Empress

Arkangrad Academy for Arcane Aspirants [Always Accepting]

Maia Eltharin

Name: Maia Eltharin

Race: Elf

Gender: Female

Appearance: Naturally blessed with the fine features and heart-aching good looks of the elves in general, Maia has honed them to the modern pinnacle of beauty. Flawless skin, spectacular cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face, curves in all the right places and sardonic green eyes dancing with mischief, her appearance is a not-inconsiderable weapon. She is, for all her elegance, somewhat short, standing at five foot three, and – perhaps as a consequence – is almost never seen without a pair of vicious heels, moving with an ease and elven grace many envy.

Flesh, fur, silver and silk – these are the things that come to mind when contemplating Maia's preferred wardrobe. Pale to the point of bloodlessness, even for an elf, she has embraced the icy good looks nature's palette provided and, with the aid of modern cosmetics, a dash of magic and the best tailors around, enhanced it even further. Artfully draped, close to skin-tight, dancing with intricate silver embroidery, her clothes are glitteringly intricate and draw the eye from far and near.

Magic:

Spatial: 16 – A prodigy in the field, Maia has always had a knack for spatial magics far beyond any usual affinity. Complex spatial dynamics, space-time continuum modelling, esoteric n-space interactions between intersecting metaspace branes...all of it so much meat and drink to her hungry mind.

Mana: 6

Lightning: 4 – Useful for artifice, and also less catastrophically lethal than the Molecular Mincer, Maia finds it very suitable, along with its other purposes, for discouraging wandering hands.

Earth: 3 – Maia dreams of silver swords and golden machines dancing to her tune. Alas, reality at this point is struggle and concentration to manifest even a clump of dirty iron, and her stonework has a tendency to fall apart into fine silver sand unless her focus is absolute.

Mental: 1 – Despite the best efforts of her mother and the rest of the Neon Court, Maia steadfastly remains a complete novice in the arts of glamour and illusion so favoured by her peers. It's not exactly that she has no ability, as per se, more a staggering lack of interest. All her lessons and education have managed to instil is a basic, rudimentary sense of when illusions and glamour are being worked on her.

Technique:

Queen of Gates:- Maia loves to teleport, ripping open the fabric of reality as easily as breathing. She rarely actually walks anywhere unless she has to. For her, eased by her skill and talent in the field, lunch involves a quick trip to Italy, and getting a snack means paying a visit to a patisserie in Nouveau Paris for her favourite macaroons. She has an impressive range for each jump, but as the distance increases the time and focus she needs also rises exponentially. A mile or less, and it's almost instant, the span of a couple of breaths, but hundreds of miles in a single leap needs far, far longer in perfect concentration, undisturbed lest the backlash twist her and her surroundings, usually in ways inimical to health and life.

Molecular Mincer:- Always keen to experiment and innovate, Maia's Molecular Mincer sends forth a shimmering network of ribbon-portals, hair-thin and effortlessly slicing through almost anything in their way. She adapted it from a spell in a cookbook.

Magesmith:- Still very much a novice in the complex field of enchantment and automation, Maia still enjoys it almost as much as she does the space-twisting complexity of her favoured school. Incapable of making much more than trinkets at present, she's keenly anticipating making more complex devices to do even more with magic.

Electromancer:- Able to work with weak flows of electricity and to direct more minor sparks and shocks, lightning magic is a recent interest of Maia's, mostly for its synergy with the more complex forms of artifacts and machines both mundane and arcane.

Skills:

Bonjour, monseiur, madame et neutre...:- Maia is naturally fluent in French and almost as at home in Nouveau Paris as she is in London.

Lady of the Dance:- Maia's childhood upbringing included dance, etiquette and deportment along with everything else. Of them, dance is one of the few she's kept and enjoys.

Bon viveur:- Used to the finer things in life, Maia knows the value of such things and, critically, where to find them. It is a rare moment indeed to find her without fine wine and good food, and still rarer to find her without at least a route to such things.

Bio: Extremely young by the standards of the elves, Maia is a scion of the Neon Court. Founded by her mother in the wake of the War, with all the old sanctuaries split open by warring gods and mages, the Neon Court took to the cities and the limelight both, revelling in the adoration of the human masses and turning that into money and power. From its capital base in London, the Court's reach is long; it has a presence in most major cities, from the streets of Nouveau Paris to the skyscrapers of Tokyo to the thrumming bazaars of Mumbai.

The elegant, sophisticated elves of the Neon Court have changed with the times. No longer as in-tune with the rhythms of the earth as their isolationist counterparts, they have instead found different callings. From glittering socialites to the most in-demand courtesans, from the finest modern arcano-chemists and their delightfully narcotic concoctions to the most captivating dancers, the Neon Court's elves are masters of their craft. Better than you will ever be, more beautiful than you will ever be, more powerful than you will ever be, is the silken whisper of the colour-drenched Court. Come dance with us and be a part of it, even for a moment.

Maia's mother is the Lady Neon, the queenpin of the Court. A past master of mental magic, her glamours and illusions were turned to protection and defence in the dark days of the War, and in the immediate turbulent aftermath they twisted the mortals of London to adoration rather than fear. These days, her powers enrich the halls of the Neon Court to a splendour undreamt-of even by emperors.

Maia herself, though, seems cut from a rather different cloth. Despite all the efforts of her mother and a legion of Court mages both, she remains steadfastly indifferent to the mental magic that is the Court's greatest strength, preferring instead to talk to the artisans and crafters who maintain the Court's homes and weapons. Acutely sensitive to space, keenly intrigued by the building blocks of magic, constantly tinkering with one device or another, whether mundane or arcane, she is an oddity in the colour-drenched halls of the city elves.

This is perhaps why she's been sent to Arkangrad – partly to fly the flag of the Neon Court, partly for its prestige and the education it offers, but mostly for want of anything better to do with her.

Arkangrad Academy for Arcane Aspirants Interest Thread

Lovely, thank you for the answer :) . How about warding and/or binding - does one have to learn each school in order to be able to counter it, or is there a body of spellwork specifically devoted to annulling other magic or providing protection from X?

Arkangrad Academy for Arcane Aspirants Interest Thread

@neogreggory Question: Is there a school of magic devoted to enchanting and the creation of magically-powered devices? And whilst I think of it, how about creation-esque magic - fire can obviously call up flames, you can use earth to make various stones and so forth, but what about, say, conjuring a lollipop, for the sake of argument? :P .

Arkangrad Academy for Arcane Aspirants Interest Thread

Indeed, Stellaris - properly modded, naturally :P - is a very addicting game :) .

Arkangrad Academy for Arcane Aspirants Interest Thread

Looks fun :) .

The World as We Know It [19th-20th Century Nation RP]

The Serene Empire of Tara

The Imperial Capital, Rigour, Salano District, The Palace of Reason

It was a fine, spring day in the imperial capital, and, taking advantage of the good weather and warmth, the leisured classes of the Serene Empire were at play. The sparkling blue expanse of the great river Rheol, meandering through the city in looping, sinuous curves before emptying into the sea near the crane-bedecked Docks and the League of Iron, was thronged with pleasure craft.

Yachts darted and played, gleaming iridescently like enormous dragonflies under clouds of sail, skipping merrily through the heavier, slower cargo traffic, dancing with one another between the lacy arches of the capital's many, many bridges, their wakes criss-crossing and foaming the river water, whilst ornate, ponderous pleasure-barges - silk-pavilioned, drenched in colour - played host to water picnics for the wives of the great and the good.

Once, not all that many years ago, the city's yachtsmen and women - yachting was the national sport and no respecter of gender - had struggled in turgid, foetid and sewage-choked waters. If the poisonous fumes rising from the water didn't carry off the unfortunate sailors, the many pipes dumping sewage and industrial chemicals - the price of progress - provided an extra, unfortunate frisson of danger.

Even the bridges, one of the prides of the city, lacy fantasias in a whole host of styles from exuberant Veletian filigreed arches to the baroque magnificence of High Taran, had been rotting where they stood, their supports eaten away by the corrosive liquid lapping at their bases, and it was common in those days for pieces of stonework to prove a serious navigational hazard, crashing down from on high and littering the river with sudden obstacles.

