If Mahan Could See Us Now

[4WheelSword]

You walk up the long bath towards the Count's house, clutching a purse, heart hammering in your chest and you spend the entire way trying to decide whether you're terrified of the night to come, anxious about how you look or simply overwhelmed by the woman in the suit beside you. She is beautiful and so sharply put together, with the singly lonely decoration resting above her left breast, as adamant of a reminder of the price she has paid as the wood and iron that now adorns her leg. You wonder if anyone tonight will recognise the statement she is making by wearing that and that alone. You wonder if anyone will see how much she means to you. Sometimes you wonder if she does and then she looks at you and you remember.

The doorman is confrontational despite his near perfect Kevian. Either von Zeppelin has a frightfully well educated staff or he found the one man in his employ with the language skills that a night like tonight would require. Perhaps that is the more obvious answer you think as you tease Valentina about her drinking. You've seen her drink - it is not an idle comment, however flippantly you choose to put it across to her.

You walk into the grand hall with her, the ballroom, and the heart that has been hammering so vigorously stops as if it has just been pulled from your chest. The twirling couples, the tables piled high with food and drink, the sheer cacophony of a party in full swing. You have been in places like this before and you thought you would never return to anything of its ilk, living in a run down flat in a run down quarter of a backwards little city in Varnmark. A violin scratches just slightly and you almost wince. That would not have passed muster, back then.

A hand touches your back and you turn, trying to force a smile. Valentina looks worried. You hadn't realised how tense you have become just in watching proceedings.

"Are you okay?" She asks.

You are not certain. You'd like to say no, but that would be a lie. You were raised to this, after all, in a way, though your brain was getting the signals all backwards. What would the Duchess do, you ask yourself. You can hold yourself with grace instead of presence. That is all it takes.

"Yes." You reply, though even you hear the weakness in your answer, "Yes, fine. I've done this before, I can do it again.

Foolish. She is going to ask questions. You put an arm out for her to take, a distraction but a worthwhile one.

"Sasha, no. We're in public." She hisses at you.

"What, can a lady not offer a war hero her arm? I mean, we have such a grand staircase to descend, I wouldn't like you to trip and make a fool of yourself." You tease. She grumbles, but she takes your arm and you start breathing again as you descend into the throngs of well-appointed party guests.

Perhaps for the first time in your life, you do not feel out of place. You may not be wearing a fashionable designer or the finest materials, but you feel as you should and you are on the arm of someone you love. It is electrifying.

You hush the acidic little voice in the back of your head that tells you you are a monster and let the energy of the room wash over you.

And then, in a whirl of artfully executed upper class manipulation, you are separated from your love by a beautiful siren of a woman as Valya is dragged away by a man whose intentions seem friendly enough but certainly extend beyond a guest-host relationship. Still, there is not a lot you can do without breaching all sorts of rules of decorum, so you follow the siren with the white-blonde hair

"Countessa," You say as she slows just enough for you to catch a moment of her attention as she pulls you through the crowd, "Not that I don't appreciate-"

"Hush, girl, and wait till we get where we're going," She says with a giggle and the force of will of a drill sergeant.

You hold back a sigh and follow as she leads you through little door that leads off the ballroom, down a short corridor and into a warm, smoky room, just as richly decorated as the rest of the house but in the reds and golds of pure hedonism. A wall is devoted to glass cabinets filled with books and the various recliners and divans host an array of finely dressed clearly mildly inebriated dilettantes.

"Who's this then?" A young man calls as the woman closes the door behind you.

"Ladies and Gentlemen and Others of the club, may I present Miss Sasha Ivanova." She gestures at you in a somewhat all encompassing way, "And she is Kevian so those of you who can, it would only be polite to speak so."

"Your command of the language is admirable, Countessa, but I speak Dyske well enough for a party." You say in her own language and the ribald laugh you get in return is well worth it. After a momentary startle she laughs as well, and her wide eyes make the comment at her expense well worth it.

"Well aren't you full of glorious surprises." She says and takes your arm properly. "Allow me to introduce you. My boys, Herr Adelbrecht and Herr Thomas, both very fine young men." She points to two grown men wrapped around each other lazily on a velvet couch. "Grafin Amelia Metzog," An older woman as sharply dressed as Valya but much more expensively raises a glass silently, "The artist Odel and their muse, Maria." Two people who you took to both be women on another couch, but either you have misheard or the countessa used another word. "And a dear friend, Miss Julienne Marchand of Gallia." The last, an irresistibly made up girl who cannot be past her teenage years giggles and raises delicate fingers.

"A pleasure to meet you all." You say formally and there is another laugh.

"Oh please, not so stiff. Fix yourself a drink and get acquainted." She says as she ensconces herself between the two men she had called her boys. Everything feels very strange but very welcoming nonetheless. You pour two fingers of vodka, good northern stuff, and find a crushed velvetine corner to perch on. "I wish you could have brought your girl to meet everyone, but sadly my husband's business does come first."

"Oh, she's not, um. She's my travelling companion, Countessa" You say, almost stammering. This evokes another laugh and you feel even more embarrassed and a little confused.

"Please, you don't need to hide that sort of thing around us. You're not so subtle to someone who's looking for the signs." She smiles warmly, without menace. "And anyway, didn't I say to call me Hilda? You had best get comfortable, dear girl, for do we have some things to tell you."

 

[4WheelSword]

"Yes, we must." You agree. His intensity is on the verge of being too much but hell, if you cannot understand the reasons behind his intensity then who possibly could? "I have seen war from my own perspective as well and If I could make it so that it was never seen again, I would. I would do anything at all if that's what it takes."

"You would?" he asks, eyes looking up from his drink where they had fallen almost despondently.

You nod, resolute. You think of the dead and of those you killed and know in your bones that you've never felt anything more firmly than this.

"I, as well." The cigar he's smoking burns brightly. You light another cigarette, intending to actually smoke this one this time. "I cannot move as freely as I did as a young man. Oh, I have the airships, yes, but wherever I go I am not Ferdinand, I am the 'Dyske engineer'. My voice carries weight - in Dyske."

"You must have some connections in Europa?" How else had he managed to establish a continent spanning empire of Airships and the stations that service them.

"Well, of course." he says, pouring himself another drink from the bottle on his desk. "But there is a difference between the interests of business and the interests of the great powers in many circumstances." He chuckles at your raised eyebrow. "I do not think you are naive, dear girl."

Good, you think. You may not be the most knowledgeable about international diplomacy or the going ons of capitalists but you know enough about war to know that many businessmen like himself have enjoyed great fortunes won from the onset and progress of war.

"Perhaps it is fairer to say that I am not the sort of man looking to profit from death," he continued, "I had hoped that as I opened the skies to humanity that they would do away with conflict. My airships were reducing borders to a legality, especially as access to them spread not just in location but also financially. Perhaps I am the naive one, that I hoped that the great men and women of Europa would look down upon this great continent in the same way that I looked down on a battlefield so many years ago."

"You wanted to make pacifists of them." You say, almost glum that he seemed so distraught in his passion. He had wanted so much more than money, so much more even than to see his dream take flight. You had always thought that people like him would be fountains of joy simply at the idea of their coffers overflowing with peoples gold. Apparently he is not so simple a man.

"It sounds like the ravings of a lunatic, I imagine, but yes I did. I wanted them to see that the future of Europa can only be built on peace, not on war. Instead it appears that they are set on a descent into further folly."

"It's tragic," you agree. You are no student of history, but you know enough of Europa and the world to know that war has been a constant. Caspia and Akitsukini now, Stolrussia and Kevia a few years ago, Dyskelande, Gallia, Albia, Hesperia, their borders all may as well have been in flux for centuries.

