Scraps of Roleplaying

OOC Note: This is a scene from an Interflix series from Saintonge called Toile des Mensonges ("Web of Lies").


Toile des Mensonges, S1E9 (episode dropped 24 March 2025)

Headquarters, Service de Renseignement de Sécurité
Somewhere in Saintes

Col. Pierre-Simon Hulin saluted his superior, Lt.-Gen. Gérard-Marc Bressant, as he entered the room. Lt.-Gen. Bressant weakly returned the salute and did not bother standing up. Something was quite odd. The head of the Service de renseignement de sécurité (SRS), Saintonge’s military intelligence service, looked weary and tired. The Bethanian separatists had been wreaking havoc in the country and seemed unstoppable.

Col. Hulin had at least some good news to bring. They had some sort of success against the Talbenn broadel bethoneg (TBB), the foreign-funded Bethanian separatist organisation that is spreading terror throughout Saintonge’s northwestern Bethanian-speaking provinces. They knew TBB had minuscule support among the Bethanian populace, but the people are afraid because TBB had managed to infiltrate the critical sectors of Santonian society. Including the Royal Santonian Armed Forces.

The SRS knew that they had at least one mole within the Santonian military that was passing information to TBB. It seems that finally, they had caught one. Just too late.

Col. Hulin closed the door behind him and laid down a dossier on his boss’ table. Col. Hulin was Lt.-Gen. Bressant’s aide-de-camp and was part of the spymaster’s small circle of trusted advisers. In spycraft, one cannot trust too many and too much.

“I have great news.” Col. Hulin said as he opened the dossier. “One of the TBB’s spies within the Santonian military had been neutralised.” He took out a picture of the bloodied corpse of a dead soldier thrown into a pit at a construction site in Redon.

Lt.-Gen. Bressant glanced at the picture and stared at Col. Hulin. “We have already reported to you who he is. Lt. Hoël Kersaint, from the Cyber Force. We believe he had been passing information from the military to TBB.”

“Unfortunately, TBB managed to neutralise him first,” Col. Hulin continued. “We believe that TBB had killed Kersaint before we can capture him and spill info about the TBB.” Col. Hulin smiled, evidently waiting for a celebratory comment or triumphal cheer from his boss for a job well done by the SRS.

Instead, Lt.-Gen. Bressant sighed as he looked down on his hands on the table. He had been twiddling his thumbs the entire time that Col. Hulin was talking. It took a while before Saintonge’s spymaster spoke.

After a minute of awkward silence, Lt.-Gen. Bressant muttered, “Was his family informed?”

Col. Hulin’s brows furrowed. Was his family informed? That was a weird reply to a report that a traitor to the country had been killed. Was he missing something?

Col. Hulin ignored that nagging suspicion and instead continued talking about future plans. “Because information is still getting to TBB even after Kersaint had died, we believe there must be at least one more mole. Also, they must’ve known from that other source that we have already uncovered Kersaint and that he’s already compromised – hence his disposal.”

Disposal. Lt.-Gen. Bressant replayed the word in his mind. Disposal. Such is the gruesome reality for a spy.

Lt.-Gen. Bressant pushed the other thoughts off his mind and asked his adjutant: “Do you have any other leads?”

“Coming up short at the moment, to be quite honest,” Col. Hulin said. “Kersaint could’ve been a gold mine of information if we managed to capture and interrogate him.”

“He would’ve said nothing new that I didn’t know,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant whispered obtusely. Now Col. Hulin was genuinely confused.

“Sir, is there something that I’m not privy to?” Col. Hulin blurted out.

After some uncomfortable silence, Lt.-Gen. Bressant finally spilled the information.

“Lt. Hoël Kersaint was not a TBB mole in the Santonian military. He was our infiltrator into TBB.”

Col. Hulin’s jaw dropped. They had been following the wrong lead all along!?

“Lt. Kersaint is one of ours,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant admitted, with sadness creeping into his usually stoic character. “His loyalty is to Saintonge. I recruited him from the Cyber Force. It was a very secret operation.

“I arranged for fake compromising material on Lt. Kersaint to fall into the hands of the TBB. TBB took the bait and recruited Hoël. I funnelled some relatively harmless info through Lt. Kersaint to the TBB, but I already know there’s another mole because there were info that TBB acquired that I did not feed through Lt. Kersaint. Lt. Kersaint also confirmed that TBB had a high-ranking mole within the Santonian military, and that he was close to determining who he was… but he was killed.”

Lt.-Gen. Bressant shifted in his chair, the unease in his body and emotions visible to Col. Hulin. Rarely had he seen his usually steely boss like this.

