- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
King in the Docket [CLOSED] [IC]
- Thread starter Pauline Bonaparte
- Start date
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
The August Tribunal on Illamzati Affairs
Chaired by David Eugeny Rossijis, Equestrian Senator of the Peregrine Service
Application for Media Access to the Trial of Feridoun Taghvi
Chaired by David Eugeny Rossijis, Equestrian Senator of the Peregrine Service
Application for Media Access to the Trial of Feridoun Taghvi
The August Tribunal on Illamzati Affairs would like to make known to the Republic of the Ilamzati Proletariat that it intends to dispatch a media team to view the trial of Feridoun Taghvi, as representatives of the August Tribune on Illamzat Report. @Illamzat Report is a publication of the August Senatorial News Agency, one of the world's largest news agencies, which also produces Imperium's most popular news publication, the August Public Record. The @Report team will be accompanied by a Lictorial journalist, who will be reporting to the editorial team of the Daily Acts, the official publication of the Augustine Office, as well as acting as the August detachment's security coordinator.
The @Illamzat Report Crew will consist of an Augustine Lictor, one Crew Coordinator, two journalists, a photographer, an audio technician, and a video technician, for a total of 7. The Crew Coordinator is Emilia Vecchus, and the Augustine Lictor & Security Coordinator is Giacomina de Chiesa. The Crew's offsite coordinator is Giorgio Agambus.
stirenuk
TNPer
The Stirenuk Commission on the Press Request for Authorization to Send Journalists to the Taghvi Trial
The Stirenuk Commission on the Press (the publishing house for the Department of Information, and our government at large) would like to apply for permission to send journalists from the Commission to report on the recently-announced Taghvi trial. The team would consist of three teams, totalling sixteen people: team one being Bartchi la Sera-Uk il-Senara, a Video Journalist for the SP World Service, accompanied by two editors, an in-house photographer, an audio technician, and a video technician; team two being Bangan la Sera-Uk ila-Kenta, a Printed Journalist for the SP World Service, accompanied by an unarmed Communications Engineer from the Guard Reserve, and the correspondent with the Sera-Uk Times, a division of the Commission that is internally run; team three would be Bangan la Stunak-Uk il-Gelita, the Crew Coordinator, two members of the Technology Commission (a part of the Department of Information and Technology, which the Commission is another part of), and, finally, three general labourers.
- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
Qeshir International Airport was a sprawling complex that was built in fits and starts during Feridoun's rule; it was intended to be a symbol of his dedication to his people. Though now the capital, under Feridoun Qeshir was merely Ilamzat's second city. The construction of such a lavish public works project would guarantee jobs to the city's inhabitants and invite foreign investors to the desperately poor city.
The terminals were to have floors of marble and granite, tall columns with hanging flags, and flat-screen televisions displaying advertisements and departure/arrival times. Seven terminals were planned, but only six were finished before the revolution. Of those, three were entirely destroyed by Feridoun's artillery. Qeshir's rebel government rebuilt them in stark concrete, polished blindingly white. The columns supporting the heavy ceiling and skylight were neither Doric, nor Ionic, nor Corinthian, but Ilamzati - made of the same concrete as the walls, smooth to the touch, and painted an earth brown. From the columns hung long tapestries in the traditional Ilamzati style.
Mirza Natanzi, a Workers Party cadre working for Foreign Affairs, walked through the terminal towards Gate 12, where the first plane would be coming in. The choice of a new terminal for this arrival was very deliberate, and rumored to have been ordered by Council Chairman Shahsani himself. Though there were areas of the airport that maintained the gaudy Feridounian style for now, it was strictly unnecessary to celebrate such debauchery. Ilamzat would present to the world an image of itself as a country filled with people unconcerned for earthly splendor. Only Flem and the struggle for a truly free and equal society deserved glory.
The sound of a jet landing echoed through the terminal. Few of the people around Mirza paid it any heed, but he knew it meant he might miss the disembarking. He ran towards the gate.
