The Crowning Moment

[The_Oan_Isles]

Temple of the Authority, Bingol, Packilvania.
23 January 2023.

“Prince Lohadek is proving to be quite impressive”, Thumim said as he spoke to Prince Luwadeen.

“He might just get your job”, Thumim said with a laugh, demonstrating that he meant what he said in jest.

Prince Luwadeen adjusted his spectacles and said, “Perhaps, that might not be a bad idea”.

“What do you mean?” Thumim asked.

“I mean, he’s younger and quite dextrous in his geopolitical and strategic genius”, Prince Luwadeen said. “He’s proven valuable many times before. But, his ambition is getting to his head. Doing this during your wedding? If it had backfired, it would have been a complete embarrassment”.

“You are right”, Thumim said. “At the end of the day, it is more important for ministers to communicate these kinds of things given the context. I want to avoid having Ministers make their departments fiefdoms over which the Crown loses its power of oversight”.

“I agree with you on that front”, Prince Luwadeen replied, “The new governors are barely finding their feet. Even out of office, your uncles are not to be underestimated. And neither is your brother”.

“If I am to be sincere, I do not think that Prince Abuyin has as voracious an appetite for the Throne as it might seem. I think these ideas are being implanted in his head by the governors and it certainly hasn’t helped that he always premused that he would be my heir”, Thumim said.

“You and everyone else gave him that impression”, Prince Luwadeen stated. “Be ready for the fight, sir. Once your coronation is over, it will be back to the court case he has not dropped yet”.

“Oh, yes, how unfortunate that you remind me”, Thumim grunted, “I should rather we resolve things with a duel like gentlemen rather than parley with rotund legal jargon embarrassing ourselves in court”.

“Unfortunately, trial by combat is not legal, sir”, Prince Luwadeen replied, enjoying the banter with his friend.

“I should pass a law”, Thumim joked.

“Sir!” Prince Luwadeen stated, “The world might call us medieval, but we’re not THAT medieval”.

“Despise that word almost as much as I dislike democracy”, Thumim said.

“Or protest”, Prince Luwadeen quipped.

“I don’t know how these Democratic leaders do it!” Thumim said, “It’s an appalling notion. People marching in the streets with signs, and chanting for the overthrow of the state. Why can they not resolve their disputes with the state through calm discussion and via appropriate channels?”

“Exactly! Spot on sir”, Prince Luwadeen stated, "At least our government has public consultations, opens public submissions for comment on new laws and policies, and we have a lotterial system for the selection of representatives to provincial legislatures AND a broad spectrum of stakeholders are represented in the Consultative Assembly! "

“These foreigners act as though our government is led solely by the elite”, Thumim declared, “But at least we create opportunities for ordinary people to get involved in a calm and orderly fashion in our political processes at a level of government that most citizens in Democratic nations would not even dream of”.

“Indeed, Sir”, Prince Luwadeen said, “It is disheartening to see how chaotic these foreign nations are, how unstable their governments are, how fickle and mercurial their values and ideals, how brainwashed and misinformed their populations are and how morally decayed their social fabrics are”.

“Exactly!” Thumim proclaimed, “And yet they have the temerity to call us comically evil! They allow people to blaspheme and commit all sorts of heinous acts in the name of freedom! What greater freedom exists than to be comforted in the knowledge that you are going to the Hive? That no matter what you endure in this life, you have abided by the laws of the Hive and that Noi has judged you fit to join the swarm in her Hivemind”.

“Were I given the opportunity to shed this earthly form, in exchange for becoming one with the Noi’s Hivemind, I would do it in a heartbeat”, Prince Luwadeen proclaimed.

“Indeed! People forget that we are trapped in these urthly vessels. Our souls are as good as wondering and lonely ghosts in these fleshly forms. In the time we are shackled to these prisons, we must meditate on the word night and day, and obey the commandments of the Most Beneficent”, Thumim stated.

“Exactly! What use is a government that allows its people to wonder astray when the day of ruin is at hand”, Prince Luwadeen said. “No one wants to perish having lived a life unworthy of assimilation”.

“Indeed! Assimilate! Assimilate! Assimilate!” Thumim proclaimed, “What higher purpose do we have? What great function does the rule of the Bedonite dynasty have”.

“I agree, sir. We must all Assimilate”.