“What a waste,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant muttered as his gaze shifted to the photo that Col. Hulin had brought. Col. Hulin saw his boss’ eyes glisten with tears. “Hoël was a courageous, intelligent, patriotic kid.”

“It’s always tough losing an agent,” Col. Hulin sympathised.

“Even more if you are the one who personally recruited them,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant added. With shaking hands, Lt.-Gen. Bressant picked up the photo of Lt. Kersaint’s body dumped unceremoniously into a hole. The paper was quivering as Lt.-Gen. Bressant stared at it. “They must’ve discovered that he was an infiltrator and they had killed him…”

Col. Hulin then saw a glint in Lt.-Gen. Bressant’s steel blue eyes. Lt.-Gen. Bressant laid the photo down and his hands tightened to clenched fists.

Lt.-Gen. Bressant looked up at his adjutant. “The TBB will only know that Hoël was an infiltrator if…”

“… somebody tipped them off?” Col. Hulin completed, which was the same spark that hit Lt.-Gen. Bressant’s mind.

Lt.-Gen. Bressant leaned back on his chair and started barking orders. His demeanour had changed. Col. Hulin realised it was time to act. His boss had a realisation.

“Draft the order for the preventive detention of Ponsart and his entire staff and execute the order,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant commanded.

Col. Hulin was stunned. “Pardon, sir?”

“Detain Ponsart and his staff, ASAP!”

Col. Hulin could not believe his ears. “Sir, are we talking about General Victor-Robert Ponsart, the chief of the Royal Santonian Cyber Force – ”

“DID I STUTTER, HULIN?” Lt.-Gen. Bressant yelled.

“No sir. Will draft the order, sir,” Col. Hulin was the one stuttering, shocked at the order. “But… General Ponsart outranks you, sir…”

Lt.-Gen. Bressant stood up from his chair and leaned forward. He was giving Col. Hulin his trademark death stare. “I am the Spymaster of the Kingdom of Saintonge and I can order the arrest of ANYONE – I repeat, ANYONE – in this country!”

“Yessir.”

Lt.-Gen. Bressant pounded his fists on the table. “They are lucky I am not making them disappear into thin air!”

Col. Hulin started gathering the papers on the table in preparation for leaving and following his superior’s orders. Lt.-Gen. Bressant was not a fun guy to be around when he is mad.

“Or do they want me to involve the King of Saintonge on their detention order?” Lt.-Gen. Bressant huffed.

On that note, Col. Hulin inserted a relevant question. “Shall I have General Barraux countersign the – ”

“I’ll deal with Barraux!” Lt.-Gen. Bressant howled, referring to Gen. Martin-Adam Barraux, the Chief of the Defence Staff of the Royal Santonian Armed Forces.

“Yessir,” Col. Hulin said as he stood up from his seat and took the dossier. He wanted to go now and not deal with Lt.-Gen. Bressant any further but his curiosity was thoroughly piqued at the bizarre order.

“I’m sure it’s not my position to ask,” Col. Hulin began, “but is the upper echelon of the Cyber Force suspect now, that’s why we’re detaining all of them?”

Lt.-Gen. Bressant straightened back up. “There were only two people who knew about Lt. Kersaint,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant said softly. “Victor and I.”

Col. Hulin nodded. His mind immediately connected the dots.

“I never told anyone here in SRS about Lt. Kersaint. Not even you,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant said. “Which means the leaks are coming from the Cyber Force. Hopefully not Victor himself, but possibly his staff if he spilled it to them.”

“Sir, what if Kersaint was just careless and was discovered by TBB without any leaks from the Cyber Force?”

“Hoël is not careless. His last message to me was that he learned that a high-ranking official from the Santonian military betrayed his infiltrator status to the TBB."

“Merde,” Col. Hulin swore under his breath.

“Do not tell anybody about this. I will deal with Barraux and the King to explain why I am ordering the detention of the entire leadership of the Cyber Force.”

“Yessir.” Col. Hulin saluted his boss before turning to leave.

As Col. Hulin was reaching for the doorknob on his way out, he heard his superior call him back.

“Hulin,” Lt.-Gen. Bressant said, “after you draft and execute the detention order, please arrange for military honours at Lt. Kersaint’s funeral. That kid is a true Bethanian hero, a brave Santonian patriot. It’s the least we could do for his sacrifice.”

“Yessir.”

Artifacts of Krawiterski Dominarz Elisa II
Imperial Archives


[...]

Excerpts from the Diaries of Princess Astrid of Prydania (Krawiterski Dominarz Elisa II)
11. nóvember 1818

I woke up to the strange news that I might become Dominarz. Mama came to me 6'o clock in the morning. She told me I had visitors waiting in my sitting-room. She explained it was urgent, so I went there, alone, in my dressing gown. Had I known that I was receiving a man, a Grand Duke, I would have insisted to change into more appropriate clothes. Without knowledge of what was to follow, it was stranger without the presence of Pabbi or my brother Rikard.

