Jump to content

Asta L'Vasqqa: The State of the Republic


Iverica

Recommended Posts

If you've finished this, ACT II is available

 

---

 

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | PROLOGUE

1730hrs
15th of May, 2018
Intreimor City, Iverica

 

"Pardon, seniore", came Bastien's voice.

The man, who looked to be nearing his sixties was roused from his light sleep. He had been laying supine on a long lounging couch tucked in one end of the room. The supine man's eyes opened slowly and came to rest on the aide leaning above him.

"It is almost time", said Bastien, the personal aide who was well into his mid-life years. A soft chin and a receding hairline made up his most notable features, strikingly apparent as he held a set of items--a pressed coat, vest, and tie--by a hanger.

From his position, reclined on a comfortable Restoración Imperiale style couch, the man unclasped his hands and came slowly to his feet, straightening his cotton Ossoforto dress shirt.

He stretched his back, twisting it right and left, looking about the holding room. It was tastefully decorated in the same style as the armchair, echoing the theme of scrolled woodwork and tall imposing forms that was to be found throughout the entirety of the building they were within, the Cámra Nasional--better known as the Republic's Parliament building.

Flexing his legs and feet, planted firmly on the swirling patterns of the red and tan Savonnerie carpet, he made for the grooming table and mirror mounted on the pinkish-hued walls of polished white limestone.

His aide wordlessly followed, handing him the tie, one that was a silken Iverican blue with diagonal streaks of dull gold trimmed in faint borders of flat white. Bastien knew from long years of experience that his employer preferred silence when preparing, as he was occupied with the sorting of thoughts before an event. The aide thus waited at a polite distance, on hand but not intruding within the man's space.

Tying the silken garment into a stiff triangular knot, he swept a small comb from the grooming table across his thin, head of silvery hair.

The dull grey of his eyes stared back at him from the reflected face of lined and pulled skin, some very faint scars remained from his more exciting days, but nothing so horribly disfiguring. He had instructed his makeup team to allow some of the more seemly ones to remain visible, a little affectation that he was told improved his impression as a veteran amongst the public.

Taking his coat and vest from the aide, he carefully slipped each on, buttoning and straightening the tailored, navy blue cashmere pieces equally. For a finishing touch, he picked up his lapel pin from the table and fixed it to his left. The blue diamond and golden star on a field of white was bordered in a blue ring that seemed to blend with the colour of his garment.

Ensuring it wasn't smudged and that his shirt cuffs were the mandatory half-inch from the jacket sleeves, the man turned to face Bastien.

"Alright", said Primo of the Republic, Franso E. Deitorr.

"Best not to keep the gorrión waiting."

PW7Kxyel.jpg

The Cámra Nasional

 

---

 

A knock came from inside the walnut double doors of the waiting room.

Two guards awaited flanking the doors. They wore peaked hats and high-collared midnight-blue jackets adorned with the golden epaulettes and aiguillette representing of the Primeal Tercio Guardsmen. At the signal, they both snapped their jackbooted heels on the marble floor.

The crisp crack of hardened leather on tile reverberated across the high-ceiling arched hall like a pair of gunshots fired in unison. Immediately, the press, kept at a respectable distance by roped barriers and Primeal Guardsmen in plain suits struggled to look over each other and over the towering height of the guardsmen.

As the doors were opened in a single swift motion by the guardsmen, the ignition of flashbulbs and buzz of voices replaced the quiet intermezzo of anticipation left by the report of the guard's heel.

The Primo stepped out onto the marble and once again upon the central carpet of the hall. The guards snapped a quick salute and fell into measured step flanking their First Citizen, left hands rested casually on the pommels of the ceremonial spada's dei lato hanging on the left hip, their right arms stayed still in position just behind the chestnut leather pistol holsters secured opposite the sword.

Bastien stayed just behind the line-abreast of Primo and escort. They left the holding room behind them, walking down the hall and into another gallery, headed for the ante-room just before the Grand Assembly Chamber.

The wood panelled walls and arches gave way to the slightly wider space of the ante-room, where more mediamen snapped photos, the clicks and whirrs of their devices resonating around the stony interior of the limestone and marble vaulted ceiling.

Ahead of them, flanking the tall double doors to the chamber were a pair of similarly dressed guardsmen. Unlike the Primeal Guard, these men wore the grey livery of the Capitoline Guardsmen, the foremost unit of the Guardia Civil Regulars.

The doors were opened in a similar fashion, revealing the cavernous space of Grand Chamber.

jn8fegyl.jpg

The Grand Assembly Chamber

 

Deitorr stepped through to a low rumble of applause. All eyes belonging to privileged spectators and Members of the Chamber bore down on him. From upper balcony galleries, mezzanines, and the circular benches tiered towards the chamber floor, their heads all followed his path down the low incline of the descending stairs.

The applause died as Deitorr reached the raised dais and podium at the centre of the floor.

The Primo paused. He regarded the assembly with a slow pan, eyes sweeping slowly the collection of legislators and journalists before him.

Maintaining his gaze and not dropping his eyes to the script discreetly hidden in the cloister of the podium surface, he opened his mouth.

"Companiers, civios dei L'República, aures preistete..." 

iX47IBml.png

 

---


OOC: Got tired of putting off my economic, political, and integration RPs, so I'm tying them together in this 4-5 Part RP. This should explain what I'm up to this year while also building upon some stuff established last year.

I'm also taking this opportunity to showcase how Iverica looks like from within, albeit just from a single point of view.

 

Link to comment

OOC: Prepare for a lot of Economics expositions. No, I did not have time to write a 2-hour long State of the Nation Adress in Iverican, hence we've just skipped to after the speech. Unfortunately, lots of exposition necessary here because trying to show the economic state through various short stories would be simply too much. This pretty much introduces part 1 of the 2 major problems Deitorr and his administration faces.