[Acronis]

Vana Dandreal had certainly not been looking forward to spending an evening sitting next to the Anti-Akronist-in-Chief of the country she had just seceded from, but from the very moment she had first laid eyes on Zaram Nuvo Šolosar, she had immediately been overcome with an emotion she never would have expected:

Pity.

The King Emeritus of Tavaris was obviously in a great deal of physical pain. He had a white-knuckle grip on his cane—a cane she had never seen use before—and he hobbled slowly and awkwardly as they made their way to the table. On more than one occasion he simply stopped walking, silently gritting his teeth until he could make his way forward again. It was as if he had aged ten years since she had last seen him less than one year prior. This was a man who was once renowned as one of the best wrestlers in the country. For him to agree to be seen in public with such a symbol of weakness and infirmity as a cane surely required a great deal of convincing, or a great deal of pain. Probably both.

When she had agreed to take this trip, she had done it for one reason and one reason only: to be seen by the Akronists of Packilvania as being supportive of their Sultan. Packilvania had more Akronists than any other country on Urth, and she was painfully aware of the massive rift between Akronists in Packilvania and Akronists elsewhere, a rift that was only growing wider. While the People’s Communion of Acronis was not constitutionally a socialist state, she had clearly, fully embraced theo-socialism as the governing policy of the young country. Precisely one seat shy of two thirds of the elected Synod was held by the Acronian Communist Party. And while, of course, Packilvania was a country of rich diversity, the political climate made one thing absolutely certain: Communism was not welcome. And that made following Akronism a significant risk.

In truth, even despite her visit, even despite anything else she could do, Vana knew that the Church of Akrona’s Province of Packilvania would almost certainly break away before the end of her time on Urth. In fact, it was fairly likely it would break away this very year. The fact that not one of the Packilvanian High Priestesses would agree to come with her to the wedding and coronation was plain evidence of that.

Akronism had long been highly restricted in Packilvania, of course, and the fact that this insulated Packilvanian Akronists from changes that took place across Akronism in the rest of the world was probably a feature, not a bug, of the Sultans’ designs. It had always been something of a miracle that there were so many Akronists in Packilvania at all, at least under the current regime. Efforts to spread the faith through conversion were strictly, strictly forbidden, the activities of Crystal Hoteliers International were quite restricted, and Akronism was essentially allowed only in one province. But it was true that the Sultans had permitted Akronism to remain, and the community was growing, thanks to births among the Akronist community, and the Church had always been appreciative of such.

In a perfect world, some time over the course of the festivities, Vana could speak with the Sultan and hash out some sort of understanding about the future of Akronism in his country, but she didn’t expect to be considered important enough to do so. Failing that, she hoped that being seen here, dressed in the Packilvanian manner, celebrating and paying respect to the Sultan as Packilvanians did, that she would be able to convince the Packilvanians to accept an offer of their church being granted independence and communion with the Church of Akrona as an administratively separate Akronist Church of Packilvania.

Of course, her still-too-recent excommunication of the Church of Metradan had jeopardized that effort as well. Negotiations with the Metradani had stalled primarily because they were unwilling to submit to Church requests for greater oversight over their finances—they were disinclined to “let Communists control their money” as one High Priestess had put it. And however inaccurate that statement was, if even one single Packilvanian High Priestesses had heard it, which was almost certain, then her offer would surely face equal, if not stronger, opposition here.

All she had wanted was a country where she was certain that Akronists could feel at home, could feel was theirs, could provide them safety and the uncompromisable right to worship according to their faith. And she had gotten it—at a price far, far steeper than she had wanted to pay. She haid paid not only with blood, not only with terror, but, it seemed, with the souls of Akronists in all the other countries that weren’t the one she had just created. She had gained Acronis and lost Metradan, and she was losing Packilvania.

It was her fault. It was the price that she, personally, had to pay for the sins she had committed. And despite how futile it was, despite how frustrating and humiliating it would be, part of the price she had to pay was putting her neck out on the line to try and salvage the Church she had shattered. “YOURS IS THE BURDEN,” The Goddess had spoken to her in that terrible, wonderful dream in the midst of the secession crisis. “YOURS IS THE MANDATE. YOURS IS THE BLAME.”

“THE REST OF YOUR LIFE MUST BE FOR MY CHILDREN,” The Benefactress had said. And so it would be. Even if it meant being next to a dying orc in a purple turban for two days. That, surely, was the least of the prices she had to pay.