The man turned out to be Friedrich Wilhelm, the Republican Duke. He is one of Chevalier's allies. He rules the Middle Countries, a former possession of the Syrixian Empire. It rebelled during the Callisean Wars and became one of its sister republics. Now, it is rebelling against Chevalier. It was highly unusual, not only because it is a union of Szlavic and Gotic princes, but that it became a republic where the nobles serve as its electors rather than ordinary men, as it happened elsewhere in Callise, Khastenia, and Maloria. The Grand Duke assured me that he prefers a monarchy over most republics. Their republic is unique and is meant to be crowned. I asked, still unaware, about how he was planning to restore the Syrixian emperor as Dominarz in the Middle Countries.

He answered they have no such plan. Instead, the people of the Middle Countries want an independent crown, free from the constraints of powerful houses and their empires. Only then will they be able to secure their rights. That was when he asked me if I would be willing to take up the mantle of Dominarz.

[...]

Pabbi supported the idea as part of the turncoat plan for the Middle Countries. They had begun talks as it became more apparent that the Calliseans will not be able to stop the Andrennians from entering Beaune. The Malorian Republic was defeated last year. Separatist Tristainese nobles, supporters of the House of Gerwin, had been frequently seen at the restored court of Emperor Alwin. In order to preserve the union of the Middle Countries, the Szlavic, Gotic, Tavastite, and loyalist Tristainese princes quickly decided on a form of government that would be sympathetic to the causes of the Nordic Coalition.

He asked me if I would marry a Malorian prince. It is a sensible match. The Malorian Empire suffered the most in the fight against the Calliseans. I asked if it was related to the Grand Duke's offer. Pabbi said it was the only way for it to be acceptable to Emperor Alwin, for the Middle Countries to maintain their miserable existence whole. By betraying Chevalier, electing a Prydanian princess, in matrimony with a Malorian prince, they are escaping with only their tails tucked between their legs.

I was not completely delighted with the idea. Noble electors or not, the Middle Countries was a sister republic, still ruled by the same consul who fought for Chevalier. I would like to keep my head where it is. Pabbi promised that, if they dared to put a finger on me, he would lead his men to liberate me and, if they kill me, sack the Middle Countries before leaving them small, irrelevant kingdoms and principalities. Their entire existence spent on squabbling and splitting up more of their diminished lands. It frightened me. Deep down, with the risk of sounding awful, his words made me feel safe and secure. I wonder if my throne will be the same.

From:Gai.Volk@Bvundza.Ess

Subject: (No subject)

Toby!

i've finally got this damned account set up (yes i picked Bvundza, i liked the animal print designs on the font....this stays between us), its taken me the better part of several years to fully acquaint myself with the internet, but here we are. Seems like a long time since we saw each other, Nurendir and Vivika's wedding is practically a lifetime ago now. I do hope Alycia and the children are doing well, i know you have struggled with the dangers of the world we live in, its odd to think that i might soon be in the same boat with cubs of my own!

That's part of why i am writing to you now, Anegrette has the damned Fohlenfieber*! she's been making nightly assaults that have led me to flee the damned country for Luscova! I am of course joking (partially), im actually here to assist with projects at the Luscova Pact Development Bank, but its also a good excuse to hide from the lady wife! She's due a check up in a months time, if all goes to plan i may soon be a proud father!

I wanted to express my gratitude to both yourself and alycia, the countless military personnel and medical volunteers that came here as part of the pact's mission have been instrumental in saving lives, my wife and countless others are safer during times of need because of our national bonds. Ive been trying to give back in my own small way, im working with the Pact bank to get up and running several charity iniatives, the orphans of Predice and Kosada Fund are intended to give hope to people who have suffered immensely these past few years. I think honestly ive found another calling, NGO work seems to sooth my soul and re-affirms my sense that Essalan's codes can evolve and thrive in the modern world. But i didnt come to bore you with politics that you will no doubt hear in greater detail at our next session.

I hear Maya is settled in her role as a live in wolf, always knew she would, they can sense a good human when they see one! i miss our hunting days, one day i hope you will come back down to the steppe for another adventure, or better yet invite me up to Skogurland(not sure if im spelling that right) for a spot of shooting. Either way i intend to bring a case of beer. Ive had a chest of gifts shipped to Bykonsvidi, a bear fur cloak for Alycia, hand carved toys for the children (don't worry i dissuaded the addition of bladed objects) and i even found some old architecture magazines i thought you might find interesting (apparently some journalist left them here in Vosgotis 80 years back! probably worth something). Most of all though i did wonder if you still ride, now your wife i trust, a good Trien woman is always to be relied upon, i do hope however that you are also maintaining your skills. Ive sent you a hand crafted sadddle, the sort our outriders use for long haul journeys, i hope it serves you well. I Know these past few years have been hard, especially with recent events considered, but you are strong and will weather the storm as your ancestors did before you.