 

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | PART 1/4

1945 hrs
15th of May, 2018
Intreimor City, Iverica

 

Primo Franso Deitorr leaned back in rear centre seat of his state automobile--an extended, considerably bulkier custom chassis of the Kopel Destrier. It was a lengthened grand tourer style vehicle which was in this case, fitted atop a truck bed with several classified armour, safety, and electronics modifications. 

The noise of the outside was abruptly silenced as the guardsman outside shut the heavy, discreetly armoured door shut with a dull thump.

In the insulated confines of the vehicle, Deitorr exhaled almost imperceptibly, sagging slightly into the fire-retardant leather upholstery. Beside to his right, his primary guardsman, Lanos sat quietly, his thick neck and harsh, broad facial contours turned outwards and focused on the crowds outside. In front and facing him on the opposite couch-style seat was Bastien. The aide was perched on the seat with his brow furrowed and thumbs ablur on his device.

As the vehicle began its route back to the Palá, Bastién opened his mouth for the first time in the 2 hours since he had roused Deitorr.

"You're a hit on Wittier", began the aide suddenly, still not looking up from his kPhone.

He continued, "mostly positive reactions for this year's SORA, though I am getting a few 'fell asleep after the 50-minute mark' and the 'TLDL' posts."

Deitorr snorted, surmising what that bit of contemporary jargon stood for.

"summarily, you did get your points across. There are some forum debates right now on the Decada 20. Subsidy for Heavy Industry working class was very well received, both by the pro-public and the pro-private. It seems that the tariff reduction incentive works out for the gatos in Toledo and Manille. Transition into tech and software came out well... Apparently you are a 'sharp forward planner, despite your years'."

Deitorr resisted the urge to repeat the snort.

"Though, one thing stood out. Opposition pundits and the yuppie MeCs are all homing in on your state mining issue. They say that if you cut down the prices of rawmats like that for TGC, its going to pretty much shoot down all the environmental gains we've made in the past years."

Deitorr sighed, "It's that or more subsidy. If the tax payer can afford it. Of course they conveniently forgot to mention the caps we put on this didn't they?".

"They're calling it 'blue-sky mining".

Deitorr didn't reply.

Of course. 

This was the Greens and Egalité again. The mining ramp up in supply of base metals was supposed to meet parity with the falling price of oil--courtesy of some favourable deals the @Prymontians allowed them to work out with the Russians. Without it, TGC wouldn't budge on his Decada 20 plan. Oil prices were falling, and the Toledo Group of Companies were aching for more exports and foreign investment deals. Of course, Deitorr's administration could just roll around in the good press of the manufacturing gains that would indubitably follow the current trends, but it would be poor and ultimately unsustainable growth if they didn't move.

If Iverica didn't move towards automation in the next few decades, they would eventually lose their cards at the world manufacturing table, making short-term gains but lacking any real upward-sloping foreseeable growth. 

Currently, Iverica had a leg-up. Labour costs were some of the lowest in the region, coupled with a developed manufacturing infrastructure and cheap access to domestically sourced base metals. The current environment in the Tricontinental region promised steady growth in the next few years, but with other nations catching up, competition would surely turn Iverica into just another factory gopher.

That couldn't happen.

Manufacturing had to stay relevant and the only way that would happen was through automation--which was certainly possible now, but the government and the private sector had been holding off on that for a few years now. 

All because of employment. 

If automation came in, Iverica's already noteworthy unemployment figure would put a hole in the roof, with more than half of the nation's working class dedicated to assembly lines and low-management. To fix this there was only one sure-fire course; Iverica had to branch out, keep manufacturing, but move the manpower somewhere that promised economic mobility for the employee, while simultaneously providing a solid and sustainable chance to grow a new industry.

Decada 20, the new economic plan, was supposed to take care of just this. Predicting an influx of foreign investment due to plummeting costs of production, Iverica would dump subsidies into manufacturing corporations while also lowering export tariffs for their products. The 'gift' was to be used in order to begin training the hordes of factory workers for new employment in industries the government wanted to incentivise. Another result was that the corporations would no longer have the burden of laying-off millions and thus, they would be free to automate on a whim. 

These plans were only made possible through two mechanisms, P3O--which was the Public Private Partnership Office liaising between the state and the private corpos--and the Toledo Group--whose host of partners allowed them to more easily shift around manpower like a skilled card shuffler. The only problem was, Toledo was claiming that they would need some more incentives to make up for the astronomical costs of re-training. According to them, the subsidies and gains from the tariff reductions were not enough. They needed their cost of purchasing raw material lowered too. At this point, TGC was willing to stonewall the entire plan if state mining didn't provide a favourable contract for at least 5-years.

The current standoff had to end--with Deitorr playing hardball negotiator. TGC had to get what they wanted, but not by walking all over his office. Luckily, he had one more card that just might work.

Foreign Minister and Delegate to ATARA, Desdemona Tomas-Morra. 

If he had heard right, there were some upcoming ATARA tariff negotiations. Negotiated right, it could prove to be a two-birds solution to the current debacle.

 

 

---

 

"Seniore?..."

"Bastien?", responded Deitorr, bringing his thoughts away from economic policy.

"Seniore, as I was saying, if you didn't catch it... You're ExecMin meeting today is cancelled. Chief Ayala has moved it to next week, pending some statistics papers that did not come through.

"Can't say I'm not relieved. How about our Ultramares visit? Has Francesca had our final pitch drafted?"

"Downloading it now, seniore"

Deitorr nodded.

It was dusk now, city lights were coming on, casting their glow on the heavily tinted ballistic glass on the vehicle. It sent slivers of all colours zipping into the compartment as they sped past the lanes of Intreimor, cleared by the Guardia Civil well in advance of them.

In the distance, he could see the roof silhouette of the Palá dei Primo, its vermel-styled limestone masonry melding with the dusken hues of reds, oranges, and pinks. Just ahead of the car, the New World Column and its encircling roundabout drew closer.

"It is in order sir, seems that Francesca's suggestions were well received by the integration committee. Your flight has also been finalised, we're leaving 0500 sharp tomorrow."

