Ersetum

Behind the Lines - Expansion post

Bullets crackled and zipped through the air, kicking up dirt and tearing through bodies. The trees which blotted out the sun, only permitting loose rays to pass through the foliage, were the only difference between day and night. Officers directed their men to keep advancing against the oncoming fire. At the top of the hill, radicals ambushed the patrol, bringing supplies north to feed the army. Although the soldiers couldn’t see their adversaries, they spoke Voneisen, and their accents were detectable.

The sounds of casing ejecting, bolts of rifles sliding, and the boots digging into the earth disturbed mother nature’s bliss. The soldiers exchanged fire against the targets on the hill. Based upon glimpses and the amount of fire they received, the Voneisen officers knew, or at least believed, they outnumbered their ambushers and ordered the assault on the crest to begin.

The firefight calmed down after a chaotic skirmish. Silence, save for the ruffling of foliage and distant footsteps and breathing, consumed the environment.

The captain motioned his troops to advance with his hands. With three men left to provide cover fire, the men stood up and slowly ascended the hill. Their stealth was disturbed by the sound of their feet and the jangling of their equipment. Halfway up the hill, silence still remained intact. The anxiety of the ascent kicked in after their initial adrenaline wore off once the fire stopped. Visibility anxious and uneasy, the captain ordered the troop to take a knee and wait a moment to collect themselves.

Their anxiety, however, was quickly cured as the thunderous cracks of gunfire came from the hilltop. Two men were immediately incapacitated, assumed dead. Chips of wood and barked filled their air as soldiers used the trees as covered or tried to lay down in the leaves to decrease their size. The enemy was now visible after taking a moment to look where the fire was coming from. They wore black uniforms, and most concealed their faces.

The Voneisen captain, anxious to end the fight, ordered the troop to take the hill and move at a double-quick pace and dislodge their attackers. The advanced was soon bogged down as they got within close range, and the will of the men to risk being shot outweighed their courage. The captain, leading by example, attempted to conduct a final push to dislodge them. Taking two of the insurgents down with his pistol, soon his troop was right behind him.

Within melee range, the fight became more gruesome and personal as dagger and bayonet slashed as the soldiers fought face to face with the enemy. Outmanned and out armed, the insurgents fled into the forest deeper, breaking from the fight into the foliage. Although it cost the captain, six men, their convoy was secure, and the ambushers were defeated.

As the men rested, the captain analyzed the dead insurgents. Their attire, cloaked in black robes and silks were not a soldier’s uniform. Most curious was the attire of what was assumed to be the insurgent captain. Garbed in intricately weaved robes and wearing an absurd engraved mask with three sets of wings extending off was highly impractical for combat. Upon patting down their leader, the captain discovered a tattered book which read on its cover “Anordbesh.”

The diaries of Junior Sergeant Marinkin Vitomir

4th of February, 197 GSC Since our last skirmish the front line has gone silent. Of course there is the occasional shelling from allied guns in an attempt to provoke the enemy lurking beyond. This doesn't seem to accomplish much, and some of the men who haven't done a combat patrol are beginning to think the mutants don't even exist. The veterans know better. Regardless, fresh troops from the city states of Taicanis are expected any day now. They'll surely bolster the spirits of the loose coalition we have here. I am eager for battle so that I can return home where I belong. This stagnant front is worse than an active front. The waiting alone is enough to kill a man.

7th of February, 197 GSC Still nothing. It's exhausting. I have volunteered for a patrol past the trenches. I want to reaffirm that I see the enemy we're fighting. Otherwise, what are we doing here?

8th of February, 197 GSC Finally some action! We were sent out of the trenches on a scouting mission. This time no combat, but at least we reaffirmed that the enemy is still there. The enemy has tanks of some sort, and there infantry just seems to be stagnant. Not motionless, but also not seeming to do much of anything. They hardly react the any shelling that occurs. I fear this means something big is planned by them. I have faith our Commander will prevail regardless, but men will die in the conflict. We also observed some sort of aircraft in the skies, clearly made by the enemy. We have fighters now flying aerial patrols near the enemy encampment. What is certain, this enemy encampment is definitely not the main encampment. We have been told there is a gateway to the savage underworld. I am sure the enemy plans to engage us soon enough, even if to probe our defensive lines.