"I believe that there is another way. Or, I hope there is, anyway. I want my daughter to grow up without the fear of an enemies guns." He pauses, looking you in the eyes as the smoke drifts between you both. The room is so warm that your head is beginning to swim a little - or perhaps it's the alcohol. "But I'm afraid I have kept you for too long. Tonight is supposed to be a night for partying!"

"But- I thought-" You stutter, confused. You feel like there is a conclusion which he somehow hasn't quite reached, or that he has for some reason thought better of.

"We will have plenty of time to discuss the future another night. Why don't you come and see me in two days. But I should get you back to the celebrations." He stands and stubs out the cheroot, gesturing for you to follow suit.

Your head is a whirl as you walk back down the corridor to the party. What does he expect of you? Valentina Mikhailova, retired from the navy, decorated for bravery perhaps but otherwise a nobody. No, he was just looking for a perspective, a sounding board. Perhaps the count took pity on you, decided to entertain a broken old soldier who he thought would share his dreams of a peaceful world.

Your stump itches and you're already tired from thinking. Perhaps there's time for another drink before you outstay your welcome.

"Don't forget," He says as you reach the final door to the ballroom, turning to stop you with a hand, "Two days, you come back. I'd apologise for the delay, but you can't rush an old man's whims. And I should look into a few things before I give you a definite offer, anyway."

"I, um… Okay." Apparently there was more to this confusion than pity. Though you will apparently have to wait a couple of days to find out exactly what it is that's going on. "Two days it is."

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me," He opens the door, letting the cacophonous assault of a party in full swing into the corridor that had previously been quiet, "I have other business to attend to. Enjoy the party."

You descend the staircase for the second time in a night feeling a lot less out of place but a lot more on show than the first time. Without a beautiful woman on your arm you are just a haggard, one legged, plain woman in a socially unacceptable trouser suit. You pluck another glass of the fizzy wine which tickles your nose from a tray and empty it the shortest of moments. Your stomach growls just loud enough to let you know that it's been a little while since you've eaten.

A man approaches you, his fine uniform displaying a multitude of medals, his thin moustache perched precariously on his upper lip. He wears a beautiful deep red cape over one shoulder and a short sword on his belt. He bows, a very rapid forward and back motion, and speaks very loudly, very rapidly in a language that you neither understand nor recognise.

"I'm sorry, dear man, I have no idea what you're saying." You reply. Either he'll realise you're from Varnmark and reply in Kevian or he'll wander off.

Instead he laughs, saying something to another man and a woman in similar dress who join him. They laugh in turn and speak gabble the strange language back to him. He says something else, looking you in the eye so you know it's too you - or about you, you suddenly realise.

He reaches out to touch the lapel of you jacket where the medal is pinned and you step back. He speaks again, reaches out again.

Well this is rude…
[ ] Make some noise, a scene. Someone in here must be able to translate for you.
[ ] Slap him, push him away. You're not afraid of being physical.
[ ] Try to walk away from them, there's plenty to do at a party.
[ ] Write-in

 

[4WheelSword]

He will not do so a third time. You might not speak the language but you can make your feelings explicitly clear without any words. A hand between your two bodies and a look on your face that clearly meant business.

"Do not touch me, Sir. You would not be the first man I teach the dangers of presuming my fragility." You say, louder than necessary for him to hear. But it is not for him to hear. You hope that someone listening will have enough kevian to understand your distress and be sober enough to remember how you are suppose to treat a fellow officer. Whatever this man is saying it is clear that he does not know the first thing about acting with dignity or respect.

It takes every ounce of self control you have to not lay into him even though he wouldn't understand a word.

He folds his arms, his cape falling fashionably on one side and says something that, while clearly directed at you, is only meant to be understood by his two compatriots. They give another snide laugh. It makes your heart beat louder in your ears and the blood boil in your veins.You pray to the gods that he says nothing more or you will have difficulty stopping yourself from becoming physically confrontational.

A cool hand on your elbow stops you in your tracks, long fingers digging in just enough to make you take notice. A man stands at your shoulder in the rich colours of a Gallian dress uniform and the high and tight cropped hairstyle that was popular with men at the moment. His eyes are crystal clear blue and his strong jaw gives him a look that is more Dakazyn coast than Ganymedian.

He speaks, voice deep and sonorous, in yet another language which you do not understand but which you assume to be Gallian if only by the colour and cut of his clothes. His accent is both foreign and familiar and something stirs in the depths of your brain to hear it from him.

"I'm sorry, dear lady, that this impetuous oaf has bothered you," he says now in perfectly unaccented Kevian, "I'm afraid he speaks nothing more than his native Otrusian which, while useful for insulting him without his knowledge, also means he can do the same to any poor babes exposed to him without forewarning." He raises his eyebrows and smiles at you. He apparently means no offence, despite his almost patronising tone.

The Otrusian, for now that is what he is known to you as, spits out a few harsh unintelligible words and bows very curtly at the man standing next to you. He does not, you cannot help but notice, deign to look at you at any point during this process. He sweeps off, a movement accentuated by cape and sword spinning as he turns on his heel, and quickly disappears into the crowd without a backwards glance.

"I don't believe we've met." you say, not a question but an accusatory statement, turning on the man who has apparently come to your rescue.

"It's a travesty that we haven't." He says, and bows in turn, "Lieutenant-General Otto Kelbe, at your service ma'am, the Gallian Fourth army."

"Your Kevian is remarkable for a Gallian, sir."

"That is not so remarkable at a function as multicultural as this. Lady Magdeburg knows how to choose her friends, you know, and her husband has never denied her a well spoken cabal of officers and gentlemen."

"I feel like there is an implication I'm missing." You can't tell if he is hinting or teasing but either way you don't appreciate the lack of clarity when you're already feeling a little fuzzy headed. Or perhaps more than a little. Either way, you have no patience for a man even if he has just stepped in to resolve confusion.

"Perhaps," He says with a knowing and utterly irritating smile. He might even be described as smug. "But I am not here for my Kevian, nor my Stoli which I might say is even better given that it is my homeland"

A man of Varnmark in the colours of a Gallian? Preposterous, you think, and yet he does seem to be telling the truth from his accent and fluency; even if he is speaking more formal Kevian than you are used to. There must be a story to it, if you cared to ask.

"Then why are you here?"

"Why, for my wit and charm of course." he laughs and you begrudgingly admit to yourself that his laughter, at least, is pleasant enough. "And the fact that I am a rising star in the Gallian military is nothing to do with it, would you believe."

His wink is apparently intended to suggest that his words are not entirely sincere, as if that wasn't obvious enough.

"But what of you? How do I find a Kevian so far from her home?" He asks, apparently finally noticing he's yet to ask you an particular questions.

"Home became a little less welcoming than it could have been, I found," You reply, "After the fighting finished-"

"Fighting?" He interrupts, eyes wide, "Oh, were you involved in the revolution? Are you an anti-monarchist?" He grins again apparently aiming for jocular but unfortunately he's only managing irksome.

"I was involved, yes." If he doesn't know, then you aren't going to volunteer details of the horrors you were subjected to. "But i fought for Varnmark, as is proper. Nonetheless, I was wounded and tired and decided I needed some time for myself. So I decided to travel."

"Travel, yes, very soothing for the soul. But you came alone? That seems unwise. Even as modern as we are, the rest of Europa is not always the safest of places, especially at the moment."

"I- no. No, I'm not travelling alone." You frown.

It finally occurs to you like a shock that Sasha has yet to appear by your shoulder. Not that she is some sort of puppy following you around, but she is usually very aware of you and it is perhaps unusual that she has not sought you out. A little simmering worry you hadn't realised was in the back of your mind makes itself more noticeable. You had drawn a lot of attention in the altercation with the Otrusian, though perhaps less than you could have done. Perhaps she has left already. Perhaps she has found someone else to take up her time. The anxious feeling in your gut grows.

"Are you okay? Do you need some air? The balcony is quite beautiful if I could escort you." he pauses, seeming to consider his words for a moment, "My dear, if I've said something untoward or overstepped then I can only apologise sincerely as I would never intend anything of the sort."

