Vignettes(stories of South Ethia)

[North Timistania]

Brotherly love


May 2022

Bad Kessel, Official imperial residence

Vossland

South Ethia





The afternoon sun hovered languidly over the plains, it was the sort of day that was perfect for doing nothing at all, even the animals seemed to move at a more relaxed pace, as if nature had decreed sedation for all things.

Located on a rounded hill that had long been clothed in brown tinder grass, the manor of Bad Kessel had long served the Severyn-Tirols as a pleasant summer home. True, Graffenburg might have been more impressive with its immense elevation and imposing fortifications, but a stronghold was a poor stand in for a family house and Kessel had a vineyard.

Emperor Luther Marten-Gabriel Severyn-Tirol had spent more time at Kessel than any of the dozens of official residences his family owned. There was something about the place that put him at ease, the gentle hill country serving as a perfect retreat from the concrete paved mania that was New Bergum.

It was small by the grandiose standards one would typically expect of Severyn’s, a two-wing mansion with a small walled-off garden. Its design was simple and yet elegant, its walls formed from red brick from the nearby Drakken mountains, and its two floors framed by elegant balconies of white oak. A row of rounded steps marked the entrance to the home and a large cypress that had been planted in 1770 loomed over the manor.

The manor house had been built as a wedding gift from Oskar II to his beloved wife Cynthia, the two had spent their honeymoon here and filled it with mementos of their lives. The love that had been so evident in the place’s construction had been one of the primary draws for Luther and his family, it was a place with a warm spirit and in a world filled with gaudy and miserable old estates it was a rare jewel.

Of all the manor houses’ many features, it was the garden with its well-trimmed hedges and sea of bright flowers that was the family’s pride and joy. Luther had spent the better part of years restoring the flowerbeds and filling them with beautiful specimens from across Eras. The yellow roses were positively aglow in the afternoon light, but it was always the red carnations he had brought home from iteria that caught Luther’s eye, and which were the pride of his collection.

It was amidst this realm of colour and warmth that Luther had chosen to luncheon with his closest family, his brother Duke Otto had arrived for a rare break from his official duties and Luther intended to make the most of the occasion. He had uncorked a bottle of merlot marked “Donnauer 1885” and filled everyone’s cups, the chef meanwhile had been hard at work on one of his famed one pots, the smell of meat and stock filling the air with a mouth-watering aroma.

“Say what you will about father, the man knew good wine!” Otto mused as he sipped the merlot with a pleased smile

The side of Luther’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, at the mention of his father, a flicker of disapproval that was so well hidden as to be almost invisible. Manfred III the so called “Summer Kaiser” had been so enamored with drink and revelry that he had sipped his way into an early grave. It was this early humiliation that had led Luther to abstain from alcohol save for on special occasions and which had cemented his disgust regarding all things decadent.

“Would that he had lived to enjoy it with us” Luther replied, the bitterness in his voice carefully masked

The two men toasted wordlessly and then sipped from their glasses, Luther didn’t drink often but he had never felt shame in savoring the small pleasures wine afforded when he did choose to indulge. The wine was soft, velvety even and it had a flavor that was woodsmoke and cherry, this was indeed a good vintage.

“How are the children?” Luther asked his tone warm and smile gentle

“Hans is a terror, runs rings around his teachers and minders! I swear the boy will be the death of me! Marla never takes her headphones off, I think she once expressed interest in botany, I’ve had more luck deciphering terrorist movements then the mind of a teenage girl! In short, I am content to know they are alive and happy, though I will not claim to understand them!”

The younger brother, Otto, had always struggled to balance his role as a general alongside the realities of fatherhood. Luther noted that Otto had not mentioned Naya once, the couple now long estranged but too proud to separate. He loved his brother, but he knew that the man was married to the service, his family would always be second fiddle to the military.

“And you cousin, how is your sentence treating you!?” Otto asked with a wicked grin as he sipped more wine

Luther sat back, wine swirling in his glass as he pondered his family, his wife Claudia seemed happy if at times distant, her legal practice and various corporate projects kept her busy enough. They had not married for love, but the emperor had come first to respect and then in his own way adore her, they were both busy, purposeful and relatively content. It was not romance for ages, but it worked, something many more passionate loves could not boast.