Until we next meet

Gaiseric

Ps. also sent several bones and some dried snacks for Maya

*literally "Foal Fever" an Essalanean term analogous to "baby fever"

Co-written by: @Predice

Governor's Palace, Riga, Skalia, 29 March 1999

"...I am still confident we will be able to see more growth economically. Yes, the war might have been recent. But it's really twelve years ago. Of course, the effects of apartheid are still visible. Now, anything else that is new will soon be up to you and the next Council President."

“I am glad. You have done great work, I am sure your successor will continue to bring growth to Skalia, though I will be sad to see you go…” King Giorgio III pauses for a moment before continuing. “Your service to Skalia, and to the Predicean Union has been magnificent. Accept my sincerest thanks for your tireless service.”

"Thank you, Maestà. That means a lot." Council President Normens Matisons has been staring at the phone. Sometimes, like this moment, the sight of a handset secured on its cradle while calling is an amazing one. They call it a "speaker" function.

He looks away from the telephone to check his desk clock. Their 20 minutes are nearly up. He closes his ministerial leather folder with all the reports compiled by the Cabinet Secretariat.

Matisons is about to finish his last telephone conversation with the King. If he wanted to speak out, it was now or never.

"Maestà. If you would permit me, I would like to make a strange question."

“I would be pleased to answer, Signore Matisons. After all, I have asked many questions of you over these years.”

"Have you seen Predice change between gonfalonieres? W-Well, you must be receiving cabinet reports. O-Of course, you would notice." Matisons pauses to lick his lips.
"What I mean to say is if any gonfaloniere has done real change. Not just a color change in the flag or a lyrical adjustment in the national anthem. But in the soul of Predice. Change that you could see, feel, and hear everywhere. Does that make sense?"

“You know, there are periods where much doesn’t change. These can last for years, but then… then things change.” The King pauses for a moment.
“Change is usually gradual, but there are those Gonfalonieres… they fight and they work hard. They believe in what they’re doing. When they’re in office, things change quicker. Nothing ever stays the same forever, sometimes it moves quicker, sometimes slower. Signore Matisons, for what it’s worth… I believe you fall into the category of people who make a real difference in their time in office. You believe in what you do, and you fight for it. I’m glad to have had the opportunity to have you as Council President of Skalia.”

"Yes. Thank you, Maestà." Matisons nods, as if the King was right in front of him.
"I'm sorry if I sound like a broken clock. I-I'm only concerned if we didn't push harder. Apartheid only ended in the previous decade. Did we really deliver justice? We might have granted amnesty to too many people. Some of those accused of crimes against humanity are still on the run. There were witnesses who died on my watch." Matisons looks at the files on his desk with the logo of the Predicean Union Ministry of Affairs. One title read Caminia and the other read Prydania.
"It doesn't help that I'm reminded every day. The fall of communism in Caminia. The fascists in Prydania. The press has been questioning our work on truth and reconciliation."

The King is silent for a moment.
“Justice is an interesting thing. It is perceived in many ways by different people. I look at it this way, were many of those amnestied complicit in the crimes committed, willingly or otherwise? Definitely, that is indisputable. Have some of the criminals escaped justice? Yes. Those are the facts, now what do we do? Those who escaped justice abroad will not escape it forever, one way or another they will face their day in court, be it in front of a judge or in front of the Almighty. Those we amnestied have a new chance at life to atone for the sins they have committed, not everyone can reasonably be prosecuted for crimes committed by a nation as a whole, nor should they. Prosecuting them won’t bring back those who were killed, it won’t fix the decades of oppression. Our job is to do the next right thing. To do right by all Skalians…” the King takes another pause before continuing:
“All massive prosecutions can do now is to create a cycle of hurt and pain. Those responsible at the highest levels will face justice, be it tomorrow of fifty years from now. As for the press, it’s their job to question, and it’s our responsibility to keep doing what’s right for our people. What’s happening in Caminia will one day happen in Prydania too, these regimes never last indefinitely, and someday soon, the instigators in Prydania will also face justice. I believe in God’s plan, and in good time, all will fall into place as it should.”