"Good. I love getting up before the press", replied Deitorr, though he knew just how untrue the small remark was. INBC never slept.

The car sped around the circular road, seemingly orbiting around the large central spire of pearlescent marble, stained pink by the sunset light. The carved reliefs of events long past spiralled around the jutting lance of stone. As they spun around it, a story was unravelled before the eye, depicting the Gran Viatge, Deiargon's landing, and the blood compact with the Narvics.

The column's detailed romantic-styled reliefs ended towards the tip, where the craftsmen had left the final sequence smooth and blank, as if waiting to be carved upon.

The scene changed as they exited the roundabout, the lush greenery of the Primeal Park's cedars and cork trees enveloped them as they entered the final straight lane into the Palá.

Around them joggers passed and couples walked along the park lanes, waving as the motorcade sped by.

Before long, the procession of cars was at the gates of the palace. As the wrought iron grilles swung open, the outstretched form of the Palá seemed to welcome them as it always did.

1ozpuQIl.png

 

The Palá dei Primo was not made to be an austere and intimidating building. It was after all, where the people's representative, the Primo and his Ministry would hold office. The wings of the Palá were outstretched, as if in embrace. It was also low, only three to four stories high to its significantly greater width. The architecture style of the whole building also betrayed a startling familiarity, even to first-time visitors. It's Altarian-Stillian blend of forms was punctuated with its colour of red, unpolished limestone and gentle curving arches enunciating a magnificence that did not threaten, but felt inspiring of kind, happy, and delicate beauty.

The cars wound past the ponds and fountains that stretched about the front lawn, interwoven with hedges and trees that swayed in the early evening breeze. To Deitorr, the Palá had always brought a calming effect. It retained a quiet and subtly elegant dignity, yet never failed to comfort and ease. Such as it was meant, to not be a palace to separate leader and people, but somehow unite them with open arms.

It was of course... deeply unfortunate that Deitorr was not truly the white knight the Palá expected him to be. Often, walking past its serene ponds and warm galleries made him feel alien.

There was a terrible distinctness in Deitorr's mind, between everything the spirit of the hallowed walls stood for and what he had done to force his way onto it's most venerated pedestal. He had of course, won his seat through manoeuvring, wit, and dedication--not some gushing altruism.

"Still", thought Deitorr. As he stepped out of the vehicle and was saluted by the honour guard. He did what he did for the prosperity and solidarity of the Iverican people. At least with that, he and the old structure could settle on.

 

---


OOC: TLDR--Deitorr contemplates his economic plan: Decada 20 and the challenges that it faces. Also, the context is set for the Ultramares Integration plan, Deitorr will be travelling to the island in the next post which will also reveal what development plans there are for the small archipelago.

Link to comment
  • 3 weeks later...

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | PART 2/4

2030 hrs
15th of May, 2018
Intreimor City, Iverica

 

His full-grain leather dress shoes, polished to a mirror shine, pattered a regular, purposeful beat on the pattern-stained tiles of the long gallery.

Lanos followed some distance behind, the bodyguard's step as quiet as a cat's despite his immense bulk.

Deitorr passed suits of Tercio armour and paintings of plantation harvest and early Iverican scenery. The galleries of the Palá dei Primo, Iverica's executive building, were long. Long, owing to the building's crescent shape of sweeping wings arced in either flank accentuated by manor-like structures on the vertices--where many of the rooms and main chambers were situated.

Galleries such as the one Deitorr now traversed forced one to delve into Iverican art collections--an inconvenience Deitorr believed to be an intentional utility for the building's function. This particular one, the Rococo gallery, was the least impressive of the series. The others housed historical-romantic pieces in all their chiaroscuro and spouse-killing melodrama, while others still held larger-than-life titans of marble, granite, and artificed clay. The purpose of these, Deitorr had no doubt, was to impress and disarm foreign delegates (or leaders) with everything from the trivial comforts of Rococo's trademark quaint rurality to the pedestalled stoic machismo of historical romanticism.

Nonetheless, the walk made his old knee injury groan with creaking complaints.

As he approached a set of double doors in the West-wing main, Deitorr slowed his pace a fraction while silently checking his breathways for any congestion. He was about to meet someone he would rather not take a nasal tone with.

The doors before him were close to 3-metres tall, panelled in slabs of polished lapis lazuli, accented with dotted aventurine, and trimmed in polished brass. Deitorr took a step back.

On cue, Lanos strode forth, closing their distance in two lazy strides. The guardsman opened both doors simultaneously and bowed Deitorr through.

During the day, the hall known as the Blau Room--clad in its coats of deep blue Lapis--balanced out the harsh brightness of Tacalonia's noontimes. But in an evening such as this one, the hall seemed practically aglow, subtly reflecting and refracting the chandelier lights in the vault-arched ceiling above. The result was that the slabs of swirling lake blue, indigo, and midnight leant the room the appearance of a cavern beneath the waves, slivers of blue's many hues cast about the space.

gnXcyyu.jpg

The Blau Room, Palá dei Primo

And at the centre of this space, observing a Davide canvas--was a lady in grey.

Her back was ramrod straight, both feet planted firmly together, and her head tilted upwards at the sizable oil painting.

It was Desdemona Tomas-Morra, Foreign Minister and Interim Chair of ATARA. Her stance hadn't shifted a millimetre despite Deitorr's entry.

Deitorr paused and looked about the rest of the hall.

Empty. It was 8 in the evening on a weekday, the Blau Room was as deserted as Sant-Bastién's theatre halls were come post-modern performance season.

Unorthodox meeting place, certainly. But not unheard of. Deitorr knew that some in the ExecMin had a penchant for theatricality when it came to political dialogue. The only caveat was that in the nearly two decades he had known Morra, Deitorr had never taken her for a showwoman--quite the opposite actually.

Deitorr strode towards her, his leather soles creating a reverb around the empty interior.

He stopped just behind her left flank.

Another short pause.

"I'd have thought you tired of Davide. Especially this one", started Deitorr, breaking the empty echo of the space.