Peregrine raised a toast to the previous empress and Sir Jonathan Bezielle, who between them had taken the festering sore that was the Rheol in firm hand. The medical profession - the Royal Colleges - had for once been united in their arguments as to the health of the population, and the undoubted benefits that cleansing the river would have, but what had really swung things was the influential SBC - the Salano Boating Club - threatening (or advising, depending on one's perspective) to move the Montclair Cup, the most prestigious and profitable event of the entire yachting year in the Empire, away from the Rheol, on whose waters it had been raced for three hundred years, on the grounds of the health and vitality of its competitors.

That, the threat to their spring pastime, the most beloved activity of many a young buck and doe of means and breeding, and to the water picnics so beloved of their wives, had mobilized the aristocracy of the Empire en masse, and, aping them, the merchantier princes had waded in too.

Money had been thrown at the problem from every direction. Royal Commissions abounded, as did the numinous - and accurate - idea that a peerage would be in the offing for whichever enterprising engineer actually achieved the lofty aim - carting all the city's effluvia far from the glittering imperial capital and into the sea, where it could be safely discharged. Into the fray had stepped Jonathan Bezielle, a native of Duchy Mora and an expert in drainage. He'd applied many of the same principles to his designs and plans as he'd used in that mountainous duchy, and his plans and drawings had been sumptuous things, all technical notation and careful shading, where others had been rough designs and monochrome stolidity.

The crowning glory had been the model, which had so impressed the Committee - and the empress - that it had won Jonathan Bezielle the enormous project, with all its problems and prestige. And it was, with a few minor alterations, that model's vision that Peregrine himself now beheld, writ large in earth and stone and steel, from the terraces of the Parliament building, the glorious High Taran fantasy monument to Imperial power and prestige on the banks of the great river.

Millions of tons of earth had been moved - dumped into the stinking river from excavations all across the city, carved out into subterranean tunnels through which all the effluvia of civilisation could flow, all on a slight but carefully-planned incline, letting gravity take the strain of moving the muck. That earth had mounded higher and higher, abutting some of the more select districts - but that was all part of Jonathan's plan, and when it was done, handsomely-dressed embankments provided beautiful places for the lords and ladies to stroll of an evening, admiring the parks and the new-cleaned river, all the while beneath their feet a vast sewer carried the waste of millions away, far downstream to the great outflow pipes in the estuary, where the tides diluted and dispersed it all.

'Truly,' thought Peregrine idly, sipping his drink 'The works of man are wondrous indeed.'.

"Admirin' the view?" came an unexpected voice, close at hand, and Peregrine jumped violently, knuckles suddenly white around his glass.

"Dash it all, Bunty!" he reprimanded, whirling and giving his best double-barrelled glare to the nobleman who'd snuck up on him. "You nearly had me in the damned drink!"

Bunty - Benjamin Reuben, 4th Viscount Ulimiere and, as such, one of the wards of his own Duchy Arcadia - was an old friend (or, as they both gleefully insisted to their respective circles, nuisance). An ornament of the Parliament for twenty years, his black hair was pepperpot-gray at the temples, now, but his eyes still held that sparkling rakish gleam that had reliably entranced bevies of Veletian beauties on the Continent in their shared youth and, doubtless, still did so today.

He was known to have an...energetic schedule of personal pursuits, after all, but he was careful and discreet in the manner of most imperial nobles, male or female, and his liaisons never resulted in bastardy and shame for his lady wife. Nor did her own dalliances, and - once an heir of the blood had been begot, that was all that mattered to the imperial nobility. The Bliss Alliance, too, closer to home, was well thought-of in the Empire, and provided imperial citizens with a whole wealth of options, to suit any taste and pocketbook, with iron-clad discretion.

The system seemed odd, to foreigners, but it worked and had done for generations.

"Lucky these days all you'd be worryin' about is coming out wet," Bunty observed laconically, joining the duke at the railings, gazing speculatively out at the bustling city. "Our fathers' day, you'd be on your way to the medicos' tender mercies, likely as not."

"Mmm. All praise to Bezielle."

"Quite."

They clinked glasses in the sunshine, and enjoyed the moment of relief from the endless business of empire.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Imperial Capital, Rigour, Whisper Palace, Red Drawing Room

Liliana was drowning in flame, cocooned in lava, the womb of the earth. Sparks glittered in her vision, somersaulting embers, and then, as she came to full wakefulness and blinked her eyes into focus, the incandescent scene swimming before her resolved itself.

The sparks were the afternoon sunlight, flooding in through the enormous mullioned windows in the western wall and blazing bright on the gilt decoration that gave the room much of its overwrought magnificence. The lava, meanwhile, and all the flames - that was the decor of the room itself: crimson damask, dupioni silk hangings like fire, rich incarnadine carpetry and rugwork, and the womblike heat, the result of a comfortable chair and a beam of sunlight.

She'd fallen asleep, the warm sun and comfortable chair acting like a tincture of syrup of poppy, over a pile of State papers, all the doings of her government both near and far, in the middle of comparing their dry notation with the information from her own experiences and her own networks. Foreign affairs she was all at sea in, comparatively - she leaned heavily on Gabriel de Marin there, her government's lordly Foreign Secretary, to whom all the internecine reefs and rapids of international affairs were as lucid, limpid shallows - but in home affairs, ah, there she held the field against all comers, even the ostensible Home Secretary playing second fiddle to her.

From an early age, Liliana had known the throne would one day be hers. The de Tara line had always tended towards daughters, and that tendency had only grown more pronounced with the slow passage of generations. Why this should be so, no-one could say - the finest medical minds mystified - but the fact remained. The Gryphon Throne had been held by more women than men, now, Liliana herself being the fourth in a recent run of unbroken empresses regnant, and her heir presumptive, a cousin safely stashed away against the unthinkable, was currently set to be the fifth.

As such, knowing that one day, quite literally, all she surveyed from the imposing spires of the Whisper Palace would be hers, she had bent all her intellect and all her energy to understanding that glorious, beautiful, maddening, twisted, brilliant, perplexing, insane country. Her studies had been encouraged - the concept of noblesse oblige having been burned into the Taran psyche long before the phrase even existed to describe that blessed aristocratic state - and in them she'd found and fostered a deep connection with her people.

All her people - whether they be Home Duchies dukes or colonial peasants. Liliana took her coronation oaths seriously, and worked hard at her understanding of her subjects.

That was truly how she thought of it, the world divided sharply in two: her people, and foreigners. It didn't matter how long you'd been one of hers; the moment the Rubicon was crossed, so to speak, that was that. Imperial citizen, with all the rights and privileges and duties thereunto irrevocably bound. Duties to Crown and Country, to the good order of the Empire and the safety of her citizens, and in return for that loyalty, the Empire and its emperors and empresses had to give freely and deeply of their own devotion.

It was a covenant, born in history and bred into the flesh, the blood and the bone of House Tara, and one that Liliana, when she thought of it consciously at all, had no intention of breaking or even weakening.

The click of the doors opening, before she'd even had time to pick up her pen once more, drew her attention even as one of the Palace butlers shimmered in. "Ma'am, your sailing apparel has been prepared and Manticore is awaiting your pleasure at the palace marina."

Liliana brightened, even the thought of her later engagements - a garden picnic with some influential Society matrons which would prove to be Terribly Tedious, a meeting with Peregrine which would prove to be Terribly Vital, and a performance of Suleiman's latest opera, accompanied by her greatest nobles and most powerful mandarins, which would be both Terribly Vital and Terribly Tedious in one - swept away by the thought of sun and sail and water.

Like duty, water had been bred into the heart of Tarans the globe over, and even their empress was not immune.

The World as We Know It [19th-20th Century Nation RP]

The Serene Empire of Tara

The Counties Palatine, Jardin Defensive Lines, 3rd Colonial Rifles

“Fire, damn your eyes! All units, fire at will!” Brigadier de Lacy, crouched with his men in hastily-dug (but effective; no-one could ever accuse the Royal Engineers of being less than effective) trenches around an unremarkable tor.

Against the plucky Blackcoats (although all of them were in tropics kit, not a scrap of black or silver to be found) were arrayed a screaming horde of Mauwanti irregulars. De Lacy’s spyglass swept the horde as they charged towards his position, a detached portion of his brain calmly marking off the distances as they drew closer.

Behind and above him, as the flashing tide of dark-skinned, warpainted native closed with the thin black line, half of his artillery opened up, the field guns enfiladed and anchored into the rich loam of the plains.