A waiter sat a glass of rose next to her hand and the Matron wasted no time taking a deep drink. The King had ordered a Ranat on the Rocks, which she had to admit was a favorite of hers as well when the times called for straight liquor. In fact, they probably did.

“How is the rum?” The Matron asked idly.

The King Emeritus swirled it in his class and sniffed it as if it were a fine wine. “Not Tavari,” he said finally, but he took a sip anyway. “Hm. Tastes like the… stuff the Akuanists make.”

Vana let out a single, loud, sardonic chuckle. “That bad?”

Zaram arched an eyebrow and looked at the Matron for a moment. “I didn’t take you for a connoisseur of rum,” he said quietly.

“You know, I was born and raised in Tavaris just the same as you were, Your Majesty,” said the Matron. “Akronists like to drink just as much as traditio- as Avatidari do.”

The King Emeritus did not speak again for a few moments, and Vana had to restrain herself from making a face that betrayed the pity in her heart. That would only make him more unpleasant. But he appeared thoughtful, not pained, and it took a moment for Vana to realize that he might actually simply be impressed that she had called him ‘Your Majesty’ and used the proper term for a follower of the Tavat Avati, the Tavari word Avatidar.

“You know, Your Majesty, I do want to say… I appreciated and respected a great deal your decision to step down. I think it was the right thing to do, and most importantly, you owned up to it when you said that your actions had caused you to lose the right to serve as the symbol of the Tavari people. And I want to say that… I never expected, I certainly never asked, for you to be banished as it seems you have been.” Vana picked her words carefully as she spoke, but she meant every single one of them. As the head of state, she could no longer act with such disdain as she had. 45% of her people were Avatidari, and she depended on their support as well as the support of the other countries in the Tavari Union for Acronis to continue to exist. Acronis was far too fragile to support internal conflict or external sanctions. She owed the Avatidari, at the very least, genuine outreach. And she could begin in the here and now.

“Thank you,” was all the King Emeritus seemed to be able to manage.

“Did you know, Your Majesty-”

“Highness,” said Zaram. “You should say Highness.” He paused. “I’m not… you know.”

“May I call you Zaram?”

That seemed to take the King Emeritus by surprise, but at the very least the surprise seemed to force away his pain for a moment. His face almost came close to what on another person’s face might be called “lighting up.”

“I suppose,” he said.

Vana offered a smile. “Did you know that I wrote a letter to you once? I only ever got a pre-written form letter in response, I was just a lowly priestess at that time, so I wouldn’t blame you if you never even saw it. But it was after your wife had passed. I, and really quite a large number of Akronists, were all very impressed with your completion of the 144-day rite of purification, and I had wanted to tell you how… touching it was, really, to see you do such a thing in honor of your wife. And I talked a bit about how Akronism has retained that ritual, so it’s something that we share.”

The Rite of Purification was considered by most Akronists to be among the most difficult rituals in the faith. For Akronists, it was only ever used in the most extreme cases where a devout Akronist had, for some reason, caused another living person to die. It was most often performed by Akronist members of the Armed Forces, or by Akronists convicted of murder. In the Akronist tradition, it entailed leaving one’s home for 144 consecutive days, not speaking to anyone except strangers, clergy, or Akrona, and reflecting on the loss they had inflicted upon the family of the victim and the world at large. Often, except in the most extreme cases, those performing the ritual were granted absolution by 72 days or even earlier after demonstrating a concerted effort to complete it.

But the Avatidari tradition was much more extreme, and in fact, then-Prince Zaram was the only person known to have completed it in the 20th century. Zaram had spoken to no one—not a single word—and had remained secluded for the entire 144-day period. The Tavat Avati called for a 144-day period of seclusion only in “circumstances most grave and dire,” which it did not define. No monarch or prince before Zaram had ever seen fit to perform the ritual, and Zaram had never explained his reasoning for doing so. It was presumed, however, that he had done so out of some belief that his wife’s death in childbirth was his fault, perhaps for not being devout enough. When Vana had first heard that the Prince had decided to undertake the ritual, she had cried. Most of Tavaris had, in fact. Tavaris had lost many princesses and many queens before their time, but never had it seen a heart as broken as Crown Prince Zaram’s, and the hearts of the entire country had broken with his.

“No,” said the King Emeritus, his face lingering on that expression that was almost happy. “I didn’t know that. Either of those. I didn’t know you retained any Tavat Avati rituals.”