What do you want?
[ ] He might be annoying, but he's interesting. Ask him to tell you more of his past.
[ ] You're bored of talking to men, even if you are grateful. Find something better to do.
[ ] Ask him to help you find Sasha, as you need some comfort after the confrontation.
[ ] The balcony sounds an excellent choice. Lets walk and perhaps you can burn off some alcohol.

 

[4WheelSword]

"You haven't offended Sir, not by any means." You try to ameliorate the apparent wounding of his pride, distressed by the truly pained look on his face. Either he is actually hurt or he is a much better actor than you have considered giving him credit for, "I'm simply a little distracted."

"Distracted? My dear, what could possibly have you in your own head on such a wonderful night?" His smile is back, warm and inviting and wide. He scans around the room and laughs, "I suppose I did have to rescue you, didn't I?"

You can't say that you're particularly happy with the description of what happened as a rescue. The Otrusian might have been acting a cad, whatever he was saying, but you could have walked away at any time. You didn't need some great lunk stepping in and feeling all sorts of macho for you.

That wouldn't be a fair thing to say to him though, now would it. You curse the chiding voice in the back of your head and put the thoughts of Sasha and her whereabouts to one side.

"Yes, and I am grateful for that. But I was mostly wondering about where my travelling companion has gotten to."

"Oh! Yes, I interrupted you, you'd said that you hadn't been travelling alone." He seems truly sincere. Now you begin to worry about his intentions, another layer of unwanted anxiety. Is he simply excited to meet someone from the homeland, or is there an ulterior motive?

"I have a companion, a woman named Sasha. I thought she was going to be here when I got back, but-"

"I'm sure she's around here somewhere." He looks you in the eye as he interrupts, that same smile still plastered across his face, "You don't need to worry at a party like this, there's always some gang of reprobates making sure that everyone is having a good time."

You think of the Otrusian and the diplomatic niceties that could have been unravelled by that incident. You don't know how much experience Sasha has of engagements like this but she had seemed distressed when you first arrived. You don't want her getting upset or starting a fight. Perhaps a gang of drunken revellers would not be the best company for her.

But you cannot appear too concerned. She is just a friend to these people, just someone who happens to be touring Europa with you. They cannot guess how much she means to you.

Putting on a casual tone, you smile back at the intense Gallian officer.

"I'm sure you're right." Gesturing at his uniform, you decide to redirect the conversation. "You asked me how I cam to be here, Sir, and I answered to the fullest. But what of yourself? You cannot brush me off, how does a Stolrussian end up a senior officer in a uniform but our own?"

"Oh, come now, that's not a story for polite-"

"Oh Sir, but I insist!" Feigning his own attempts at jocularity is hard enough and you wonder if he will notice how put on this conversation is. "Do not be coy with me, there must be a marvellous story behind a man such as yourself."

"I insist there is not." He says, smile now gone from his face.

"And yet, here you stand in that marvellous uniform."

He looks you up and down, eyes clearly taking in the wide rictus grin, the medal pinned to your chest, and the stump where your amputated leg once stood.

"You have clearly seen war, my dear, and not that of the comfortable or the removed. You have fought. I have also fought, with a sword in my hand and a horse beneath me. I fought for a Queen I didn't know against a King I didn't know against men and women who seemed no different than you or I. I spent time on distant battlefields as well as near and won my own medals for my wounds and for my gallantry, if you could call it that."

You want to say something, but know that it would do nothing but interrupt his flow. The way in which his demeanour has shifted is incredible, the bright and easy personality washed away by a grim faced discussion of war.

"When I came home from that time away… It was as if I had never been away. The men and women who lived on my street had the gall to ask me where I'd been and how I'd enjoyed it. They could not seem to understand that there was something very wrong with expecting me to just step back into their lives as if I hadn't seen the things I had seen."

There is something very true to those words, and terrifying too. Does every soldier feel like you? Do they all feel the urge to turn their backs on their homes, at least for a little while?

"The people that I had grown amongst did not understand me. And then it became clear that my masters did not want me. They had used me up in conflict, and they threw me away like so much detritus without showing any interest in my fate. I was not wanted, my commission was bought from me, so I left Stoli and wandered. I'm sure you can understand that urge, can't you?"

He looks at you and there is something in his eyes that shows more of himself than you have seen at any point during the evenings conversation. You nod, rather than vocalising an answer. There is some part of his story which is very familiar, at least.

"Of course, I found much more than I had expected, as so many do when they decide to reach beyond that which they have been raised to. I found an understanding of why my nation looks the way it does, and yours as well. Why our nation will never succeed." he spits the idea of the union as if it was ash in his mouth, "I was offered a place where I would feel wanted, and not serve the whims of the unelected. That, my dear, is why you find me now, here, in this uniform. Because I am accepted."

His words strike to your core. The emotion, the feeling with which they are delivered is powerful and cutting, but it does not hide the truth behind them. He is a traitor to Varnmark and a traitor to his Queen. That is enough for you.

And he dares to speak of acceptance to you. Him, who if he knew the truth of your relationship would likely be the first to put his finely polished boot-heel upon your neck and call for your imprisonment, if not death. You were mistaken, when you thought that you had something in common with this man who has decided to be so kind tonight. He is the sort of man who would have watched you die on the shores of Polyapavlosk for the sake of his forlorn ideal, you can already tell.

"Do you know." You say, quietly, looking past him and out across the ballroom, your empty glass as good as forgotten in your hand, "That it is thoughts like that that have lead to me wearing this medal."

You say it without emotion and without anger but nonetheless the man takes a step back, eyes widening.

"My dear, I did not mean to cause offence-"

"That is the second time you have said that tonight. I believed it the first. This time, I am not so certain. You approached me, sir, the only other native of my homeland in this room I imagine, and it was only a little effort to have you tell me those things. If you did not do this on purpose, then you are perhaps one of the most careless men I have ever met."

"My dear-"

"And will you please stop calling me that. I have a name and had you known it then perhaps none of this would have come to pass. I am Valentina Mikhailova, and you shall remember it Sir."

It is difficult to sweep gracefully from a room when you having but one leg and have imbibed more than your fair share of sharp, sparkling wine, but nonetheless you manage well enough to lose yourself into the crowd before he can come up with any witty response to shout after your retreating back.

There is only one way you're going to be able to find comfort and solace in this, and the thought of Sasha weighs heavily as you attempt to find your way out of the ballroom and pack to some sort of peace. You ask two porters if they've seen her with no luck when you finally strike upon the only idea that's actually going to work. You ask for the Lady Magdeburg.

You are led to a side room and asked to wait outside while the footman quietly slips through the door. It is only a moment before he is back and beckoning you inside.

Inside is… well, it's hedonism, that's perfectly true. The Lady and two men, both unknown to you, are sprawled on a couch in various states of undress and disarray though even the most cursory examination would lead you to assume they've just completed coitus. A woman is fed strawberries by an effete, fae looking person with the most delicate touch. And at the back of the room, half hidden by a haze of cigarillo smoke, is Sasha and a besuited woman, both fully dressed and acting like nothing around them exists at all.

What do you need?
[ ] I need to go home.
[ ] I need to talk.
[ ] I need you.
[ ] I need… to join you?

 

[4WheelSword]

You take the first few steps into the dimly lit room, smelling the intense smoke drive itself into your nostrils with every breath. Feeling suddenly lightheaded you have to take a moment the catch your balance before proceeding. The cigarillo byproduct is sweet, cloying, like nothing else you've ever smelled. The continental Europans apparently have a strange taste in smokes, accustomed as you are to the simple and acrid stink of tobacco, the sudden head-rush of nicotine, none of which is floating in the air of this lascivious parlour.