"I agree. We better pray it happens sooner." The King certainly give him a lot to think about. It put a small smile on Matisons's face. Small because he cannot help but be doubtful. Matisons checks the desk clock. 1 minute overtime. "Well, this is it. It has been an honor, Maestà."

“It has been a pleasure, Signore Matisons. Best of luck. If you’d like, myself and my family would be honored to host you and your family for dinner sometime soon. Keep in touch with my office if you like that.”

"That would be a tremendous honor, Maestà. My family and I would like that, too."

The call ended. Matisons said goodbye without informing the King about the upcoming general election. He presses his forehead down on his steepled hands.

His national unity coalition, the Popular Front for Truth and Reconciliation, has collapsed. He felt more guilty after hearing and accepting the dinner invitation. He did say anything else new would be for the new Council President to discuss. Hopefully, his United Reform Alliance will gain a sufficient majority. Otherwise, the Predicean Union will have to deal with an obnoxious Neo-Pagan gang of communist ex-terrorists and student activists. Matisons might be desperate enough to work with Popular Unity, less of a party and more of an elitist club for oligarchs and rich intellectuals. May the Gods help us!

Matisons stands up from his desk chair, turns to face the window behind him, and watch the activity in the palace courtyard. The movers went back and forth between their van and the last stack of boxes, taking one after another. He starts thinking about what people will think about his leadership.

Did he have enough time to change Skalia? It felt like, instead of creating a new united nation, he created multiple ones.

It was a chilly October day at the Káprázatos Racetrack, the cool autumn breeze carrying murmurs into one of the small private suites overlooking the turf. President Imre Pethes swirled a glass of wine as he looked over the horse race brochure for the rest of the day. He’d already watched - and lost some pocket change on - the Tempestuous Stakes and was anxiously awaiting the start of the day’s main event: the Káprázatos Cup. The suite’s door creaks open as Prime Minister Ilona Istvan lets herself into the room. Without looking up from the brochure, Imre comments, “You know, Ilona, you really should knock before you enter. It’s polite.”

“Loosen up, Mr. President. I knock when I need to.” She replied as she opened the suite’s bar and grabbed a beer. “You want a beer, or are you okay with whatever trust fund baby wine you’re drinking?”

Imre took a sip from his glass, “I’m fine with the wine, thank you. Whenever I let you choose what we drink, it always tastes like piss.” A knock at the door this time precedes the entry of the president’s wife, Laura Pethes. “Oh, Laura, welcome back. Thank you for knocking. I won’t say names, but somebody in this room doesn’t understand the manners of it.”

Laura laughs as she takes her seat next to Imre. “You’re always so stuck up, dear. I keep telling you to take it easy on these things, or you’re going to stress yourself out. You know Ilona is just fine when it comes to manners.”

“Yeah, Imre, relax. We need you around for the rest of your term, at least.” Ilona jokes, “Laura, do you want anything to drink?”

“I’ll have beer, I think.”

Ilona fetches another bottle and hands it to Laura. “Imre says my choice of drinks offends his refined palate, you know.” Ilona smiles as she teases her older friend.

Imre waves the jab off, “I said no such thing. I have no problems with cheap beer; you just always choose the ones that taste terrible.” He gets up and wanders over to the window of the suite. Wispy, gray clouds hang loftily over the verdant green turf of the track. The starting gate was being prepared for loading down below. “You know, Ilona, I never took you as the type to be interested in horse racing.”

Ilona shrugged as she and Laura walked over to join him at the window. “I just kind of fell into it. The bus route by my house stopped at the Metropolitan Racecourse. Fares were like ten Dinár, and entry was free. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a day if you were broke, is what I’m saying.” The prime minister spent a moment reminiscing on her childhood before throwing the question back at her colleague, “What got you into racing, Imre? I don’t think I ever asked.”

The president watched the crowd for a few beats before he answered her. Or perhaps his hearing really was starting to degrade, like his wife teased him about. “I grew up outside of Kiral, not too far from the Cicero Farm. My father did a lot of business with Victor Cicero at one point.”

“And my father used to manage the racecourse in Terület, back in the day. It’s funny how that all works out.” Laura chirps.

A trumpet’s call echoes through the grandstand as the announcer states over the broadcasting system, “The horses will now begin loading into the starting gate. We invite you to watch as they prepare.”

A procession of humans and horses emerges from around the grandstand. Ilona has to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the crowd’s cheers. “So, I take it, you’ve got money on Cicero Viridis then, Imre?”

Imre nods, “three-hundred and fifty Dinár. He’s already got wins at the Soma Gold Cup and the Autumn Stakes. I’ve got a better feeling about him than I’ve had about any Cicero horse since Cicero Fulmen back in 2008.”

His wife nudged him, “Fulmen lost this race back then, didn’t he?”