The roars and stabs of actinic flame as the battery hurled shrapnel shell high into the air to rain down on the unfortunate enemy was an almost physical force, and de Lacy steeled himself against the shocks with the ease of long practice.

A high-pitched whistle was all the warning the Mauwanti got as they swept across the veldt; high above them, the shells detonated, hurling a deadly rain of glittering shrapnel down onto the foe.

From a distance, it was quite pretty, really, a shimmering silver rain that cut the enemy to red ribbons, and the war-cries became screams of agony as wicked fragments scythed through flesh and bone with contemptuous ease. Intestines boiled grotesquely from punctured stomachs, arterial blood jetted from severed limbs in fountains of bright red gore.

Closer to, as the remaining few charged, knowing they couldn’t retreat, not with the rain of shrapnel behind them – but de Lacy had nasty surprises galore up his sleeve, and even as his men opened up with a crack-crack-crack of rifles, the battery reloaded.

This time, the artillery belched silver-steel rain, a scything wave of thousands upon thousands of ball-bearings accelerated to killing speed, ripping through flesh and leather alike, straight into the teeth of the onrushing raiders. They were thrown back with terrible injuries, but the slaughter wasn’t done yet; the guns reloaded and the sergeants called for more fire, the artillery belching fury in answer.

~~X~~

The Counties Palatine, White Haven Fortress

The hot air smelled of gunsmoke, fire and blood, the playful breezes wafting the melange of war up from the killing fields below. ‘They were brave,’ James Harkins noted, with a curious sense of clinical detachment ‘But bravery doesn’t mean much against a hail of shot and shell. Poor bastards.’

The Lieutenant-General leaned against the battlements of the star fortress, his eyes flicking over the surrounding landscape. Trenches dug meandering darker lines in vague rings around the central fort, gleaming with oil lamps as the night set in, and greater lights marked where the Medical Corps were methodically burning the dead, Mauwanti and Taran alike. The climate of the Counties demanded nothing less; infection and rot could set in quicker than conventional burials could be arranged – and for any army, infection was a disaster.
The close conditions necessitated by military camps, even given the almost-obsessive attention to hygiene, good food and sensible waste disposal of the modern era, made them hotbeds and breeding grounds for diseases of all kinds. Clean living and a stout heart could only do so much; the rest was in the hands of the medics.

Harkins turned at the sound of approaching boots – the trim form of his second, Colonel Oskar von Bittenburg, coming into view along the parapet.

“Good evening, sir,” the Colonel said, snapping to attention and saluting with a precision that would have made any drillmaster proud.

“Evening, Oskar. At ease, stand easy.” He nodded out across the darkling plain, across the invisible line dividing Tara from the Mauwanti Empire. “Just thinking about today’s attack, and the one on de Lacy.” A pause. “And where we go from here.”

Oskar allowed himself to relax from his perfectly-correct military bearing. He and James had served together before and were friends of old; a little informality, even had the Lieutenant-General not invited it, would not go awry. “Forwards, James, where else? I’ve read most of the same dispatches as you; our lords and masters plan to civilise the damn natives out there. Oh, they’re pleased with the victories we’ve won so far – in particular de Lacy over in Jardin – but they’re not going to forget Argentine quickly, either.” He looked at his superior and friend for a long moment.

“That…shaman…said it was tribal leaders causing all our troubles. Do you believe him?”

James shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s unlikely, given how deep they got and how many there are, but. Even if they were doing it off their own bat, that’s not going to fly back home, not with how late they’ve left it to talk to us.”

Oskar snorted. “Yes, left it until we’ve bloodied their noses and marched a hefty force up to the border.”

James raised an eyebrow. “If you were their emperor, would you have done aught else? If your deniable ‘raiders’ managed to sack Argentine, well, obviously we Tarans aren’t as strong and powerful as everyone says, so the Mauwanti gain prestige and land. If they fail…ah, well, rogue elements, tribal leaders, not acknowledging the orders of the throne, so sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. It’s the sad dance of greed and politics, Oskar.”

Oskar grinned. “And we’re the ones sent in to do our throne’s dirty work.” He shrugged with a crackle of bone. “There are worse professions than soldier.” He nodded out past the defensive rings and funeral pyres, into enemy territory.

“Got a plan yet?”

James sighed and pinched his nose, feeling the unfamiliar tug of the new scar tissue on his left cheek as he did so. “Inklings. Whatever we do, though, we’re going to have to keep the men on a tight leash. No murder, rape and pillage – we’re better than that, or we ought to be, and besides, these people are a short war away from being imperial citizens.”

Oskar blinked. “You think that’s where the Chancellery’s headed?”

“You don’t? More land for the empire, more subjects for the empress, more resources for the industries Back Home? More recruits for the Army and Navy, in time, too.”

The blond cavalryman shook his head. “They’ll hate us,” he pointed out. James shrugged.

“Not our problem, until we get called in to put a rebellion down. Besides, the bureaucrats are very good at their jobs; it’s how we got the empire, in a way. Divide and rule, sweetening the pot with honey as needed, sending the important people’s children away to be educated in Tara at the state’s expense…they know how to use sweet reason and thumbscrews both.”

James shook himself, and blinked with renewed intensity. His voice was a little more formal, a little more clipped, when next he spoke. “Assemble your staff, Colonel. We’ll have a strategy meeting in two hours, and dinner. I’ve got the beginnings of a plan, but I want you and your people to bring some ideas to the table as well.” A pause. “Good work today, Colonel.”

Oskar saluted. “For the good order of the Empire and the safety of her citizens, sir.”

James returned the salute, and then went back to his pensive gaze out over the landscape.

‘Now, what do we know about Mauwanti? There’s a lot of land over there, most of it not that well-developed, certainly not by Imperial standards. They like quick attacks, striking targets of opportunity where they can and then fading back into the jungle or charging away across the plains. We need to secure Feonti, at least, and I’d prefer to have Madkwa as well. Making a lightning pass for their capital – which I know Oskar will champion – would leave us dangerously overextended otherwise.’ A frown creased his tanned face as he thought his way through the difficulties ahead. ‘We have the advantage in discipline, technology and artillery, but they’ve got the land and the numbers; we’re going to have to fight smartly if I want to avoid turning this into a bloodbath for our side as well as theirs.’

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, indeed, and whilst Lieutenant-General James Harkins hadn’t even a coronet to his name, his cap and epaulettes bore the insignia of a general, and on his head there rested the lives of everyone in the Expeditionary Force.

The next few days saw little ostensible movement from Tara, the troops drilling in White Haven and remaining close to the Fortress. Ostensible was the key, however; groups of scouts and light forward units, numbering a thousand in total, were sent forwards into Mauwanti territory, mapping and scouting and feeding their information back to command, ready for fast forward deployment of Imperial forces against the locals.

The World as We Know It [19th-20th Century Nation RP]

Mighty Catch-Up Post

The Imperial Capital, Rigour: The Whisper Palace, Scarlet Drawing Room

The room was a symphony in red. Peregrine Montclair could feel the crimson stain seep into his vision as he entered, the gaslights making the crimson damask, the red velvet curtains, the scarlet upholstery, the carmine carpets all glow rich and bloody.

Oh, there was gold, too, glittering from the furniture and the panelling, and crystal took hard white fire in the chandeliers and decanters on the sideboard, but the overwhelming impression was of red.

It was not, perhaps, his favourite room in the Whisper Palace – too harsh, in a way, and far too overpowering. Its décor all-but screamed power and pomp, prestige and ceremony – but the empress liked it and its glorious view over Salano and Godsreach, and that was that.
He was, after all, her servant and subject. They all were, from the highest duke to the lowest scullery maid; everyone bowed to the imperial crown – and the woman who wore it.

Even at this late hour, the woman waiting for him by the roaring fire was immaculate. Fashionably pale skin vanished beneath a shimmering silken gown the colour of flame, and rubies the colour of blood glittered in the pale hollow of her throat. Black hair washed down from her head, and dark grey eyes like thunderstorms glittered above rich crimson lips.

This, then, was the Serene Empress, and – surprisingly – she was not alone, even given the late hour. The footmen didn’t count, but next to her, a snifter in his hand and filled with – by the smell of it – three fat fingers of peach brandy, stood the Viscount St. Clair, Alexander de Serenne, looking anxious and uncomfortable.

A Government Box was in his other hand, the black-and-silver briefcase stark in the gorgeously overwhelming colour of the room, and it was to this that Perry’s eyes were drawn even as he glided forwards over the acres of floor and gave of his best and most courtly bow.