15th of February, 197 GSC Action! Late in the night a small company of the Ra-Attra hit our forward trench. The combat was brutal. Green streaks lit up the sky as the enemy fired their cannons into our trenches. Riflemen fired and reloaded for what seemed like an hour, with the occasional rattle of machine gun fire. Eventually the enemy withdrew from their attack under a heavy barrage of allied artillery on their position. Tanks were mobilized near the rear trenches, but ultimately did not get utilized. Good. They got their glory in the sands of Kambai. The Commander ordered a small detachment of Cavalry to pursue the fleeing Ra-Attra in an attempt to cull their numbers. The dead will be counted soon enough. Although a victory, I fear the worst is yet to come. This was merely the probe I mentioned. After all, what is stopping these creatures who seemingly do not mind dying for their higher cause.

16th of February, 197 GSC The casualties seemingly were light on both sides of the spectrum. Coaliton leaders will be reporting to the commander soon enough on if they were engaged or not throughout the front line. It's time to get this war on. These creatures need to be eradicated.

The past
Foscan, Great Koya
Thunder growled—a low rumble that joined the reverberating drone of the monks. A storm raged outside Kansoji temple where torrents of water threatened to drown the very mountains nearby. Yet inside the hall of Ina, the room this night remained dry, dim, and somber. Abbot Yonshin led the congregation, where when the moon had been but little lower in the sky, he had roused the monks from rest to perform the service instructed to them from far off Aera. The monarch of Baizhu had passed into the fourth realm, struck down by infection to a wound, and his friendship to the court meant he would receive passing rites in all the imperial temples across the empire. To this end, Yonshin would perform his duty befitting this man and his legacy.

In the light of the candles, the wood and canvas of the hall glowed softly, subsumed by shadow. The chanting of the men hummed through the night air, on and on, a monotonous repetition of words broken only by the occasional splash of a water whistle. The rain on the roof was deafening. Yonshin worked his way around the men sitting on the floor of the hall, lighting the incense sticks that had made his country wealthy in centuries past. It took only a few moments for their scent to color the air—fir, maple, and old leather. Making his way back to the front of the room, Yonshin could see dark splotches of wet on the robes of his monks, who had not dried from their journey over. When he reached the front, he bowed to the great statue of Ina that reached to the ceiling. Her face was masked by dark, and the paint on her robes was wearing away to reveal the pine underneath.

A tap on his bell silenced the chanting monks, and a few more taps were allowed to sound out in the quiet. When the last echoes of the chime died beneath the roars of the storm, Yonshin began the service proper.
Light,
Infinite light,
Light,
Our master beckons.
He uttered and then tapped his bell again.

“Those in the service of the spirits, in the school of the realms, I call you tonight under the roof of our Great Master, whose compassion grows imminent as was and as will be. In that near domain of Baizhu, the sage ruler by name of Yuguchakan Bilge Nehawa” he tried as he may to pronounce the foreign name. “Has passed from the world of the living to that of the ancestors. May the spirits of his lands watch over him, may the spirits of his ancestors guide him, may he find comfort, may his spirit be avenged on this earth, may the Masters exonerate him.”
The thunder beyond groaned, shaking the hall as the ceremony continued.

“It was said of this man that he was a great ally to the Emperor and of the Empire. It was said that his tribute was generous and rich, and that he was a friend to our Master’s people. For this may the spirits hear our prayer.”
Yonshin turned, tucking his robes beneath him as he kneeled down not the floor in front of the great statue. Placing his head down onto the ground, he spoke once again.
“Master, you who quenched the fires and raised the ground. You who brought life from death, in whose land the seeds of health are grown. You who to we owe ourselves. We plead of you, as lost children, that you may guard the soul of this who, on whose shoulders he helped carry your earthly possessions, so that he may not befall ill in the world beyond.”

The abbot turned back to the rows of holy men, who all had their heads pressed to the floor as he had done. Removing his bell from hand, he tapped on it once. “May you guard the health of our Emperor.”

Another tap on the bell pierced the room. A drumroll of the storm outside grew and grew, shaking the walls of the hall. A sharp, sound-splitting crack burst from the hidden sky above and the shaking of the wood jostled the ceiling of the hall. The clear sound of a few roof tiles ripping from above could be heard, and Yonshin gave his audience a moment to sit as the heaven’s roars dissipated into the thuds of rain again. This had been the worst storm of the year.