Standing on the tarmac ready to greet the media were several officials of the People's Council for Foreign Affairs, such as Mirza. On one side of them was a platoon consisting of about 25 women from the 4th Cooperative Division of the Workers Defense Army - Women's Unit. They stood in a square five people wide and deep, and carried polished rifles and unadorned olive brown uniforms. Two soldiers - the unit's commander and another, carrying the plain red flag of Ilamzat, stood at the front of the group.
On the other side of the council officials was a small band and a singer. As the jet taxiied towards the gate and a stair-car drove up to the plane, they played The Internationale - hardly audibly over the roar of the engine. The oversized flag carried by the soldier to Mirza's right blew with the wind and covered his field of vision; as the wind died the flag fell back down and revealed the first media crew leaving the airplane.
The terminals were to have floors of marble and granite, tall columns with hanging flags, and flat-screen televisions displaying advertisements and departure/arrival times. Seven terminals were planned, but only six were finished before the revolution. Of those, three were entirely destroyed by Feridoun's artillery. Qeshir's rebel government rebuilt them in stark concrete, polished blindingly white. The columns supporting the heavy ceiling and skylight were neither Doric, nor Ionic, nor Corinthian, but Ilamzati - made of the same concrete as the walls, smooth to the touch, and painted an earth brown. From the columns hung long tapestries in the traditional Ilamzati style.
Mirza Natanzi, a Workers Party cadre working for Foreign Affairs, walked through the terminal towards Gate 12, where the first plane would be coming in. The choice of a new terminal for this arrival was very deliberate, and rumored to have been ordered by Council Chairman Shahsani himself. Though there were areas of the airport that maintained the gaudy Feridounian style for now, it was strictly unnecessary to celebrate such debauchery. Ilamzat would present to the world an image of itself as a country filled with people unconcerned for earthly splendor. Only Flem and the struggle for a truly free and equal society deserved glory.
The sound of a jet landing echoed through the terminal. Few of the people around Mirza paid it any heed, but he knew it meant he might miss the disembarking. He ran towards the gate.
Standing on the tarmac ready to greet the media were several officials of the People's Council for Foreign Affairs, such as Mirza. On one side of them was a platoon consisting of about 25 women from the 4th Cooperative Division of the Workers Defense Army - Women's Unit. They stood in a square five people wide and deep, and carried polished rifles and unadorned olive brown uniforms. Two soldiers - the unit's commander and another, carrying the plain red flag of Ilamzat, stood at the front of the group.
On the other side of the council officials was a small band and a singer. As the jet taxiied towards the gate and a stair-car drove up to the plane, they played The Internationale - hardly audibly over the roar of the engine. The oversized flag carried by the soldier to Mirza's right blew with the wind and covered his field of vision; as the wind died the flag fell back down and revealed the first media crew leaving the airplane.
- TNP Nation
- Zyvetskistaahn
- Discord
- zyvet.
Confederate Public News Service
Application for permission to enter and broadcast in relation to the trial of Feridoun Taghvi
The Confederate Public News Service would wish to cover the trial of Feridoun Taghvi and engage in further coverage as outlined by the People's Council for Foreign Affairs. Coverage will primarily be through the CPNS' CPNS Online service, however, it is likely that coverage will also feature on our rolling television news channel as well as in other news bulletins on more general channels and radio services operated by CPNS. The team we intend to send, if our application is granted, consists of one of our Assistant International Editors, Lawrence Bridges, who will be responsible for the operation of the team, one of CPNS Online's international correspondents, a photographer, and an audio-visual technician.
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
"Welcome to Ilamzat, everyone. On behalf of the Senatorial Service Tribunal, thank you for flying with us."
The accent was the clean, smooth sound of a highly coached voice. Even Imperium wouldn't bother teaching its civil pilots the skillful art of negotiation and infiltration, but this one had certainly gone the extra mile to sound the part on the airwaves - both in air traffic control, and in the cabin. The pilot even brought his own hypeman. The purser moved with an air of dignity, calmly helping the crew unstow their bits and bobs.
"So, this is Ilamzat." It was virtually miraculous that anyone in the Lictorial Service was even able to make small-talk without having an ulterior motive in mind. But, then again, it was a miracle Giacomina had made it into the Lictorial Service - being from the same circles as the Lictor-Magister, and all. Past the two of them, there really wasn't anyone else left.