“You summoned me, your majesty?”

“Yes, Perry. Alex here-” she tilted her head towards the Marshal of the Imperial Army, who gave a weak smile and sipped his peach brandy. “-has a problem. Emergency dispatch from Argentine. Alex?”

The click of St. Clair’s brandy glass on the mirror-polished surface of the table was loud in the silence. “Five days ago, troops from the Mauwanti Empire crossed the land borders of the Counties Palatine, laying siege to one of our border forts and raiding a town called Jardin. Reports are sketchy, at best, but our man over there says a couple of hundred civilian casualties, minimum – and the butchery of a company of troops. After, we believe, their surrender.”

Perry had initially believed the fine tremors rushing over his colleague’s athletic frame to be anxiety or fatigue. Now, he realised with a sort of detached numbness, it was rage.

“Dear lord,” he breathed, caught utterly on the hop. “There was no warning? No declaration? Nothing from the Foreign Office about it?”

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Not a blessed thing. A bolt from the clear and shining blue, by all reports.”

Liliana smiled, and it was a mirthless thing, a skinning-back of red lips from gleaming white teeth. “Our Chancellor is remarkably sanguine,” she observed. “We used rather stronger language. Regardless, gentlemen, one of our imperial possessions has been invaded by a foreign power. Never mind there’s been no declaration of war - Raids on our towns? Sieges of our fortresses? The slaughter of our troops? We’ll not wear it, Perry, not as long as we sit on the throne!” She took a single, sharp breath – which had the effect of compressing and concentrating her anger. The Empress Liliana, it was known, held grudges until they died of old age and then had them sent to the taxidermist so she could continue to hold them.

“We will brook no compromise on this,” she informed him, voice precise and clear and hot as a blowtorch. “We took an oath, Perry, when they put the Crown on our head, to keep faith with our subjects, to protect and defend. Well, we’re no rifleman and still less a Navy captain, but these Mauwanti have attacked our people and we want them to bleed.”

Peregrine coughed, trying to get back onto an even keel, the world reeling around him. Tara was no stranger to bloodshed, of course not, but it was rare for them to be caught so utterly by surprise. “No, no, of course not, ma’am,” he soothed even as his mind raced furiously. “No question of abandoning your subjects, no question at all.”

“Good. You run our government, Perry, and you run it well by our reckoning – but it is still our government, at the end of the day, and we require you to repulse the attacks on our colony and our people by whatever means necessary. Fail in this charge at your peril, Your Grace. St. Clair.” With a sharp nod to them both, they were dismissed, bowing away from the imperial presence in unison.

Once the doors had clicked shut behind them, Alexander let out an explosive breath. “What a damned mess, eh? Lord knows what’s got into those wretched natives down there.”

“Picking apart motives isn’t going to be very helpful right away,” Perry pointed out as they walked briskly through the Palace halls, escorted by a silent equerry. “We need to work out what to do about this attack, and quickly before it gets out of control.” Perry was right to worry; a part of Tara’s gleaming armour on the world stage were its stable and prosperous colonies, and the utter unthinkability of attacking one. Unless decisive action were taken soon, that armour would begin to crack, and it was far harder to repair that sort of damage. Worse, the Counties Palatine were a key trading hub, and the loss of revenue didn’t even bear thinking about.

And the less said about raiding, looting, rape and pillage, the better.

“The College of War has better facilities than the Chancellery for this sort of thing,” Alex proffered. “I can have Alasdair and Richard-” the military heads of the army and navy, respectively “-here in an hour?”

Perry nodded and pinched his eyes, shaking off the tiredness. “Good thinking. We’ll need Gabriel on-side, too, and probably the Attorney-General as well. I’ll have my staff round up the people we need from Cabinet, if you can get your chaps working on a more comprehensive briefing.”

Alex nodded, face grim. “I’ll lay in coffee and cake. It’s a godawful hour in the morning and I don’t think any of us are going to get any more sleep.”

At the gates of the Whisper Palace, handed into their respective carriages by fresh-faced equerries, the two ministers split to their respective duties, and in short order the telegraph lines burned with order and counter-order, all the normally-ponderous machinery of government waking from its somnolence at the sudden, dramatic news.

~~X~~

The Imperial Capital, Rigour: Godsreach District, The Imperial College of War, General Strategy Room

“All right, so what do we know so far?”

“Precious little,” grunted Alasdair, glaring at the small stack of telegraph flimsies. “Seems like some of the natives got restless and envious of our colony down there and went for the old smash-and-grab. Bloody savages, if this report-” he waved one of the translucent pink papers dramatically “-is accurate. Fort Holloway – that’s here¬-” the Field-Marshal jabbed viciously at a map and then at the large and splendidly detailed globe in the centre of the table “-got massacred to the last man. Silver Hearts all round, and a posthumous Imperial Cross for the Lieutenant.” He harrumphed, and then changed the subject from the past to the present.

“Who’ve you got in command over there?” the Admiral wanted to know, absently drumming his fingers on the polished wood of the desk as he thought.

“James Harvick,” Alasdair replied shortly. “Came up through the Royal Engineers. IGS thought it’d be a good posting for him to really get to grips with wide-area command before we bumped him to Major-General. Sound instincts, just needed a few of the rough edges polished off. We all thought some time down in the Counties with all its traders would do him some good, and keeping the Colonial garrison in fighting trim would keep him busy, too.”

“Well,” Richard replied with a slightly sardonic laugh “He’s certainly got enough on his plate now. Baptism of fire, I shouldn’t wonder. What’s he up to at the moment?”

“Followin’ procedure, with a few wrinkles of his own, near as we can tell. Pulled back the troops to the fortresses and big garrisons, and broken up some of the Colonials into scouting formations. Keepin’ his strategic supply routes open, denying the enemy land control, and keeping abreast of where they are and where they’re headed. Knowing him, I’d not be surprised if they’ve got orders to the effect that if they catch an enemy commander three sheets to the wind, it’s to be five rounds rapid and no survivors.”

Richard hmmm-ed thoughtfully. “Aggressive commander, then?”

Alasdair wobbled a hand. “Confident in his troops and his assessment of the battlefield,” he replied after a few moments’ thought. “He’s RE, and like everyone he knows the strength of the Army’s in the fortresses and the artillery.”

This was true; for centuries Tara’s army had been the little brother to the mighty Navy, and its main role, historically speaking, was in securing and improving imperial territory after it had been won. Artillery and superior technology to batter down any local opposition, ably supported by crushing fire from Navy battleships, and then out with the shovels en masse.

“He’s sent for reinforcements and explained the situation as best he knows it,” the Field-Marshal continued after a few moments. “I don’t think he’ll deviate much from the defence plans unless something major happens; the whole aim is to stack the deck as much as possible in our favour and buy as much time to bring the big guns to bear as we can.”

Richard nodded. “Sound thinking. What’s the current plan for reinforcments?”

“Five regiments, and all their artillery too,” Alasdair said shortly. “Her Majesty was insistent with the Chancellor and the Marshal, I understand. They’ll not be wanting to do it half-arsed, or it’ll be their heads rolling, not just poor citizens out in the Colonies.”

“Hah. Empress red in tooth and claw.” The trim and dapper Admiral shook his head. “All right, I suppose your troop ships will want escorts?”

“Aye, and some offshore support if it comes to it. Amazing how much safer people feel with a battleship’s guns guarding their town – and Argentine’s a bloody enormous port city. They’ve already got some fairly substantial coastal batteries; ten battleship-rated cannon and a score of cruiser-weight guns, at last report, but some mobile platforms to rain hell on any invaders coming close to the coast would be…useful.” He smiled a thin, wintry smile, and the Admiral nodded in agreement.

“Sound thinking. A show of rapid, effective force should help keep the faith in the other colonies, and here at Home too, when news of this breaks.”

“Ah, that would be my domain, I think,” one of the other figures – who up until that point, had remained silent. Gabriel de Marin, the Empire’s Foreign Secretary and – as part of that, someone with extensive contacts amongst the burgeoning Taran press. “It’s a fairly clear-cut case of self-defence; I don’t anticipate any major difficulties with it, either here at Home or out in our other possessions. I’ll be briefing the Viceroys and Lieutenant-Governors to present it as a rapid and decisive action to protect imperial citizens.” He paused. “Which has the added advantage of being the truth. Always useful, that – if not in the short term.”

