stone with the shot he suddenly and smoothly exhaled releasing the bow as he did so the arrow soured through the sky and connected with its target the young Gazelles right eye. The animal toppled over it was dead before it hit the floor as per Tribal Tradition the young animal had been treated with nothing but honour and respect its spirit would forever gallop the lands of the White Phoenix in peace and honour, Stone's shot had killed the animal with speed, honour and without pain. Now the Tribes-people of Stones village would enjoy the animals meal and celebrate its life.

As Stone approached his prize he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, he listened for a few seconds for a few nanoseconds all was quiet before Stone burst into life dropping the empty bow he drew his sword from its back sheath and turned on his heel. As he did so his sword connected with that of another man whom had seemingly appeared from nowhere they both engaged each other for a few minutes before they connected in a crescendo of noise which resulted in them coming within an inch of each others faces their swords locked in a block. As silence fell the second man smiled and softly spoke:

"Nice Kill Friend, My apologies for startling you I couldn't resist"

Both men still panting from their duel stepped back and re-sheathed their swords before Stone laughed lightly and replied:

"Not a problem my Friend, I am glad of the practice although to be honest I believed you to be an Intruder"

The second man was Rising Tiger aka Daniel Pearce, Supreme Honoured Parceltongue of the Tribal Council and Commander in Chief of the White Phoenix. He was a man of similar height and build to Stone and was Stones best friend, brother and immediate superior. As Stone spoke Pearce's eyes narrowed:

"Intruders?"

Stone nodded and continued:

"Indeed, I observed two of them from the Old Oak at Doxy Pool heading towards the Citadel, armed with Silenced G36 and GPS, I sent word to the Warrior at Arms"

Pearce nodded, sighed and replied:

"Your words are an omen friend... I am afraid to say I am not here for the hunt, I have been dispatched by the Chief, your presence is required in Delos immediately for a secret conference of Nova's and the Leagues Powers.... it has come to a head".

Stone looked somewhat shocked, he sighed and replied:

"I understand of course but why me?"

Pearce smiled:

"Since what is happening is been done under a shroud of secrecy with a P-Protocol thrown in for good measure, The Foreign Directorate has advised that somebody more out of the public's gaze attend Delos. The Chieftain has agreed to an extent, he wants to send a warrior just as much as a diplomat."

Stone nodded he had a feeling a few days ago that he was been prepared for a trip, ever since the old Chief had gifted him with a new set of robes, he smiled at the thought and replied:

"When do I depart?"

Pearce whom had now retrieved Stones Bow handed it to him and went on:

"Tomorrow at Noon, You will not be travelling alone tho my friend Bridget is going with you"

Stone nodded and with that the men approached the dead Gazelle, blessing it and honouring it with a rhythmic chant Stone slit the Animals throat whilst Pearce prepared to affix it to a large wooden stick for transportation back to the Citadel. Once this had been completed they would begin the hour or so trek to the Citadel the Mountain Capital of the White Phoenix Tribe.

11:56, Runway Zero Alpha One, Vetakan Defence Force Joint Military Base (VDFJMB) New Theeb, Operational Command Headquarters of the Vetakan Defence Force 1st Battle Group, New City, New Theeb, Southern Vetaka:

The Pearce Weapons Incorporated Bombardier Challenger 605 Mk 1 sat motionless on the tarmac of the runway all around it was hive of activity with aircraft of all type, size and variety constantly taking off and landing. Such activity wasn't particularly uncommon as New Theeb Military base was home to the Vetakan Defence Force 1st Army and Fleet some 250,000 to 750,000 personnel called it home it was literally a city within a city. What was uncommon however was the level of intensity of activity currently going on within the base with more "Reservist Call Up" troops arriving by the day for what the NCO's and the majority of CO's said was "Refreshment Training" to some Political Commentators and over eager journalists something smelt funny. Such feeling and opinion was given weight when it was revealed the Tribal Council had released a general "P-Protocol" which was a simple "Media Gag" on the subject of Military Operations around certain installations across Vetaka. Stones plane which in this case was referred to over the radio waves as "Zulu Severn" was now ready to depart all its passengers numbering a total of 10 where aboard and ready they consisted of Jonathon Stone of the Military, Bridget Smith of the Foreign Directorate, Two Administrative Aides, Two Military Captains acting as Advisers and 4 VDF Diplomatic Guardsman. The flight which would last around 5 hours would make the journey with a light escort of two FA-15D Cardinal Interceptors which would be refueled on route by a Il-78 Midas Tanker of the Wagdogian Air Force. That wasn't going to be for a good few hours yet tho, all that Zulu Severn awaited for now was authorization to take off the annoying thing was that its two escort fighters were already in flight. Aboard Zulu Sevens bridge its Flight Crew became annoyed one of them groaned:

"For Fuck Sake, We are carrying the Supreme Commander of the Vetakan Defence Forces and the Deputy Director of the Foreign Affairs Directorate. You'd of thought they would be given Special Treatment or that they could make a few calls and pull a few strings or something".

Before anybody could reply the OBSAT Skyward Radio and Flight Comms system burst into life:

"Zulu Severn this is SkyOps you are cleared to take off, at Runway-Zero-Alpha-One in T-Minus 120 Seconds. Make your way to holding point Lema-One and await Final Authorization. SkyOps Out" spoke the Control Tower.

With that the Jet started its engines and taxied along the tarmac to the holding area where it slowed and eventually stopped awaiting Final Authorization, After a few seconds of waiting the Air Traffic Controller spoke again:

"Zulu Severn this is SkyOps Final Authorization Granted Runway-Zero-Alpha-One"

With that the PWi Bombardier Challenger 605 Mk 1 moved into the runway and proceeded to pick up speed its engines roared and fired as the aircraft lifted off and proceeded to ascend into the air SkyOps spoke one last time:

"Zulu Seven this is SkyOps, Altitude Restrictions Cancelled, Good Luck"

Pearce Weapons Incorporated (PWI) Energy Division, Vetakan Oil Fields, Oil Platfom, "Echo-Foxtrot-Tango", 56 Nautical Miles South of Warwick Prime Vetakan Continentia:

"Listen Up Boys and Girls" called the Platforms Operations Officer across the crowded cantina.

"I have some good news for all you who want extra work ontop of your contracts" continued the burly Vetakan with a bad ass New Helgan Accent.

His words rippled over the room the majority of the filthy Men and Women began to smile and the chatter amongst them ceased. Smiling the Burly Vetakan continued:

"I am not entirely sure why but demand for oil from us has seemingly tripled over night. In total Central has instructed that without any delay we are to go to full capacity which means that as of now their is unlimited overtime up until Medical and Ops says otherwise on an individual basis. Those of you who want to get out no worries your schedule ride is still in affect. Those who wanna stay get yourself down to me and my team in Ops or the lovely Jenny in HR. Any Questions?"

One young and oddly attractive blonde women shouted up her face covered in dirt with her hair tied up scruffily pipped up:

"Who is the buyer Danny?"

Danny the burly New Helganer chuckled and spluttered:

"The Tribal Council Officially, Having said that over the shipments we are making to the mainland only 2 in 10 are going to Vetaka or one of its Operations the rest are heading to Delos or one of the many Novan Powers. I spoke to a mate of mine Mohammed at Central Ops in Warwick its not just us apparently just about every platform has increased its output and we are bringing a shitload of new guys in"

The room seemed to nod in approval and agreement as a result Danny smiled and merely said:

"Get to work"
Stevid
05-08-2008, 21:45
Stevid Capita
Stevid 11:43 SST

It had now been several months, maybe even at least three quarters of a year, since the Holy Empire had done something to attract the attention of the world stage. In fact she had been unusually quiet these past few months but not so quiet as to arouse suspicion, aside of course from the fact that Stevid had in fact threatened to use nuclear weapons in the Second Ryouese Civil War if Kurona was attacked. It didn’t bother the population at all really, in fact a little bit of isolationism every now and again calmed the nerves and relieved the tension that so often comes with living in a world military power. The interventionist imperial policy that the Empire had now maintained for nearly 70 years had been a major drain on the economy and with the colonies falling under the Third Sphere of Expansion now fully under Stevidian control the Empire could finally relax. Government debt had flown through the roof recently but it was easily manageable but one cannot forget that Stevid imports most of her goods and relies heavily on trade to survive. $30 billion was owed to Independent Hitmen and around $6 billion to Damirez in loans to help Stevid finish of the final stages of the Third Sphere of Expansion, the Imperial Economy (An economic alliance with all Imperial states in the Holy Empire) had meant that government borrowing wasn’t quite as high as it could’ve been. With this large bill hanging over the heads of the government ministers in Parliament, a lull in international affairs was welcome. Military procurement was at an all time low, anti-piracy was at it’s lowest in ten years despite the Royal Navy deliberately targeting key Dienstad Cartel pirate coves and harbours.