"Miss Valentina…" A voice croons, long and soft. You turn to see a smiling Lady Magdeburg, her head resting on one of the nude mens chests, gazing at you as if you are both very close and far away from her. She raises a hand in some approximation of a greeting and smiles very widely. She seems tired, or perhaps distant in some other way, as if her mind is further away than her body. Her eyes look past you, not at you. It is disconcerting, to say the least. "Come over here, Miss, take the weight from your…" she looks down, smiles to herself, "foot."

"I'm sorry, my Lady, but I have to see Sasha,"

"Oh, the Duchess can wait, can't she?" Hilda reaches behind herself, patting the lap of the man who is partially curled around her. He twitches awake, but only for long enough to curl against her and for the blanket covering him to slip just enough for you to know he is not just somewhat undressed, but entirely. "There are so many things to try, and don't you just want to let it all slip away?" She blinks ever so slowly, her smile almost that of a simpleton.

"I'm sorry." is all you can manage in response. She seems so out of it, you doubt she will even remember the conversation tomorrow, but nonetheless you are sorry. Her husband, at least, has been very kind and it does seem that she has taken care of Sasha. At least she seems comfortable enough, deep in conversation with another woman.

You walk towards them, more comfortable now, though your mind is a rapid fire swirl of nonsense and confusion. The woman, the Lady, the smoke, the proximity, the naked man, all of these carousel their way through your brain and, again, there is some reference to an unknown past. You have no idea what it means but now a person other than her has used it in reference to the woman you love and do you not deserve the right to understand? You have never pried, never pushed, never fought to know of what came before you knew her. She has made too many implications of the pain of it all for you to do that. She has already confronted you once, long ago in a dark and grimy armoury corridor, and you have not wanted to risk such repercussions to your question. But now it is becoming too much. You must ask, and weather whatever her response may be.

"Sasha," You say to catch her attention as you sidle up to her. She reaches a hand up without looking, inviting you close, but you choose not to take it. She is listening intently to the woman next to her, transfixed, but you must have her attention. You simply must.

"Sasha, Darling." using the word as a blunt implement to tear her from whatever spell she is under, effective as you have been so careful for so long. Finally she looks up at you with a confused look and then grins widely, reaching out to grab your hand and pull you to her. She wraps and arm around your waist even from where she is sitting.

"Valentina!" She positively coos, ice clinking in her glass, "This is the Grafin Metzog. She has been telling me many wondrous things about Dyskelande." The woman nods almost sagely, as if she has imparted some great wisdom which she has no intention, you feel, of sharing beyond the ears of your dearest.

Suddenly, and without reason, the anger bubbles in your gut.

"And there's so many of us here, right here in this country," she says, not even looking at you but back at this supposedly noble woman in a suit who has captured so much of her attention, "Like us, like me."

She is so excited. It is a shame to burst that bubble. There is almost a feeling of guilt in you as you shut her down.

"Sasha, I need to speak to you, urgently" She stops and looks up at you, the smile dropping ever so slightly, "Alone, if that might be possible," You finish, with a pointed look at her company.

"Oh… Grafina-" She stops, pauses for a moment and suddenly she is speaking the local language for which you have no talent and your frustration is only growing, "Grafina, may I ask you to give us a moment. This is my… she is my love, you see."

Whatever she has said, the noble woman's eyes grow and she smiles a smile you feel is not often seen on a face such as hers but which is all the more handsome for it.

"By all means, dear girl, by all means. I won't be far, if you'd like to speak more." She stands, apparently something of her words being a goodbye, "Adieu, mamzel Valentina."

You are uncomfortable with the bow you receive but you cannot help but drop into an ungainly curtsy as you were taught back at the academy. The Grafin wanders away slowly, first to the drinks cabinet and then to another sofa, alongside the prostrate girl and the effete, uh… none of the words that come to mind aptly describe them, so person must do.

You slide onto the sofa next to Sasha and sit quietly for a moment with your hands in your lap. She takes them into hers, pulling until you turn to her. Everything about her screams disquiet and discomfort, worry suddenly etched on the otherwise statuesque features that make up her face.

"My dear, sweet Koshka, what is it? I had not meant to cause you any distress." she is the second person you have heard that from tonight and it's no better despite who it's coming from.

"My dear Sasha, tonight I have done nothing but be steeped in confusion and pressure by a variety of people who I have never met before. Some of them I did not even share a language with and even when I found someone also capable of Kevian, he turned out to be such an insufferable prig that I could bear to be around the party any more!" You realise that the volume of your voice has risen but not only does nobody seem to have noticed but you couldn't care less if they did, "I am so glad for you, Liybimaya, that you have enjoyed your night in fine company. I am so glad to discover second hand that you speak languages beyond that which we share and that you have a more complex past than you have ever made out. Who are you, Sasha Ivanova, and why do I not know?"

The silence, not just between you, but across the entire room, is heavy and thick. You have brought the tension into the room with you and you do not regret it one bit. Sasha looks at you like she has been struck, but the expression slowly fades. As it does, finally the feelings come flooding back in. Regret. Pain. Shock.

"I wanted to be with you so badly. I wanted you by my side, as you have been so much recently. I missed you." You say. An attempt to soften the blow of what you have said but nonetheless the truth. "I missed you."

The first tears fall from her eyes and your heart cracks.

"I have not been honest with you about my past, dear one, because I am not able to be honest with myself. My past is locked away, because my family would not hold with it if it were any other way, and they have a much greater reach than perhaps you can imagine. I am neither penniless soldier, nor simply an officer from the academy, that is true and perhaps you have come to realise that. When I served with the lancers, it was with commission bought and my own stable of horses, not the nags which the king offers to those who cannot bring their own. Perhaps there are assumption that you can make from that."

"Sasha, I am not accusing-"

"No, my love, if you want my story you will have what I can tell of it," her voice is sombre, a hand held up between you. Your own hands are unheld, forgotten in your lap. "When I made the decision to pursue the person I am today, it was not only to the distaste of our state but to my family as well. I am fortunate enough that I can live without prosecution because of them - my family would in no way appreciate the attention that would bring - but I was cashiered and my commission bought out. Until I met you, I had been living out a very quiet, and very discreet life. You, sweet one, are the change in all of that."

She pauses, taking a moment to wipe her ears and have a sip of her drink.

"Tonight has brought up a great deal of stress for me as well, Koshka, thought I will admit that it has mostly been my past and not my future. Perhaps you would permit me to deal with that before you come to me with your suggestions that all I have done is enjoy the evening."

You have to fight not to recoil. Her words are like barbed blades slicing through your skin, so painfully and so viciously accurate that you wish you could take back everything you have said.

A response is necessary, even if finding the words will be difficult.
[ ] I'm sorry… but just who are you? (Pry dangerously)
[ ] I'm sorry, my love. Lets go home.
[ ] I'm sorry. Can we enjoy the rest of the night together?
[ ] Write in (GM veto reserved)

 

[4WheelSword]

"I'm sorry." You say. It's all that you can think to say.

"I know, my love." She reaches out to touch the line of you jaw, trailing her fingers along it. With a sigh she attempts to smile but the sadness in her eyes puts paid to the idea. "It is not so easy, is it. We have both seen so much pain… it is perhaps more surprising that it took so long for this to happen."

"Dearest, I… I feel as though I have not paused since we arrived at this party and at no point have I managed to relax. I did not mean to hurt you. I am certainly not myself, I know that much, not after everything this evening. I do not know who I am to these people, even if I know who I am."

"I know that, Valentina, I know," She says, but you hold a hand up for quiet.

"I am confused, that much I know. But I will put that aside, if you wish, I will put myself aside so that I can be what you need. You know you have all my kindness and all my patience." You realise you sound almost plaintive, offering everything to her and praying for something back. You realise that in this moment you would tear yourself open for her tenderness, make yourself more vulnerable than you have ever been for anyone if only she would leave her fingers on your skin. Her soft touch is everything. You feel the first sting of tears touch the corner of your eyes and her pained gasp is a fresh tear in your chest.