“We know each other, we have our separate worlds, and we respect each other, I have no complaints, as for the children, Lucien continues to thrive as both a scholar and musician and Emilia’s tutors are positively aglow with praise, they say she has some of the highest scores they have yet seen. I am happy with my “sentence” Otto, I could not ask for better”

That was the truth, it was an odd thing to admit, there was little excitement or drama to point to, it just worked. His children were each brilliant in their own ways and Luther was content to let them develop without much interference, it was a far cry from his own chaotic upbringing, his mother’s religious devotion clashing endlessly with his father’s hedonism. His family had stability and that was Luther’s crowning achievement as a patriarch to provide it.

“Speaking of which, where is everyone?”

“Claudia took Naya and the children out to the old church; I’d wager they will be back any minute now”

“I best down another before the old battle axe shows up” Otto muttered crassly as he poured his third glass

The side of Luther’s mouth twitched, this time more visibly as he regarded his brother with a cold and judgmental look, one he quickly masked, though not fast enough that Otto didn’t see. The two men sat in awkward silence knowing the mood was about to become soured.

“Oh, for fucks sake Luther! We can’t all be mothers’ perfect ascetics! Some of us must live in the real world and experience actual emotions!” Otto growled before going silent, his face a rictus of resentment and anger

Luther said nothing for a time, he regarded his brother, now with a softer but more disappointed expression. Otto was far more like father in both temperament and appearance, his thick red beard and full ruddy face, a dead ringer for the late emperor. The alcoholism had been there for a long time, a slow release poison that had doomed generations to make the same mistakes as their forebears. Otto had never looked more like father than with that third glass in hand.

“Perhaps you are right brother, it isn’t my place to judge, and I didn’t bring you here to do so, I do wish however that you wouldn’t talk about your wife so poorly, she is the mother of your children for god’s sake”

Otto was about to say something, probably uncharitable when the doors to the house swung open audibly and a cacophony of children’s voices filled the air. The wives were home, and they’d brought the little ones with them.

“Allo papa!” Lucien exclaimed joyfully as he tackled the seated Luther with a hug, the emperor tussled his son’s hair affectionately as the boy unlatched and ran to greet his uncle

Claudia soon walked into view, her face elegant and regal as ever, her blonde curls were held in neat braids and her fine boned features and bronzed skin were as radiant a sight as they had been when they had first met.

“Hello darling!” Luther said with a genuine smile, rising to kiss his wife

“Have you boys been behaving?” She asked in an amused tone as she motioned to the open wine

“Always!” Otto barked his tone light but perhaps a little more defensive than necessary

Naya soon arrived, her expression muted, the other children soon arrived behind her, she regarded the open wine bottle with a weary stare, one belonging to someone used to disappointment. Wordlessly she sat down without so much as a hello for her husband. Luther sighed inwardly and forced a smile.

 

[North Timistania]

Official Engagement

Siloyev, capital of Khastenia

2025



If there was one thing the Szlavs were good at, it was the expression of misery, Otto couldn’t understand half of what was being said but the tearful wailing and grim organ music gave all the context one needed. Otto was in Khastenia representing his brother, the Kaiser of south Ethia, so far, he had succeeded in all the ways such a role required. He was trussed up in his stiffest military uniform, starched greens and rows of medals, a black funerary band on his right arm completing the ensemble.

Otto had not known President Kobilin and while he would never be crass enough to admit it, he was really more broken up about the lack of an open bar then the current proceedings. It wasn’t that he was heartless, but genuine grief did not arrive easily, he had lost such comforts years before in Prydania. the ceremony was reaching some sort of finale, priests were chanting mournful hymns to their dragon gods, it reminded Otto of scene from a fantasy novel.

As the ceremony reached its end people rose from their chairs and began to make their way to the exit, hands were shaken and condolences received, but the event itself was over. As far as Otto understood things, Kobilin’s body would be cremated on a pyre in a private ritual, it all sounded rather occultic, but he supposed they might say the same about Messianism.

