Boguila wrote:
Gen’l Colley:
I thank you for your communication. I have forwarded the proposed treaty to the Foreign Ministry, where it will be given careful consideration.
Yours sincerely,
Admiral Marin Sergeev
Commander, Task Group Akhron
***
Colonel Rafail Lukic, commanding the 2nd, stepped from the helicopter onto the quayside. Built like a stout barrel, he barely needed to duck as he rushed under the rotor wash. Clear of it, he advanced towards Sobol with an outstretched hand and a broad grin.
“Welcome to Boguila,” Sobol said, taking the Marine’s hand.
“Welcome to the sh*tshow, more like it,” he said, smiling through a drooping gray mustache. “You see what they did to that old bat? Daramy? Better watch your ass, or you’ll be next – but who could tell anyway, eh?” he laughed. Turning to the Imperian, he extended a hand. “Colonel Rafail Lukic, 2nd Amphibious Motor Rifle.”
As the day progressed, Imperial forces worked with their Imperian counterparts to establish their own bases and staging grounds within the port, grateful for their support and the hot food – adding at least some variety to their unchanging diet aboard ship. Sure that their landing zone was secure, the Imperial LSTs and cargo vessels were worked into their berths, and the process of unloading heavy equipment and supplies began. With the help of the gantries, shipping containers were piled on the quayside. Over the day, many of these were broken open and unloaded, though notably a few were merely moved and left unopened at various points throughout the port.
Within the course of the day, the Imperial marines and engineers worked to deploy their anti-air systems, considered the most critical part of the new joint base’s defenses, as well as a number of radar-emitting decoy systems in the vicinity of the base.
***
Awesome Imperium wrote:
Our honored Sister,
We receive your last communication with pleasure. We are eminently thankful for the assistance offered to our forces in Boguila by your own, and are grateful to find that we are of one mind with you as regards the interests of the Boguilan people.
It would be our honor and our pleasure to attend you in Constantinople, and to formalize the state of friendship and cooperation that exists between our nations. Our Ministry of Foreign Affairs will begin preparations for our visit presently, and we look forward to it with pleasant anticipation.
We offer our prayers for your continued health and prosperity.
Your brother,
Alexei, Emperor and Autocrat of the Generians
***
Royal Genes wrote:
The Avenue of the Saints that traced its long, lazy ‘S’ along the banks of the Arkhangel was entirely empty, cleared of the traffic, the vendors, and the ambling crowds of pedestrians that all would have been typical on a summer evening in Sofia. For the passengers en route from the airport in their limousines and SUVs, nothing but tinted windows would have obstructed a fine view of the sun sinking behind the soaring dome of the Cathedral of Saint Michael, 200 meters above them on the far side of the river, tendrils of cloud brilliant red and orange behind it as if painted by hand.
A few moments later, with the turning of the convoy onto the Pilgrim Road, the closeness of the Old City would have obstructed all view of the sky – here, ancient buildings sinking towards one another over many centuries created an artificial twilight even at noon. Here and there, this was pierced by the flashing blue lights of Gendarmerie vehicles, as this path too had been emptied of traffic.
But the claustrophobia of the Old City was broken as soon as they passed over the Rov, the wide moat cut centuries ago by thousands of hands around the Kapitol hill. Here, the White Citadel stood, its medieval walls here and there a creamy orange, and elsewhere already pale silver in the twilight. Equally, as soon as the convoy drew past the medieval fortifications through the West Gate, the chaos of the alleyways of the Old City was replaced by perfect order: their path cut through an enormous open square, lined by the soaring facade of the House of the Boyars on one side and the domed Chapel of Saint Tadros the Evangelist on the other.
Passing both – and through a pair of iron gates held open by an equal number of Imperial Guards in their varicolored uniforms – the convoy drew to a halt at the far end of an arcaded plaza. Before them stood the three arches that were the entrance to the White Palace itself, all standing open now in the gathering dusk.
As the cars came to a halt, Georgy Zakharov took a moment to adjust his coat – the sable shuba was like a sauna in the summer humidity, but it would not do to forego it on the occasion of a visit by an eminent dignitary like the duch*ess of Cumberland. Lifting the hem of the shuba, he made his way down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he nearly wished he had waited at the top – he found himself glancing upwards into the face of a very tall woman.
“Your Grace, the Empire welcomes you.” Leading his guest up the stairs, he continued: “You will forgive me if we proceed directly to His Imperial Majesty. Given the state of things, he wished to honor your request for an audience immediately, despite the lateness of the hour.”
Zakharov led the duch*ess and the coterie of translators and aids that accompanied any diplomatic mission through the foyer of the Palace, beneath an arch that passed under a winding double staircase, and through a smaller, tiled room where the Gold Throne itself stood on a pedestal. This was empty now, and the party turned left. A pair of gold doors were opened, and they passed into a small, low-ceilinged hall. This was lined by squat columns, each covered in the handpainted icons of Saints and the faces of past Emperors. The ceiling, likewise, was constructed entirely of handpainted wood panels, most very old and bearing the icons of the long dead.
Under their eyes, the Emperor sat in a straight-backed wooden chair. He wore a plain kaftan of very deep blue, one of his favorites, and a few strands of graying black hair peaked from beneath the skullcap and diadem that were the marks of his offices as both Emperor and Head of the Church.
He rose as Zakharov and the Genoise entered. Zakharov winced – it would have been appropriate for the Emperor to remain seated to receive a foreign embassy, but he was an energetic man and uncomfortable at rest. It was just as difficult for him to repress his affable nature and his curiosity, and he greeted his guests with a smile.
“Health to you, your Grace. You are very welcome in Generia. Please, join us.”
A tiny Shooban servant produced a chair for the duch*ess, and the Emperor waited for her to take his seat before resuming his own, crossing his leg, and studying the very tall woman with interest. He had been told that she was one of the famous giants, and was not disappointed. “You are very welcome,” he repeated. “What has brought you to Generia?”