Vana nodded with a smile. “Yes, we do. Akronist soldiers perform the rite when they have to kill in combat, though we allow them to speak to priestesses and usually grant a reprieve at 72 days. And now, with the recent revelations from the Danvreas, we can be relatively certain that the Tavari tradition dates to the time when we were Danvreans, themselves exiled for reasons of purity. Akronists carry with them this tradition that the very first Tavari carried down the mountains and across the Sunrise Sea.” She paused. “In the end, it was quite easy for Acronis to join the Tavari Union. Akronists have always been Tavari.”

“I… I didn’t think… I thought you couldn’t… I never…” Zaram had to stop himself to find the right words, and when he spoke again there was just the slightest sparkling in his eyes. Whether it was pain or something else, Vana couldn’t tell. “I thought saying things like that was… frowned upon, among… some Akronists,” he finally said.

But Vana only laughed. “Well it certainly is, but they’re wrong. Akronism is a Tavari religion. Akrona has wept for the Tavari and she will continue to weep for them.” The angry, Urth-trembling words of that outraged, wounded Goddess echoed in the back of Vana’s mind as she spoke. “Akrona was with the Tavari at the very first. She told me so herself, she called us the family she had raised for a thousand generations. It is true that Akronism must be Acronian, but it is also true that Akronism is and must be Tavari as well. There are many beliefs held by Akronists that need to change. Soon, you will see what I mean.” The words that Akrona had spoken to Vana would soon become Edicts that would change the Akronist faith, very soon, and somehow, despite it all, the Matron found herself hoping that they would please this man who had insulted her so.

Zaram stared into her eyes, his eyebrows furrowed but gradually rising. “You are… not at all what I expected you to be, Matron.” He paused. “Vana?”

The Matron grinned. For all his faults, and there were so many of them, Zaram was the first person in years to ask to call her by her name, not her title. She missed it, and it warmed her heart quite like a glass of wine to hear him say it. “To Zaram and Vana,” she said, raising her glass toward the former King.

“To Vana and Zaram,” he replied as he clinked his glass with hers. His eyes had come alive and the smile on his face matched hers. His smile was unmistakable, and in the span of a single moment, ten or twenty years melted from his face.

Perhaps all he had ever needed was to understand Akronists. Perhaps all he had ever really been was a heartbroken widower, a heartbroken father. Perhaps even the most traditional traditionalists could find peace in their hearts toward the most Akronist Akronists, if only they allowed themselves to see themselves in one another.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[Cryria]

“Aysht, no more,” the Speaker waved off a bottle, “There are easier ways to poison me!”

“I do not doubt it,” Gazny Chīrén grinned.

“Ah, enough!” Zamira exclaimed, “Come, Tuyu, I think I’ve seen something to your liking.”

Saga rubbed her face as the Governor and the Speaker receded back into the crowd. It had been a long day, and only here, surrounded by her own, had a well-practiced facade of inexhaustibility begun to drop. “Tuyu?” she asked bemusedly. Torbiashi Tuyuideger was an amiable man, even a friend at times. But not one to be spoken to so casually.

Her grandfather dismissed the remark, “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he grunted, “I know I’ve learned better.” Chīrén reached for the bottle again, “Particularly when it relates to my grandchildren.”

“Tshk, leave it,” the Sultana swiped the wine away, “You worry Zamira enough as it is.”

“And you don’t?” Chīrén laughed, “You should have heard her last summer.”

“I heard plenty,” Saga grimaced. She had said her apologies already for the secrets she had kept, but she expected she would be repeating them for a long time to come. No family enjoyed being left in the dark by one of their own, and at times Saga felt that those of Älemsi could rival most secret police agencies in their willingness to pry.

“Hearing without listening is nothing to boast about,” her grandfather quipped. Old eyes scanned the gathering, the revelries already fading as the hours drew on and the sun dimmed.

“Good feelings never last,” he finally mused, “And behind all this is… Well. There is no place more dangerous than a palace.” When Chīrén turned back to Saga, it was with a serious expression, “And you are the outsider here. Like a stranded mask-fish - Don’t argue with me Turi, we both know this to be true. Someone always leaves home. But I will say what I once said to your mother.” A bony hand gripped the Sultana’s arm.