Due to the security concerns there was little in the way of crowds, fleets of black state limousines and sedans had arrived, and the guests quickly piled into their respective vehicles. There were police and army everywhere, the heart of the republic had been assaulted mere days ago, the Khastenian’s were taking no chances now. For Otto’s part it meant no inane conversation, no press and most importantly no delayed return to his hotel.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Back In the sterile finery of his hotel suite the familiar droning silence of complete loneliness returned, it was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the outside world. Otto wondered had always preferred such places, there was something meditative to these places, the quiet allowing him to exist outside of the constraints of rank, status or life. Here Otto could be his truest self, for a time at least. He already thrown his jacket onto a waiting chair and removed his tie; he took deep satisfaction in being freed from the shackles that were his regalia. He was presently sitting at the dining room table, the oval-shaped room illuminated by the lights glittering in the dark below. From up here the entire capital was outstretched like a tapestry of stars, millions of lives shrouded in the dark of early evening.

He was smoking, some stubby brown cigs from a cheap looking pack with a grinning Cossack on the front. He didn’t know what the writing said but he suspected the brand was trying to offset its cheapness by evoking rustic everyman vibes, they tasted rough, like burning straw with a caustic aftertaste. He nodded approvingly and stubbed out his second.

“Not bad” he muttered contentedly before reaching for a very important bottle

Brage Oklands 80 proof, cheap cigarettes could be forgiven but Otto refused to drink the swill the locals called booze, he had ensured a bottle of good whiskey was waiting after the funeral. He poured himself a full glass and drank half in one smooth motion, it was good somewhere between a smooth burn and a slap in the face. The timing of his first drink was important, the memories were always nastier when it got dark, Merkovich’s face coming apart as the syndie bullets had rained down, not a sight Otto cared to remember.

His phone buzzed, a text message flashing across the screen, the nanny back in South Ethia most likely. He reached over and scanned the screen with a disinterested eye, finishing the rest of his glass while he did so.

“Kids are asleep, Hans said he misses you” the message read, a dull stab of guilt filling Otto’s chest as he read the last part

Otto never knew how to relate to his children, his wife he ignored as a matter of necessity, their marriage a hollow and loveless shell for many years now. But the children, that was a harder situation, he simply didn’t know how to relate to them, deep down he might have loved them, but they might as well have existed on a separate planet. He toyed with the idea of sending a good night text or asking the staff to remind his son he missed him as well, but then he decided to let it lie.

He poured himself another tall glass of whiskey and once again halved its contents with one violent motion, then reached for the hotel phone and buzzed room service. He didn’t care for Szlav food much more than their booze, but one thing he did appreciate was that they considered liver as worthwhile a dish as he did. He ordered the lamb fry on onion; Great Uncle Marten would have approved he thought with a mirthless grin.

He might have been a good father once, maybe even a decent husband, but the man that had shipped off to western Prydania had never come home, Otto was the withered husk that had survived. He grimaced as he considered the irony of his existence, his older brother had always been closer to great uncle marten, but the reality was that it was Otto who held the same coldness.

He snarled, a flash of anger flickering across his face as he thought about his brother, Luther, always the proud man of faith, perfect and judgmental Luther. he loved his brother of course but also hated him with just as deep a passion, there was a gross unfairness in being the “alcoholic mess” his life defined by his trauma. His brother had never served, hadn’t seen the things Otto had and yet the man who had spent his summers at architectural school felt justified in judging the man who had fought.

“And now he sends me to watch lizard kissers weeping over some crispy stiff! Here’s to you brother!” he said almost hissing the words before downing yet another cup

A single loud knock filled the air, dispelling the vile silence

“Room service!” a cheerful voice called out

Otto straightened slightly and walked to door, opening it to let the hotel staff in, a steaming tray of fried liver and onions was efficiently placed on the dining room table. He muttered thanks and moments later the door shut and he was once again alone. He slumped back into his chair and began to eat with disgusting speed all decorum lost.

 

[North Timistania]

AN OUTING WITH UNCLE MARTEN

1999

Continent of Craviter

Northern Maloria



At ten Luther was still somewhat short for his age, yet to experience the wild growth that characterized his line, he was currently struggling under the weight of a rifle that was twice his height. Great Uncle Marten was leading the way, eyes focused on the hill country ahead, Luther knew however that the elder Severyn would be assessing and cataloging his every comment and action, this was as much a test as an outing and Luther had no intention of failing.