“He won the other two Crown Jewels.” Imre contests. “And two other G1s. And he was undefeated at 2,000 meters.” He points to one of the horses, a black stallion wearing green and bearing the number thirteen. “That horse has the blood of a champion in him!”

Ilona takes a look at the race brochure and raises an eyebrow. “You’re really betting on the horse in Post thirteen?”

“It’s not the best starting gate, but I have faith.”

“Your loss. Starting on the outside is bad enough, but thirteen is just unlucky.” Ilona quips. Imre grumbles something in response as the first horses begin loading into the starting gate. “I’ve got a hundred Dinár on Olivine Dream. His granddad was the first big win I ever had. I remember it like it was yesterday, the 2002 Metro Cup. Dream of Diamonds won it by four whole lengths. He was fourth favorite; I made like five thousand Dinár! I’ve been a Dream family supporter ever since.”

Imre watched as Olivine Dream, a brown horse in white and red bearing the number three loads into his gate. “He does have two G1 wins. It’s not a bad choice.”

Laura rolls her eyes as the two talk about their respective bets. “You’re both delusional. I’ve got a thousand Dinár riding on Winter Gale.” She points to a grey stallion pacing around behind the gates wearing white and black with the number five on his sides.

“A thousand? I thought we were being conservative with our bets this year, darling?” Imre laughs.

As if on cue, the announcer declares through the speakers, “Now loading in Gate Five, fresh off of a win in August’s Unicorn Stakes, the favorite to win: Winter Gale!” The crowd roars with cheers at the announcement.

“Winter Gale has five wins for six starts. He’s won two G1s, a G2, and a G3. He was named the best two year old colt in Hexastalia last year. He’s even got a good starting gate.” Laura lectured the two most powerful politicians in the country. “He and his jockey have raced here four times. His sire is Tempestuous, for Christ’s sake! The only horse to actually win the Triple Crown this century! If any horse is going to win, it will be Winter Gale.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Laura? Don’t you like an underdog story?” Ilona needles. “It’s no fun if the horse everyone expects to win does so.”

Imre chuckles to himself, “She doesn’t like fun, Ilona. She likes winning! You should see her when we argue… she’s always right.” He grunts slightly as his wife elbows him in the ribs.

Laura sighs, “Who else is there to vote on? I knew Ilona would be betting on a Dream family horse, and you would be betting on a Cicero! Avalonian hasn’t won a race higher than G3 since losing to Winter Gale at the Pegasus Stakes in May. Clad In Amber is in Gate One and has a history of getting blocked in. The rest of them aren’t much better.” She shrugs and pats her husband on the back, “It’s okay to admit you’re going to lose, dear.”

As the trio chat about their respective horses, the final last minute preparations for the race are completed. A hush falls over the arena as the race is about to begin. With a blare, the gates slam open and all of the horses break from their starting positions successfully. Clad In Amber’s start on the inside sees him quickly boxed in as the other racers try to crowd near the rail, as Laura has expected. Avalonian settles into a position near the front of the pack as Cicero Viridis finds a comfortable spot in the rear of the pack near the rail. Olivine Dream leads the race as he and his rider take an aggressive front-running position. Winter Gale takes his own preferred position, near the front on the outside of the pack.

Istvan throws her hands up in exasperation, “What the hell are they doing?” She groans, “Olivine Dream never runs in front like that! This is a disaster!”

“The race isn’t over until someone crosses the finish line, Ilona.” Imre states calmly. “And it is going to be Cicero Viridis.” Imre’s horse looks to be in a good position. He’s blocked from moving up by most of the other horses, but the jockey and horse have won from worse places.

The race proceeds with no major changes until the final corner. As the horses take their final turn, all of the racers attempt to position themselves best to cross the finish line first. Olivine Dream’s lead has been fading for much of the race and Avalonian briefly overtakes him to take the lead on the corner, to Ilona’s frustration. As the racers enter the final stretch, Cicero Viridis moves to the outside and accelerates with significant speed. He closes the distance to the front quickly. Olivine Dream picks up his own pace, regaining the lead by a thin margin.

As the first horses pass the two hundred meter mark, Winter Gale makes his move. Laura smiles as the horse hastens its pace. Cicero Viridis’ haste to make it to the front seems to have taken its toll, as he slightly falls behind Avalonian and Olivine Dream’s pace. Winter Gale finds a gap between Olivine Dream and the rail and surges forward; surpassing both leaders in the final meters of the race.

The result is clear: Winter Gale passes the finish line with a quarter-length between himself and the next runner. Avalonian takes second by a nose, followed closely by Olivine Dream in third. Trailing by a half-length is Cicero Viridis.

