(Joint post with Cowlass the self-acclaimed greatest)
The car ride from the airport to the temple was just as silent as the plane ride was. Not that the Director minds it, though he wished his ‘assistant’ would stop fidgeting. He hasn’t spoken a word to her, yet she acts like he’s going to strangle her in the car. He was wearing his traditional uniform of the NIB, which means all black suit with a black leather coat. Same leather coat he wore last time was in Packilvania, making this coat quite literally older than everyone in this car besides him. He has his somewhat infamous black peaked cap with the metal of the Nystatiszna Intelligence Bureau symbol on it. Of course he was dressed far too warmly for the country’s weather then again, he is always too cold or too hot nowadays.
His eyes glazed outside of the window, looking at Bingol remembering the last times he was here. Seeing how things have changed, how many people are around and what they are wearing. Questions being answered in his own checklist of numerous things to observe. For some demented reason his assistant spoke up, speaking in Vaaran tongue the trio all shared it as their lingua franca. “D-do you want me to request the driver to turn down the AC more Mr. Director Dotseth?”
“Director Dotseth or Mr Dotseth.” He responded in a flat tone to the cowering kemonomimi. Did he threaten her family at some point? Thinking for a moment, he almost certainly did at some point. “You may request the AC to be lower. If that is tolerable for our Kæra associate.”
Ryz’alf simply nodded, the Kæra diplomat barely taking her eyes off the Packilvanian phrasebook she had been trying to make sense of. It was difficult enough going from one language to another when the former wasn’t your third language, but she was never one to complain. “The temperature likely does not go as far as any of us would like, but we are content to follow your preference, Dotseth-Tsøka.” She was still in the uniform of the Øfesak, though had found it far too uncomfortable to keep the usual Koivistolainen on in such heat. The uniform was dressed for Northeastern Borea, after all, and the idea of purchasing new clothes for such a seemingly-frivolous occasion seemed entirely wasteful.
His annoying assistant tapped on the driver’s window, speaking quietly in poor Packilvanian. Much to the annoyance of Dotseth, who corrected her pronunciation instead of allowing her to continue butchering it. The AC was lowered, though the change wasn’t really affecting the car’s temperature. It was still far too warm in there.
His assistant spoke up once again, for some odd reason trying to have a conversation. “It’s been awhile Ryz’alf. How have you been?” She said in that annoying soft tone of hers. Could she not at least pretend to have a spine when she speaks?
“All is in order, as ever, Slovkry-Øfesak,” Ryz’alf responded in the usual flat tone that had become expected of her, “We are glad to have been done with the fuss over Toryne’yn. For now.” She flipped through the phrasebook, though seemed to take more interest in what the Nekomimi had to say than the usual standards for Kæra, “Slightly annoyed that we were told to represent our nation at this… what did they describe it as on television? Right, funeral with cake. Whatever a funeral is.”
Slovkry gave a pout, “It’s a wedding Ryz’alf, remember? Still haven’t forgiven you for smashing the cake with a knife by the way.”
The director thought about simply asking the car to pull over and walk the rest of the way to the temple rather than listen to this high-school drama. Though he held himself off from that, speaking up. “It is a wedding, think of it as a union between two people to combine their power and produce offspring to continue their lineage. Coronation is the transfer of power from the previous leader to the new one, this one being Thumim V.”
“We know what a wedding was, we stabbed a cake during one-” Ryz’alf replied, blankly as she remembered being handed a knife by someone who should have frankly known better.
“You didn’t stab it, you murdered it.” Slovkry stared at Ryz’alf, “My wife and I spent a lot of time on it for you to just smash apart.”
“We used the knife you gave us, what did you expect us to do with it?” Ryz’alf replied, annoyed at the notion that it was somehow her fault that the giant structure of food that was constructed in some testament to personal hubris amongst people who seemed to die out in droves from starvation every other week, was intended not to be put in a more efficient form to disperse, “Besides, our point was, before we were interrupted, that weddings are given much more purpose than necessary. The two should just fornicate and be done with it. At least then they would actually be doing something productive.”