“This land did not birth you and yet it is your mother young Luther, take in every detail and commit it to memory, a Severyn must grant his territory a level of familiarity reserved only for his family and his firearms” Marten said in a matter-fact though not unkind tone

Luther raised the rifle and redoubled his efforts to keep up, he would not be found wanting when the time came, the firearm he had been entrusted to might burn and bite at his shoulders, but he would not complain or drop it. Great Uncle Marten was an exacting man, possessed of a mind few could match and of a coldness that defied any normal logic, to succeed was to be held in esteem and to fail was to be discarded.

The underbrush of the forest was starting to give way to hills covered in tall scrub grasses, the scent of which was heavenly in the cool morning breeze, the plains below were outstretched in all their glory. Great herds of beasts grazed upon the tall bison grass contentedly and flocks of elegant birds filled the sky with their ever-shifting formations. It was a humbling sight, all of god’s creation laid out before the waking eye.

“Down!” Marten snapped in the faintest of whispers

The two Severyn’s crouched behind a fallen oak, Luther brought the rifle to bear and settled it in place on the body of the dead tree. Marten raised his finger in a slow and gradual gesture, taking pains to make no sudden moves that might be picked up by the quarry below. He pointed to a massive shape in the plains below, a full grown Malorian bison with its long horns and wooly black coat marking it as an adult with some summers already under its belt.

“Load the rifle gently and steady yourself on the log” Marten explained with a gentle whisper

Luther had been instructed to practice for nearly a week before they had left the lodge for the planes, night after night he had repeated the motions of loading, taking aim and firing. He reached into his ammo belt and produced a long 30 caliber round; he slid the bullet into his rifle and gentle pressed the bolt into a closed position. He was ready, he stared through the scope, the vast creature oblivious to the danger above.

“Remember, heart and lungs, hit the brute in anywhere else and it will bolt without a second thought” Marten explained his tone slow and ghostly quiet

Luther nodded and leaned in, the stock of the rifle pressed against his shoulder to prevent the recoil from shattering his shoulder, the reticle hovered over the beast’s chest as Luther took slow and practiced breaths. One final inhalation and then the young severyn held his weapon in perfect stillness, the breath released in a gentle motion and the trigger pulled back simultaneously, a shot rang out and the tranquil realm was shattered.

The birds scattered in every direction as the gunshot rang out, the beasts of the plains fled in a chaotic stampede, the very silence of gods creation had been undone by mans mad ingenuity. The beast did not move, it lay slumped on its side kicking weakly as a patch of bright crimson darkened the scrub, it soon ceased any movement and lay in silent defeat.

The two Severyn’s moved down the hill with cautious steps, Marten had produced a large revolver which he kept cocked at his side, there was always the risk of predators. Soon they were standing over the kill, the elder Severyn regarding the latter with silent approval. Luther suspected his nights of practice had paid off, great uncle Marten didn’t say anything, but the boy knew he had earned respect.

“a clean kill is always best, remember that Luther, it won’t just be bison you may one day have to put down” Marten said giving the boy an approving pat on the shoulder

Soon their companionable silence was broken once more, a tall man in faded military overalls emerged from the bush flanked by two similarly garbed retainers. The tall man bowed his head slightly in deference to great uncle marten who nodded and motioned to the vast mass of dead bison behind them.

“Gregori, have that beast loaded onto the truck, my nephew will skin and gut it here”

Marten turned to regard Luther, the look was not one of warmth, the elder severyn had never been known for that, this was something deeper. Both uncle and nephew had always possessed an unspoken bond, the same analytical minds and the same cold logic that permeated both souls. Luther suspected in his own youthful way that his uncle was teaching him to harness it without becoming as the elder had become. The look was one of recognition, like an elder lion acknowledging its cub.

“Luther, ensure you do as I taught you, save the liver, it will make for a fine delicacy” the elder severyn explained gently before turning and wordlessly walking back in the direction of the lodge

Luther blazed with the moment of victory, all his diligent practice, all his careful focus, the sleepless repetition and the stoicism in the face of pain. He had succeeded and this moment would be his for all time.