Emilia offered Giacomina a peanut. "Home of the revolution. You didn't ever do anything with Gunrei, did you?"
Giacomina shook her head. "No, too volatile. Our military would have complained. So...this is my first time handling Flemingovianists. I've not had anything to do with the Mysteries, either. They're -" The two mumbled together "- Divine Service." The two had already discussed Emilia's journalistic career - she was a cultural history wonk, popular in Imperium. Most of her time was spent domestically, covering Alainn, and New Eden. She'd covered the Proconsulate of New Intelligensia in its heyday, although when the Proconsul moved, all the Rhuvish media positions had gone to people with contacts in the Augustine Office.
That being said, even Giacomina would have been wary around Emilia, were she not already a budding member of Lictorial high society.
Giacomina exited first, as was her right and responsibility as the Lictor in attendance. She quickly slipped on her gloves - innocuous, motorcyclist's gloves. They offered minimal protection, but the plastic knuckles were the best thing the Lictorial Service could offer their unarmed security without pissing off a diplomatic entourage. Beneath her light, warm-weather linen, she had a small amount of leather padding over key sections. Like her, the rest of the crew came in Imperium's old-style formal clothing - invented for life in the fields, and in the warm, humid airs of the coast and the plains. Silks, cotton linen, simply wrapped around like a toga, or a sari. They'd opted for simple colours, to fit in, and to reflect the beating desert air.
Back home, they'd be wearing something altogether too gaudy for Ilamzat's tastes - bright tie-dye, and metallic glazing, and sharp pictures in gorgeous lacey relief.
Giacomina knew exactly what she'd be seeing - she'd had a security briefing before they left. The Qeshir terminals were known, through satellite photography, to have taken serious damage from bombing during the war, and there had been real effort put into rebuilding those destroyed in a very distinct aesthetic. Given that it would be a while until Qeshir International was open to large scale traffic, Giacomina had been told that August intelligence was of the opinion they intended to use these rebuilt terminals immediately. No other reason they'd have rushed restoring them, at least while the remaining terminals would have been able to handle any traffic for the time being.
Seeing the blinding white concrete, she could hazard a guess why. It wasn't exactly a foreign aesthetic to Imperium, albeit for different reasons - gorgeous white marble was what Alba Longa had taken its name from, and practicality drove Imperium's competitive spirit. It was through Alba Longa's domination of the Latin League that its myriad of precious, white buildings had come to denote luxury and wealth. For that matter, the plane they were on was polished aluminium. Painted solely with a transparent coat, to protect it from rust and damage, the lack of a decorative coat saved on both maintenance, and on precious kilograms, for fuel economy, and to preserve the precision engineering of the craft's aerodynamic contact surfaces.
Emilia was more concerned with the women's cadres - she was always one for a good human story, as any journalist trying to make a living was. The socialist inclinations of Ilamzat were like holding up a mirror to the pink conservatism of Imperium. Like comparing your image in a mirror, to a photograph - it's flipped, horizontally.
Both are, in their own way, identical to the ideals of reality, and yet, you would swear to the death that one is more correct than the other.
The accent was the clean, smooth sound of a highly coached voice. Even Imperium wouldn't bother teaching its civil pilots the skillful art of negotiation and infiltration, but this one had certainly gone the extra mile to sound the part on the airwaves - both in air traffic control, and in the cabin. The pilot even brought his own hypeman. The purser moved with an air of dignity, calmly helping the crew unstow their bits and bobs.
"So, this is Ilamzat." It was virtually miraculous that anyone in the Lictorial Service was even able to make small-talk without having an ulterior motive in mind. But, then again, it was a miracle Giacomina had made it into the Lictorial Service - being from the same circles as the Lictor-Magister, and all. Past the two of them, there really wasn't anyone else left.
Emilia offered Giacomina a peanut. "Home of the revolution. You didn't ever do anything with Gunrei, did you?"
Giacomina shook her head. "No, too volatile. Our military would have complained. So...this is my first time handling Flemingovianists. I've not had anything to do with the Mysteries, either. They're -" The two mumbled together "- Divine Service." The two had already discussed Emilia's journalistic career - she was a cultural history wonk, popular in Imperium. Most of her time was spent domestically, covering Alainn, and New Eden. She'd covered the Proconsulate of New Intelligensia in its heyday, although when the Proconsul moved, all the Rhuvish media positions had gone to people with contacts in the Augustine Office.