Another bell ring. The monks lifted their heads from the floor, many clearly worn by the dark of the hour. Again, as they had done before, the deep chanting grew out into a song-like orchestra. Though they were nearing the end of their ceremony, none dropped the intensity or focus on which they had been always expected to give. A lifetime for some, a few years for others, the training of holy men prepared for them for the inconvenience of late night funeral ceremonies. Yet it would be just a few more repetitions before—the door on the far side of the room slid open harshly. A monk stepped in, leaking rainwater onto the wooden floor. Yonshin could hardly see him through the haze of the incense, but from the man’s demeanor, he had come in a hurry. Before the abbot could even stand, the man spoke.

“There’s been a fire!”

“What?” Yonshin shakily dragged himself up. The other monks followed him in his ascent, nearly blocking his view of the doorway. From outside, even through the shower, he could hear shouting from the black. “Where?”

“Lightning has struck the Inoko shrine!”

As orderly as they could, the monks began to stream out of the doorway into the soaked night. Yonshin did not bother question more on the blaze, for if it was surviving the sheets of torrent, it threatened to consume the shrine—and others—whole. As he stepped out from the hall, he could see the roofs of the temple complex silhouetted in black against the night sky. They were only illuminated by a great light, one that breathed and phased and danced—orange and searing yellow. This light, thrown from an inferno that he could now see balled around nearly the entirety of what was once another shrine hall. The cry of gongs beat out rousing all to attention, as figures in the blackness raced back and forth shouting. The size of the catastrophe—or what it could be—dawned on him. What despair swirled in the tempest above?

The Empress is dead. Long live the Emperor!

| Holzbuch Royal court| Stolzenburg | Werfareich Empire

Early in the morning, Prince Christian sat in an armchair with a glass of wine in his hand, constantly looking at the clock hanging on the wall opposite, and every time the clock did not show the right time, and the so desired time, the prince frantically sipped wine, trying to stifle the alarm that enveloped like a spider a web of despair to his soul. The clock was fifteen minutes past eight. The prince sighed nervously and reached for his glass. Eva Rott, standing by the window, held a mug of tea in one hand, while the other was fingering her rosary bracelet. On any other day, she might not have allowed her husband to drink, especially so early, maybe she would have started lecturing or scandalizing, but this time she perfectly understood her husband, sharing his feelings. They could not fall asleep that night, and as soon as the dawn began to illuminate the sleeping peaceful sleep of the city, whose inhabitants still do not suspect about future events, as soon as the rays of the sun hit their bedroom windows, the prince and the countess had already taken their waiting places, from which they did not have been gone for several hours.

Their plan, which they had been trying to implement for a long time, came into action. All parts of this mechanism must work perfectly harmoniously, even if they have not the slightest idea that they have become part of someone's plan, otherwise the whole plan will collapse from the slightest mistake, and then they will no longer be able to escape. All or nothing!
When Empress Stephanie passed away, a six-month mourning period was declared, during which it is not customary to crown new Emperors. The goal of paramount importance was the need to liquidate the will of Stefanie and her lawyer, who knew about the content of her will. To this end, unknown, under the guise of robbery, broke into the office of the Empress's personal lawyer, getting rid of both the will and the owner.
For many months before and after the death of Empress, they looked in the Reichstag for supporters of the coronation of Prince Christian, persuading them to cooperate, their task was simple, but the most important. Loyal parliamentarians had to in every possible way prevent the enthronement of Prince Wilhelm, and bring the situation in Parliament to such a degree of tension that the leftist coalition left the Reichstag building.
The second part of Eva Rott's plan was that her father, a wealthy industrialist, was to secretly, in another name, sponsor the Communists and coordinate the activities of the Revolutionary Socialist cell in Stolzenburg.
It was necessary to convince them to act, to force the disgruntled leftists to take to the streets for protests, marches, strikes. Their actions during the period of general mourning had to be exposed in the worst light in the controlled media, announcing to the citizens not only the disrespect of the Reds for the late Empress, but also about the vile and selfish desires to take advantage of the people's grief in order to seize power. This will turn all unsupporting Reds against them, and those who prevent this act of greed, they will see rescuers, and willingly agree to cooperation and concessions.
The third part of the plan was crucial. There were long negotiations with Field Marshal August von Trimmel, who, together with the garrison of the capital, was supposed to oppose those encroaching on state integrity, as well as declare that in the current situation, when the danger of uncertainty hung over the Empire, the army was unhappy with the fact that Parliament was again unable to accept at least some decisions on their own, therefore it is necessary to crown the successor and heir of the Empress Stefanie, whom the army sees her eldest son Christian from the von Schwarzenbach dynasty. August von Trimmel must also formally appeal to the new Emperor with a "demand" to dissolve the current Parliament and call new elections, due to the incompetence and incapacity of the members of the eighty-first convocation. Thus, Christian will not only receive the throne, as if at the request of third parties, and not at will, but will also be able to cleanse the Reichstag of disloyal supporters of Prince Wilhelm.