“You forget the second and third purpose of the wedding. It is an ability to gather various influential people under the guise of the event to negotiate terms, treaties and such. Third reason, to project an image of wealth and stability within the country as well without the country. Doing so under the guise of a wedding lends to having an idea of a ‘new’ regime which is open to new deals while trying to disguise the old regime policies.” Dotseth spoke with a flat tone, still looking outside of the window. “It is a dressed up diplomatic meeting that happens to serve cake.” He thinks for a moment, wondering if the Packilvanian has a vegan menu.
“Right. We are sure we will have great chances to experience the Pak’sa ability to engage in diplomacy from our storied history of well-wishes between the two states,” Ryz’alf noted bitterly the most she heard of Packilvania more so focused on its complicity in the Great War and its violation of sovereignty that her superiors had been goaded into caring about. It was not the diplomacy she held disdain for, however. It was the dressing up and formalities, the lavish displays of vapid wealth and opulent lifestyles while the Packilvanian people were made to suffer greatly for their society’s lunacy. Such a waste was abhorrent, and yet here she was, dragged along and expected to make nice with the enemy.
“Weddings are always a nice thing to see. You think because Nystatiszna are allies to Packilvaniszna we will get good seats?” Slovkry tilted her head and asked the old Zrei elf.
“First, there are no allies, only temporary benefactors. Second, do mention their Nys’tat’en name to them. They have an ego problem, and they will take offense to it.” Dotseth gave Slovkry a strong look which made her turn head away from him. “You are not to speak to them unless I give you permission too.” The kemonomimi gave a nod, not wanting to accidentally offend anyone at the party.
“Probably for the best, we imagine,” Ryz’alf added. Slovkry had a tendency to be rather… emotional about certain things that could cloud her judgment, and her odd quirks were not universally endearing, besides what that- Besides what Torstein had expressed. There was of a part of her that would have usually objected to such cold remarks towards her friend, but she had found Slovkry to have gotten more on her nerves than usual today, “The idea of allies beyond those which share strategic goals is one of those liberal concepts we struggle to grasp the benefit of.”
“There is no benefit besides strategic goals.” Dotseth agreed, “Every nation is a selfish actor and could care less about ideals when an opportunity shows itself.”
Slovkry fixed her tie again, looking outside of the window. “I can see the temple, it’s huge! You could fit like ten thousand beds in there.” Her eyes widened looking at it.
“Fifteen thousand if you were to stack them efficiently enough. There would likely be some issue with transporting the people to their assigned beds, but it would be workable on a rotor system.” Ryz’alf noted, making some vague estimations of how one might lay out such a place in such a fashion, “At least in that case, the structure may actually see some function.” Ryz’alf leered at the temple, a huge monument for people with nothing better to do in their lives that worship what would not save them. There was something to be said of those who could use faith as a motivator, but this absolute decadent pile of missed potential was faith at its worst. At least the Cardinials do not try and construct massive, pointless mounds of metal, wood and clay to signify their absolutely mindless stupidity. Imagining the work hours put in, the money spent and the amount that could have been produced with those materials made Ryz’alf a little sick. What use is a show of appreciation to some fiction to a man who dies out alone in the cold without a bed to sleep on?
Dotseth thinks back to some of his old plans and schemes, thinking out loud in a somewhat low tone but still enough for the two to hear. “Five trucks minimum, fully loaded with fertilizer though it would get stopped at some point. Two planes could do the same job though that raises the concern of air control. Simple dirty bomb can do the same job of terror without the risk and planning required to destroy it completely as well as keep the target around for future attacks.” He looks towards the temple, “Then again, if you only take out the center building, it would do enough structure damage to the other buildings built around it to force them to rebuild all together which can do a similar enough job.”
There was a soft, almost inaudible chuckle from Ryz’alf - one of the very few times in her life she had been heard to do so. She seemed to be taking notes on the strategies mentioned, for her amusement if nothing else, “We certainly would imagine the damage to the overall structure caused by a blast directed correctly within the central building would be sight to behold. It somewhat reminds us of watching the man who produced us test different shells on one of the former Ry’uk settlements that had been cleared in the 1870s. We would try and see if we could find the load-bearing targets and point them out for him. That was one of the things I taught some of the older trainees when we were in the Auxiliary Corps.” Ryz’alf had a strong twisted sentimentality towards such affairs in her past, the time spent in the Young Men’s Auxiliary Corps having done much to shape her views of how the world functioned - and the incredible sight it was to see such things fall apart in flames.