The Admiral gave a little, courteous bow. “Thank you, m’lord. Now, Alasdair, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? How many troops are you thinking of sending, and how many ships am I going to have to scrounge up to form an escort?”

Planning and discussion – between the Admiralty, the Imperial General Staff and key elements of the civilian government – continued as the night wore on and the first touch of dawn brightened the sky outside. Fuelled by sandwiches and cake and copious amounts of strong coffee, the movers and shakers of the Serene Empire continued their work, uncaring of the time. The ancient adage – admonishment and commandment both: ‘To the good order of the Empire and the safety of her citizens’ burned in more than one mandarin’s brain as they bent themselves to the task at hand, and orders flew out on electric wings to far-flung parts of the imperial war machine, waking it from its slumber.

~~X~~

Counties Palatine Coastal Waters, Near Argentine

“Argentine coming into view!” the first mate of Her Majesty’s battleship HMS Goliath reported, saluting his superior smartly. “Conditions foggy but otherwise calm, we have a bead on the harbourmaster’s tower and the seawall.”

“Thank goodness for that,” remarked said superior, Commodore the Hon. Edward Selleck, turning from his own pensive contemplation of the sea and its drifting fog banks. He was a powerfully-built man, not fat – never fat, not in the Imperial Navy – but simply built to a scale somewhat bigger than normal, all of it overlaid with muscle from a rigorous exercise regimen.

Strength was all well and good, as was a powerful presence to bolster the morale of the men – but what really mattered in this day and age was brains. The intelligence to come up with newer and better instruments of war, and the intelligence to use them effectively.

The battleship was the most deadly such instrument yet devised – but like all things, it was a tool, and it had to be used correctly, and with complementary devices where possible, too (to extend the metaphor). The destroyers, in this case – and it was his job, his happy job, to wield those tools.

To the glory of the Serene Empire and the safety of her citizens.

“Contact the troop transports – and General Harvick, too. He’s been waiting for a chance to give these invaders a taste of the imperial hammer, and I can’t say I blame him. Oh – and tell Guns we might have some work for his crews soon.” A wintry smile cut across Selleck’s craggy face at that, the mirror to his Admiral’s, far away in Rigour.

Tarans thought very similarly, at times.

And thus it was, mere hours later as the brief tropical night swept in, the transports were docked and disciplined lines of Taran riflemen, followed by the detachments from the Artillery Corps, were disembarking, swelling the capital garrison to bursting under the watchful eyes of the coastal fortresses and the Navy ships both.

Nothing could be permitted to impede retribution, after all – and, after having the colony bleed under his watch, although through no fault of his own, Lieutenant-General James Harvick was feeling very much in the mood for revenge.
Not that he’d call it such.

~~X~~

The Home Duchies; Sairland, Thalassa

A world away from the brief, hot night of Argentine and the Counties Palatine, away from the looming spectre of war and the smell of ordnance and fear in the air, the Board of the Bitter Sea Trading Company were throwing a party.

It was a very nice party, as befitted a very, very powerful corporation indeed. They’d hired the finest resort on Sairland for the event, a beautiful mansion - built in the Baroque style so beloved of the Home Duchies – with its own private beach, a perfect arc of curving white sand leading down to the clear turquoise sea. Sleek yachts bobbed at anchor, and just beneath the water’s surface corals waved in glorious rainbow profusion.

This was appreciated – in a background sort of way – by the glittering guest list. These were, after all, people near the top of imperial society, each of them used to untold luxury and ease in their daily lives. Movers and shakers; vice-presidents and CEOs, Directors and Chairmen, all mingled and laughed and danced and drank under the aegis of Bitter Sea, plied with the finest of food and the best champagne, all to celebrate Bitter Sea’s good fortune.

They’d struck a deal, supplying cattle in return for opium. A reasonable trade, but what had made it deliciously profitable was that Tara knew opium was a mere precursor to what could be. Imperial Chemical Industries had been contacted and a contract drawn up; their pharmaceuticals refineries had eagerly taken the raw opium, fresh from Bitter Sea docks, and turned it into far more valuable things; morphia, for one, so beloved of hospitals and hospices the empire over. The Surcease of Pain, the paramount analgesic, forever in demand.
In smaller quantities, too, but still substantial, and with such a lucrative price, they’d gone further and made diamorphine. Stronger and more powerful even than morphia, it eased even the worst of pain and sent its users into a glorious, blissful state akin to rapture.
Orders were flooding in from across the empire – and the company was putting out tentative feelers beyond imperial borders, too – and in every ear there rang the sounds of triumphant profit, louder than the soft wash of the waves and the delicate classical strains of the orchestra.

Of course, the Treasury would take its cut, but even so there were fortunes in the making, here and now, for those with the will and the means to grasp them, and Bitter Sea would ride that golden tide ever higher.

Life was good.

~~X~~

The Counties Palatine, Argentine, Pierpoint Fortress

The campaign in the Counties Palatine had been harder than imperial planners had expected or might have liked. Oh, there’d been great victories, lauded in the Press and Parliament both, but the conflict had ground on and on – and there had been a pitched battle – a pitched battle, of all things! right outside the capital Argentine.

Imperial forces had carried the day; the city defences supported by the Navy battleships raining hellfire and brimstone down on the Mauwanti, but the troops had been exhausted, their strength sapped from forced marches, the heat and humidity and the sheer bloody-mindedness of the enemy.

Harvick himself had been wounded in that climactic battle, bravely directing the defences from the perimeter bastion of Pierpoint Fortress. A lucky shot from the enemy had grazed him even as he exhorted his artillerists and infantrymen to ever greater feats, scoring a long line of torn skin and powder-burns across his left cheek, and it had put him under the Surgeon-General’s tender mercies for longer than he or the troops had liked.

Infection was a real risk down here, yes, but still…

Now, though, it had healed, and definitively so. His troops were rested, their ammunition reserves topped off. The time had come, therefore, to strike back, and strike back hard.

As he entered the enormous planning room, the officers present snapped to attention – their drill still perfect – and then went back to their tasks, all the thousand and one minutiae of command that were necessary for the smooth running of any military force.

“Gentlemen.” His basso profundo voice cut through the low hum of chatter, bearing with it an unmistakeable note of urgency. “Your attention, please.” He looked around for just a moment, searching for the right words to put some ginger into his officers. “We’ve bloodied the enemy’s nose and blunted their main fighting force. They hit us hard – harder than they should have, and I bear the blame for that – but we survived, and we kept hold of our key objectives. Our troops are now well-rested, we’re well-supplied and our magazines bulge with shot and shell. In short, I believe the time is ripe to strike back, gentlemen. I want a preliminary plan drafted by oh-nine-hundred, and readiness reports from all departments by the same time.”

Harvick saw the carefully-hidden looks of consternation flash between his officers and offered them a rare, lightning-quick grin. “I said preliminary plan. I don’t need perfect, I want ideas. Plans we can discuss, kick around, think about and improve. We’re not going into this half-cocked – the Mauwanti have proven themselves wily savages, after all.”

The World as We Know It [19th-20th Century Nation RP]

The Serene Empire of Tara

~January 8th, 1899~

The Imperial Capital, Rigour: Salano District, Archades Palace, Duke Arcadia’s Study

As an ornate clock on the western wall of the study – really, just an extension of the library it led off from, with the addition of a desk and some comfortable and not-so-comfortable chairs – chimed seven, His Grace the Duke of Arcadia – and, not incidentally, Chancellor of the Serene Empire - turned away from his contemplation of the capital, sprawling in monumental glory beyond the broad windows that broke up the expanse of bookshelves.

At this time of year, seven o’clock marked the dawn in Rigour, and the skies were filled with lemon-yellow light as the sun began to peek over the horizon. There’d been one of the frequent thunderstorms in the night, and raindrops still beaded the mullioned glass as the Duke stood in contemplation.

In his home city, dreaming on its thousand isles, there was at least some lull in the activity – even if it was only in the Golden Triangle, for he knew as well as anyone that the docks hummed with activity twenty-four seven and it could be no other way.

Here, though…in Rigour, it never stopped, never faltered, never wavered, no matter the district and no matter the time. The lights always blazed, newer, brighter, better, a kaleidoscope of colours cast upon the buildings to make an earthbound sun, and all through the shining streets there flowed a neverending torrent of humanity.