The hours passed very slowly, it seemed that an eternity of nervous anticipation and oppressive silence had passed. Eva Rott watched from the palace window, but could not see anything because of the buildings. At one point, several armored vehicles and tanks drove along the street, heading towards the protesters. About ten minutes later, a dry, hoarse voice, apparently belonging to Field Marshal von Trimmel, insistently recommended through the loudspeakers to disperse to the houses of the rebels, after a while a machine-gun burst and scared screams came over the city.
For a long time, the chaos, the sirens of ambulances, shouts, and speeches through the loudspeakers continued unabated. Only by noon did the loud, rhythmic sounds of footsteps along the corridor awaken Christian and his wife from a certain trance. Von Trimmel entered the room, a fifty-two-year-old man with austere but calm features, dressed in a ceremonial uniform. He bowed to the prince, Eva, asked for forgiveness for delaying.

Their plan worked. The coup was a success.

“This isn’t going to work.”
Vendre had been in this infernal chair for hours, surrounded by bright-burning candles and being plastered with mountains of makeup. The padding meant to keep his rear from meeting the underlying bamboo had long since gone flat, it was cruel that he wasn’t afforded even the opportunity to adjust himself. The old woman chided softly, dipping her brush into yet another ashen-colored pile of pigment. “They won’t know, young Vendre. Why, I did this for your uncle in your father’s more rambunctious years, the Council never expected a thing.” Vendre rolled his eyes, or did his best attempt without ruining the makeup. “Did it take this long?” Asked Vendre, a twinge of impatience in his tone. “Nay, your Uncle looked more like him, it helped that he didn’t tilt his head when I worked.” The old woman grabbed him by the hair, forcing his face forward again. Vendre hadn’t even realized that his head was drifting to begin with. He spoke with reluctance, yet reverence. “Sorry… Did you know my father well?”
“Know him well?” The old woman chuckled. “Every morning he would wake up and come to me, and every morning I would hide his second chin and greying hair. You know how he loved to talk. Every servant was an advisor to him.” Vendre paused for a moment, glancing to the side. “...No, he’d rarely talk to us, too busy with strategy, campaigns, politics, his slaves.” His gaze fell upon the old woman, who had taken a great interest in her palette. “He near-spurned us, he did; always scolding, always yelling; he said it was to make us try harder, but looking back on it… I think he hated us.” THe Old lady sputtered, nearly dropping her brush. “Ach, nonsense! He always said good things about you to us, your father wanted you to grow a thick skin is all.” Vendre clicked his tongue. “Of course he would, he can’t just look like a bad father in front of your confidants. Do tell me that you’re almost done, I feel my rear getting flatter every second.”

“Complaining won’t make me go faster, but yes, I'm almost done. Just a few more strokes...” The Old Woman applied the finishing touches, setting her brushes aside and picking a mirror up.

Vendre looked sickly. His already thin cheeks looked gaunt and his eyes sufficiently sullen and dull. “I couldn’t get the second chin, so I had to lay deep into your sickness. Are you ready to meet the council, Master Indoril?”

“I can’t turn back now, can I?” Vendre stood up and took a deep breath. The walk to the council chamber was short, but Vendre took time to take in the tall ceilings and painted Murals on the way. His heart pounded out of his chest, his mouth was dry, and each breath was a labor on his body. He arrived in front of the chamber doors eventually, and the Golden-Masked Ordinators would fall in behind him as he crossed the threshold.

The council sat high above him, where the candlelight couldn’t reach and their faces were shrouded in shadow. Yet, he still felt their gazes upon them. The voice that spoke was deep and rough, even for the Velothi. “Andras Indoril, you’ve kept us waiting for far too long. Do explain your absence.” Vendre took a deep breath, and spoke. “My hunting accident left me bedridden. I wish I could have come sooner, but my Physician said that I would die if I stood for too long, let alone set out for Tel Vethryn. My deepest apologies for any inconvenience.” Vendre faked a shaky bow. He surprised himself with the voice, it sounded close enough father, but he was fuzzy on the exact details. The voice began again. “Do not flatter us, our patience was naught but a formality. You stand trial for marching troops upon Tel Vethryn, violating our most sacred of compacts and for employing Ashlander Magicks to save your life.”