MlT8pBe.jpg

Oath of the Leonii--Giaqes Luis Davide

Morra's shoulders stiffened just a fraction.

She turned her lined, but regal and powdered face towards the Primo.

"Never", she said, almost dismissively.

"The ignorant tire of Davide. The ignorant and the arid", she continued.

"As for myself, I always thought it was something about the line. The direction and strong angles, unitive--but with a definite direction. Purposeful. Resolved... In any case, it was a mere guess. After all, you've had this one in the Foreign Affairs building in the 2016 rotation", Deitorr said, eyes following the sharp postures of the brothers pictured.

Morra nodded.

"I suppose it was also the calm of this hall. I thought it an ideal waiting place... especially for late Primos".

Deitorr briefly considered strangling the ATARA Chairperson. 

It was a fleeting temptation.

"I am thinking that you did not call for a meeting, especially out-of-hours for a chat on some rudimentary points on Oath of the Leonii.".

"Certainly not.", replied Morra tersely.

She turned and began a slow walk out of the hall.

"To your office then, my Primo?".

 

 

---

 


 

Seated behind his desk, Deitorr lay one hand on the rest and clasped his chin in the other.

"So. Hermoso and Galardo are most certain this is the outcome. We are placing final commitments on this route?", queried Deitorr.

Morra nodded after a sip of her unsweetened black tea. She sat, one leg folded daintily over the other, on a couch at the centre of the wood-panelled office.

Deitorr thought. Joaquin Hermoso, the Home Minister, and Juliana Galardo, Attorney-General had both given their votes to the ExecMin decision--the decision that would decide all their strategic playbooks and policy direction for the next decade and perhaps, foreseeable future. Morra and Deitorr themselves had already cast their votes long ago in the closed council of the five primary members of the Executive Ministry.

Morra rested the china cup to the little saucer she had in the other hand.

"We have already been preparing this in advance, us two, Franso. Like you had advised at the start of your term."

Deitorr nodded.

"Indeed. I suppose all told, it could not have turned out any more satisfactorily--given how much we have put at stake expecting this outcome."

Case Blue.

It was what Deitorr predicted would come. Still. At the precipice of great change, there was bound to be some misgivings, some uncertainty.

Deitorr looked up from his desk.

Morra looked back, a steady gaze.

Raising foreign investment, embassies, strong manoeuvres in the international stage. ATARA, TRIDENT... Ahrana, Afropa, Hellenic Rus... Integrating the Ultramares... all for Case Blue. All had been plans for plans for a plan a decade in the making that would gestate another year before birth.

Deitorr looked at the map, a large wall fresco of Western Argis and Northwestern Alharu. His eyes shifted, the Iverican Peninsula, the Ultramares in the Argic Ocean, the Duchy of Verde perched on the Alharun coast, the Vasqqan enclave in the isthmus, and Greater Galicia in the Argic mainland.

Plans for plans for a plan.

A single. Idea.

Deitorr shifted his gaze back to Morra, who waited expectantly.

Taking to his feet, Deitorr could only keep one thought in place as a hundred other variables and radicals flowed through. The homeland in Europa--the old world--was gone. They, like seeds thrown about in the hurricane of history, lay where they landed. Without home, forever cast out, but still... together where the universe had flung them.

The sun had set in the West.

Per Solidaridad.

Link to comment
  • 3 weeks later...

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | INTERLUDE I

0800 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Intreimor City, Iverica

 

When Desdemona Tomas-Morra, Foreign Minister of the Republic, arrived at the Palá dei Primo the following morning, she had not expected to be dallying long. Nor did she expect to be thrust into a meeting which could very well have been the prelude to an international incident.

Indeed, she had been expecting to simply receive a short briefing from Bastien, the Primeal Aide and Chief of Staff, and be on her not-so-merry way to complete the mountain of work required by the upcoming ATARA General Assembly

Deitorr had already left for the Ultramares Summit, where he would be meeting the leaders of the Iverican satellite states--a summit which was to be the overture for a union to mark an epoch in Diaspora-Iberic history. 

Bastien had just been giving Morra a point-by-point on how the Foreign Ministry should expect to handle the shift in geopolitics when a shrill tone broke the air with the shock of a maiden's shriek--the hotline for the situation room.

 

---


 

0900 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Situation Room, Palá dei Primo

 

"Director-General", began Morra, massaging the bridge of her nose.

"Why... is this critical piece of intelligence coming to us only now."

The Situation Room in the bowels of the Palá had its light dimmed as Director General Jaime Bonda met with the Primeal Staff plus Morra via video conference.

situation-room-2009.jpg

"Minist--", began the man on the projected display. On the other end of the video call was Director-General Bonda of the Special Security Office, head of all foreign secutiy intelligence operations.

"--and further," interrupted Morra, cutting the Director off.

"I am bothered that it is you, delivering this to the ExecMin directly and not via the established monthly dossier that is expected from your office. I'll be intrigued as you explain this... bizarre privilege to us", she finished sharply.

The news was certainly distressing. Through her many years in Iverican politics, she had learned to keep her tarot face in check. Despite this, the news of mobilising terrorist cells allying with disgruntled political rebels certainly had her on edge.

"Minister," replied Bonda. His tone was stale, his steely--almost serpentine eyes seemed clear and impossibly sharp despite the digital medium he was relayed through.

"Eclipses in any intelligence apparatus are unavoidable. Our objectives in Vasqqa were to monitor the activities of the Helleno-Russian's activated Vasqqan cell--which involved tapping suspended assets embedded in the state years ago. Naturally, the demand for such a jilting activation wouldn't guarantee a secure and completely effective network until our recently deployed operators can complete their exchange of command."

Bonda continued.

"To answer more directly--we have information of this possible terrorist coup on a multi-spatial scale because our callsigns were vigilant. Had they not enacted a redundant examination of recent reports of our Yellow Assets in Vasqqa, the issue would have slipped by us until far too late. I am bringing you an express report in this bizarre privilege because I require executive permission to enact our contingency protocols--the only decent chance we have at terminating this cancer."