Prime Minister David Conroy was now in his sixth term in office and now the longest reigning Prime Minister in Stevid. He was not going to be stepping down anytime soon and the latest opinion polls showed that he probably would survive the next general election but while still losing some quite valuable support. Conroy was now well known across the world as being a bold man whenever it came to decision making. He had ordered a nuclear attack in the last Golden War of Succession, engaged in two imperial crusades of expansion which has now encompassed dozens of islands and coastal colonies covered by the Second and Third Spheres of Expansion. He was a man of action and hated idleness, in peacetime he was never afraid to openly praise his allies and intimidate his enemies and even though he actually liked the lull in events for his country, he still would prefer to have something happening to keep him on his toes. This was why he was in a good mood this Tuesday afternoon when his government received a message from his newest and most trusted allies: Librescu of Damirez. He read it aloud to his Cabinet Ministers during their afternoon meeting.

“There you have it gentlemen. I’ve been invited to attend this conference as well as other heads of state regarding the Delian League and the Principalities other allies.”

“Good, we’ve been inactive for sometime now. I’d rather the world still hears us roaring from time to time.” Said the Imperial Foreign Minister. “Do you have any idea what this meeting could be about DC?”

[i]“No… well that’s not true because I could hazard a few guesses but there is nothing here telling me for certain what I’m going to Delos for. I’ve been a huge supporter of this alliance straight from the beginning even though Stevid isn’t a fan favourite of these sort of alliances. I’ve seen it all before, a promising alliance that falls into chaos and eventually tears itself apart due to red tape. In order to keep this political and military alliance together I have always maintained that we flex our muscles a bit and all the other member states agree with me too.”

“So is the League going to be conducting a mass military exercise or something sir?” Asked the Home Secretary. “Or maybe something more… sinister?”

“I’ll go with the latter,” Conroy said with a little more bounce in his voice. “A military exercise, even a large one and the first of its kind in the Delian League, would not warrant my presence at the HQ in Delos. I fear it might have something to do with the League of Imperial Ocean (fairing) Nations.”

“LION?” The Home Secretary replied.

“Yes, we have a few friends in LION. Well, by friends I mean countries that we get on with more than others. But they have been a little OTT recently and quite frankly it irritates me a little but obviously it irritates Librescu more. LION is smaller than NATO and both our alliances carry some real weight in military terms. They’ll think twice before sticking two fingers up at us.”

“Is that what you hope for sir?”

“No, actually I don’t. I hope it is something completely different but out of the two options you gave me I’d prefer the latter. It may be something as simple as a military exercise or some sort of amendment to the constitution or something like that. Politics interests me far greater than war, if it didn’t then I wouldn’t have retired from the military to become a politician.”

There were a few chuckles but everyone had grasped the gravitas of the situation and realised that the Holy Empire was treading a very fine line indeed. She was going to be making a few waves in the international community and recently Stevid had been losing patience too quickly with the rowdy and undisciplined states in the world… even the big ones, the threat of nuclear war issued by the Empire to the warring factions in the Second Ryouese Civil War was one such example. The Empire was strong and the problem was that it knew it was, she was becoming a lose cannon and the government knew it could get away with a lot more than it used to be with this new aura of respect it carried across the world. It was what made her powerful and such a powerful presence at the diplomatic table, it was why the Holy Empire was in the league anyway. The sorry truth was Stevid was itching to cause some waves in the sea of diplomacy and, thankfully, so did Damirez and the rest of the Delian League nations.