Vendre’s eyes widened, his chest bound even tighter and his stomach began to churn. He heard the Chamber’s massive doors shut tight behind him. All he could sputter out was a weak “W-What..?”

“You lead your armies on an ill-fated quest to destroy the sacred city of Tel Vethryn and take it for yourself, forsaking your God-Ancestors strife to unify his people. You dare draw a weapon upon the most sacred of Indoril’s peacekeepers, and when his righteous aim felled you in one fell swoop, you would dare to defy your death in order to stand here before us. Your very existence is an abomination in the eyes of the Living Gods, and you shall be put down accordingly. Say your prayers to your heathen Gods, Bastard of Indoril.”
Vendre would come back to reality when the Ordinators behind him grabbed his shoulders, forcing the young priest to the ground. He felt the chitin spear’s tip press to his neck, it’s wielder waiting for the council’s signal. Through his bound chest he scrambled for air. “By the right of the Council, bestowed upon them by the Living Gods of the Tribunal…” Vendre clawed at his throat, begging to let more than a trickle of air in. “...we declare Andras Indoril a heathen Ashland barbarian…” His lungs slowly filled, bulging against the invisible weights that crushed his chest. “No sin shall be eaten, and he shall be put to death…” Andras felt his throat tear as he forced single word out, right as the spear broke the skin.

“WAIT!”

The United Provinces | Capital City of Rosaheit | Rose Palace

In the grandeur throne room of the Rose Palace, located in the center of Rosaheit, an elderly figure with ashen grey hair wearing a regal outfit with a similar color scheme to the Alussian flag barring the orange which was replaced with a burgundy color. He read through piles of paper stacked on the side table next to his throne with a bored face as he nonchalantly dismissed most of them save for the ones he found mildly interesting.

Standing stone still beside him was a young red-haired gent in a white and blue royal guard's uniform whose purpose was none other than to be the Lord-Protector's final line of defense before his eventual death to any would-be attackers. The Lord was a liberal one and allowed him some freedom of movement which he used to fix his uniform or glance to his wristwatch.

The throne room was fairly quiet save for the light talks of the other nobles present who were gathered around the few clothed tables to the side of the room to the sides. They each wore uniforms befitting of Georgian to Victorian outfits with calming color schemes as Alussian culture wasn't fond of "hip" color schemes. The latest talks were mostly those within the country, specifically their managing against non-human rebellions plaguing the southern isles. There were a few who talked about the happenings of the outside world such as the ongoing conflicts between superpowers or the emergence of underground cultists.

They were fairly aloof to the occurrences outside their country and only cared for their well-being, as such, they never worried about anything as they believed that Alussia was simply too unimportant in the bigger picture. Who would spend time invading their relatively small country anyway?

"Hah... The issues are always the same every day. Some non-human barbarians try to incite a revolt in some nowhere village and get crushed by the local garrisons. I'm old yet I feel like I've barely done anything for all 40 years of my reign as Lord-Protector," the Lord said as he stretched on his throne.

"Perhaps you could spend some time with your children, Lord Wilhelm. I'm certain Lady Remille would be glad for you to spend time with her, so would Lord Norwal. They're still fairly young and they'll need the company of their parents," responded Wilhelm's royal guard.

"Speaking of Remille, what has she been up to lately? Last I've heard from her was that she was cracking down on fleeing non-humans in the south."

"Lady Remille has commissioned for the construction of a death camp in the Luxaria region. A famine might soon break out in that region so she's opted to culling the local non-human populations while the Ministry of Humanitarian Aid transports food to the humans and prevent unneeded deaths," explained the guard.

"Ah, no wonder I read a report of a large loan taken from the National Bank. I guess the south is in deep waters if they're going for the extermination process now, eh?"

"Yes. Food production has dropped significantly in the deep south and a few nobles are providing aid for the human populace. Might I add, Lady Remille has begun a petition to genocide the non-humans in the south so we can settle humans in the region and give the farmlands of non-humans to our trusted companies. Halden Company currently has the highest bid on the farmlands."

Wilhelm nodded as he looked back on Remille. The elder princess of Alussia and a candidate for the position of Lord-Protector upon his death. Wilhelm would mark her as a radical as she sought the complete extermination of non-humans in the country - not even enslaving them, only the complete obliteration of them and their culture. She's vastly different from his other sons and daughters who either wanted to keep the status quo or begin a path to peace with the non-humans. Lord Norwal, for example. He's the few who want to improve relations between humans and non-humans and end the centuries-long racial conflict in the country.