Her fingers move from your jaw to your cheek, thumb wiping away the smallest droplet from your eyelashes. A moment later her lips are on yours in a chaste kiss that leaves you breathless nonetheless.

"I would not ask that much of you." She says, her whisper almost inaudible over the sounds around you.

You turn to look at the other revellers, now chatting raucously amongst themselves. The woman in the suit, the Grafin, meets your eyes and smiles in a way that you do not like but why you could not say. Perhaps after the night you've had people would not complain for you suspicions, and something inside is telling you that it is not simply a case of paranoia.

"I would give it though," You turn back to Sasha, "and give it gladly. I will not have you hurting for me or for anyone, if I have my way."

"I know." She sniffs, fighting her own tears it seems, "I have your kindness and you have my love."

"And you have mine. My heart is yours." Whether it's the alcohol, the hazy atmosphere or the intensity of the encounter, you are suddenly being more honest with your feelings than you have ever been. You reach up to take her hand, laying it against your chest as the tears continue their slow trickle across your cheeks. It is not sadness that makes you cry; no, you are happy. Happy to hear her words and happy to have her hands on you. "Can we go home, my love?"

"Of course. Of course."

You, both of you now united again as a couple, make your excuses and escape into the night. The air is cold on your hot skin as Sasha steals a kiss in the dark shade of a tree, her hands touching in an entirely promiscuous manner as they slide inside your jacket. Your own explore the curves of her before you grab her wrist and race back to the hotel with laughter on your lips and your heart beating faster than it ever has before.

That night is the first you share together in the most passionate of ways. Before you have been scared to upset her with the wrong touch, the wrong idea. And, you will admit, you have been nervous of your own body. There had been nobody since that snatched night in the toilets of a bar in Polyapavlosk nor before. Not until now, here in a foreign city with a woman you have loved for months.

Her touch is gentle, her explorations cautious but tender, caring. You, in turn, are almost worshipful as if you kneel before the altar of a certain goddess with whom you wish to commune most intimately.

Basking in the afterglow, in the darkness, wrapped in sweat-damp sheets, you hold her to your chest and smile even though she cannot see it. Her breathing slows, deepens, as she falls asleep against your breasts with an arm thrown lazily across your naked hips.

"Oh, Liybimaya." you say to the dark ceiling, to the sleeping woman, to yourself, "We will find a place we can be together, one day. I promise."

She stirs gently in the silence. Shifts, slightly. Then your eyes close, and you drift into sleep.

Where will you go?
[ ] Otrusia
[ ] Gallia
[ ] Albia

 

[4WheelSword]

An eventful night can change an entire dynamic, creating a revolution just large enough to flip the worlds of two people on their heads. When you wake the morning after that eventful night that is certainly how it feels.

Dim light pierces the blinds. Her arm is warm where it is draped across you, her skin hot to the touch where it presses against yours. She breathes softly, long hair tangled about her face and tickling your shoulder. You smile and kiss the top of her head. Nothing feels the same. Everything is more real, suddenly. Everything about her, and you. Being together. Finding unity in each other and each others bodies.

Eventually you have to move, if only to go to the bathroom if not for any of the other pressing issues which you are facing in the coming days. Travel documents have to be arranged, passes and tickets must be bought - and at some point you have to fit in a return to the Counts gigantic house in order to discover exactly what it is he's being so mysterious about.

It takes more than one attempt to leave the cosy bed where you finally consummated your relationship. It feels strange that it was not the creaking steel framed one in your apartment nor the threadbare mattress in Sasha's. Is it a betrayal or is this somehow your illicit honeymoon, snatched from the jaws of violence and offered up like a healing gift on the heels of a storm. Was that too melodramatic, was it too intense, was it too heartachingly tragic to think of this as a honeymoon? You were travelling, after all, with the one woman you had ever consented to spending your nights and your days with. You might not be married but then that's a laughable idea. Where in the world could you marry another woman, after all.

The two days between waking up in that perfect moment and steppin into the Count's villa once more are hardly jam packed. You spend most of them drifting through the cities warm streets, eating and lounging in the tired little hotel you are staying in. It's the only place that you can safely take her hand and hold it in your own, though a few times you dare to go as far as to stand, arm in arm, on the little balcony where you enjoy to smoke in the shining sun or under the stars.

"Do you think you still want to go to the capital?" Sasha asks in a quiet moment on the first afternoon, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette in hand. She is framed by sunlight, shadow cast across where you lay on the bed.

"Do you know, I think it might be worth finding another part of Europa. One with a few less people who are quite so invested in us." You think back over the four people who've tried to encourage some course of action from you over the past twenty-four hours and how you actually only trust one of them to be at least threatening to use you for good. Between the spy on the airship and the traitor at the party you have a newfound impatience with anyone who seems to know anything about you. You'd rather be invisible, given your stated intent of getting away from the stressor that your home had become.

"I'll admit, I'm already tired of speaking Dyske. Where would you like to see? I'll take you anywhere you like, Koshka, anywhere at all." she said, and you know it is true, you feel it deep down in the way your heart flutters.

"What about Gallia? I've read so many stories about the vineyards and the restaurants and the tower of ayefulls-"

"The what?" her head snaps around, a big smile plastered across her face.

"The big metal tower in Lutetia, the triangle- what?" You say, confused as Sasha tries to hold in a laugh with only limited success. "What is it, what's so funny?"

"My sweet, sweet girl." She bites her lip, shaking her head, "Le tour eiffel, the Eiffel Tower."

She walks across the room, catching your jaw with her hand and kissing you softly on the lips. You're still pouting when she pulls away and she smiles again.

"Well whatever it's called."

"Lutetia then. We can do that. La Ville de Lumière, the city of lights. It'll be magical."

"I hope so." You say and take another drag from your cigarette in the early afternoon of a summer's day.

---

Walking up the path towards Count von Zeppelins house would feel like dejavu if it wasn't for the blazing sunshine and the lack of formalwear about your person. Equally you, once more, don't have Sasha by your side and while it does not feel as fear-inducing as it did that night in the Count's great ballroom it's still a little unsettling. But you have your cane, and your ideas and a confidence when climbings the stone steps which feels entirely unearned.

His office is much as you remember it, all dark wood and high backed chairs though a little less smokey than it was the other evening. Less heavy. The atmosphere isn't oppressive with the heavy curtains tied back and bright sunlight streaming in. It's almost beautifully designed, in its own Dyskelandic way.

Von Zeppelin himself sits in his chair, puffing away at another cheroot, looking both more comfortable and happier than he did that night when the party was in full swing.

"Valentina-" he says, pausing to take a long drag. He offers his lighter but you shake your head, "you said the other evening that you are not a woman of war."

"Yes. I stand by it." you respond despite the lack of a question.

"And I said that I had a potential offer of work for you, yes?" It's an actual question, but it's no more helpful. If he intends to simply go over the same conversation all over again, perhaps you should have started on that cigarette. At least you would have had plenty of time in which to smoke it.

"Yes, sir, you did. Asked me to come back and here I am." Crossing your legs, you lace your fingers in front of you. You're nervous, more nervous than perhaps you should be but the problem is that you just don't know.

"And here you are." he takes another long drag, blows the smoke in a billowing cloud into the air, "There is a gathering of the worlds nations being organised in October of this year, a congress if you will. It is intended that there will be negotiations on an unprecedented scale with the intention of working towards a worldwide network of trade and travel. I have been invited, of course."

"You airships? Surely ships, naval vessels-" You start to ask but he interrupts.

"They have their uses, yes, and they can certainly transport more than any of my airships currently can. But they are slow! If you want to travel from Varnmark to Otrusia in a matter of days then you take a von Zeppelin special, not a boat, don't you?"