“Come good or ill, you’re one of us. Colors be damned. So yes, Zamira will worry for you, and the rest as well. And they’ll do more than that, if you should need it. Do the same for them, will you? I will die happier, knowing that you are all worrying for each other in my stead.”

A heavy silence fell over the emptied table, one which Saga finally broke. “And you tell me to not ask stupid questions,” she muttered, “Do you really think I would ever do anything less? Enough of this talk of death.”

“Do not balk at it, Turi,” the old Governor growled, “I expect better. My clock reaches midnight. The others do not wish to hear of it, but you and I, we have always been honest with each other.”

From the corner of her eye Saga could spot Zamira and the Speaker examining a chocolate fountain with great interest. That limping Serramali drinking with the Astelan woman. The Cryrian Queen in a painfully polite conversation with one of the Aikkians. But they were all dispersing now, even the little clusters of green and gold.

“I have no regrets,” Chīrén went on, as though it were any other conversation they might have had, “In another time I might not have thought well of you settling out here. But there is some comfort in knowing that one has reached their final hours. I can be happy, to see that you all are happy. It is good enough for me.”

With the silence came a cold hand of the coming grief to clench around her heart, but the Sultana smiled through it, and poured the old man his glass.

“Good feelings never last,” Saga repeated, “So we must chase them as they come.”

“And hold them as we can.”

[StyxPrincess]

Joint post with Stander (Mirhaime)

  Azniv, having recently returned from making friendship bracelets with the reigning Emira of Sayyed, is wandering about the halls, looking for more connections to make. Unnoticed by many partygoers, she sees Alane from across the room and begins walking towards her. Azniv knows that Alane is the Lewydh, the leader of Aldaar’s (at the moment) greatest enemy. Azniv knows that there is no way on Urth that she should, in this moment, go up and talk to Alane, but then again, it isn’t like her presence here is technically approved anyways. And she, of anyone else in Aldaar, knows what Mirhaimian bureaucracy can be like; after all, she worked for WEGEC for two years. Alane could be evil. But… she might also be Aldaar’s greatest ally in their struggle. Hey, who knows? Without anyone noticing, Azniv quickly and quietly walks up behind Alane, essentially appearing from behind her, waiting for her to turn around.

  Alane was enjoying the party, standing by her own corner, with her hands holding a glass of beverages so kindly provided to her by her host. Occasionally taking small sips, her eyes scanned the room filled with foreign guests and dignitaries invited to the occasion just like her. She had no formal plans other than the meeting of the hosts and the occasional chats with foreign dignitaries; it was perhaps, for the better that she didn’t for even a handful of months into her service, the duties and responsibilities that come with being the one on the Marghal Throne were soon mounting in her. Packilvania has been a good change of scenery and a good change in perspective as she tried to study more and more about the country and see how she could put what she learned to work in her own homeland in the far West. She did not expect anyone to approach her, and so, as vigilant and keen-eyed as she was, she still missed Azniv’s presence as she snuck up behind her.

  Turning her head around, she was quite surprised by Azniv’s appearance as her eyes widened to look at the woman before her. This face she recognized. As much as she tried to hide it, her Kervarmohedh had already briefed her on who Azniv Haviiz was, intel graciously provided by the Aldaari Surveys. “Dissident terrorist,” She remembered those words vividly, “Radical extremist and threat to national security,”

  Still undeterred by those lively words, Alane held slightly firmer the cup in her hand as she crossed her hand. “Greetings,” She said to Azniv. “How may I be of assistance to you today?”

  “Well, Madam Lewydh, I believe we may be of assistance to each other. I expect I know what you’ve been told about me - that I’m a ‘radical extremist’ or a ‘dissident terrorist.’ But that isn’t true. Well,” she says, slightly cocking her head, “not entirely true, anyways. Oh, by the way, you should really patch that backdoor I made in your software. Like, come on, it’s been literally months. Where was I?” Azniv pauses a second to scratch her head. “Oh, right. We can help you achieve what you need, and I assume you already know what we need.”

  “Pardon me?” Alane asked, whatever point Azniv was trying to make well beyond her. One thing that she could tell for sure was that this woman didn’t quite fit the part of a terrorist. Alane was informed of the software crash when all computers in WEGEC service essentially crashed by an interconnected OS but that was all that she knew about the current situation along with the status of the war in the Dominion.