“Hey boy, good kill, won’t skin itself though” Gregori Sterk muttered with an amused look on his worn face

Luther nodded and drew a long knife from his belt, it was almost too big for a boy of his age, his uncle had told him it was from a distant place called Essalanea. Luther didn’t know what that meant yet, he did know that it was razor sharp and perfect for dressing a kill, he smiled inwardly and set about his work with quiet enthusiasm.

 

[North Timistania]

Farewell, auf wiedersehen goodbye

2014

South Ethia

Graffenburg Palace

The royal crypt

The emperor was dead; they had found him just before dawn, his body slumped on a divan in his apartment. The attending physician had labelled the course “complications from alcoholism” a term vague enough to cover any number of co-morbidities but just specific enough to be considered a cause at all. The so called “Summer Kaiser” had always been fond of a drink, now that fondness had finally killed him.

Luther hadn’t been close to the old man, the two had been as different as night and day, the father had been gregarious and bold, his booming laugh and remarkable charisma made him the soul of any party. Luther had been calmer, his emotions more restrained and his life one of focus and contemplation. They didn’t hate each other, but perhaps their drifting apart had been an inevitable consequence.

He felt a stab of guilt as he considered his fathers last hours, had he died peacefully in his sleep? Or had he lingered for a while, bowels voided and vomit choking his last breath away. Luther winced, the very thought of such an end was unbearable, he took a deep breath but found his usual grounding technique wasn’t helping. He should have been there, if he had been more attentive or at least made more of an effort?

“Luther!” a calm but commanding voice Snapped

He pulled out of the self-contained spiral of thoughts and regarded the room with the eyes of a waking man that wanted to be dreaming. The tomb had a cold, dry, feel to it and truth be told was a welcome reprieve from the Ethian sun, but everything inside had a muted and washed out colouration that made the whole edifice seem utterly devoid of warmth.

His father’s body lay on a slab of pure marble, interred in a casket of deepest green, the state flag was draped atop the coffin, the sea blue of the South Ethian standard losing some of its typical vibrancy in the darkness. The casket had been closed for the entire rite, evidently the remains within had not been a pleasant site.

The empress dowager regarded him with a thoughtful expression, Katerina Gorrelia Severyn was not known for warmth, she possessed all of the quiet ferocity and cool majesty that her heritage was famed for. The “white lioness” of South Ethia rarely permitted herself luxuries like soft words or gentle smiles when in public, but here in the privacy of the crypt she was permitted an exemption. She looked upon her son with the loving eyes of a mother comforting a grieving son.

“Your father is dead, soon this tomb will be sealed, and preparations will be made for your coronation” she said her voice gentle but matter-fact

“I don’t want to be emperor! I want my father back!” Luther hissed the tears flowing hot as he felt the agony burst free

He wept, a loud and haunting noise that echoed throughout the tombs, warm arms embraced him as his mother held him, Luther had not wept in a long time but now as though a bottle uncorked a lifetime of words unspoken and opportunities missed rose to the surface. He didn’t know how long he lingered there, weeping, but eventually the moment passed, and he emerged with red eyes but otherwise composed again.

“Your father was not a good emperor, he certainly was not a good severyn, he couldn’t even play a damned instrument! But…he loved you and despite being a drunkard he did have a good heart, even if he chose to smother it in drink” his mother offered mixing conciliatory words with long sharpened barbs

They had never been close, royal marriages didn’t need to be, they had lived separate lives from the moment the children had been born. Their stations made it an easy action, separate palaces, separate beds, the occasional press appearance, it had been a cold but functionally convenient arrangement. Luther vaguely remembered arguments and slamming doors, but that had been true only in the days when there had been anything between either parent.

Manfred III of South Ethia had lived his life as he saw fit from start to finish, his Oktoberfest appearances and charitable works had painted him as a radiant and magnanimous soul and to some extent that had been true. The imperial house had grown adept in covering up the drunken rants and nights spent passed out on ornate floors and antique sofas. The public never saw the Manfred that would gulp red wine from an open bottle as though it were water in a desert.

The people had loved him, the image of a grinning, red bearded emperor had become a proud icon for the people of South Ethia. Katerina had hated him for that, kissing babies and shaking hands with farmers had brought the Severyn-Tirols immense popularity, but it was far too earthly for the lioness’s taste, Severyns were meant to embody something ethereal, a greater majesty that transcended the everyday, beers with the field hands seemed crass by her reckoning.