You almost laugh. You most certainly would not, given the price of an especially chartered international airship flight but perhaps those who could, would.

"Certainly, I can see that. How does this relate to the congress?"

"Expanded trade, girl, expanded travel! The weakening of borders and the strengthening of bonds between people. My airships will change the ways in which people will relate to each other entirely. They will change the world, of that I am very certain."

"So this… this negotiation, it's a business opportunity? You had me sold on noble dreams, not money-making."

His smile is much broader than you thought it would be, given what you have just said.

"I knew you were not a naive woman, Valentina. Of course I will make money, but such is life. Such is the world. But that is not my purpose and I can swear by the nobility of my goals." Another pause. Another drag. Another cloud. "If people can travel, they will learn. If they learn, then they will understand one another. And if they understand one another then perhaps we will achieve unity on an unmatched scale. I wish to stop war, Valentina, a purpose that I know you believe in. That unity will end war, I know it."

The end of war? Folly, surely, to end something to central to the formation of everything you know. All the people, all the nations, all are twisted by war. But it's certainly a dream that you can get behind.

"I hope so. I truly, truly hope so. I imagine there are those who would give up everything to make that a reality."

"And there are those who would give up everything to stop it, knowing they could make it all back in the next stupid war. This congress will either be our our best hope for peace… or it will be the thing that sets us on the road to a war unlike any we have ever seen." He shakes himself back to the room, blinking until his eyes focus, "I would like you to speak at that congress on my behalf. You experiences in you home nation will be just the thing to convince the delegates that peace is the future, not war."

What do you say?
[ ] I would be honoured to speak on such a noble endeavour.
[ ] I can't possibly agree to this. I'm no speaker.
[ ] I can't give you an answer now. I need time.

 

[4WheelSword]

"I'd be honoured, truly. It's a noble endeavour and a noble request you make of me. But I must admit my hesitation in accepting." You answer and without a single lie. It would truly be an honour to be able to do such a thing for him. Ending war has been your dream ever since the one that tore apart your home came to such an abrupt close. Indeed, whenever you try to imagine the future you cannot see a way for things to improve without such an important step being taken.

But why you? Why now? What experience do you have, what credentials? Sure, you have a few medals buried deep in your luggage and a missing limb and the garish nightmares that wake you screaming - but what are they compared to a diplomats silver tongue or a lawmakers witty penmanship.

"Oh yes? I thought you might have a couple." He has a glint in his eye as if he already knows how this conversation will go. If you're honest with yourself so are you. But it wouldn't do to bite his hand off too eagerly.

"I'm no orator, my Lord, nor do I have much insight into the affairs of nations. Surely you have better people in mind than me?"

"There are those I can think of who may be more eloquent. And those who may know the tides of national interest are also within my grasp. But none of them have seen the world as you and I have. None of them have been thrown headlong into the vile butchery of war right down there amongst the blood and the powder-smoke. I do not trust them to speak with the vehemence that perhaps you or I would be able to. And as I said before, you do not carry the same burden of expectation that I do."

"I see your point," You say, though you do not quite agree that you have seen war in the same way if his description of his service was accurate. Despite that you cannot see any reason to answer in the negative, "I cannot promise that I will be the best spoken nor the best presented person at your conference, but I will promise that I will speak. It is not often anyone gets such an opportunity. It would be foolish to turn it down."

"I can't say I'd disagree," the glint turns into a smile under his walrussy moustache, "Splendid though, absolutely splendid that you're deciding to accept."

"Well quite. Just when is it, however? I have some plans, you see."

"So you said, so you said. Travelling wasn't it?" he asks though he barely waits for your nod before he continues, "Well, you'll have time enough for that. The congress isn't to be formally opened until mid-october, though I imagine there will be a few months of diplomatic wrangling prior to that. That gives you twelve weeks or so to see Europa with your, uh-" he clears his throat with a knowing look, "travelling companion."

"That's plenty I imagine. My companion and I can surely only stand so much continental cuisine until we'll be missing the simple fare of the North." Your joke at your own peoples expense is just a ploy to hide your nerves. Not over Sasha, no, you know the Count is perfectly comfortable with that particular idea. But instead your anxiety comes over your apparent destiny of becoming increasingly enmeshed in the future of the continent. You will not be anyone's pawn, you swore, but thus far remaining aloof has proved remarkably difficult.

"Then I shall see you in Stralsten in October, dear lady." He rises, gesturing at the door which opens without a word. You nod your thanks and make your goodbyes, itching to be outside all of a sudden. Itching for freedom.

Sasha meets your by the gate, leaning casually on a stone pillar and looking for all the world like an itinerant hoodlum out hunting for an easy mark. It's funny, the dichotomy she cuts between lady of leisure, with self-coiffed hair and beautiful dresses, and something akin to a street rat. You love her for it. So far all you've managed to become is a limping nobody with utility only when needed.

"Hello sweetheart. Productive meeting?" She asks, cocking an eyebrow and only managing to make herself look even more rakish than she already did. You have a sudden an intense desire to see her on the deck of an old sailing ship with a cutlass in one hand.

"I suppose. Do you know where Stralsten is?"

"Vaguely. Somewhere in Helvetica, isn't it? Why?"

You look back at the villa with a growing sense of unease forming in your belly.

"The Count has asked me to speak at an event there in October." You shake yourself, forcing a smile and looking into the eyes of the love of your life, "Which gives us plenty of time for our own adventures. Lutetia, my darling?"

"Wherever you desire." She half-purrs, before setting off in the direction of the station.

---

The train from Dyskelande to the capital of Gallia is a beautiful red machine trailed by a whole cavalcade of scarlet passenger wagons, crimson baggage cars and a few mismatched mail carriers. You realise you're excited as you take a seat by the window, flanked by the indelibly soothing form of Sasha, and look forward to seeing the changing scenery.

Of course you fell asleep within the first few minutes, the rocking carriage almost forcing your eyelids to droop and your head to slump onto Sasha's remarkably comfortable shoulders. That's all you remember of the first half of the journey, until you reach the border and everything takes a turn for the confusing.

The first thing you remember is blinking slowly as the train slowed to a halt with a hiss and asking whether you'd arrived. Sasha shakes her head slowly, gesturing to the window and the grim view beyond it. The station - more of a stopping point - is occupied almost entirely by soldiers in the gaudy uniforms of Gallia, a few officers in a similar uniform to that of the impolite Varnmarkian from the party amongst them. Beyond the few squat buildings is an unending line of entrenchments, earthworks and rolls of metal wire. Everywhere you look is a man with the gun or truck pulling a gun or… well, the specifics don't imprint themselves very closely on a mind. It is terrifying enough to see what appears to be the border of a Europan nation preparing to receive the charge of the golden hordes. It is terrifying enough to see the first signs of an oncoming war.

A man in a civilian suit walks the length of the train, checking papers in the company of two women with rifles in their hands (not on their backs, as you believe they should be) and wicked looking bayonets in their belt loops. He, despite his suit, has a pistol strapped to his belt and the air of someone who has not long since left military service. Police, you would guess, or perhaps part of the Gallian intelligence service. He takes your papers and chatters rather animatedly in their language with Sasha, then the people across from you. With a smile he stamps off down the carriage and leaves silence in his wake.

"What did he ask you?" you ask Sasha in hushed tones, nervous, excited.

"Where we are going, why, who we are to each other?"

You fight the urge to blush as the answer to that questions jumps unprompted into your head along with several images of the past few nights.

"What did you say?"

"I told him I was your bodyguard, that you're on a business trip, and then i slipped him twenty francs with our travel papers. He didn't ask many questions after that, for some reason." She says without a hint of irony or shame.

"You bribed him?"

"Of course I did. How else do I make sure he doesn't look too closely at the two unrelated women travelling together between major cities in the arch-rivals of continental Europa?" She smiles and slings an arm around your shoulders, "Plus, I like the idea of being your bodyguard."