“God dammit!” Ilona moans. “I knew that running in the front like that was a bad idea.”

Imre hangs his head at his old neighbor’s racehorse. “Fourth. We were so darn close.”

Laura grins and claps her hands. “Oh, excellent! I told you two, Winter Gale always has it in him!” She goes back and sits on the suite’s couch. “That’s one jewel for his crown. Just two left to defend his sire’s legacy!”



OOC: the conversion rate between the Hexastalian Dinár and USD/IBU is roughly 6.75 Dinár per dollar.

Empire of South Ethia

5 miles outside of Lundberg

Very Early in the morning



“Lovely fuckin day” Thor Grundval muttered irritably

At 49 Thor was overweight, diabetic and measured the world in two states “pre” and “post coffee” the current situation was definitely the former and he was immensely put out by it. it was an ungodly hour to be up, he could already feel his feet beginning to swell in his boots and the only thing keeping him from going feral was the imminent return of his partner who had nipped across up road to the gas station, the only one for miles that is.

“Hey old timer! I’m back, I got you a black coffee and a bag of chips to keep your sugars up, I know how pissy you get when it drops” Otto said casually as he got out of the car

He was a slight man, complete opposite of Thor in fact, where the older officer was an ever-expanding mass of obesity and ill temper, the younger was skinny as a wick and always seemed oddly calm regardless of the situation. Thor wouldn’t admit it but he liked having Otto around, which made him feel like he wasn’t the only person with a brain policing the county.

“Your bloods worth bottling” Thor said sincerely, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile

Thor took the steaming cup of instant in one hand and the bag of Brecht’s* in the other, he eyed the packet with its off salmon colour and suppressed a grimace, Skandan prawn cocktail was possibly the worst flavor in Brecht’s entire range, this owing to the fact it was neither skandan and had about as much prawn in it as a New Bergum noble had moral fiber.

“I know! Save your breath, it was either the prawn or Nibbuk dill and I know how you feel about herbs” Otto said reading Thors mute and waving him off

“Too bloody right, did the dispatch actually explain why we had to come out to the arse crack of nowhere before the sun even bothered to rise?” Thor asked irritably

“Motor accident was all they said” Otto replied with a shrug

“Real specific” Thor muttered derisively

The red lights of the county ambulance at least heralded some sort of response, the paramedics at least might know what the hell was going on. Downing the vile instant coffee and passing the remaining crisps to Otto. He swore under his breath as he waddled over to the waiting ambulance, two paramedics waiting by the rear entry with a stretcher.

“Fair morning officer! Don’t suppose you have any idea what’s going on? Dispatcher just said motor accident, anonymous callout apparently” the older of the two paramedics asked

“Sounds like yours is as useless as ours, probably related, not a clue but I’m guessing that has something to do with it” Thor said pointing to a noticeably bent signpost, and a long scar of flattened grass.

The four emergency workers followed the trail from the maimed sign; something had been dragged across the ground at high speed and there was a distinct smell of petrol and ozone filling the air. It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for, an overturned motorcycle and a few meters down the track, what was left of the rider.

Thor’s flashlight hovered over the shattered bike; it had a distinct red colour scheme and the parts of the front that hadn’t been smashed resembled the head of a roaring lion. The handles were a ruin of twisted metal and much of the bodywork had broken off scattering chunks of plastic and metal across the stricken field. Thor sighed and took out his notepad, not to take notes of course but to add an item to his shopping list.

“Buy milk” he scribbled before turning to Otto with a self-satisfied look on his bloated features

“it’s an M’beki 2000” Thor said shit eating grin still fixed in place

“A what?” Otto asked incredulously

“A very expensive Astragonese motorbike that only bastards with money own “Thor explained

“How do you know so much about motorbikes?” Otto asked

“Wasn’t always a fat bastard Otto, now come on let’s go see if theres anything left of our victim to identify” Thor said before moving on to the corpse

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Otto vomited a stream of half-digested cereal as he hunched doubled over in the long grass, the Paramedics only frowned as they waited for Thor to give them all clear to move the body.

“Kristur! His brains were in his bloody helmet!” Otto hissed as he tried to compose himself after the gruesome sight

“Doubt they were much more use when they were in his head” Thor replied laconically as he walked over to the body

Whoever the poor sod had been he was distinctly less intact now, the skid had torn through clothing and flesh with relative ease, a ruined mass of destroyed denim and ravaged skin was all that was left. It looked like someone had put a man through a cheese grater, only without the fun payoff at the end.