“I sought to take you away from all this, South Ethia is too enamored with Arvinism I think, too loud and too colourful, I sent you to Bergum and raised you as a true Severyn so that you might restore dignity to our family line” she explained some of her old malorian accent bubbling to the surface as she spoke

The quiet dignity of the Auroral church, the long summers spent in Bergum and the careful tutelage of great uncles and grandfathers alike, these had forever changed Luther. He would always be less Aurorian than his father and brothers, his mother had been correct when she said she had raised him to restore old dignities. She had just omitted the fact that she had also abandoned all her other children as failed projects, all of them too closely in their father’s orbit.

Luther thought of his siblings and was unsure whether he pitied or envied them, Otto seemed determined to repeat their fathers every mistake, Zoller was a neglected masterpiece his talents for music matched only by his hunger for wine, women and song. the sisters were little better, Silvia was cold, regal and full of resentment for their mothers absence and Elizabeth seemed doomed to be a ship without rudder or command. Katerina had made her eldest a project, a dynasty saving work that was focus of all her attention, the others had been left to fend for themselves.

“And now here we are” he said grimly

The vaults beneath the Graffenburg held over a dozen emperors and counts, the Arvinist ones at least, they resided here in the cold darkness and awaited their lord’s judgement. When the time came Luther wondered whether he would be interred in the cool silence of his father’s halls or the austere grandeur of his mothers.

“You know I find Arvinism to be mad Gotic nonsense….” His mother began

“But?” Luther asked

“It was important to your father and a son does well to farewell his loved ones in the correct spirit” she said with a sad smile

A bottle was produced labelled “Donnauer 1885” Katerina laid it carefully atop a nearby shelf and turned to regard the casket, her expression thoughtful and her eyes cold as winter frost. Luther didn’t want to speculate what his mother was thinking as she farewelled a subpar husband and decades of dissatisfaction, perhaps it was fury and disdain for a failed love or perhaps she genuinely did regret his sad end. Luther suspected it was always confused when family was concerned, even if you hated them a little there was always a hostage like portion of oneself that loved them in spite of the anger.

“If I am familiar with the traditions, in ten years you and your brothers will open this vault and claim the wine, the tomb will be swept and the cobwebs removed and another bottle shall rest here until the next decade, your father would have approved” Katerina said mirthlessly grinning at the odd tradition unfolding

It had started as a joke if Luther remembered his history correctly, Georg the Merry declaring his intention to be buried with wine and commanding his sons to come and toast him with each new decade. The tradition had stuck even if the jocular nature had become obscured, every emperor since had chosen to do likewise, entire vintages crafted to follow emperors into death.

“Come, say your goodbyes, we will leave this place, there will be much to discuss” Katerina explained

Luther made the sign of the cross and placed a hand gently on his father’s coffin, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time they had truly been together. His mind was drawn back to a windswept beach walk, his father had been so young then and he had carried Luther upon his shoulders, a proud father lion granting perch to his cub. It had been simpler then, happier too, Luther felt warmth again and the accompanying pain, duller now but no less wounding.

“I will see you in ten years old man…don’t drink the wine without me” he said leaning in to kiss the casket

They left after that, the vault door to be sealed and the emperor left to his rest.

 

[North Timistania]

Fatherly Pride



South Ethia

New Bergum-Capital of South Ethia

Kaiser Oskar II Memorial Opera House

October 7th, 2005

Kaiser Manfred watched from the balcony of his private box, the stage below was bathed in golden light emanating from countless hidden spots in the ceiling and walls, even from his rarefied vantage his son was visible. If Zoller was nervous he did not show it, the young prince bowed before the audience calmly and then seated himself at the ornate Eugenhoff*, the boy moved with practiced ease as though he hadn’t been overwhelmed with stress for weeks before this moment. Manfred smiled, pride threatening to outshine the lights.

The young prince raised two white gloved hands to the keys of the piano and with a deep breath he began to play, fingers gliding across black and white with elegance that belied the youth of their owner. The rendition that followed was positively angelic, Lorenz Oder’s 1870’s overture* beginning delicately and slowly but surely ramping up as the string orchestra joined the young boys playing.