"I do not need a bodyguard," You huff and return to staring out the window.

As much as the stop is relatively painless for you, it is not so for some of the other passengers. More than one, either alone or in pairs, are pulled from the train and harassed down the platform and into one of the low buildings that line it. They do not return before the train pulls away.

---

Lutetia is everything you dreamed it could be. Glittering lights. The smell of baked goods. Architecture, art, and oh so many fashionable people. It is glorious. It is beautiful. It is a stark change when you take a bus to the suburbs to find a cheaper hotel and see why it is that it is only the centre for which the city is remembered. Nonetheless, you make do and within a couple of days you have settled into a comfortable routine of lazy breakfasts, balcony lounging, bus and tram rides and wandering for hours in the company of a beautiful woman who continues to tease you about her potential as a 'garde du corps' as she informs you it is said in the local language. But it is listless, this idle wandering. You are here to see sights, not just soak in the atmosphere, however easy that is in the blazing sun.

What will you do?
[ ] Climb the Eiffel Tower! Visit a Gallery! Get some culture.
[ ] Visit a coffee shop, they are the fashion here
[ ] Visit the palaces that belonged to a long dead Queen.
[ ] Find somewhere a little more… to your tastes.

 

[4WheelSword]

"Is this enough of a sight for you?" Sasha asks, as you step off a train into the grounds of a gigantic palatial structure. "Le Château de Versailles, the long empty residence of a long deposed monarch."

It certainly is stunning. Two huge wings, glittering gold and ivory in the morning sun, flank a broad avenue that leads up to an entranceway that could almost be built for an ancient temple. The columns are towering and the fresco that tops them is visible even from a hundred metres distant or more, a depiction of ancient gods carousing in grand and hedonistic fashion.

You've seen palaces, castles and mansions before - von Zeppelin's only the most recent - but nothing on this scale or grandeur and that is obvious enough only from the outside. It is not just the sight either, but a smell as well. Orange, lavender and violet perfumes drift across the boulevard as you walk up towards the entrance arm in arm.

"It's the gardens, if you're wondering about the smell. The last queen expanded them into a glorious celebration of Gallian floriculture, and let me tell you that that is something they take exceedingly seriously here. The entire palace has been a wondrous example of fragrances ever since."

"Have you been here before?" At this point nothing would surprise you about Sasha's past and this would be just another addition on a list of things she's never seen fit to share. She takes your arm and smiles, leading you up the broad path.

"No, never, but I've wanted to ever since I was a child. The fall of the Gallian monarchy and the Revolution was a central part of the education my family insisted I be endowed with." She smirks, "The intention, I believe, was to prepare me to put down any rebellious tendencies amongst our own people."

"Your parents were forward thinking," whoever they were.

"And foolish. It does no good to prepare your child for everything if you're just going to cast them out at the first conflict." her expression and tone darken for the briefest of moments before she shrugs it off. "But today is not about that. I want to show you history much older than my own, my love."

The palace, a series of signs informed you, had recently finished a twenty year course of restoration and conservation which had restored it to the beauty it had been famed for in the days of 'Madame du Crecy' the last Gallian Queen. Her reign had ended in revolution, but while it lasted it had been dogged by rumours of her and the King's somewhat less than savoury activities.

The 'Gallerie des Glaces' or hall of mirrors is both one of the first destinations of your promenade and one of the most famous. Twenty-four beautifully polished mirrored arches face twenty-four tall windows which show off the brightly coloured gardens beyond. The floor is deep, dark wood, varnished and shining, and even the walls between the glass and mirrors seems to glitter and shine. It is truly a beautiful room and a grand depiction of the sheer wealth and excess of the nations monarchy and of the states apparent desire to remember them.

"An Empire was born in this room, y'know." Sasha murmurs as you walk amongst the few other tourists, arm in arm and comfortable. There is a low babble amongst the crowd, just loud enough to cover the tap of your cane and the clump of your prosthetic and to almost lose her words in.

"Gallian? I hadn't realised they'd ever had one." They had a kingdom and then a republic, you remember that much from your schooling. But Sasha was someone who has always chosen her words carefully and this doesn't feel like an error.

"No, not them. The Dyskelande Empire was formed here, forty years ago or so, after a war. A union of Europan nations defeated Gallia so thoroughly that they used this ancient seat of Kings to declare themselves a new nation."

"That's incredible," You look at the room with a new eye as you try and sense the sheer magnitude of the history that this space represents. It is not just Gallian history then, but Europan. It is so easy to forget that Dyskelande is such a young country, older as it is than you. But this is where it was created.

"It was terrible. The treaty that followed that declaration barely touched the cities but the rural folk suffered greatly. There were many unkind years, from what I've read." Her voice is monotone but you can feel the rage in her throat and in the muscles of her hand that grips your arm.

"That's- I don't understand. Why must they suffer?"

"It is always the people who suffer when the great men go to war, you've seen that. Whether war is between nations or not, but perhaps they suffer more so when it is believed that a nation fights for a true purpose. As for why, well… I wish I had an answer for you."

Her silence is almost as much of a gut punch as the realisation of what the history of this place means. You chew your lip and fight the ill-feelings in your belly. It does seem that no matter where you go, you cannot escape the grip of war and death and violence. Even the Counts own people are not free of it. It is disheartening in the utmost to realise how much you will be fighting against when you speak; not just the sheer brutality of politics but also righteousness and the diplomats faith in conflict as the final step in enacting policy.

You continue on your tour of the palace but now neither of you are speaking or pointing or laughing as you had been just a few moments before. You can feel a weight on your shoulders which you had slipped for a handful of days and it weighs heavy.

---

You pass through rooms upon rooms, lavish bedrooms and beautiful halls, receiving chambers and similar. Each is yet another layer of opulence pasted across the last and by the time you get outside and manage to walk in the sunshine and scents and the buzzing of bees there is a part of you that almost feels sickened by the entire experience. The level of wealth still on display there inside those thin walls, none of it being used, surely it is entirely unnecessary. Who is it for? What purpose down it serve?

"Can you smell it? The orange blossom?" Sasha suddenly asks, stopping and taking a deep breath. You look at her for a moment before closing your eyes and inhaling. It's there, you can smell it, the sharp tang of citrus underneath the others. It's wonderful, in a way.

"I suppose so, yes." You answer, struggling to feel excited.

"Oh Koshka, what is the matter? I didn't bring you here to watch you be glum, even if you are still beautiful with such a frown on your face." Her smile is, if you let it be, infectious. But you don't want to let it be. She touches your chin and her smile saddens somewhat. "Look, I know what will cheer you up. You remember the Queens apartments, yes? The second set we visited?"

"Yes. They were a little less fancy, I believe, though I can't say anything in particular stood out."

"Oh no? Perhaps I misjudged you, dearest, I thought you had a sharper eye than that."

"What do you mean?" You ask, turning on her. You hate to admit that she has caught your interest, but there's no use denying it. Damn her and her well established habit of wanting to make you happy and keep you in kindness and care. It's wondrously frustrating when all you want to do is mope.

"Her art, it's mostly original and hung where the last Queen chose it to be. Did nothing stand out?"

You fold your arms and think, tapping your remaining foot on the ground in mock frustration. In truth, little stands out in your memory. There were a lot of women, hunting scenes, skin, animals, bare flesh. Perhaps that was it? But wasn't that simply the style then?

"There was an awful lot of nudity." you eventually respond.

"Yes, there certainly was."

"People playing games as well. Sports and cards and such."

"What sort of people?" her grin says she is certainly teasing you now and you can't decide whether it is charming or frustrating or, as is more likely, both.

"Well, women of course." You roll your eyes at her expression in mock despair, "Tell me! Tell me what it is, Sasha. I swear, you are nothing but frustrating however much I love you, Liybimaya."