“Have a plane prepared in three hours, I’ll take the Foreign Minister with me on this trip. Oh! Please inform the RAF we will be unescorted to Delos. We’ll be perfectly safe and I’d rather their ATC had two less planes to worry about when we land. Thank you ladies and gentlemen, meeting adjourned.”
The State of Monavia
10-08-2008, 15:48
All across the Monavian Empire orders were sent among the commanders of the various divisions of several service brances. Most of them were orders of transfer and redeployment for small units, but these were business as usual. Troops were shifted around whenever it was necessary, and this was nothing new. Two flotillas of the Monavian Imperial Navy (MIN) were being placed on a higher level of alert than normal, and a handful of ships had been recalled to their ports and bases for refitting and maintainence. The Monavian National Defense Council ordered that production at certain government factories and mines was to be increased for the next thirty days, and the new products were to stockpiled for later use.
Azazia
16-08-2008, 22:44
Alehessen, Oceanian Atrea

Oceania. But not quite Oceania. Grant Harper lifted the china mug from the glass table of Fusion's newest tea salon in Atrea. He looked around at the local clientele and aside from those arriving from the local university, most were first or second generation immigrants from the Home Islands. Most were full-blooded Oceanians looking for a typical, strong, Oceanian brew. He tilted the mug towards his lips and let the sharp, almost astringent blend run over his tongue.

A tap on his shoulder, however, brought him to swallow the mouthful and turn around. He found a short, blonde woman standing over him with a smile upon her face. Not a warm, friendly smile. More cold and distant. But, knowing it was polite and deferential led Harper to return the gesture and motion with his mug for the woman to sit.

"Good afternoon, Grant," the woman, slender but athletic sat down opposite Harper. Unlike the woman, Harper's physique was less well cared for and both knew he could stand to lose a few pounds around his waist. "And how are you," she added, settling into the cushioned, wrought iron chair.

"Fairly well, Elizabeth," Harper replied, taking another sip of his tea. "Would you like something to drink?"

Alice started to shake her head, then caught a glimpse of a latte at another table. "A latte would be great, thank you, Grant."

Harper stood up, walked inside, and exchanged a five-pound note for a tea latte and change. He returned to the table and placed the steaming mug before Alice, who quickly tasted the beverage and smiled. "Very kind of you, Grant."

"Not a problem."

Reaching into her clutch, a black leather piece with silver latches, she pulled out a five-pound note and placed it flat on the table.

"No," Harper shook his head with an obviously less-than-hearty vehemence.

"I insist," she replied, pushing it forward into Harper's hands.

Harper submitted, reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He folded the bill and replaced that which he spent. "Now, tell me about your trip," he asked.

"John took me for a picnic on the first day…"

Aubrey House
Georgetown, United Kingdom

Fronting the River Clerke, a tributary of the New Thames River, Aubrey House was headquarters to the Royal Intelligence Service, the primary foreign intelligence agency of the United Kingdom. Despite the name, Aubrey House was actually more a complex comprised of Aubrey House North and Aubrey House South, each sitting across Rowan Street, which crossed the Clerke via the Rowan Street Bridge, a steel-reinforced stonework, arch bridge. In all, it served a picturesque stop for foreign tourists—even if they knew not the function of the building or its occupants.

One of the upper-story offices belonged to Sir Gregory Tomlinson. A frail-looking man with bony fingers and thinning white hair, he nonetheless ran RIS efficiently enough to have survived the change of administrations. In the past he had often allowed deputies to manage and brief officials, he considered it necessary to keep the appearance of impartiality—crucial to keeping his current position. However, taking a long drag on a cigarette, imported from one of the crown colonies of course, he knew that events throughout the world of Oceanian interests necessitated his taking a more active role.

And so when his secretary informed him that two men had arrived to see him, he kept an even expression—and remained seated—as the Foreign Secretary and the Colonial Secretary entered his office. "Please, gentlemen, do take a seat," he offered, sweeping his hands to the two obviously uncomfortable seats facing him.

Gavin Astley, the Foreign Secretary, smiled with gritted teeth for he had on several distinct occasions reminded Tomlinson of his aversion to tobacco. Viscount Thomas Cahill, the Colonial Secretary, was, like Tomlinson, also a survivor of previous administrations and had grown accustomed to the intelligence chief and his impeccably notorious bad manners.