That being said, even Giacomina would have been wary around Emilia, were she not already a budding member of Lictorial high society.
Giacomina exited first, as was her right and responsibility as the Lictor in attendance. She quickly slipped on her gloves - innocuous, motorcyclist's gloves. They offered minimal protection, but the plastic knuckles were the best thing the Lictorial Service could offer their unarmed security without pissing off a diplomatic entourage. Beneath her light, warm-weather linen, she had a small amount of leather padding over key sections. Like her, the rest of the crew came in Imperium's old-style formal clothing - invented for life in the fields, and in the warm, humid airs of the coast and the plains. Silks, cotton linen, simply wrapped around like a toga, or a sari. They'd opted for simple colours, to fit in, and to reflect the beating desert air.
Back home, they'd be wearing something altogether too gaudy for Ilamzat's tastes - bright tie-dye, and metallic glazing, and sharp pictures in gorgeous lacey relief.
Giacomina knew exactly what she'd be seeing - she'd had a security briefing before they left. The Qeshir terminals were known, through satellite photography, to have taken serious damage from bombing during the war, and there had been real effort put into rebuilding those destroyed in a very distinct aesthetic. Given that it would be a while until Qeshir International was open to large scale traffic, Giacomina had been told that August intelligence was of the opinion they intended to use these rebuilt terminals immediately. No other reason they'd have rushed restoring them, at least while the remaining terminals would have been able to handle any traffic for the time being.
Seeing the blinding white concrete, she could hazard a guess why. It wasn't exactly a foreign aesthetic to Imperium, albeit for different reasons - gorgeous white marble was what Alba Longa had taken its name from, and practicality drove Imperium's competitive spirit. It was through Alba Longa's domination of the Latin League that its myriad of precious, white buildings had come to denote luxury and wealth. For that matter, the plane they were on was polished aluminium. Painted solely with a transparent coat, to protect it from rust and damage, the lack of a decorative coat saved on both maintenance, and on precious kilograms, for fuel economy, and to preserve the precision engineering of the craft's aerodynamic contact surfaces.
Emilia was more concerned with the women's cadres - she was always one for a good human story, as any journalist trying to make a living was. The socialist inclinations of Ilamzat were like holding up a mirror to the pink conservatism of Imperium. Like comparing your image in a mirror, to a photograph - it's flipped, horizontally.
Both are, in their own way, identical to the ideals of reality, and yet, you would swear to the death that one is more correct than the other.
- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
OOC: Though originally intended to be open to everyone, I retooled this to be an RP with just Grim after the original lack of response. Thanks for understanding.
Mirza was only 13 when the Revolution started. He was the oldest; of his three siblings, one survived the war. The other two were killed with his father in 2010. Ali, his brother, and Marya, his sister. Ali was 8 when it started and Marya was 10. They were riding with their father, a Workers Party cadre like Mirza himself, towards Qeshir when all three were ambushed and killed. Mirza despised Feridoun, but a nagging voice in his head always reassured him, without being prompted to do so, that there were so many child soldiers running around Feridoun's men probably didn't know they weren't armed.
Or at the very least, Mirza was assured they weren't armed. Mirza was awarded the Order of the Red Banner by Brother Ramiani himself, Flem bless his departed soul. He wasn't present at the scene and directly did nothing of valor, other than bravely maintain his dedication to the Ilamzati socialist cause. This Ramiani promised to him. A year later Ramiani would be dead himself - stabbed in the neck by an undercover agent in the employ of Feridoun.
In 2005, a year before the Workers' Party seized Qeshir, his father came home from a strike battered and bruised by goon squads who attacked the picket line in force. He was in despair. Mirza, sitting in the kitchen, was the first to see him. His eyes were swollen and his black hair was matted to his head with sweat and blood. "It's like we're trapped in the belly of some giant whale," he mumbled to no one in particular. "And the whale is drowning."