Stevedores and shopkeepers, lamplighters and engineers, binmen and servants, deliverymen and steelworkers, inventors and charlatans, criminals and musicians, dancers and ladies of the night…every conceivable profession was represented on Rigour’s shining streets and drawn from all corners of the Empire – and beyond, too.

The imperial merchant marine was the cause of that – or part of it, anyway. For centuries, Taran merchant seamen had criss-crossed the globe, seeking fame, fortune and females in every conceivable port; many of them had found at least one of the three, and most had brought at least some of their wives and children home, too. The Home Duchies’ tropical climate, culture, stunning scenery and, naturally, the glorious history of the Serene Empire brought in tourists by the great gross, too, soaking up the sunshine and spending their money.

With a sigh, Peregrine lowered himself into the high, scroll-backed armchair that stood, solid and dependable, behind his desk, another battle-scarred veteran of the ages. Generations of Montclair dukes had used it, and all had left their own particular marks. Larsus Montclair, for example, the sixth Duke of Arcadia; his penchant for purple ink had stained the dark wood in places. Michael Montclair, for another, the ninth Duke with his hobby of knife-throwing with his letter-opener, others.

Absently, Perry’s long, thin fingers trailed along the carved wood and crimson leather. It stood for history, and permanence, much like Archades Palace, having survived, in various forms, over eight hundred years on the same spot, a rock in the ever-changing Imperial Capital.

There came a soft knock on the double doors and then a few seconds later his butler shimmered in, resplendent in the formal dress appropriate to his office and carrying a heavy silver tea-tray, laden with all the paraphernalia of that drink – steaming silver teapot shaped like a bird-of-paradise, elegant Vallefay china cups, a pile of lemon slices and more. “Your tea, sir.”

Automatically, his body went through the motions of preparing tea – pouring out the dark, richly fragrant liquid, brewed to perfection with hints of orange and bergamot rising in the steam – and then adding a slice of lemon. The ring of the silver spoon against the cup was the only sound in the comfortably bookish study apart from the steady ticking of the clock.

This was a precious time, the hour or so before the day had to start in earnest. Oh, technically Parliament didn’t sit and debate before half eleven, but Perry Montclair was in government, and government never slept. It couldn’t afford to: the empire had grown rich and powerful on the back of diligent, unceasing effort, and no-one wanted to be the one to see it slip between their plumply well-fed hands.

~~X~~

The Imperial Capital, Rigour: Salano District, Imperial Chancellery, The Cabinet Room

Alas, all good things had to come to an end, and an hour and a half later the Duke of Arcadia found himself in the Cabinet Room of the Chancellery. It was rich, impressive, the epitome of the fanciful belle epoque style that had gripped the empire the last time the place had been refurbished, chandeliers gleaming overhead and with gilt shimmering from elaborate moulding and painting-frames.

The great table between the caryatids holding up the ceiling dome, forty feet long, was a massive slab of Moray mahogany from the cloud forests of that mountainous duchy, and industriously buffed to a mirror-shine by the Chancellery’s legion of servants. The chairs were spacious and comfortable, ranged around the enormous table’s expanse, with plenty of space for papers and Government boxes and even invited briefers, and Perry sank into his own - the centrepiece of the whole affair - with a sigh.

Papers rustled and shifted as he opened a box – a black-and-silver affair stamped with the gryphon-and-batons crest of the Chancellery – and refreshed his memory for the upcoming meeting, his eyes dancing across the exquisite copperplate and his mind racing as he devoured the meaning behind the acres of words.

The antique grandfather clock in the corner, all ebony and silver marquetry in patterns that teased the eye, ticked away softly and, as it chimed the hour, the doors clicked open and in filed Her Majesty’s Cabinet. Richly dressed, as befitted their aristocratic origins and high standing within the empire, the warm gaslights glimmered on curling arabesque decorations, on gems, cufflinks and gleaming golden watch-chains, and the air filled with the susurrus of their low conversations as they filed in and took their seats.

Perry waited with a smile until the last of them was seated and then gently tapped the silver bell in front of him with a small hammer, its sweet peal silencing the last of the talk and drawing their attention.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you all had a relaxing weekend?” A low murmur of agreement swept up and down the sides of the table, and he smiled. There would be time enough for a proper catch-up after Cabinet. His eyes lingered momentarily on Nathaniel Ruthven – the man was the oldest person there, his silver hair glowing in the abundant light, but Perry happened to know that he’d spent the weekend enjoying (and vigorously so) the attentions of two of the Bliss Alliance’s finest young ladies.

They were, Perry mused with tolerant amusement, something of a comfort to the old man in his declining years – and also something of an embarrassment to Earl Summervale’s painfully earnest heir.

“Excellent. Now, to business, everybody; we’ve got a busy agenda today and I know we’d all like to be finished before the Triphine Cup races this afternoon, if at all possible.” Yachts and yachting were something on the order of a national pastime, and the Triphine Cup was the prize for a Rigour yachtsman. Nonetheless, government took precedence.

“Martyn? If you’d give us a brief summary?” The Secretary of State for Industry was a slender man with a pianist’s fingers, his warm sloe-brown eyes hiding a sharp intellect and political reflexes honed in the Parliament and the Court both. He nodded to the Chancellor and cleared his throat.

“As I’m sure we all know, Tara’s industry is enormous. Our industrial base is also still growing, and m’staff and their colleagues at the Treasury are certain this trend is not only going to continue, but actually accelerate. In many ways, this is a good thing – more goods to help our balance of trade, improved standards of living for our citizens, and, of course, more in the way of tax and tariff, helping to keep our coffers full. Unfortunately, it does have its downsides, and one of them is that we only have so much in the way of exploitable resources.” He sighed, spreading those elegant hands with a shrug and tapping the paper in front of him for emphasis. “Historically, it was never a problem; country blacksmiths and subsistence farmers were never going to make much of a dent in our reserves. Given the explosion in population and the frankly unstoppable rise of the factories we all depend on now, though, we’re getting close to a crunch point.” He paused again, trying to impress on his colleagues the seriousness of the problem.

“If we do nothing, in a very short period of time, the fires are going to start going out all over Tara. Even our greatest industrial magnates will be unable – physically unable, from lack of raw materials – to keep up with even domestic demand, never mind the export trade! The Serene Empire will come to a crashing halt, and I for one don’t want to be the one carrying the can in the wreckage.”

At this, there were murmurs of agreement from several ministers. Perry noted them absently – the Usual Suspects of the Expansionist Party, of course, supporting their colleague, key amongst them his Foreign Secretary, but also Baron Daubeny and Earl Summervale.

Unsurprising, really – Daubeny was the Chairman of the Imperial Board of Trade, and anything which might impact on the torrent of goods was anathema to him and his department both, whilst Summervale was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the Treasury derived vast revenues from Tara’s industry.

“Thank you, Martyn. Concise as always. We’re all aware of the problem, now, potential solutions? Gabriel, I know you chaired the subcommittee on this – what were the conclusions?”

Mellifluous and measured, a potent weapon in his diplomatic and political arsenal, Gabriel de Marin’s rich voice washed over the Cabinet chamber, a tide of silk. “The imperial heartlands – the Home Duchies, Sairland, the Cinnamon Isles and so on – may well be approaching breaking point, but we are an empire, and hardly unpractised at spreading the light of civilisation. Look to our colonies – I believe Olivier’s plan also hinges on them – as an example. I – and my staff, of course – see the primary way forward as being a policy of careful expansion to, ah, acquire new resources and head off the shortages before they start to bite. My recommendation to Cabinet, therefore, is to allow me to instruct my Friends-” the government euphemism for the Imperial Eyes, the realm’s shadowy Secret Service, when they were referred to at all “-to begin operations with this in mind.”

A cough drew attention down the table. “Recommendation, Foreign Secretary, as this comes into my bailiwick?” that was the First Lord of the Admiralty, trim and dapper and positively humming with energy. He continued almost without waiting for assent – but that was just his way, a quick mind and a quicker mouth that hated to wait. “Stick to places close to our colonies. That would give us a logistical base from which to operate, and my fleets already know the waters thereabouts.”

“So noted, William,” Gabriel replied with a smile and a nod, making a brief note.