Bastien and Morra shared a brief look. They both knew that the movements of the cell were not simple coincidences. Vasqqa occupied the isthmus to the rest of Argis--Narva and Greater Galicia, a large enough incident there could throw a proverbial wrench in any plan of an Iberic unification. If the report was anything to believe--and it was, vouched for by Bonda himself--it suggested with alarming clarity, a familiar pattern.

"Madame Minister, we have to alert the Primo--", started Bastien.

Morra chose to ignore Bastien, her silence dissuading him from finishing his sentence. If this was anything like she expected, they had to start moving now. There were holes in the report and Morra knew, with a sinking feeling, that the followup reports could only paint a bleaker picture. It would take weeks, if not months to prepare a foil operation, and given the reports--smuggling, watch-listed profiles being spotted on the wrong side of the border, and the hums on the black markets--it would appear that the enemy had a sizeable head start.

Morra took a breath. Calling Deitorr was not an option--interrupting in the middle of the summit with bowel-loosening news was just as deadly as inaction.

"As vested in me by Primo Franso E. Deitorr, I exercise my powers as Secundo to formally declare this report as evidence of 'A Risk of War and State of Emergency'--further exercising National Security Statute 20-077 to license a covert Special Security Office contingency operation."

Morra produced a writ from her briefcase, signed by herself, Deitorr, notarised by the Chief Justice and Attorney General. 

The room was silent. Across it, members offered no resistance to the revelation and declaration of Iverica's Vice-Executive.  

 

---


 

OOC: Summary for the lazy (or the dense)- Deitorr flew to Ultramares for a Summit with a few other Iberic leaders. Morra and Bastien were simply talking about how the Foreign Ministry should shift its strategy for more pro-union activity when Bonda interrupts (via Skype basically) with some holysh*tguysIfu*keduphard news that the Circle of Death (I did not choose the name) Cell in Vasqqa (land bridge country between Iverica and mainland Argis) have been mobilising their sh*t for god knows what.

Morra then enacts her secret powers and reveals (this isnt even my final form! meme here) that she was listed as Secundo--the Vice President position secretly given to a member of the Executive Ministry by the Primo and approved by the Judicial Branch--the position is only revealed in a state of emergency or if the Primo is otherwise indisposed to make important decisions of grave national import. So now a whole bunch of bollocking is going to go down whilst Deitorr has a go at playing political drama with the leaders of Iverican satellite nations (Verde, Galicia, Ultramares, etc.).

Also btw, the risk of war thing is not public... yet. So no metagamey statements on this.

If you've read this far, good on you, you dedicated bastard. 

Link to comment
  • 8 months later...

 

Recap:

Part I-- The Primo discusses the economic plan Decada 20 with his aide, the plan will effective result in a transition of Iverican workforce and industries towards a more modern setting. It is revealed that Deitorr will be heading to Las Islas Ultramares for a Summit with other Iberic leaders.

Part II--The Primo speaks with Morra, who reveals that the top members of Iverica's executive group, the Executive Ministry, have agreed to enact a plan called "Case Blue" wherein the state will effectively sponsor a unification with satellite states. Deitorr leaves for the Ultramares Summit

Interlude I--Morra is called to the situation room, Director-General Bonda brings news that the "Circle of Death" is mobilising in conjunction with Vasqqan rebel groups. Morra declares a covert state of emergency and unveils her position as appointed Secundo, or Vice-Executive. Using the authority of her position, she gives clearance for the Special Security Office--Iverica's foreign intelligence entity--to initiate a shadowy protocol in response to the potential security threat to Case Blue.

Part III--Deitorr arrives in the Ultramares--

---

 

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | Part 3/4

2000 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares

 

Alone in a cocktail parlour with a powerful peer could have certainly been the setting for some cheap Intreimor park drama. A bad reproduction of reknown Imperial theatre, frills and petticoats, the obssession with political and intrigue and Machiavellianism. Affection and frivolity, thought Franso Deitorr as he observed only other occupant in the room, wondering what challenge was about to be thrown upon the parlour floor.

It was a ridiculous thought no doubt, and really quite anti-thematic to the actual gravity of the tense moment. Such absurdities played in Primo Franso Deitorr's mind more often as of late. The Primo, in his mid-fifties, pinned the blame on age and work-related stress.

Deitorr knew he had a few moments left to go over the day's events before the other man in the room finished his drink and began the melodrama of the night.

 

---

Earlier- 0800-2000 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares

Deitorr felt exhausted, despite the relative ease of the day. The frigid weather and desolate beauty of the Ultramares had been like a shock of energy as the wind chill zapped his bones upon walking down to the tarmac of the Ultramariano airport.

The crowds that greeted the Primeal party were relatively tame, cheerful, and sparse owing to the island's intimate rustic culture and small population. He received a warm welcome, owed much to the enthusiasm of the Marianos at meeting their new head of state. The excitement of the Ultramariano Integration was still fresh in their minds and the spirits were felt even as Deitorr's motorcade pulled up to the small cubic palasso that was the Ultramarian state building.

The conference itself, gathering the Iberic Diaspora leaders from Greater Galicia, Vasqqa, Narva, Verde, Ultramares, and then Deitorr himself went on with much pomp and circumstance--it was the first they had held in over 3 decades. It had then proceeded more like a kangaroo court. Rather than a fierce debate contesting Iverican leadership The other heads of state were beholden to their people's enthusiasm at following Deitorr's policy for completing the work that had been so forestalled by misfortune and freak circumstance in the past. Iverican approval among the bloc had never been higher and the praise the Iberic masses had for Deitorr was pressuring the other leaders all the more, even if, by chance they harboured some personal disdain for Iverica's Primo, they had to agree with him at least for the sake of keeping their people's faith.

The Consulores and Primos seemed unwilling to challenge Deitorr's terms for the new paradigm. Of course, they still had to save face from time to time. They made old arguments, though ones that had been rehearsed and resolved before in more private talks. The displays were simple theatre, an opportunity for other leaders to demonstrate some sort of public backbone.

