Andermark
27-02-2009, 00:04
Frederick, Baron Leitdorf; clad in his snappy Freikorps officer full dress uniform, as officers always were when calling on the Imperial Throne Room: regulation grey tunic, kepi, and trousers, jet black epaulettes, cavalry boots and belt, blue sash, and a 1885 model Border Legion ceremonial infantry officer’s saber strapped to his side; twisted his lips in disgust. One hand stroking the broad scar that dominated the left portion of his otherwise clean face, the other holding a loaded Reichsrevolver pistol trained on the man across the room, Colonel the Baron Leitdorf quickly pondered the circumstances that had brought about this moment.
Once upon a time, Andermark was a proud and mighty nation. It had been a great seat of power, a capital from which a vast and prosperous empire of interconnected provinces, protectorates, and colonies was ruled over. Some even claimed that, for three and a quarter centuries, the Andermarkian Empire had been the dominant power of the World. Ruled by the Sovereign Emperor from his grand palace at Anderhal, the empire had spanned millions of miles. It had been a mighty military machine that routinely conquered new lands, subjugated new peoples, and brought new resources under its control. Anderhal had been a center for sciences and the arts, a hub of innovation and of ideas. The nation had known economic prosperity that had not been rivaled before and, some even said, has not been rivaled since.
But that had been a long time ago. A mighty power had collapsed on itself, on what the elders of this society had described as the decadence of an Empire. The citizens of the empire, men said, grew fat and lazy; the princes and dukes, who had once gained their titles through valorous feats of leadership on the battlefield, retreated into their castles; an Empire began to depend on foreign mercenaries to provide for its defense. One by one, the Empire’s vassals and protectorates stopped paying tribute, its colonies rebelled in wars of ‘national liberation,’ and its territories nearer to home were enveloped by rising foreign powers.
All that remained, today, of this once mighty empire hardly lived up to its legacy. Now little more than a city-state, with only the barest political or diplomatic clout outside of its walls, the Principality of Andermark was a sad and sorry reminder of what once was. Andermarkians still tried to live up to the days when their name was known across the world. The Emperors’ successors, now just Princes, still held Imperial Court at the magnificent Anderhal Palace, the Andermarker nobility still lived lavish lives as aristocrats, the Old Guard still mounted the Palace daily, and the city center was still decorated with the splendors of an Empire. But it was plain to see that Andermarkians were living in the past. Andermark no longer spanned millions of miles, but only several thousand, and it no longer held billions of souls within its boundaries, only fifty-six million or so. The vast military machine that once defined an era was replaced by a shadow of its former self, if even that: a few ceremonial regiments and a rag-tag collection of militiamen and foreign mercenaries. The Andermarker Empire had once enjoyed household recognition across the world, but now only attracted the rare brushing over of an occasional eccentric anthropologist or historian, whose interest in the nation was fleeting at best.
But circumstances would be once more reversed, determined Frederick, Baron Leitdorf, eldest son of the current Prince of Andermark and first in line to the Iron Throne coldly. Andermark would once more become a mighty power, no matter the cost. He would make it so.
Aged and hardened by battle much more than one might imagine of his his youthful thirty-two years, in both thought and appearance, Colonel the Baron Leitdorf was not your average product of Andermarker royal upbringing. In his studies, Frederick had performed poorly, though he had excelled in sports and the martial sciences. At seventeen, he had, against the wishes of his father, the Prince, dropped out of school to pursue the rugged life of a Border Legionnaire. The Imperial House of Leitdorf did not look favorably upon military service, beyond recognizing that the military was, as an institution, a necessary evil. And even if Frederick was truly determined to serve, reasoned his cousins, siblings, and father, he should at least have had the dignity to wait to receive a commission into the Pistolier Regiment, the Border Legion’s most prestigious regiment, an all-officer cavalry affair composed of the younger sons of Andermarkian nobles. Instead, the young Baron Leitdorf opted to enlist, unheard of for a royal or noble of any sort, in the lowly Free Corps. Its ranks filled with rapists, murderers, and thieves fleeing to a last refuge where the long arm of the law was forbidden from touching them, the austere and fearsome Free Corps was the only remaining arm of the Andermarker military still really regarded as having teeth.
Though, like all Free Corps recruits, Frederick had endured constant beatings early on, his martial skill was soon recognized in the many border wars with overly aggressive neighbors of Andermark and the relatively few military actions the Free Corps unilaterally took in Empire’s former protectorates and colonies, and he had risen quickly through ranks, at one point earning a battlefield commission.
Now he stared across the room at his paunchy, sluggardly father, Prince Gustav XXI, Sovereign of the Principality of Andermark, his eyes seething with hatred and his revolver trained on the man.
“My son,” cried the Prince, gasping in horror, “What are you doing?”
“I am doing what should have been done along time ago, father. I am restoring our people’s trust in this monarchy and our nation’s rightful place in this world,” Frederick replied, cooling off slightly.
“Please,” the old man begged his son as his eyes flitted around the room with fright, “reconsider what you’re about to do. I did not plunge our nation down to these depths, I am not responsible for our fall from greatness, my boy.”
Frederick’s eyes hardened again. “No you are not. But you did nothing to change the situation. You may not have been the one to bring about the downfall of the Empire, but in your long reign, you took no action to salvage this land and stood idly by while it has deteriorated. You deserve this,” he spoke clearly and calmly, with a frightening certainty. “Do you have any last words, father?”
“P-p-please, my boy. You don’t want to do this,” the Prince reiterated.
Baron Leitdorf’s lips curled once more in revolt as he marched over to his father, roaring. “Have you no honor, man?” He kicked the Prince down, put a foot on his chest and fired off three shots directly into the man’s head. The Baron stared at the Prince’s face, unshaken by the impact and unfazed by the splattered chunks of blood and brains.