“Our other option,” interjected Daubeny “Is in the colonies we’ve already got. Most of them we founded or acquired precisely because of their resources, but there’s a limit to how hard we can squeeze them before we start getting protests and resistance movements and all the sorts of wretched insurgencies we’ve fought for years to keep from forming. Carrot being undeniably better than stick, we all know that, but it does mean we can’t just double up on quotas without an awful lot of problems we’re simply not equipped to deal with. We’d be sunk without the colonials in the Civil Service, for one, and if the colonies started getting fractious and blowing up in our faces, then the resource problems we’re seeing on the horizon right now? Nothing compared t’the catastrophe we’ll have then. So!” he clapped his hands, suddenly, making at least half the cabinet jump and frown at him.

“So,” he continued, slightly quieter. “We can’t squeeze the colonies – not enough to make a difference, anyway, not without causing ourselves all sorts of worse problems – so, if we can’t take a bigger slice of the pie, the solution is to make the pie bigger. We surveyed the colonies when we acquired them, of course, and I daresay the local Services have maintained their own maps, but when was the last time any government did a really wide-ranging assessment of our own natural resources?” Daubeny laughed, slightly sardonically. “I’ll tell you – a hundred and fifty years ago, gentlemen, in the reign of Louis the Young. One and a half centuries! Just imagine what those people might have missed, or thought unimportant – and never mind that they certainly didn’t have modern prospecting equipment or a proper understanding of geology! I’m proposing we ask the Surveyor-General to undertake a General Survey fit for the modern age we find ourselves in. I don’t expect him to find anything new in the Home Duchies – we’ve been here for thousands of years and been over the place with a fine tooth-comb, but the colonies? Properly kitted out, I’m sure surveying teams will find a whole wealth of things we missed on the first pass.”

Solomon Holmes-Selkirk, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, snorted. “Lot of ‘hopes’ in there, Daubeny,” he noted sceptically. “You want us to pin the future of th’Empire on a wish that some surveyors faffin’ around with mappery and theodolites will find piles of iron and coal? Hmph. Better to civilise some wretched barbarian fiefdom we already know to have what we need. More souls under Her Majesty’s banner, more resources to feed the machines here at home.”

Daubeny, for his part, wagged an admonishing finger at his cabinet colleague. “More responsibilities for the Army and Navy! Costs of infrastructure, education, the whole establishment of the imperial system – and a population unused to the civilised way of doing things, to boot!”

Perry stepped in, tapping the silver bell with his hammer again, letting its plangent note sing his fractious ministers back to calm. “Both suggestions have merits, and I see no reason not to pursue both. The Surveyor-General isn’t likely to cost us too much, and besides, I’m sure the Marshal would love updated cartography of our own holdings, at least, even if we get absolutely nothing else out of it. Gabriel’s proposal – thank you – is also eminently sensible. He is recommending gathering intelligence, not conducting a civilising action immediately. Knowing what we have to work with, what our options are in more detail, is a fine thing.”

There was more discussion – of course there was more discussion; no cabinet would just acquiesce without debate – but in the end the courses of action were clear. The looming economic crisis was a vital problem on the horizon, and heading it off before it became a real headache was top priority. Both of the more reasonable courses ahead of them were to be actioned post-haste; the Foreign Secretary contacting his officially-unofficial Friends, and Daubeny instructing the Surveyor-General.

Peregrine Montclair hoped that at least one would provide the answer, or else he’d find himself making some…painful…decisions in the near future. For now, though, the essential business of government discharged for another day, there was the Triphine Cup to watch.

“To the good order of the Empire, gentlemen,” he intoned, leading them in the traditional phrase that had become almost a talisman to generations of Tarans “And the safety of her citizens.”

The World as We Know It [19th-20th Century Nation RP]

The Serene Empire of Tara

Still WIP, and subject to change.

No better friend, no worse enemy.

Official Government Name: The Serene Empire of Tara

Head of State: Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Liliana, Queen of Sairland, Suzerain of the Vershellen Principalities, Matriarch of House Tara, Radiant Duchess of the Royal Marches, Defender of the Empire and the Star in the West, Lady of the Winter Dynasties and Protector of the Cinnamon Isles.

Capital City: Rigour, the Star in the West

National Language: Tarantese

Basic Geography

The Serene Empire has its origins and seat of power on a set of sprawling islands in the balmy equatorial seas. Imperial colonies have since been established on several other landmasses, supplying the metal and stone-poor islands with these resources and acting as a market for the various foodstuffs and luxury goods the Home Duchies – the five original islands of the Empire - provide. The islands themselves – with the exception of inhospitable, mountainous Monrutaine – are generally congenial, interspersing thick jungle and cloud forests with broad, open floodplains perfect for settlement. To others, though, Taran summers are stiflingly hot and incredibly humid, even with the frequent thunderstorms. is split into several administrative and geographic units, as follows:

1.) The Home Duchies. The origin of the Empire, the five Home Duchies are its beating heart. Richly watered by regular rain and spared the extremes of the world's weather as a whole, they are lush and green. The balmy capital region comprises the five principal islands of the ancient duchies – Arcadia, Monrutaine, Vallefay, Myrantia, Salamis and of course the Royal Marches themselves. The islands – with the exception of harsh Monrutaine – are a mixture of lush, rich rainforest and broad, fertile grasslands amply watered by rivers and dotted with sparkling lakes. Such hills and mountains as exist are old and gently rolling, and the beaches slope down to the turquoise seas in long, white arcs. Most of the settlements of any note here are, unsurprisingly, seaports of one flavour or another, the greatest of which is dreaming Xantal on its thousand isles.

The imperial capital of Rigour sprawls across miles of the meandering river Rheol in the Royal Marches.

2.) Sairland - An archipelago to the south-east of the imperial heartland, in earlier times Sairland was an independent maritime nation and long-term trading partner of the then-Serene Kingdom of Tara. It was a state renowned for its commercial acumen, its music and its artistic sophistication, but in the latter days of its existence as an independent nation it was convulsed by the throes of revolution and internecine war. Tara, in particular, watched in horror as the Sairish people went mad – or so it seemed to them – burning down palaces and grand monuments that had stood for generations, tearing down a culture which had stood for a millennium in a few short months. The Sairish merchant fleet and the navy together both quickly turned to piracy as the disintegration of the Sairish nation continued, fuelled by demagogues from a half-dozen different powers who had aimed Sairland like a missile at the Serene Kingdom and her shipping lanes, many of which passed through Sairish waters, long since considered safe and now suddenly some of the deadliest in the world.

Whilst the Kingdom had initially tried to stay out of the conflicts in Sairland, as soon as Sairish ships began to prey on Taran vessels, it became clear that something had to be done. Those few Taran agents who happened to be in Sairland – and those that had survived the pogroms – were rapidly coordinated and the Royal Navy sailed for Sairland in quick succession. The armada sent most of the Sairish fleet to the bottom of the sea in short order, just outside the capital Port Vannis, and, having defeated the seaborne threat, the Royal Army was the next up to bat, enormous troop transports disgorging fully a quarter of the entire army into Sairish harbours to restore order – by any means necessary. After several of the more belligerent pirates and agitators had been summarily shot by the advancing soldiery and their strongholds reduced to rubble by naval bombardment, the islands began to calm down and the Royal Engineers came in to clean up the mess and repair some of the damage that the conflict – and the previous years of civil war – had wrought. With the agitators shot, deported or behind bars in the newly-created Empire’s special cells under the tender care of the Harlequins, the Sairish citizens began to appreciate the return to sanity and the stability of Taran rule.

The King of Sairland is Alexander de Rochevalle, governing his territory from the silver-domed Grand Palais in Port Vannis.

3.) Vershellen - The principalities across the sea, Vershellen is the second-oldest overseas possession of the Empire, initially conquered for its rich deposits of gemstones to feed the voracious appetites of the merchant princes and high nobility. The land is harsh; the principalities themselves are scattered across the desert, huddled around oases, aquifers and the rare permanent rivers that come down from the high mountains that fringe the principalities on two sides. Unsurprisingly for such a maritime nation, imperial power is concentrated near the coastal cities, where both the crushing might of the Imperial Navy can be brought to bear and the moderating influence of trade and travel has broadened the mind.

The current Vicereine is Maharin de Sulimenne, whose family lands encompass the regional capital of Aurian.