One formality blurred into another, yet all the while, Deitorr couldn't shake a tingle of warning. The inkling stemmed from a single figure, sat just next to Deitorr during the panel discussions with a grandfatherly face, twinkling dark green eyes that betrayed mischief, and a canniness that flowed with his measured witticisms.

Borbon.

vfQ2xXjl.jpg

Gian Iago Vivar de Borbon ét Carlos IV, was the Duke and executive monarch of the Duchy of Verde, paterfamilias of the last legitimate noble bloodline from the old empire. The old duke remained unusually passive. Certainly, the old bull gave some comment on matters and fired a few issues of tactful wit, but it seemed more for the cameras than to confront any of the issues with his usual pointedness.

It was when the panels had concluded, that the evening and conference came to an affable close. Digestifs and nightcaps were served in the cocktail parlour where the leaders had ambled over into after the closing ceremony. Pipes and Cigars were lit, the musky odour of several different blends wafting about the small room, furnished well in the Iberic favourite of Imperial Léonid Revival, but really no larger than a hotel suite.

Deitorr hardly touched his mulled wine, but joked and laughed agreeably with the company nonetheless. The unfamiliar twang of apprehension had become almost alien to him after he had seized political majority by the locks. The one the world saw as the de facto hegemon of the Argic Iberics had long discarded the need to be apprehensive in the face of his fellow Iberic leaders--vassals in all but name really. He hated it, no matter how small the feeling was. Frightened, he was not, but the Primo was still wary as a predator might be when it thought it smelled a foreign scent around its haunt.

 

---

 

Present- 2000 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Porto Ultramar, Islas Ultramares

As the last flickers of conversation evaporated into echoes down the hall, cut suddenly by the shut and click of the parlour door, Deitorr heard the kiss of glass on wood behind him, a drink being set aside on an end table. Deitorr spurred his mind from recollection.

"Here we are", the voice from the corner of the room reverberated across the small chamber despite the gentle volume of the speaker.

Deitorr had his back to the room, staring out into the night at the small port's sleepy lights through the tall, narrow window. After the brief pause, he half inclined his head towards the speaker.

Borbon was sat on a leather armchair, one leg folded perpendicularly over the opposite knee. He had discarded his jacket and now let the rumples of his emerald tie lie across his charcoal-black woollen waistcoat. He was relaxed, allowing the concave of the chair to shape his posture. His combed back silvery white hair rested on the carved fluting of the headrest's rim and his full, trimmed beard was nestled in the crook of his neck and collar. The picture had the elegant old duke look like a leisurely old man eager for a chat over a nightcap, a twinkle in his eye and old stories to tell--but Deitorr knew too well that those dark emerald eyes could flash like Aroman fire when Borbon needed them to.

He was trying to be disarming--gratuitously so. If Borbon knew his intentions were so obvious, he wore it as a comic.

"Indeed, alone at last.", Deitorr responded injecting a faint air of forced amusement in his voice.

"I was trying hard not to laugh you know", Borbon began.

"--you had Sbal, Acosta, and Subiri bobbing their heads like a nest of eager owlets. Truly, you have achieved great things to corral this collection".

Deitorr sensed the conditional 'but' was unsaid but meant to tease his inquiry. He knew the old bull could be, for lack of a better analogy, a fickle c*nt. His words were often weighed, always double-edged, and never merely conversational.

"Your message suggested something more than congratulations", Deitorr decided to vault over the word fencing introduction.

He was pointedly referring to the email Borbon had sent him just as he departed Intreimor. The very letter that had Deitorr guessing and wary the whole day. Likely designed to have him on edge, weaken him with apprehension so he might slip up during this exchange. Clever old bastard.

"Oh Franso", Bordon drew out the 'oh' so he sounded like he was a tired old man.

"--your frankness wears my old wits... We'll discuss my letter in due course. But first, tell me, what ails you. What has you wound tighter than a Vasqqan's purse?"

Deitorr said nothing, deciding to turn his attention to the half-full glass of mulled wine. Then, the Primo's head tipped back and he laughed. He laughed loudly enough that the harsh barks bounced around the panels of the parlour.

It was absurd. Deitorr could plainly see what it was, yet Borbon insisted on his usual games. He laughed and Borbon's own cackle joined his. They both laughed, Deitorr now dreadfully certain-- of the reasons for the charade, why Borbon insisted on a personal and private meeting.

Borbon knew.

With dawning surety, Deitorr had realised that the old duke had caught wind of the trouble brewing in Vasqqa, probably suspected with an unerring intuition what Deitorr's camp was planning to do about it. If the old bull knew that, he likely also calculated the risk--the balance of Iverican Hegemony that was precariously ambling like a blind man about to take a long tumble down a flight of stairs--and here he was, to levy tax for his cooperation.

Clever old bull. 

---

Link to comment

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | Part 4/4

2020 hrs
16th of May, 2018
Porto Ultramar, Islas 
Ultramares

 

"So what did you offer Morra?", said Deitorr as the laughter finally died down

"Astute of you" Borbon nodded, confirming Deitorr's suspicions. 

"--Nothing I would not offer you plainly, as I plan to now", responded the seated Borbon.

"What do you propose, your grace?", Deitorr could not help the pointedness of the query.

Borbon stifled a snort at Deitorr's sardonic use of the title.

"I want what you want, Seniore Primo. For Iverica to get the Vasqqans in line."

"But what else, Gian?"

"I want you to get Vasqqa in line and let Verde bring it into the 21st Century. We all know how sorely they need as much investment and aid my people can offer. If you do so, I promise you some further incentive, Iverican debt in my banks will be forgiven."

Deitorr looked at Borbon, with a look that plainly suggested the response: "and let you walk away with international approval, Iberic popularity, and more leverage than anyone because of Vasqqan debt?" Deitorr knew all too well what Borbon was asking, the Verdense had tried for years to establish cut-throat deals in Vasqqa that would leave the country in serious dependence to Verde's aristocratic cartels.