As the Augustan crew descended from the plane, the singer conspicuously omitted the lyric "not god, nor Caesar, nor hero" from Ilamzat's anthem. Instead, she paused for a moment between the lines "No one will grant us our deliverance" and "We will win our own liberation", as if the Ilamzati masses were declaring that no one could give them their freedom and then thought deeply about who that left that could do so.
Mirza glared briefly at the singer but returned to a neutral expression. A small row of plain black towncars pulled up behind him in a wide semicircle. There was not nearly enough space for the platoon of soldiers, but they would undoubtedly find their own way in a less dramatic manner. Drivers exited the vehicles and opened the passengers side and rear doors, and stood at the ready.
In a way, their dress resembled Mirza's. The Ilamzati government was quick to eliminate all forms of bourgeois-capitalist fashion from its uniforms, which meant plenty of plain grey tunics and starched pleated trousers. Though bright colors and patterns were popular among the common people, Workers Party Thought dictated a state that was sleek, devoted to socialist principles, and absent of all ostentation or self-indulgence. For this reason the sight that greeted the Augustan workers looked like a monochromatic gradient - black tarmac and cars, grey uniforms, and white buildings.
It may sound like a disservice to the other parties in the Ilamzati government to act like the Workers Party dictates all diplomatic practice, but it is less a disservice and more an observation of objective reality. The Front for the Establishment of a Proletarian Democracy, as large as it is, is usually more concerned with thinking of ways to disestablish the workers' state itself and transition to full communism than it is with commenting on the minutiae of diplomatic protocol. The Democratic Socialist Party, for its part, is usually incapable of winning enough seats in Congress to comment on anything.
As the Augustan crew walked up to Mirza, he shook their hands and briefly introduced them to the more prominent bureaucrats gathered with him. The band eventually finished playing The Internationale and began playing the Augustan anthem as Mirza paused for a few pictures with Emilia and Giacomina.
"Ilamzat welcomes you in a spirit of friendship," Mirza said in well-rehearsed, phonetically-learned Latin. He quickly switched to Mercanti, a language he was more familiar with. "We will begin with a visit to the rehabilitation center where Feridoun is staying; you will first have an opportunity to interview him before representatives from the United Workers' Party of Ilamzat - Militant Front and the Front for the Establishment of a Proletarian Democracy give interviews."
As if on cue, the commander of the platoon of soldiers walked into the conversation.
"Ah, this is Fatima Abadani, the leader of the Cooperative Division assigned to us. She will be accompanying us in the motorcade."
Fatima looked like the model socialist warrior. Where Mirza had light skin indicative of some Kianese blood in him, Fatima had the olive skin of a full-blooded Ilamzati, with wiry black hair pulled into a ponytail. A stray lock of hair near the front of her face blew in the breeze, like the enormous red flag behind her.
"It is customary in the Workers Defense Army for a commander to ride with her soldiers," she said laconically. "But I was instructed to go with you."
Mirza forced an awkward smile. "Yes, well,"
"So I will go with you." she interrupted.
"Yes, ah, let's get going, shall we? The wind is picking up."
Mirza was only 13 when the Revolution started. He was the oldest; of his three siblings, one survived the war. The other two were killed with his father in 2010. Ali, his brother, and Marya, his sister. Ali was 8 when it started and Marya was 10. They were riding with their father, a Workers Party cadre like Mirza himself, towards Qeshir when all three were ambushed and killed. Mirza despised Feridoun, but a nagging voice in his head always reassured him, without being prompted to do so, that there were so many child soldiers running around Feridoun's men probably didn't know they weren't armed.
Or at the very least, Mirza was assured they weren't armed. Mirza was awarded the Order of the Red Banner by Brother Ramiani himself, Flem bless his departed soul. He wasn't present at the scene and directly did nothing of valor, other than bravely maintain his dedication to the Ilamzati socialist cause. This Ramiani promised to him. A year later Ramiani would be dead himself - stabbed in the neck by an undercover agent in the employ of Feridoun.
In 2005, a year before the Workers' Party seized Qeshir, his father came home from a strike battered and bruised by goon squads who attacked the picket line in force. He was in despair. Mirza, sitting in the kitchen, was the first to see him. His eyes were swollen and his black hair was matted to his head with sweat and blood. "It's like we're trapped in the belly of some giant whale," he mumbled to no one in particular. "And the whale is drowning."
