[color=004b80][b]High Elder Gladstone – West Coast Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe[/b][/color]

Discussions and discussions. Gladstone’s eyes swept the room, passing over each and every delegate, idly noting the talk of those present. He had greater plans to implement, this petty squabble with this band of theocratic tribal raiders calling themselves ‘The Cult’ would likely be over by the next year, it would be foolishness and tempting fate to say “Over by Christmas” as the old maxim went. Still, a small war would be good practice come the time for making a path to the sea for his order. Speaking of which, he had to lay the groundwork for that. His hands moved, beckoning to his aide, who promptly leaned in, pen and paper were given, and Gladstone wrote a small missive on it, folding the letter and handing it to an aide. He murmured a few words of instruction, and then returned his attention to the conference.

Ah, the Keys. Yes, a nation on the Mexican Gulf, or was it the Gulf of Mexico? Whichever it was, it was an issue that was far removed from him. And so, leaning back in his chair, Gladstone sat and watched in silence the proceedings before him. All he could do was take note of them, he supposed that was the blessing and curse of the Midwest. Sitting in the middle, all affairs west, east, north and south concerned you. Burned hands moved to sit clasped in his lap, he wondered how he must look, a burned man a picture of an old world dictator. He wouldn’t deny it, he was a dictator, cruel necessity had forced it upon him so. And thus he sat wreathed in military regalia, he supposed he was the only one among the warlords, with the exception of what seemed to be Texas, to freely admit himself a tyrant.

Most likely thought themselves a benevolent dictator, rulers of an autocratic state for the good of the people for their vision was one of peace and prosperity. One hand moved to his cheek, his eyes bored and his face a picture of stormy ponderance. Brooding was something unbecoming of a leader, but he’d be damned if he was to be told what he should do. As the conference wandered on, his thoughts strayed away from the dusky heat of Santa Fe, drifting back home to cold mountains and green forests wrapped in foggy dew. His forces would be marshalling themselves, according to the timetable he had lain out, they should be marching on the day after tomorrow. Passage was being secured through the khan lands, the trucks and tanks would trundle along the 88th highway east towards Chicago. Which reminded him actually, clearing his throat in a lull in the conversation, he directed his words towards Caesar and Barnaky.

“If it would please your eminencies Caesar and Barnaky, might I have permission to withdraw with your aides for deliberations over when and where the Western Brotherhood’s military forces will enter the fray against the cult.”