"Be serious now Gian, Vasqqa is an Iverican responsibility."

That was what Deitorr said, but the unspoken implication was there: Iverica wasn't about to let Verde, the closest thing to a rival, gain on Iverica's hegemony by planting their roots in Vasqqa. Iverican power within the Federation might be then contested by the Duchy--a serious standoff for influence in the Federation. If they conceded Vasqqan dependence, what followed would be two lions contending for mastery of the pride.

"Given what you have at stake, it may actually behove you to accept aid freely given, Franso", Borbon knew how flimsy that argument was, so he was ready to back it up by placing more of his cards down. 

"--the unrest is going to cast a lot of doubt on whether the Federal Coalition is ready to proceed, it just might cause some hands to withdraw. Verde simply couldn't hold its referendum in light of such a crisis", Borbon continued.

"It will be fixed, it may take time, but its nothing that cannot be handled. Then what will the others do? There won't be a reason not to go forward with the Referendum. Politicking can only delay it so long", Deitorr replied, but he knew Borbon wouldn't play his thinly veiled threat without a trump card to carry its weight, what Borbon said next would likely be what Deitorr's intuition had been prodding at anxiously since reading the Duke's message.

All humour was gone from Borbon's features as he straightened his relaxed posture a span.

"Whatever happens, there won't be coming out of this without a little blood Franso. Your people will want reprisals for whatever problems might be caused by the Vasqqan nationalists. Ultimatums will be thrown around, and the anger that lay dormant in the previous decades will flare up and break the understanding you've carefully built with the Vasqqans. Then what? The others will see you two tearing at each other like two hawks in a cage and then they will baulk, like they always have. They will curl into their shells again until everyone involved has died and it is quiet again. There won't be a Federation then Franso, not for another century", there was a growing menace in Borbon's tone now, the gentleness was gone in those cold eyes, replaced with a smoldering ember that betrayed the Duke's near triumph.

"And who would bring all that down on us? What kind of beast would do so, just for more control of a labour state to fill the coffers?", retorted Deitorr, his voice rising just a pitch. He knew the thinly veiled insult was unfair, Borbon wasn't some selfish villain. He was more like Deitorr than any of the other Iberic leaders. He would do anything to preserve the integrity and prosperity of his people.

Deitorr knew his words would change little, but perhaps if goaded, the old Duke may be made to volunteer something to aid Deitorr's weakening stance. Franso needed to prod the bull, needed to rile the even-tempered man some.

Borbon looked at him then with a scowl, mixed with something like disgust.

Deitorr knew Borbon needed Vasqqa, it was necessary for Borbon's slowly eroding influence. As the Iberic states slowly emerged from their enclosures, Verde's youth had begun their education in ideals of globalism--where powerful monarchic institutions like Borbon's were quickly losing their appeal to Divine Right. If Verde were to retain its traditional foundation in the next century, it's Duke would need to prove it with a resounding diplomatic victory. The consequences of inaction for Verde would be more than just the loss of Dukedom, but the erosion of the cultural base from which their worldview stood--it would be the beginning of a slow slip into social nihilism, surrender to the anxiety brought about by the poison of post-modern thinking.

"No", Borbon said at last, his low tone carrying within the small confines of the parlour.

"They'll look to Verde, to me, while distancing themselves from the bloodbath. And three states without you and the unruly Vasqqans will form the Federation. Your government isn't the only one they look up to Franso. My house has long held the beacon, reminders of what we once had. Tradition. The legacy of a bloodline that runs through my veins. Your Republic may be the successors of the old empire, Primo--but only because it's claim has not been contested since... the old wars. But Verde has my line, and ours is the old blood."

The argument sounded like the ramblings of an irascible old fool clinging to the old ways, yet Deitorr knew the Iberics could, and probably would be convinced by it considering the chaos that was about to break the thin dam of containment the SSO had been struggling to shore up. Tradition was, and still is, the burning hearth that united the Iberic peoples.

Borbon held the aces. Franso had only one option.

The room was silent for a moment.

Then, with nothing but the sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the room's corner, Deitorr nodded. With a few low words, the Primo of the Republic folded hand.

Link to comment

STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | EPILOGUE

0600 hrs
17th of May, 2018
Palá dei Primo, Intreimor City

 

Desdemona Tomas-Morra, Secundo of the Republic, set her phone down. Deitorr had made it clear that Case Blue now teetered at a knife's edge.

It had been close, too close to accomplishment without issue. Morra thought herself a fool for thinking that the situation could not possibly worsen after hearing Bonda's news about the Vasqqan troubles. 

Iverica's gains in recent years had put here in a position of vast influence. Armed with the necessary support, Deitorr had set about re-forging the Iberics from their diasporic condition. Morra had been at his side every step of the way, she wrote half the proposed legislation, brokered half the deals with the other parties. But so close to fruition, the plans had yet one more monumental hurdle to overcome. She herself was not so certain the nascent Federation would survive in one piece.

From the phone call, she had learned that what was supposed to be a formality concluded with dangerous conditions. Having somehow learned of destabilising events in the Free State of Vasqqa, the Duke of Verde had managed to seize an opportunity for blackmail. With the Duke's insistence upon claiming the wealth of Vasqqa for the continued prosperity of this own state--his grave threats to Iverican plans, would force Primo Franso Deitorr to concession... Or to risk.

In the brief, sobering exchange she had just concluded with Deitorr, on his return flight, he had made it very clear what they were to try now. It was... nothing short of a last resort and was incredibly risky.

She picked up the phone from her table and punched in a contact she had been dreading to use.

A last gambit.

---

In the days following the Meeting of Iberic leaders, the situation in Vasqqa would only worsen. The autonomous region of Raqqa, an enclave for Narvic peoples resisting the monolithic Iberic paradigm, would voice their dissent over the Referendum. Being a demographic of only 10 percent of the Vasqqan population, their bloc vote, no matter how united, could not possibly unseat the unification majority in voting. Protests and riots would erupt, public acts violence not far behind them, serving only to widen the growing gulf between Iberic Vasqqans and Raqqans.