  “Yes, my bad. I suppose I should start at the beginning. Hopefully, you know that WEGEC has been oppressing the Aldaari people from the very beginning. Very unconstitutional, and conveniently for you, orchestrated by your political enemies. If you want more specifics, I prepared a dossier. Well, I actually had an aide prepare it, but that’s besides the point. Any questions so far?”

  “Those are some considerably serious accusations, miss.” She spoke, taking a sip of her drink as she looked at her, contemplating what to do next. “Ones that perhaps should not be spoken aloud in a place like this.”

  “Oh, no one’s listening. Especially not someone who, if they even care, doesn’t already know what’s happening. Hard to believe, but the relationship between Mirhaime and some small desert country doesn’t interest anyone here besides you, me, and probably He -” There’s a brief pause before Azniv rephrases. “Emira Scheherazade, but trust me; she already knows. Plus, believe me, it’s significantly less suspicious if we’re simply making polite conversation in a public area.”

  “The Kervarmohedh could be more resourceful than you might think,” Alane said, taking another sip of her now half-empty drink. “And why are you approaching me regarding this?” Alane inquired, wanting to know more on what Azniv’s intentions were. “Approaching your Lewydh in the midst of a formal event with striking accusations seemed to me quite….daring.”

  “Well, these are daring times. And believe me, we can help each other.” Azniv quickly pulls what looks like lipstick from her bag, which Alane quickly realizes is a hidden USB stick. “But hey, even if you don’t believe me, at least take this. It has everything you need on it, both to catch you up on the internal situation in Aldaar… and some ideas you can use back at home.”

  This small exchange indeed frightened Alane, ironically so for she was supposed to be the most powerful woman in her own country but yet, as her hand extended to receive the USB stick from Azniv, she thought of the repercussions and how this could, without careful maneuverings, cascade into something that could put more than just her life on the line.
  “Sincerely hoping this won’t mess with the OS and launch all warheads at Tretrid,” She said nervously, “I shall…put this under consideration.”

  “Don’t worry. We don’t want conflict. We just want our people to be safe and free - freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. All that jazz. And while I can’t make you choose the right thing, I have faith in you.” Azniv begins walking away, but she briefly turns back for one parting line. “Oh, and by the way - you may be Lewydh, but you aren’t my Lewydh.” And with that, she disappears into a small crowd.

  “But yet I shall defend your liberty all the same,” Alane said with a whisper, her eyes switching between Azniv departing and the USB stick that she gave her. It was a peculiar encounter, though one that makes her more frightened than even in live combat. She was terrified at the prospect of the entire history of her nation and the integrity of the Commonwealth resting solely in her hands but alas, she must persevere. Soon, she temporarily retreated from the occasion as she summoned one of her trusted advisors to a more…private corner where she was to have a clearer look into the materials she was provided with. However uncomfortable or distressing they may be.

[Jessica_Sayyed]

(Joint post with Styx)
(CW: Dirty jokes)
Hera and Esfan have been talking. Due to several reasons, Esfan was unable to go to the wedding ceremony but finally, to Hera’s pleasure, he was able to come to the banquet.

Esfan, being the son of middle class parents, was not used to this kind of life or this boorish talk. All about politics and alliances. Do leaders talk about anything else? It was Hera who gave him company through this luxurious scene.

Out of nowhere, they notice Azniv, who is currently holding a cup of some drink and walking around, chatting with other foreign delegations. They hadn’t really seen her before; in fact, she sort of seems to pop into their perspective, like she was the one to make an intentional choice to be noticed. Casually, her rounds of introductions make their way to the table where Hera and Esfan have been chatting. She puts on a sly smile and goes up to them, speaking in flawless Atasiyaqidu.

“Hello, your excellency, and this must be your charming partner? I’ve heard much about you two.”

“Ah, yes it is. You must be Azniv, correct? It’s a pleasure to meet a representative of a fellow Gondwanan desert nation.”

“Well, technically, I’m not from there originally, even though my family is. But Aldaar is a nation of movement anyways, who better to represent us than someone who has embodied that motion?”

“Very well said!” Hera clapped softly. “How has the banquet been for you, Azniv?” She asked, giving Esfan a nod of reassurance.

“Well, I would’ve preferred a bit more ABV, but you know how it is in places like this. Still fun, though, and good to meet people and get some international standing. How about the two of you?” she asks, looking back and forth between the two.

“It’s been fun getting to mingle with a lot of of important people,” Hera giggled. She was about to say something before Esfan spoke, “It’s rather…new to me, to be honest. I’m not used to this life.”