“Well, lets see if he had some ID” Thor said snapping on his gloves and reaching into the corpses pocket

A thick wallet soon emerged, Thor opened it and noted its contents, a small fortune in Ethian marks, a couple of cards from clubs too exciting to be anywhere near Lundberg and a faded drivers license with the name “Werner Dalgaard” the photo might as well have been an embryo, typical young’un, a scrappy collection of fluff that Werner was passing off as a beard and a haircut that suggested his mother might still be doing it. Thor frowned and passed the ID to Otto.

“Oh shit, you’re joking right “Otto said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t a pleasant surprise

“You recognize this fella?” Thor asked

“it’s Oleg Dalgaard’s boy” Otto replied not needing to elaborate any further

“THE Oleg Dalgaard, fucker owns half the business in Lundberg, shit!” Thor cursed as the penny dropped

The south coast of Ethia was a melting pot, Lundberg and other towns like it were hotspots for migration back in the old days, whalers came from every corner of Nordika* to ply their trade, most settled and formed the communities that now made up the region. Thors own family had come from Yalkan chasing crabs, evidently, they had liked it so much they had stayed and forgotten all about the nippers.

Andrennian’s were not much different from any of the immigrants that had come to South Ethia, most were hardworking, usually courantist and kept to themselves in tightly knit communities. The Dalgaards didn’t represent that section of the community, they were ambitious, financially astute and utterly ruthless. They had been building a power base in Lundberg for decades, getting rich off of canneries and if you believed the rumors, less savory business avenues.

“The Dalgaards are drennies” Thor said grimly

It was people like the Dalgaards that had caused Andrennians to become associated with gangsters and crime. While the popular culture was likely being very unfair to the majority of Andrennians, in the Dalgaards case it might actually be true. Thor sighed and passed the wallet to Otto who bagged it for evidence. When Oleg found out his boy had met an ugly end the fallout would be dramatic and likely very messy, Thor winced as he imagined the song and dance the old bastard would enact. He sighed and scribbled another note on his shopping list “Whisky”, it was going to be a long day.

“Check under the fuel tank” Thor said to Otto

“Why don’t you bloody check!” Otto protested

“Because I’m fucking tired, just do it, I’ve got a hunch” Thor snapped back

Otto said something in Hessun that Thor decided not to repeat, the younger officer bent down and began careful feeling around the overturned bike. Moments later Otto rose from his prone position holding a thick plastic package that had been carefully secured to the fuel tank with a cocoon of duct tape.

“Messiah, this must be a whole kilo of Sainameese black tar! Looks like our Werner was up to no good, think he was killed for this?” Otto asked staring at the package like it was the holy grail

“Don’t be dramatic, he was killed because he was speeding down a country road with knackered breaks and a faulty clutch, probably didn’t service this thing too” Thor said pointing to the maimed bike

The Dalgaard had been able to afford nice things, but he clearly hadn’t taken much effort to maintain them, Thor knew worn break pads and a broken clutch when he saw them. The young master had bought the biggest bike on the market but known nothing about maintaining it, that mistake had inevitably cost him his life, there was nothing ulterior about this, just a dumb rich kid driving too fast.

“You figured all that out just from a five second glance!?” Otto asked in a doubtful voice

“Like I said I wasn’t always a fat bastard, trust me, the crime scene report will come back with that as the cause, seen this shit before” Thor said waving away Otto’s concerns

“he’s still up to his eyeballs in dodgy” Otto protested, clearly desperate for this to be more then it was

“A, He’s Andrennian and B, hes a Dalgaard, suspect his was born up to his eyeballs in dodgy” Thor said with dismissive a roll of his eyes

“So what now?” Otto asked

“Now? Now we let the paramedics do their jobs and i head home to catch up on my bloody sleep” Thor said with a shrug

Otto seemed almost dejected at that, the young ones always did seem to struggle with the simple realities of policing in a small town, excitement was rare and tedium was routine. Thor for his part was not looking forward to the drama that was going to ensue once the news broke, he only hoped he was back in bed before the shit hit the proverbial fan. He made another note “Cat food” in big blocky letters, it was going to be an expensive grocery run at this rate.

“Right fella’s you can move him, nothing else to see here, just another rich prick driving too fast on a country lane” Thor said finally allowing the Paramedics access to the body

The Paramedics nodded and set about collecting their grisly prize, Thor nodded to otto and turned, he swore again as his feet screamed out in protest, he needed to lose weight, he’d been telling himself he would for the better part of his life, now the matter was beginning to get more pressing, age was catching up fast.

“Lovely fuckin day” he muttered as he returned to the car and slumped in the seat with a sigh of relief.

*Popular crisps brand in South Ethia, flavours include popular additions: Ethian Sea Salt, Scalvian ribs, Sainameese sweet and sour and Prydanian lobster.

*A term describing the Nordic family of nations that exists in the far north of Eras.