Manfred smiled, the boys playing had now reached the frantic mania that followed the penultimate triumph. Behind the orchestra the mock battle of Franktorf played out, the Andrennians marching ever closer to the barricades as more men in the Hessunland and Malorian colours fell dead. The acting was superb and the tone of the concert turned desperate as the Hessunland standard bowed and looked set to fall.

A pause and then, Manfred Esterhaszy* takes up the standard and the volley of musket fire follows! The defenders salley forth bayonets ready and in the background cannons roar, strings and piano keys now united in a divine exultation as Hessunlandia* descends from the heavens on wings of victory and the banner of old Vin Severyn’s rises high with the last triumphant notes. A final pistol shot and it is done.

Rapturous applause follows, Manfred wipes a tear from his eye and rises from his seat clapping and cheering, all decorum now abandoned.



*A famed South Ehtian piano brand named eponymously for its founder Marius Eugenhoff, first introduced in 1912 they are famed for their reliability and consistently phenomenal sound quality.

*A famed Mittelgotic composition celebrating the Hessunlander triumph at the battle of Franktorf, it famously has two mock armies fighting with blank firing muskets while the orchestra plays.

*Corporal Manfred Esterhaszy, widely considered a national hero in Hessunland, when his comrade Private Hans Wildorf was fatally shot it was Manfred who took up the imperial standard and in doing so prevented the colours from falling. This act was immortalised as the moment the defenders rallied to drive out the Andrennians, though this was heavily romanticised it has since become a mythical moment in Hessunlander national myth.

*The personification of Hessunland, Gottia is no longer used in renditions of the overture due to the associations with fascism.

 

[North Timistania]

Rememberance



Nibbuk

Mund Semi-Autonomous Region

South Ethia

May 26th , 2000



The twilight air was cold, it prickled across the skin like pine needles, there was an eerie gloom to such moments, the elders used to warn that such times were for the dead alone. appropriate then that the three men had come to give praise to one who had already crossed over, what better time than pre-dawn to commune with the long dead.

They had driven from old Nibu’ak town, Te’chik had kept the doors locked and instructed everyone to keep their windows up, no one walked the streets before daylight. The risk of mugging and stabbing skyrocketed in the darker hours, Te’chik would normally have advised against such a reckless action, but this was something special and the risk was appropriate to the action at hand. Still all three men had travelled with their pistols at their sides, never hurt to bring some constitution approved assistance just in case.

With him was the elderly Le’thik a long-time family friend and spiritual guide to the Nibbu’ak peoples and then there was Ma’thek or Matthew as he was going by now, he wasn’t in uniform but the stink of port wilhelm was on him,Te’chik might have marked him as a hak’leker* if he wasn’t kin. The younger man had been a cop in the big city for over 3 years at this point, he’d learned to hide his accent and to speak like a Got, there was still the telltale Mund tones and words that crept in though, he couldn’t completely erase his past.

Te’chik had grown up with Ma’thek, but the two had drifted apart after primary, Te’chik had followed his fathers’ footsteps and become a carpenter, Ma’thek had gone on to college and then university. That should have been a mark of pride, one of Nibbuk’s own making good, but that pride was dulled when you realized he now wore a police uniform and probably worked alongside men who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot or cuff a clayface*

“How much farther?” Ma’thek asked as he let out a loud yawn

“It’s coming up now” Te’chik replied pointing to a clearing on a nearby hill

The grove had been a tribal meet and greet for many years, the first tribes had apparently shared a fires warmth around the oak trees once, now it was deserted, a sad reminder of a greater legacy that was now half lost. The stories had become all the more important now, they were precious remnants of something powerful and each time on of those tenuous links was forgotten another piece of Mund culture died.

They got out of the car and carried their packs to the circle of trees; they were all well versed in woodcraft and soon a simple pit circled by stones had been formed. They gathered twigs, plants and anything that would burn and added their wood on top. Soon a roaring fire was blazing and in the early shadows, three men shared a bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid leaving a pleasant warmth in the throat.

Le’thik reached into his pack and produced a small effigy of woven straw, muttering something in a hushed and reverent tone he tossed it into the fire. A pleasant scent like fresh cut grass filled the air as the little figure vanished in the sea of flames, bowing his head the aging priest returned to his seat.