A stout, unkempt, menacing looking sergeant looked up from the huddle of Freikorps soldiers gathered about at the Throne Room's entrance, clad in their grey full dress uniform, and growled in his hoarse voice, “The Prince is dead, long live the Prince!”
Once upon a time, Andermark was a proud and mighty nation. It had been a great seat of power, a capital from which a vast and prosperous empire of interconnected provinces, protectorates, and colonies was ruled over. Some even claimed that, for three and a quarter centuries, the Andermarkian Empire had been the dominant power of the World. Ruled by the Sovereign Emperor from his grand palace at Anderhal, the empire had spanned millions of miles. It had been a mighty military machine that routinely conquered new lands, subjugated new peoples, and brought new resources under its control. Anderhal had been a center for sciences and the arts, a hub of innovation and of ideas. The nation had known economic prosperity that had not been rivaled before and, some even said, has not been rivaled since.
But that had been a long time ago. A mighty power had collapsed on itself, on what the elders of this society had described as the decadence of an Empire. The citizens of the empire, men said, grew fat and lazy; the princes and dukes, who had once gained their titles through valorous feats of leadership on the battlefield, retreated into their castles; an Empire began to depend on foreign mercenaries to provide for its defense. One by one, the Empire’s vassals and protectorates stopped paying tribute, its colonies rebelled in wars of ‘national liberation,’ and its territories nearer to home were enveloped by rising foreign powers.
All that remained, today, of this once mighty empire hardly lived up to its legacy. Now little more than a city-state, with only the barest political or diplomatic clout outside of its walls, the Principality of Andermark was a sad and sorry reminder of what once was. Andermarkians still tried to live up to the days when their name was known across the world. The Emperors’ successors, now just Princes, still held Imperial Court at the magnificent Anderhal Palace, the Andermarker nobility still lived lavish lives as aristocrats, the Old Guard still mounted the Palace daily, and the city center was still decorated with the splendors of an Empire. But it was plain to see that Andermarkians were living in the past. Andermark no longer spanned millions of miles, but only several thousand, and it no longer held billions of souls within its boundaries, only fifty-six million or so. The vast military machine that once defined an era was replaced by a shadow of its former self, if even that: a few ceremonial regiments and a rag-tag collection of militiamen and foreign mercenaries. The Andermarker Empire had once enjoyed household recognition across the world, but now only attracted the rare brushing over of an occasional eccentric anthropologist or historian, whose interest in the nation was fleeting at best.
But circumstances would be once more reversed, determined Frederick, Baron Leitdorf, eldest son of the current Prince of Andermark and first in line to the Iron Throne coldly. Andermark would once more become a mighty power, no matter the cost. He would make it so.
Aged and hardened by battle much more than one might imagine of his his youthful thirty-two years, in both thought and appearance, Colonel the Baron Leitdorf was not your average product of Andermarker royal upbringing. In his studies, Frederick had performed poorly, though he had excelled in sports and the martial sciences. At seventeen, he had, against the wishes of his father, the Prince, dropped out of school to pursue the rugged life of a Border Legionnaire. The Imperial House of Leitdorf did not look favorably upon military service, beyond recognizing that the military was, as an institution, a necessary evil. And even if Frederick was truly determined to serve, reasoned his cousins, siblings, and father, he should at least have had the dignity to wait to receive a commission into the Pistolier Regiment, the Border Legion’s most prestigious regiment, an all-officer cavalry affair composed of the younger sons of Andermarkian nobles. Instead, the young Baron Leitdorf opted to enlist, unheard of for a royal or noble of any sort, in the lowly Free Corps. Its ranks filled with rapists, murderers, and thieves fleeing to a last refuge where the long arm of the law was forbidden from touching them, the austere and fearsome Free Corps was the only remaining arm of the Andermarker military still really regarded as having teeth.
Though, like all Free Corps recruits, Frederick had endured constant beatings early on, his martial skill was soon recognized in the many border wars with overly aggressive neighbors of Andermark and the relatively few military actions the Free Corps unilaterally took in Empire’s former protectorates and colonies, and he had risen quickly through ranks, at one point earning a battlefield commission.
Now he stared across the room at his paunchy, sluggardly father, Prince Gustav XXI, Sovereign of the Principality of Andermark, his eyes seething with hatred and his revolver trained on the man.
“My son,” cried the Prince, gasping in horror, “What are you doing?”
“I am doing what should have been done along time ago, father. I am restoring our people’s trust in this monarchy and our nation’s rightful place in this world,” Frederick replied, cooling off slightly.
“Please,” the old man begged his son as his eyes flitted around the room with fright, “reconsider what you’re about to do. I did not plunge our nation down to these depths, I am not responsible for our fall from greatness, my boy.”
Frederick’s eyes hardened again. “No you are not. But you did nothing to change the situation. You may not have been the one to bring about the downfall of the Empire, but in your long reign, you took no action to salvage this land and stood idly by while it has deteriorated. You deserve this,” he spoke clearly and calmly, with a frightening certainty. “Do you have any last words, father?”
“P-p-please, my boy. You don’t want to do this,” the Prince reiterated.
Baron Leitdorf’s lips curled once more in revolt as he marched over to his father, roaring. “Have you no honor, man?” He kicked the Prince down, put a foot on his chest and fired off three shots directly into the man’s head. The Baron stared at the Prince’s face, unshaken by the impact and unfazed by the splattered chunks of blood and brains.
A stout, unkempt, menacing looking sergeant looked up from the huddle of Freikorps soldiers gathered about at the Throne Room's entrance, clad in their grey full dress uniform, and growled in his hoarse voice, “The Prince is dead, long live the Prince!”