Raqqan nationalists, seizing the opportunity would campaign hard for their emancipatory agenda. Vasqqa was now a powder keg. Each day, the Duke of Borbon moved closer to fulfilling his threat of suspending the Verdense referendums under the pretence of concern for Vasqqan affairs. Galicia and Narva, ever skittish, would grow uneasy with the unfolding events.

Which course the road to Federation would take, now lay solely in the hands of Iverica's leadership. 

 

END OF ACT I

 

---

 

Read ACT II 

 

Link to comment
  • Similar Content

    • By Iverica
      READ ACT I HERE
      A UNION DIVIDED | PROLOGUE
       
       
      The months after the Ultramares Conference would prove to be the most tumultuous in Iverica's recent history.
       
      Somehow catching wind of Iverica's illicit activities to quell dissidents in Vasqqa, the Duke of Verde threatens Primo Franso Deitorr with what is effectively blackmail--either the Primo secedes control of Vasqqa's future economic planning to Verde, or the Duke uses his support to suspend unification under Iverica's mantle.
       
      With either option being a potential death sentence for the hard-won Iverican hegemony, Deitorr is forced to commit his last gambit.
       
      With two powers struggling for control of Vasqqa, a shadowy play of cloak-and-dagger unravels behind the gilded linens of the political façade.
       

       
      ---
       
      2100hrs
      15th of August, 2018
      Campo V. D'Centrale, Vasqqa D'Oeste, Iverica
       
      The prefab room in the wayside of Exersito Base Vasqqa D'Centrale, like many of its sort, had been in use far past its listed service life. It was dank, a pervasive smell of unventilated washroom hung about to stuff the noses of the three occupants. The faulty wiring of the sickly-white fluorescent tubes illuminated the interior poorly and served only to accentuate the brownish stains spreading on thin wood sheet walls.
      Around a plastic folding table sat two of the three. One was wearing a dirt-streaked pair of Flecktarn trousers. The room's lighting fell short of his face, illuminating only what was below his neck. His bared chest was matted with thick strands of hair, mottled in some places by thick streaks of scar tissue. He smoked a rumpled looking half-corona while staring lazily at the suited man opposite him, occasionally shifting his glance towards the third figure, similarly suited and standing by the doorway.
      Across the table sat what screamed "spook" in possibly ever single tell. Black suit, black tie, bulge around the armpit where a concealed pistol sat, shaven head--likely to hide his receding hairline, reeked of expensive cologne, heavy set--probably cheating half a churro against the SSO fitness standard.
      The other was similar in attire but younger, maybe mid-twenties, slick hair-do, clean face--probably a user of feminine skin-care, trying playing cool, silent and dangerous. Trying. Also corded, slim, all muscle, probably a cross-fit hipster.
      As the soldier appraised them, he took regular puffs from the cigar. Apparently trying his best to overpower the room's smell with tobacco smoke. It wasn't long before the suited skin head decided to give up on waiting.
      Skin head cleared his throat.
       
      "We've got a rogue asset. The burn notice is about to go out. Free game. Pays well, 100k plus hazard and silence."
       
      Now spoken to, the bare-chested soldier put his cigar out on the bare plastic of the table. The sharp hit of sizzling plastic issued forth before being drowned out by the mildew smell.
      The soldier barked a laugh in response.
       
      "Why me? Kill team's gone soft?", said the soldier mockingly.
       
      "The mark won't go down easy, we need a real killer to helm this one", replied the skin head spook, seemingly unfazed and transactional.
       
      "mm'a soldier, not a merc", he replied dismissively. The soldier then straightened to get up, as if the conversation was already dead to him.
       
      The spook by the door tensed in turn. Shifting slightly to block the exit.
       
      "There's more. You know him."
       
      The soldier at the other end of the table paused. Casting an irate glance at the Cross-fit hipster by the door. Relaxing in his seat again, he gave a noncommittal grunt. He was interested, but just barely.
       
      "Hel-Rus. Death's Head", said the bald spook, using a tone that reminded the soldier of used-car salesmen throwing in free leather upholstery.
       
      The soldier's ears pricked at that. His jaw tensed, the bulge of bunching muscle below his left ear swelling slightly.
      Capitan Ector Santiago, Tercera Batallón, SOAR, leaned forward, into the dull cast of the flickering fluorescent. The left side of his face was contorted and covered in scar tissue from where he had taken a round to the face in the gutters of Salonica. The grafted skin was stretched tight over his skull and jaw, giving that one side of his face a sunken, skeletal appearance.
      After a short pause, Santiago gravelled a single word in query.
       
      "Kingfisher?"
       
      The bald spook nodded.
       
      "Kingfisher."
       
      "He's clever. It's damned risky", grunted Santiago.
       
      The spook raised an eyebrow at that.
       
      "He killed your men, almost got you killed too."
       
      Santiago snorted.
       
      "Not keen on giving him a better excuse."
       
      The Spook paused, and took some papers out of his pocket, scanning a page briefly. It was a showy effort.
       
      "I heard you were with them since selection? They make you write the butcher's bill to the families too? What was it called... a "helicopter accident?".
       
      Santiago warned him with a deep, low growl.
       
      The bald spook shifted gears, changing his tone to one imploring.
       
      "If you don't stop him, he'll get the chance to root out every single one of our loyal assets in Vasqqa. Include number One SOAR all over."
       
      Santiago sighed and rubbed his temples.
       
      "Fine", said the SOAR capitan.
       
      "Fine. I'll kill your rogue bird." 
       
      ---
       
       
      Notes: Potato map is an ORIONI work, just coloured and detailed with Paint. Yes these are recurring characters--SANTIAGO'S BACK BBQ. Suck my fat one of you're reading this ya fakka!!!!1
       
×
×
  • Create New...