"No doubt," Tomlinson continued without waiting for the two men to sit, "you two keep rather full schedules—given current events. So I shall be brief and to the point." Tomlinson let his still, blue eyes settle upon Cahill's. "Thomas," he addressed the man, showing no respect for the man's nobility, "your remit includes Nova if I am not mistaken?"

"Correct." Oceanian Atrea was no longer a proper Oceanian colony—but it had also yet to complete the parliamentary integration considered requisite for earning cabinet-level representation. Instead, Atrean affairs remained a part of the Colonial Office portfolio. That was, however, expected to change once Oceanian Atrea was granted representation in Parliament. Of course, Cahill knew full well that Tomlinson knew his responsibilities.

Tomlinson nodded, and then took the cigarette from his lips and held it between his fingers, tapping it on the side of his ashtray. "Please, minister, are you familiar with these numbers?"

Tomlinson withdrew from one of the top drawers of his desk a manila folder. Lying it flat upon his desk, he used his free hand to flip the folder open and pull out a single document with a map and several charts and graphs neatly arranged and presented.

Cahill took the document, scanning it quickly before passing it over to Astley. "I must confess, Gregory, I cannot verify these figures off the cuff." Cahill took the document back from Astley and then returned it to Tomlinson.

"No, of course not." Tomlinson cast the viscount a knowing smile before taking the document and shuffling it back into the folder. "Oceanian Atrea, gentlemen," Tomlinson added in a grander, more sweeping tone, "is wholly dependent upon imported agricultural goods and foodstuffs. Having verified the numbers before your arrival, Thomas, I assure you they are quite correct. Our territory imports nearly 70% of its requirements. Of that, just over one-third of the current numbers comes from our neighbour Atrea. Another 15% from Damirez. Of the remainder, 20% arrive from other states in Nova. That leaves just 30% of the imported foodstuff arriving from non-Oceanian territories outside Nova."

"I am terribly sorry to interrupt, Sir Tomlinson," Astley interrupted. "But discussions of foodstuffs and agricultural imports, are these not matters you should be discussing with Mr. Donaldson?"

Tomlinson laughed politely. "The Agriculture Secretary? No, Mr. Foreign Secretary, no. Take a look at these," the RIS Director-General handed over not just a collection of charts and graphs, but glossy photographs as well."

Astley took the papers, and shuffled through them. While all were similar, with large cranes, idling lorries, towers of containers and crates, and open warehouses, each stuck out as different. Mainly through the flags flying from the various warships photographed taking on stores and ammunition. There were associated clippings of various dailies in foreign languages, the accompanying translations focused on human interest stories focused on reservists facing interruptions in their lives.

"The region is beginning to mobilise, Gavin," Tomlinson said quietly, allowing the images to make an impression.

HMS Eberon
Western Delosian Sea

Commander Hannah Snow grimaced rather visibly as her XO handed her the latest report. Long distance reconnaissance flights from her frigate's drones had continued to track warships departing from Delos. Their ultimate destination remained unknown to Snow—and she imagined probably the whole of the Admiralty—but their heading took them east. A small comfort, perhaps, for the shortest route to Oceanian Atrea was west-by-northwest. Nonetheless, her orders mandated she stay in international waters and maintain an Oceanian presence near Delos. Showing the flag. As much as a twenty-thousand tonne frigate could do against whole fleet movements.

She finally looked up at her XO and handed the update back to the red-haired man. "Encrypt it, and send it with the next intelligence update to Hansa."

HIs Majesty's Naval Base Hansa
Hansa, Oceanian Atrea

Far from the foothills of the interior mountains, where cities like Alehessen thrived on small glacial-melt rivers, the city of Hansa thrived on the open ocean. The most important port city in Oceanian Atrea, it had also been designated years ago as the headquarters for the Royal Navy's Nova Station. Rear-Admiral Liam Murphy smiled at that title. His command was a whole station. And yet he had barely one hundred ships to command. And now, almost forty were unavailable according to the latest reports from the various dockyards under his command.

A knock on the door disturbed Murphy from the latest personnel reports sent his way for signature. Most important among them, the request for a new Royal Navy hospital if not an addition to the current facility. It was understaffed, under-resourced, and overworked. Again Murphy smiled. How familiar a refrain. "Come in, come in," he practically shouted. He had to. The door was of a thick native wood—something he had never bothered to learn to pronounce correctly.