The blessing of the hill gods was old as the Mund people, old as the soil they had made their home on so long ago. Much of the significance was lost now, the Gotic priests and their boarding schools doing everything in their power to erase the old ways, but they had failed and while battered, the old faith held on in its own subtle ways.

“This place has a history as old as our nation, the first chiefs met here in the old ages, they gave our ancestor’s stewardship of the Nibbuk hills, and the south was gifted to Powa’kan* and his descendants, these trees are witness to our entire history.”

“Shame uncle Ke’yuk isn’t here to see it” Te’chik replied sadly

Ke’yuk had been the communities pillar, a member of the council and a tireless advocate for the preservation of Mund culture, the weight of illness had finally claimed him at the untimely age of 60 last year. Now they had come to celebrate his birthday and remember the man they had all known so well.

“Remember when he had that crappy midland motors truck?” Ma’thek asked with a broad grin

“Yeah, the one he used to drop us to school in, heard it burst into flames after he tried to run it on ethanol!” Te’chik responded both men falling into amused chuckles as the remembered the old clanker

Ke’yuk had been a casualty of colonialism, his parents had sent him to a boarding school where numerous horrors had occurred. The old man didn’t talk about that but he refused to keep company with anyone who associated with the Arvinists and their god. He’d spent the majority of his life on the road, trucking providing a good wage and a chance to travel, but it had ravaged his health and in the end the pale ghosts had killed him not with a bullet but with their food.

“We come here to honour you Ke’yuk, a proud father, husband and leader, we will continue your struggle so that in a hundred years men will still gather here” Le’thik intoned in gentle but reverent voice

Ma’thek’s lip curled slightly at the word “struggle” as though someone had just passed wind or insulted his mother. Ta’chik frowned and felt annoyance rising inside him, the boy had gone south and had his head filled up with all that wishy washy nonsense about reconciliation and integration.

“You constipated or something?!” Te’chik asked his tone more angry then he had meant

“Struggle, I don’t like that word, its 2000 for god’s sake! We are free now, we should be working to build something better, not sitting here dwelling on a past we cant change” Ma’thek had protested

Same well-meaning junk talk that they played at the visitor centres further south in Po’wakani* so that well to do Gots could feel better about their ancestors crimes. It was all softened edges, sentimental platitudes and zero change. It was the sort of talk that felt flat and dead when you entered Nibbuk and saw the endless boarded buildings and empty landscapes, the Gotics had stripped the land bare and now they had even convinced some Mund that it was okay.

Te’chik, half expected le’thik to get up and floor Ma’thek, but instead the old man appeared thoughtful, composed even. Le’thik took a long sip of whisky and then passed the bottle along, he suddenly seemed a century old.

“It’s about recognition Ma’thek, of course we want to build something better, but if the Gotics keep pretending nothing happened that becomes impossible. Your own grandfather was hung from one of those trees by a Gotic mob! I was 5 when they did that! That was back in 1933, in our lifetime they were hanging people! And the ones they didn’t hang they were sending down the minds, sterilizing in the hospitals so no more “clayfaces” would fill up their white world and turning our kids into little gotics in those abominations they call boarding schools! We didn’t even get an apology till last year! You need to wake up Ma’thek, the same people who strung up your elders are telling you that theres no problem and that we are all happy now!” The old mans sermon rising from a gentle explanation into a fiery condemnation

The group went silent, after a while the conversation picked up, clipped apologies giving way to old foibles and further drinking, but Te’chik knew the elders words had stung and like a clout to the head “matthew” would not have some processing to do when he took the train back south.



*A hacking ghost, derogatory term for Gotics in the Mund language, refers to the historic pillaging of the Mundlands resources and aggressive occupation of Mundland by Gotic settlers.

*A racist slur aimed at the Mund people’s darker skin, it is now classified as hate speech as per the Imperial Diet rulings of 1994.

*Powa’kan the great southern lord, a legendary figure in Mund history who founded one of the two great tribal confederations in what is now Mundland.

*The capital and wealthier of the two regions of Mundland, often a focal point for integrationist and liberal views, also frequently accused of failing to take a more assertive line against Gotic settlers and their past crimes, often derisively called “proper folk” by Nibbuk people.