She laughs, a deep sonorous chuckle which makes your heart sing.

"Okay, okay. It is rumoured, though well understood as true in certain circles, that both the King and Queen of Gallia in the last era of the kingdom were of a more open persuasion than perhaps was expected of them or acceptable." She raises an eyebrow and you can't help but laugh, "The Madame du Crecy especially was a woman who welcomed many of her friends and confidants of the female persuasion into her bed."

"Oh! That… that explains all the flesh tones in her art."

"That is a very subtle way to put it, yes."

"Wait, hold on. Was that why, uh. The revolution, they killed her, yes?" There's a sinking feeling in your gut which threatens to quickly replace the growing happiness.

"They killed her, yes. But not, as far as anyone knows, for her choice of lovers. It was her husband's financial failings that did that."

"Ah, well. I suppose that's better." And it is, in some small way. It's a connection to a past you didn't have before, if only through you attractions and predilections. You are no queen, but hundreds of years ago there was, you now know, another woman who shared your passion. That will do, as a lesson to take away from the day. That will do.

Where to next?
[ ] Hesperia (not!Spain)
[ ] Otrusia (not!Italy)
[ ] Albia (not!UK)

 

[4WheelSword]

In late August, another train took you and your companion south. The countryside of Gallia is beautiful in summer even as it changes dramatically with the rapidly shifting climate. The fields and hedgerows of the north give way to tall pines and mountains which in turn break into sweeping vistas of grape vines and shall hills and valleys that could hide a thousand mysteries deep within them.

But there is no time to stop and explore them. You are destined for Hesperia, the Ganymedian coast and the famous port cities, and the journey through what remains of Gallia may be beautiful but it is simply a pretty distraction from your destination. Turia, the largest of the Hesperian port cities, is not just a place of culture and history and marvel, but also a stepping off point for wherever you decide to go next.

Getting there is not always so simple however. The train pulls into a siding at the border and, while you have managed not to fall asleep and while there is no massive wall of fortifications here, there are still imposing men and women checking papers.

"Has it always been like this?" You ask Sasha in hushed tones after your papers are checked in only the most cursory of ways. Cursory perhaps, but you know from the expressions of the people looking over them that any discrepancy would be firmly investigated.

"The armed guards?" You nod, "No, sweetheart, it has not. It used to be that the borders were soft, and only became hard when there was war - not that that was uncommon."

"At least you didn't have to bribe anyone this time." You mutter in reply. Sasha laughs her deep, uproarious laughter.

"Don't you know? Hesperia and Gallia are allies, civilians crossing their border, even such interesting specimens as ourselves, don't attract as much attention as on the border between Dyskelande and her enemies."

The border gave way to more mountains which in turn gave way to the open plain of Hesperia. The coast, it's many coves and bays, the shining blue sea beyond them - it was like nothing else. And the heat! It was so warm on the train, so dry and it got no better when you finally stepped onto the platform in Turia. Every kilometre south was a new understanding of what summer time actually meant outside of the coldest climes of Northern Europa. Already you could feel your heavy clothes becoming drenched in sweat.

The first stop was a hotel, another pokey little place tucked into cobbled back streets that you stumbled upon by chance. You are struck by how different Turia is to Lutetia as you walk through the streets. Every nation different, every person unique, and yet you can't help but think that the differences are all superficial. That these places have much more in common than you may have once believed. There are markets and churches and fountains and art everywhere you look - and it was the same in the Gallian capital.

You think all of this as you wander around, trying to find the second thing on your list - lighter clothes. It's all well and good looking smart for travelling, but a sweat drenched suit is hardly fitting of the impression you'd like to make on the people that you meet.

It is some small pleasure in all of the strange confusion of a new city and a new climate and new surroundings that, in the midst of it all, you are finally in a place where Sasha does not have an advantage in language skills. You let her take the lead in the first clothes shop you come across, used to her being able to slip so easily into any Europan dialect, than cannot help but chuckle evilly as she pulls a phrasebook from her pocket and stammers her way through a simple interaction.

Her blush, and the dirty look that follows it in your direction, is more than enough to make up for all the discomfiting feelings that have come from travelling with her and her apparent voracious appetite for language.

"Have I finally found a city you cannot move through with such ease, liybimaya?" You ask as you leave the shop, now carrying a bag with your sweat stained clothes in it and wearing a lightweight shirt and slacks. You feel so much more comfortable, even if the oppressive heat is ever present.

"I may be a polyglot, koshka, but that does not mean I can speak every language known across Europa." She says with a serious tone, though her eyes sparkle in good humour. "I do not see you reaching for the necessary tools."

"Ah, my love, I simply thought so much of you that I was stunned to learn you could not speak Hesperian."

"Of course you did." She smiles and slides her arm into yours and you can feel the blood rising in your cheeks. "They speak Turian here though. Hesperia is quite the divided nation, and it shows as deeply as the language they use customarily."

How could it be anything else. It seems thus far that no matter where you go, if a nation is not waiting for its neighbours to make a wrong move then there will be an undercurrent of internecine violence just waiting to break out. It was true in Kevia, and it is true here, or so it seems if you are understanding Sasha's intimations correctly. There did not seem to be such signs in Dyskelande or Gallia - was that the result of having their perceived enemies teeth at their throats? Or was it all a sham, and there was no such stability to be found.

Were people even suited to such grand and broad concepts as that of the nation? When there were conclaves of different languages, cultures and ideas all smashed together by the hand of whoever had had the most military might once upon a kingdom - was that not a clear route to instability?

"Do they want to be Hesperian?" You ask quietly, looking around as you walk into an open square in the middle of the city. A group of soldiers and police lounge on a corner. Children play in a massive fountain, splashing water at each other. One entire side is dominated by the entrance to a long, glass and steel construction which appears to be a massive indoor market. People bustle, chatter, work, shout, even sing. It's lively.

"Who, the people of Turia?"

"Yes. If they speak their own language, if they're so divided… Would it not be better if they could be their own country?"

Sasha is silent for some time as you circle the square slowly, arm in arm as many of the locals are. A woman in the uniform of the local police touches the brim of her hat and you smile back at her, comfortable as you are. A man tries to offer a basket of fruit but you raise a hand and shake your head.

"Hesperia was once three nations. One, in the south, was conquered through violence, but the kingdom that included Turia and another were joined through the marriage of two kings in what they claimed to be a purely political move." her half-smile is enough for you to know that she thinks otherwise, "A political marriage is what brought turia into Hesperia; and it's what brought Kevia into Varnmark as well."

"I see where you're going with this."

"Are you certain you do? We fought together against people just like those who believe that Turia should be independent. Do you think we fought for the wrong side?"

"It's not that simple-"

"It isn't, no. I do not know the answer to your question, sweet Valya, and I do not know if there even is a right answer. You ask one person, they will tell you that Turia should rule itself. You ask another, they say that hesperia has done great things for Turia and that independence would be madness. The only thing i can be confident in is the decisions I make for myself, and I let the monarchs and the politicians struggle to find the answers I won't."

"How do you know all this? You don't even speak the language." You can't respond in a useful way, so all you have is a sidetrack.

"I don't." She smiles at your confused look, "It's the same story everywhere you go. Replace Turia with Kevia and Hesperia with Varnmark and you have the recent years of our own nation. People are people wherever you go, and until those with power begin to realise that, we will continue to descend into the same barbarity as we always have."

"So you don't see any way to avoid this war?" You ask. You can feel the rising sense of desperation in your chest, a tightness you wish you didn't have to live with.

"Your man, the Count, he has hope. Your words give me hope." She shrugs, not looking at you, "Perhaps I am wrong, and the world will change. I hope so. But I struggle to see it as likely."

"Oh."

Salvage the Turian tourism;
[ ] Find food and drink and merriment
[ ] Find culture and art and architecture
[ ] Fnd gambling and greed and vices
[ ] Write in.