Looking up, he found his intelligence officer coming in, cap under arm and leather folder in hand. "What is it James," Murphy asked, looking back to a request from one of his senior captains to retire or be reposted somewhere in the Home Islands.

"Another report from the Eberon, Admiral."

Murphy, signing a document, kept his head lowered, but raised an eye to find the staff intelligence officer, one James Radley. "What is it now?"

"More traffic. Her CO reports it heading eastward."

Finally putting the pen down, the rear-admiral looked Radley square in the eyes. "What is going on down there, James?"

"Well, our sub patrols in the Endless Ocean and the Southern Sea report similar movements of ships on an eastbound track. Otherwise, we are hearing nothing out of Delos. Nor are our friends in Georgetown being particularly forthcoming with anything they may have learned." Radley had made well known his contempt for the RIS and the exclusivity they claimed over intelligence. RIS, for its part, countered by claiming that the Royal Navy had a well-funded intelligence service: the Office of Royal Navy Intelligence, or ORNI. Radley chose to omit from his complaint that ORNI had nothing to provide either.

Murphy shook his head. Nothing had really changed. "Very well, maintain submerged patrols of eastern transit routes and keep the Eberon on station."

"Yes, Admiral."

Aubrey House
Georgetown, United Kingdom

"But mobilise to what end?" Astley enquired.

"Surely not an outright invasion of the United Kingdom," Cahill added. "They cannot be that daft," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"For the time being, the official position of the RIS is that we have insufficient data from which to draw a conclusion about the intentions of the various Novan nations." Tomlinson let it end there. Silence quickly overtook the office.

"And the unofficial position, Sir Tomlinson?" Astley broke that silence, his question more of a threat.

"Consider, gentlemen, these," Tomlinson pulled out another set of documents. "Intercepts of highly encrypted inter-state communications. From what we gather, at a high ministerial level. The common thread, the Principality of Damirez. While we have yet to crack the encryption, consider that the Principality heads the Delian League and that much of the mobilisation activity centres upon Delos. Then consider that RAF and Royal Navy assets, along with our own at RIS, have been tracking aircraft headed towards Delos—aircraft outside of known commercial routes and time schedules. They are mobilising very quietly, gentlemen."

"But damn it, man, why?" Astley snapped.

Tomlinson simply smiled. "Consider, gentlemen, the natural competitor to the Delian League, a league so obviously connected to naval supremacy, both in maritime conflict and trade."

"LION…" Astley muttered.

"A brilliant connection, Mr. Foreign Secretary," Tomlinson responded with a slight taste of sarcasm in his mouth. Tomlinson found it tasting rather sweet today. "An organisation to which we belong, albeit as a seemingly silent participatory partner. And all this talk of blenders, Mr. Foreign Secretary, is most unhelpful. Most unwise. Most childish."

"Yes, yes, I am aware," Astley responded. He straightened his back as much as he could on his chairs—one he found poorly designed.

"Now, again, this is all unofficial, gentlemen," Tomlinson continued, reminding the two as if they were schoolchildren caught leering into the girls' changing room. "However," he softened his tone once more, "I shall put it more succinctly. The Delesian League, should it be so bold as to set itself up against LION, would face a number of powers remote from Nova—including the United Kingdom. Well, almost remote." The Director-General pulled out a map of Nova, and let his forefinger fall squarely on Oceanian Atrea. "Almost remote from the region, gentlemen. Should this mobilisation be as I suspect…"

The two ministers looked at the map, whose cartographers had been so kind as to highlight the UK in a pinkish red and the Delian League states in blue. "I believe you two ought to go see the Prime Minister," Tomlinson added rather dryly.

Suddenly, the door to his office swung open, his secretary holding it for the two ministers. "Please, do be so kind as to send Rodney my regards," the Director-General added as the two men quietly left.

Finding themselves on the street, walking towards their waiting vehicles, Astley glanced back at the complex before turning to Cahill. "I hate that man."
The State of Monavia
19-08-2008, 02:25
OOC:

I am bumping this up so that the thread does not get lost.
The State of Monavia
25-08-2008, 03:28
OOC:

I am bumping this up so that the thread will not get lost. Also, I hope that Damirez doesn't mind me bumping this up.