As the Augustan crew descended from the plane, the singer conspicuously omitted the lyric "not god, nor Caesar, nor hero" from Ilamzat's anthem. Instead, she paused for a moment between the lines "No one will grant us our deliverance" and "We will win our own liberation", as if the Ilamzati masses were declaring that no one could give them their freedom and then thought deeply about who that left that could do so.
Mirza glared briefly at the singer but returned to a neutral expression. A small row of plain black towncars pulled up behind him in a wide semicircle. There was not nearly enough space for the platoon of soldiers, but they would undoubtedly find their own way in a less dramatic manner. Drivers exited the vehicles and opened the passengers side and rear doors, and stood at the ready.
In a way, their dress resembled Mirza's. The Ilamzati government was quick to eliminate all forms of bourgeois-capitalist fashion from its uniforms, which meant plenty of plain grey tunics and starched pleated trousers. Though bright colors and patterns were popular among the common people, Workers Party Thought dictated a state that was sleek, devoted to socialist principles, and absent of all ostentation or self-indulgence. For this reason the sight that greeted the Augustan workers looked like a monochromatic gradient - black tarmac and cars, grey uniforms, and white buildings.
It may sound like a disservice to the other parties in the Ilamzati government to act like the Workers Party dictates all diplomatic practice, but it is less a disservice and more an observation of objective reality. The Front for the Establishment of a Proletarian Democracy, as large as it is, is usually more concerned with thinking of ways to disestablish the workers' state itself and transition to full communism than it is with commenting on the minutiae of diplomatic protocol. The Democratic Socialist Party, for its part, is usually incapable of winning enough seats in Congress to comment on anything.
As the Augustan crew walked up to Mirza, he shook their hands and briefly introduced them to the more prominent bureaucrats gathered with him. The band eventually finished playing The Internationale and began playing the Augustan anthem as Mirza paused for a few pictures with Emilia and Giacomina.
"Ilamzat welcomes you in a spirit of friendship," Mirza said in well-rehearsed, phonetically-learned Latin. He quickly switched to Mercanti, a language he was more familiar with. "We will begin with a visit to the rehabilitation center where Feridoun is staying; you will first have an opportunity to interview him before representatives from the United Workers' Party of Ilamzat - Militant Front and the Front for the Establishment of a Proletarian Democracy give interviews."
As if on cue, the commander of the platoon of soldiers walked into the conversation.
"Ah, this is Fatima Abadani, the leader of the Cooperative Division assigned to us. She will be accompanying us in the motorcade."
Fatima looked like the model socialist warrior. Where Mirza had light skin indicative of some Kianese blood in him, Fatima had the olive skin of a full-blooded Ilamzati, with wiry black hair pulled into a ponytail. A stray lock of hair near the front of her face blew in the breeze, like the enormous red flag behind her.
"It is customary in the Workers Defense Army for a commander to ride with her soldiers," she said laconically. "But I was instructed to go with you."
Mirza forced an awkward smile. "Yes, well,"
"So I will go with you." she interrupted.
"Yes, ah, let's get going, shall we? The wind is picking up."
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
It was interesting to hear the Illamzat anthem. Giancomina was pleased, by the musical quality of the unexpected pause; Emilia, moreso by the charming sensitivity towards August politics. For both of them, though, the choice to use a single singer seemed out of place, in a land otherwise predisposed to the interests and aesthetics of collective art and airs. In Imperium, there was a trend towards music more egalitarian, as strange as it may sound - they'd inherited the sea shanties and other work-songs that governed the rhythms of labour. They used shantyleaders, of course, who would fill in the verses between choruses, and give a beat to the masses, but their instrumental backing was minimal, and used only to intersperse the rousing voices of united Augustans.
Giacomina was surprisingly comfortable introducing herself as a member of the Lictorial Service, all things considered. Emilia, on the other hand, was an independent journalist, a member of a university media union, representing Imperium in an official capacity only on a once-off basis.