4.) Cinnamon Isles - Exotic and engaging, a tourist destination right across the world – to quote a tourist advertisement ‘The dusky and enigmatic Cinnamon Isles, where natives the colour of rich chocolate cavort on the orange sands and wine-dark seas lap the shores under a nacarine sky.’ The Cinnamon Isles are found to the south and west of the Home Duchies. The mainstay of the Cinnamon Isles’ economy these days is tourism, unsurprisingly, given its great natural beauty and the aesthetic sense the Dominion’s rulers have preserved ever since the Isles fell under Imperial rule.

The capital of the Cinnamon Isles is the city of Cinnabar, where Aurelia Thierrault, the Vicereine of the Isles and Countess of the Rathing Sea in her own right, rules from her sandstone palace and the sleek shapes of hotels discreetly mingle with the villas of the wealthy, jostling genteelly for position along the curving sweep of the beaches.

Basic Demographics

-Sairish: Traders, merchant venturers and erstwhile pirates from Sairland, a small, fertile archipelago to the south and west of Tara’s Home Duchies heartland. The stereotypical Sairish appearance is one of blonde hair, fine features and eyes like the sea itself.

-Vershelleen: Natives of the Serene Empire’s second-oldest overseas possession, after Sairland itself, the Vershelleen are dark-skinned and fire-eyed, revelling in heat and humidity that would severely hamper others. A common myth is that their ancestors were burned black by the sun.

-Pencharnese: Hailing from the Cinnamon Isles, the dusk-skinned Pencharnese have held and cherished an economic rivalry with Sairland and the Sairish since time immemorial. Despite their cosmopolitan homeland, their trading heritage and their practices of hospitality, they still hold themselves apart from the other groups in the Empire; their own word for themselves translates simply as ‘the People’.

-Moravines: Originally hailing from the most isolated and mountainous of the imperial Home Duchies, the Moravines are known for their strength and stubbornness as well as the similarity of their flattened features – it’s often remarked that Moravines have only three surnames across the entire duchy, which, whilst a falsehood, is not too far from the mark.

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Important People

Empress Liliana - Serious and devoted to her country, the young Empress tries to be balanced and listens carefully to her Opal Court and their counsels, carefully taking soundings before committing to any action. Her still-childlike figure is a powerful tool in making others underestimate the power of the Empire, while internally she is held up as a beacon of hope. The Empress always makes a point of visiting any disaster area or great new development, to either celebrate the achievements of the people or to commiserate and direct more resources into recovery procedures.

Her closest counsel is the Imperial Chancellor, Peregrine Montclair, the Duke of Arcadia.

Her Majesty's Government and its Cabinet

1.) Peregrine Montclair, Imperial Chancellor and Duke of Arcadia - The affable and smiling fifteenth Duke of Arcadia, Earl of Xantal, Viscount Saere and Imperial Chancellor, Peregrine Montclair is the day-to-day de facto head of the government. As Chancellor it's Perry's job to orchestrate the often-fractious Parliament and govern, in his empress' name, the far-flung possessions of the Serene Empire.

Even before the Chancellorship, Peregrine Montclair was one of the most powerful men in the Empire – not that he shows it much, hiding his true power and wealth behind a smiling, affable façade. His duchy provides advanced engines and devices, and further grows luxury cash crops and succulent fruits for the finer tables of the Empire. The Duke also receives vast revenues from the trading ports of his capital; indeed, he might as well own his own private navy, given he is the Chairman and owner of the Trifecta Shipping Group, one of the largest freight-and-passenger services in the Empire.

He is the leader of the Centrist Party in imperial politics.

2.) Alexander de Serenne, Viscount St. Clair and Marshal of the Imperial Army - The redoubtable Marshal of the Imperial Army and, therefore, de facto Minister of War for the Serene Empire, Alexander is a dark horse among the high nobility. The Serennes as a House are minor nobility in Arcadia duchy, but Alexander, from a cadet branch of the family, pursued a highly successful career in the military, fighting numerous battles and rising through the officer corps (his family, after all, paid to put him through officer training rather than see him slog through with the rest of the grunts). He reached the rank of Lieutenant-General in the Royal Engineers before retiring to take up politics. He commands the entire army from the Imperial College of War, alongside his counterpart in the Navy.

He is a member of the Centrist Party.

3.) William de Vallière, Viscount Vajours and First Lord of the Admiralty - Endlessly energetic, de Vallière is the dynamo that drives the Imperial Admiralty. A relentless modernizer, under his watch the Admiralty has commissioned and documented more studies, experiments and testbeds than at any other point in its history. His drive for all things new does not only extend to new ships and weapons, though - he has ruthlessly streamlined the notoriously-complex shipbuilding process to good effect and military acclaim. His signature practically sizzles on every important piece of Admiralty legislation or Board decision over the last few years, and it would be hard to find a more dedicated naval man.

He is a member of the Expansionist Party in imperial politics.

4.) Gabriel de Marin, Marquis of the Reach and Foreign Secretary - Tenth Marquis of the Reach, Earl Rosemont, Earl Tavistock and Baron Tenshard, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs is a powerful man indeed. A career diplomat and politician, the Gothic colossus of the Foreign Office is a home away from home. Precise and smooth, a graduate of Queen's Ring Academy and Polaris University, like most of the Cabinet, he is supremely comfortable in the clubby atmosphere of Parliament and a past master at its many and varied backroom deals and internecine political intrigue.

As Foreign Secretary, he is well-placed to put that particular talent to use on a wider stage. As chairman of the Expansionist Party, he is a strident and well-known voice in Parliament, pushing for bringing civilisation to the benighted heathens of the world by any means necessary.

5.) Nathaniel Ruthven, Earl Summervale and Chancellor of the Exchequer - Precise and unflappable, Nathaniel Ruthven is the oldest and perhaps most conservative of the current Cabinet. Having engaged in the mysterious world of high finance for many years as Lord Allenby - his courtesy title, before ascending to the earldom - he has a keen understanding of what makes the Treasury tick and, crucially, how to keep it ticking. Instinctively against any great new expenditure of imperial lucre, he keeps tight control over the purse-strings of government.

A valued - but extremely irritating - member of the Cabinet, his careful fiscal policies often force Peregrine Montclair and the other members of Cabinet to exhaustively justify their spending plans. Once set on an issue, he has a will of iron and is very difficult to shift. He is a member of the Centrist Party, and is known as the Father of the House of Blood, being the longest-serving aristocrat in Parliament.

6.) Olivier de Perrault, Baron Daubeny and Chairman of the Imperial Board of Trade - Head of the sprawling imperial trading bureaucracy, responsible for every port and freight railway terminus in the land, in charge of tariffs and customs, the Imperial Board of Trade is a powerful body, and its head an influential man.

Rotund and jolly, Daubeny is a renowned gourmand and epicure, enjoying the finer things in life that his position affords, either in the form of gifts and treats from the great merchantier houses looking to persuade him and his committees one way or the other, or else in the enviable access his position affords.

Perhaps naturally, he is a member of the Expansionist Party, aligning closely with their ideals of ordered imperial dominion - and with it, yet more trading destinations under the empire's banner.

7.) Solomon Holmes-Selkirk, Viscount Oriel and Secretary of State for Home Affairs - Details! Expansionist Party

8.) Jacques de Clifforde, Earl Fenton and Secretary of State for the Colonies - Details! Centrist Party

9.) Edward Farnese-Sagari, Viscount Thalassa and Secretary of State for Sairland - Details! Centrist Party

10.) Martyn Hamilton, Viscount Drax and Secretary of State for Industry - Details! Expansionist Party

11.) Charles Clare-Malet, Marquis Templecombe and Attorney-General to the Opal Court - Details! Apolitical legal advisor

Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition

1.) Sir David de Borbonne, Baron Mersenne and Leader of the Opposition - Details! Liberal Party

2.) Airey Fanshawe-Curreau, Earl Vallon and Shadow Secretary of State for Home Affairs - Details! Coextensive Party

3.) Sadi de Carnot, Viscount Carnot and Shadow Foreign Secretary - Details! Liberal Party

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I.Nation
- Population: 3.
- Stability: 6
- Landmass: 4
- Demographics: 2.
- Civilian Industry: 6
- Armaments Industry: 3.
- Infrastructure: 6
- Naval Industry: 5

II. Military:
- Army Size: 1
- Army Training: 2
- Army Technology: 3
- Navy Size: 4
- Navy Training: 5
- Navy Technology: 5

III. Economics:
- Rare Resources: 1.
- Common Resources: 2.
- Luxury Resources: 1.
- Bureaucracy: 4.