Wilhelm worried for the well-being of the country. The human supremacists were still the majority but there was that single speck of reformists slowly growing in the public. He'd crush them if he could but they were humans and he didn't want to kill his people without rhyme or reason. If Remille become Lady-Protector then she might spark the growth of the Reformists and split the country.

Wilhelm sighed, "I'm getting too old for this sh**."

It did disturb him how nonchalant Remille was when it came to slaughter. He could vividly remember that one village that Remille had burned down. How she impaled every non-human; newborn to frail old, man to woman, it didn't matter to her and it didn't bother her. Such a being worse than a demon lying behind that sweet face of hers that gave the most beautiful light smiles to many.

"Oh well," Wilhelm stood up from his throne, gaining the sudden attention of everyone in the room. "I can't keep worrying for that demoness or my other sons lest I lose more years from my life. Come, Johann, I need someone to accompany while I take a stroll in the garden."

"I would be honored, Lord Wilhelm," Johann bowed.

The duo walked out of the throne room with Wilhelm forcing the negative thoughts from his mind as he appreciated the botanical paradise of the Rose Palace. He enjoyed the mixing aromas of various flowers that permeated in his back garden, he especially liked the flowers from the outside world, specifically those from Koya.

"The sun is so fresh."

A New Dawn
Expansion post

The Harcetum villa stood almost ten kilometers away from the capital and thus enjoyed clean air and the quiet that hung as though a veil over the forests and the rolling hills of the surrounding countryside, luxurious commodities that eluded Eraenum with its ever-busy and obnoxiously loud streets. There, one always had to be somewhere and do something irrespective of their social standing, occupation, and even the time of day. Factories never ceased working, and the Eraenum Trade Assembly, the foremost commodity exchange in the country, tolerated no hesitation or, gods forbid, idleness.

Here, on the contrary, one could enjoy the finer things in life which the common man could only dream of. At the moment, the esteemed owner of the villa, Marius Harcetum, held a rather nice party in his garden. The cream of the crop of the Evrani society was in attendance. Marius rarely hosted such events, but when he did few dared ignore his invitation. After all, one did not simply dismiss the owner of the largest bank in the republic.

Many came to ask for favors, others wanted to secure investments for some project or another, others still had financial problems and tried to rectify them with loans. Everyone knew that a personal conversation would always be far more useful in achieving any of those goals than a written letter.

Still, all those industrialists, merchants, and two-bit politicians had to wait for their turn. At the moment, Marius invited one of the reii-proronii[1] to one of the drawing rooms for a private conversation.

“So how are things in the north?” he asked, pouring a glass of wine for himself and his guest. “Cheers.”

“Cold as usual, or so they tell me,” Trillo replied with a wry smile. He accepted the glass of wine and took a tentative sip. “It’s most fortunate that they have warm clothes. Winters close to the center are dreadful.”

“Oh yes,” Marius nodded and resumed his seat in a rather comfortable chair. “I do hope that the additional money is working well. There have been some rumors of a native population in that area.”

“Ah, the savages,” Trillo chuckled. “Can you believe it, they ran a direct democracy. They even wanted autonomy,” his face scrunched up as though he had just tasted something sour.

At the mention of direct democracy, Marius grimaced. He shook his head.

“What next?” Trillo asked with a trace of worry in his voice. “Regional government? I think not.”

“A slippery slope,” Marius nodded.

“Indeed,” Trillo empathetically agreed. “But anyhow, our representatives managed to dissuade them from those backwater notions with a barely noticeable application of brute force. The mines should be operational within the year, I believe.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Marius smiled.

His banks were profitable without any need for additional venues, but his brother ran a mining company. The two had an understanding and worked for their mutual benefit. Trillo, the good man, lobbied their agenda through the Curia[2] and the Mensorum[3] and would receive a very generous reward for his efforts. It was hard to find someone as agreeable and practical as Marius's current interlocutor, one had to keep the partnership going even if it meant donating here and there or providing other help.

“Oh by the way,” Marius finished his glass. “Your nephew is doing very well for himself in my headquarters. He may easily rise to a regional manager.”

“Callo has always been a smart boy,” Trillo agreed with a smile. “Shall we return to the guests? They must be dying to get a couple of words with you.”

“Oh yes, this drawing room already doubles as my third office,” Marius shook his head. “Enjoy yourself, my friend.”