Introduced to Mirza, the two were the image of politeness. There was no doubt that, once the pictures from this initial meeting arrived home, there would be questions raised about Emilia & Giacomina's personable relationship, as evidenced by the photo opportunity - for a Lictor to appear in such media at all was, at the least, somewhat unusual. Illamzat, as the proud backdrop, would result in further questions that would need answering. But, those were questions for the Future Giacomina, to whom Present Giacomina was but a stranger. She didn't have much opportunity to travel - not like Emilia. She relished the opportunity.
The two offered a warm smile to Fatima, as she approached them. There were not many words they could offer, to anyone, during such a ceremony - Giacomina was enthralled by all the pomp and circumstance, for it was very difference to see it directed at one, rather than to be at its boundary. Emilia, on the other hand, was a journalist. She had no interest in testing what little rapport she'd already gathered. Not yet.
That being said, they did seem to already have their preferences in line. Emilia could appreciate a forthcoming, strong line, as Fatima offered both in uniform, and in speech. She'd put up with far too much of Imperium's infamous beating-around-the-bush in her time, and had spent too much time in the firing line of media criticism and critique. Plus, she gave the smallest hint of an interesting hook. What's all this about being instructed to break protocol? Journalism 101: every word is a choice. Not so much a choice: that smile of Mirza's.
Giacomina, on the other hand, was a Lictor, and Lictors neither spoke nor heard with any sort of directness. Not unless there was a gun involved, on someone's part. There were often guns involved, on someone's part. No, Giacomina didn't suspect any dirty play - she wasn't arrogant enough to believe herself a kidnapping target for a foreign state looking for allies. But, she also wasn't well-inclined to see herself a main character. Maybe Emilia had some enemies in high places. Maybe the cameraman was a sympathist. Maybe Ilamzat had a very, very lucrative trade in human kidneys. She just couldn't tell. Still, it was nice to meet other women in uniform - she'd heard so much about foreign nations being nowhere near as enlightened as Imperium's history of gender egalitarianism. Plus, if Fatima killed her, it probably wouldn't be personal.
That was more than Giacomina could say about most of the uniformed Augustans she'd met.
The two quietly nodded, and followed Mirza, the very image of politeness.
Giacomina was surprisingly comfortable introducing herself as a member of the Lictorial Service, all things considered. Emilia, on the other hand, was an independent journalist, a member of a university media union, representing Imperium in an official capacity only on a once-off basis.
Introduced to Mirza, the two were the image of politeness. There was no doubt that, once the pictures from this initial meeting arrived home, there would be questions raised about Emilia & Giacomina's personable relationship, as evidenced by the photo opportunity - for a Lictor to appear in such media at all was, at the least, somewhat unusual. Illamzat, as the proud backdrop, would result in further questions that would need answering. But, those were questions for the Future Giacomina, to whom Present Giacomina was but a stranger. She didn't have much opportunity to travel - not like Emilia. She relished the opportunity.
The two offered a warm smile to Fatima, as she approached them. There were not many words they could offer, to anyone, during such a ceremony - Giacomina was enthralled by all the pomp and circumstance, for it was very difference to see it directed at one, rather than to be at its boundary. Emilia, on the other hand, was a journalist. She had no interest in testing what little rapport she'd already gathered. Not yet.
That being said, they did seem to already have their preferences in line. Emilia could appreciate a forthcoming, strong line, as Fatima offered both in uniform, and in speech. She'd put up with far too much of Imperium's infamous beating-around-the-bush in her time, and had spent too much time in the firing line of media criticism and critique. Plus, she gave the smallest hint of an interesting hook. What's all this about being instructed to break protocol? Journalism 101: every word is a choice. Not so much a choice: that smile of Mirza's.
Giacomina, on the other hand, was a Lictor, and Lictors neither spoke nor heard with any sort of directness. Not unless there was a gun involved, on someone's part. There were often guns involved, on someone's part. No, Giacomina didn't suspect any dirty play - she wasn't arrogant enough to believe herself a kidnapping target for a foreign state looking for allies. But, she also wasn't well-inclined to see herself a main character. Maybe Emilia had some enemies in high places. Maybe the cameraman was a sympathist. Maybe Ilamzat had a very, very lucrative trade in human kidneys. She just couldn't tell. Still, it was nice to meet other women in uniform - she'd heard so much about foreign nations being nowhere near as enlightened as Imperium's history of gender egalitarianism. Plus, if Fatima killed her, it probably wouldn't be personal.