“You’re telling me,” Azniv says with a smirk. “I lived in some random oasis town in the middle of nowhere for seventeen years. Now I’m a multimillionaire. It’s all quite an adjustment, to say the least.”

“I’d like to say it’s more sudden for me, because I was thrusted into this life thanks to Hera,” he laughed.

“Fair. At least I knew what I was getting into by founding my business, although to be honest I didn’t think it would reach the international success it has. But then the beginning of the revolution, and me becoming a politician and diplomat… it’s all sort of a haze, to be honest. Can’t really believe it’s my own life, if you know what I mean.” She takes a large sip of her drink.

“I have to agree. There’s a lot of things I don’t know but yet I have to do. It’s stressful, but it’s worth it if it means being with the woman I love,” he smiled at Azniv before looking into Hera’s eyes.

“It’s so nice that you two’ve found each other. Seems like I’m still destined to be alone for a while… but at this point, who knows what the future holds? Maybe I’ll settle down with the person of my dreams… or maybe I’ll die in two months.” Azniv laughs, but it doesn’t feel very comfortable to anyone who hears it. “But hey, if that’s how it is, that’s how it is. Of course, where I’m from, we don’t go down without a fight.”

“I admire the resilience of the Aldaari, to be honest,” Hera mused. “We Sayqidi are strong, but the Aldaari are stronger.”

“Well, naturally. I mean, have you seen the weather report?” Azniv says with a smile. “It’s like 44 degrees right now. With weather like this, who needs enemies? Then again, we were the ones who ended up getting colonized.”

“Skill i-” Esfan was cut off by Hera hitting his arm and glaring at him. “I mean, well, the fact you guys are able to survive it, it’s a feat of itself.”

Azniv, who had been giggling at Esfan saying ‘skill issue’ at an event like this, quickly responded. “Yeah, I mean, our people have survived a lot. Back in the day, if you wanted to get somewhere, you had to walk several days across the blazing hot desert. Honestly, most people had more pressing concerns. Maybe they should’ve noticed Golden Oil slowly creeping in to their day to day lives, but they didn’t want to.” Azniv sighed deeply. “Honestly, they may not have broken all of us, but I think it will take a while to get my people back to the way things were. The idea that any person can enact change, and that small changes can have large impacts… those things are mostly gone now. Luckily, there are some of us that still remember the old ways, fighting for the hearts and minds quite literally.”

Hera and Esfan could only nod after hearing this. Hera looked down in silence as she tried to collect her thoughts well enough to say something. Before looking up with a smile, “Whatever happens, we will always be brothers and sisters,” she extended her hand out for a handshake.

Azniv reached out and shook the young Emira’s hand, before saying something in a language Hera didn’t understand. “Al-ajad yin kyaatay kamii, ‘int njar yin kyaatay kyuu. And we will stand together.”

Hera nodded and smiled. “We will. Ile tanrii elaa zim jaanib.” (With God on our side)

Azniv finishes her drink and sets it down. “So, what does royalty do for fun?”
Hera looked at Esfan with a smirk before turning to Azniv, “Would you like to find out~?”

“Of course. I’m always interested in learning more about how they operate in other countries.”

Hera let out a laugh before replying, “You know how Esfan was thrusted into royalty? You know how he can thrust in different places too~”

Azniv smirks. “I see. Well, I know a way out of here that the guards haven’t covered. What do you say we get out of here and… make some friendship bracelets?” she asks with a wink.

“Ooh~! I’d love that~” She giggled as she awaited Esfan’s verdict.

“That would be wonderful,” he said with a smile. “Lead the way.”

[The_Oan_Isles]

The Journey to Adrien Begins
24 January 2023.

As with all good things, it was time for the reception to come to a close. Some guests like Emira Hera and Azniv were engrossed in conversation and ensconced in each other. Thumim and Saga stood up. As they rose, trumpeters held their brass instruments aloft and blew them strong and hard, calling attention to all the guests in the building that the reception was over. Every guest had to make preparation to leave Bingol to go to Adrien in Ashura.

Adrien (known in Packilvanian as Yadrayeen) was the second holiest city in the religion of Paxism because it was the site of the Temple of the Restoration (the second holiest site in Paxism). Adrien was located over 1,500 kilometres from Bingol in the province of Ashura. Ashura was the Birthplace of the Iktanite dynasty which conquered many surrounding Kingdoms and established the first state or polity to be known as Packilvania.