“You don’t want to hit it with artillery, unless you are certain you can fire multiple rounds. If you look at the roofing, it’s metal. It is not completely blast resistant but it wouldn’t be as seeable, which would be the primary objective. You want to blow it up from the inside preferably by the support pillars and structure support beams to maximize the destruction of it. The goal is to spread terror and fear, while making it costly to repair. A roof could easily be replaced but blowing the structural support would prove to be a challenge to scavenge the rest of the building to rebuild. So you’re able to increase the amount of damage and cost without risking establishing a position. Not to mention the decreased risk of having only a small team and locally sourced materials compared to smuggling in the needed pieces and specialized team for it.” Dotseth didn’t even flinch when he spoke, not thinking twice about destroying a structure of such importance. “Though of course it comes with its own risks, but it’s more cost effective than other options.”
Slovkry speaks up “Perhaps this is a bad topic…” She says in a low, quiet tone, looking towards Ryz’alf, who simply stared daggers back as if to tell her to be quiet.
“Absolutely, the use of covert operations to lay out the proper mechanisms for detonation would be the optimal method, and the size of this city assures access to a wide array of potential options for anything from chemical reactants to more exciting unstable, rudimentary explosives. Obviously it would strike a fair bit more fear and panic should the building be occupied during the detonation - granting both the possibility for the creation of vacancies in key positions, as well as creating further mass panic amongst the general populace. Of course, such a matter was heavily risk-reward, with events such as these the prime opportunity for disruption yet the time in which security would be most observant.” As much as she seemed to share the same absence of bother by the topic, Ryz’alf took it one further, a glint of excitement in her eyes as she thought of the whole interaction between detonation and the post-collapse paranoia.
Dotseth gave a nod, “The city layout is ridiculous in terms of security. It’s why I made sure cities in Nystatiszna were easily isolatable block by block.” The car finally arrived at the temple, he gave a simple look at Slovkry as the car parked.
Slovkry stepped out first to help the elderly Zrei elf out of the car. The hot sun barraging him with heat, he put on his hat and leaned heavily on his cane. Looking at the stairs, he cursed silently in Nys’tat’en. Slovkry placed her arm around his to help carry weight as they moved forward.
Ryz’alf took a deep breath as she stepped out into the scorching heat, placing the unsuited felt hat back upon her head to at least shield her eyes from the sun. There was a slight look of disappointment on her face as she watched the infamous Dotseth reduced to such a state, relying on a Nekomimi of all things. Perhaps this was what it was to only be a strong leader by Nystatinne standards, perhaps it was just the age catching up to him after a storied life. Either way it felt a bit pathetic for someone of his reputation. He had surely overcome greater comparative hurdles in his life than some good-for-nothing steps - and yet they had not made him look so inferior.
Ryz’alf kept her thoughts to herself as she walked past them up to the top of the stairs, the leather-footed boots of her uniform making their iconic noise to make her presence known. She did this not only out of the respect she did maintain for an elf who was known to have kept order over the loose-minded people of Nystatiszna for an extended period, but mostly out of her obligation. She knew it was unlikely she would get any interesting conversation from this lackadaisical farce, so it was at least worth keeping on Dotseth’s good side for the drive back.
As she reached the top of the steps, Ryz’alf glanced back at Dotseth and her friend supporting him. It was a shame really, he had lived long enough that the concern for her was not that he might have her executed, but she might not get to hear the old man tell stories of when he was able to intimidate people such as Ryz’alf.
Dotseth didn’t even notice Ryz’alf walking past him. His age forces him to focus on the damned steps. He is 133 years old, in a country where life expectancy is only 80 for elves and that would be ignoring the fact most Zrei elves only live to an average of 110 years. Death has forgotten his number but age sure as hell didn’t forget about him. He struggles with each step, by the spirits whoever made this temple should be shot. If he was younger, and had the time, he probably would have. It didn’t help that his ‘assistant’ was being incredibly annoying and condescending with her little “Okay, up one, two, three.” At each of these accursed steps.
Finally reaching the top of the stairs, he gave a heavy sigh. Making a motion with his hand to get inside and find him a damned seat.