That was more than Giacomina could say about most of the uniformed Augustans she'd met.
The two quietly nodded, and followed Mirza, the very image of politeness.
- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
"This is the Workers' and Peasants' Square," Mirza said, clearing his throat. The motorcade came to a stop at a traffic light adjacent to the plaza. In the center, a massive statue depicting a man holding a hammer and a woman holding a sickle stood facing the east. From each side of its pedestal hung four flags of Ilamzat - a plain red banner. "That is the Worker and Peasant United," he continued, gesturing out the car window towards it. He felt like a tour guide, but then again he was expecting that from the moment he took the job.
"I remember the first rally I attended here," Mirza said, almost wistfully. "Never before had I felt so attached to total strangers. We were united in our... fervent desire for a better future. I knew immediately I had to devote all my energy to the Workers' Party and the Revolution."
His speech would have sounded almost rehearsed if it wasn't for his genuine emotion. Perhaps spending years knee-deep in dialectics and philosophy led to his verbosity. Fatima, for her part, remained laconic:
"When we captured some Gunreiists in the north last year we hung them from these streetlamps until the FEPD and DemSocs had us take them down."
Mirza raised his eyebrows. "Yes, well,"
"My division captured two dozen of them ourselves. I have never seen men so terrified." Fatima said. "And we did not have Lancerian air support."
The light turned green and the car lurched forward. As it drove slowly past the square, the entire gamut of Ilamzati political expression was in full view: professional and put-together Workers Party members strolling to work; FEPD-affiliated labor union members handing out flyers, still in work clothes; Democratic Socialist petitioners; apathetic crustpunks. At the edges of the plaza near the sidewalk were nearly as many newspaper stands as people within the square. Almost all were affiliated with one of the three major Ilamzati parties or any of the myriad minor ones.
"The rehabilitation center is on the edge of the city;" Mirza said. "Maybe twenty minutes away. It is in an old converted prison - " he raised his eyebrows again, catching his faux pas. "Of course, the conditions there far exceed even the most luxurious prison under Feridoun's rule. The goal of our rehabilitation centers is restorative, not, ah, retributive justice."
He smiled slightly, cursing himself silently for his blunder. The Workers Party had quickly achieved - unjustly - a reputation for ruthlessness that he was trying his best to remediate.
"I remember the first rally I attended here," Mirza said, almost wistfully. "Never before had I felt so attached to total strangers. We were united in our... fervent desire for a better future. I knew immediately I had to devote all my energy to the Workers' Party and the Revolution."
His speech would have sounded almost rehearsed if it wasn't for his genuine emotion. Perhaps spending years knee-deep in dialectics and philosophy led to his verbosity. Fatima, for her part, remained laconic:
"When we captured some Gunreiists in the north last year we hung them from these streetlamps until the FEPD and DemSocs had us take them down."
Mirza raised his eyebrows. "Yes, well,"
"My division captured two dozen of them ourselves. I have never seen men so terrified." Fatima said. "And we did not have Lancerian air support."
The light turned green and the car lurched forward. As it drove slowly past the square, the entire gamut of Ilamzati political expression was in full view: professional and put-together Workers Party members strolling to work; FEPD-affiliated labor union members handing out flyers, still in work clothes; Democratic Socialist petitioners; apathetic crustpunks. At the edges of the plaza near the sidewalk were nearly as many newspaper stands as people within the square. Almost all were affiliated with one of the three major Ilamzati parties or any of the myriad minor ones.
"The rehabilitation center is on the edge of the city;" Mirza said. "Maybe twenty minutes away. It is in an old converted prison - " he raised his eyebrows again, catching his faux pas. "Of course, the conditions there far exceed even the most luxurious prison under Feridoun's rule. The goal of our rehabilitation centers is restorative, not, ah, retributive justice."
He smiled slightly, cursing himself silently for his blunder. The Workers Party had quickly achieved - unjustly - a reputation for ruthlessness that he was trying his best to remediate.