If you've finished this, ACT II is available
STATE OF THE REPUBLIC | PROLOGUE
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."
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.
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..."
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.