The Coronation was to be held in this ancient building. Ordinarily, the Temple of the Restoration was a site for pilgrimage but it was used for the coronations of the Bedonite dynasty. This is because Amhoud I, the first Sultan of the Bedonite dynasty, was crowned here by the Magisterium in recognition of his authority. Successive monarchs have thus been crowned in the building, in commemoration of Amhoud I, as well to symbolise the fact that their legitimacy came from Noi and no one else.

Saga of Tynam and Thumim V were left alone to consecrate their marriage. Sultana Mother Mebri was running around ensuring that the arrangements for the coronation were ready. She flew ahead of them, after her speech to ensure that the venue, the Crown Jewels and the Magisters were ready for the occasion. The local government had taken a page from the Bingolian playbook and shut down all roads leading to the Temple to vehicular traffic except for the cavalcade that would ferry the Sultan, the Sultana and their entourage to the place of their crowning.

The city of Bingol had not yet stopped to catch its breath and rest. The city was filled with fireworks, parades and street parties that celebrated the marriage of their Sultan. It was as though New Year’s Day had come again with even greater force and boisterousness.

Despite bones creaking with exhaustion, Thumim and Saga had to make the journey to their coronation. Servants opened curtains picked up clothing and took away used cutlery. A delicate bell from a servant who was too shy too look at them directly gave them a gentle tug out of the wondrium of sleep. Thumim grunted with indignation at the unwelcome reminder that there was more pomp and circumstance and ritual ahead.

He kissed Saga on the cheek as she lay down and said, “After this, I am going to sleep for a week”.

[Norgsveldet]

(Joint post with Oan!)

Wilan took a sip from a champagne glass as he waited for the new Sultan in one of the private rooms in the palace. Having asked the Sultan for a private meeting when he had the chance to get his attention. The stuff he was going to negotiate was after all stuff he rather not want anyone to listen in too. He didn’t doubt the security of the palace, but one of the few things he had learned from his father was to not be too careful. Especially the stuff he was going to be discussing was not just typical diplomatic pleasantries. The prince put down his glass on a wooden table when he heard the door open.

Sultan Thumim V entered the room and gave Crown Prince Wilan, a firm handshake, and said, “muMamlukmne Vilaan, gaflaki lutaradishme amin. Minedhakram lumijhalis awan. Mishukraan lusabaar adun. Waqfaki luyusman adun. Mislamiya muMakhnifiya muMamluk weluhayiy lubenaan na miwahba lukhron adun weBakhilfaniya lujubeel. yeluShakilefi wamijhlas khametamkamayan?” (Prince Wilan, kindly forgive my tardiness. I completely forgot about our meeting. Thank you for your patience. Please, have a seat. I trust His Majesty, the King, is in good health and that you are enjoying your time in Packilvania. What matter are we convened to discuss?)

The prince took off his hat and held it towards his chest as he gave the Sultan a small bow before straightening up again. “My father is in good health for better or for worse.” He said with a small chuckle as he put on his hat again. “I am enjoying my time here quite well, the music, the drinks and the food, what is there not to love about Packilvania?” He asked, giving a charming smile. His Blåskovian accent was there but he was good at ensuring it wasn’t too strong as he spoke in Staynish. “I was hoping you’d be open to talking about the relations between our two nations? Nothing concrete but more on how I think we can establish a certain understanding between the two.”

Thumim replied, “Yadhaabeki, muMamlukmne.” (“Go ahead.”)

“With the Matriarch of Nystatiszna establishing her nation’s ties with Federation through joining RCEU and them becoming a part of the Heilen Plan.” Prince said calmly but still in a friendly way. “It likely would not take long until any last cooperation between Packilvania and Nystatiszna will soon go away. As such, I am suggesting a partnership. A way to keep Packilvania firmly involved in East Borean affairs.”

Thumim paused before replying and gave a knowing smile, “Bakhilfaniya nelumawda ledomin leakhar khalulahda weledomin leakhar. muDonahlea aNashtahan muhuriya khaludonha ludomin adhun yelupraman dhuhaqla lubenaan wemeshabil adhun. luLaheed luidaween ledomin awan neluqaydam letahad aNashtahan. Tamkaki min, muMamlukmne, duqataranefi?” (Packilvania does not impede other nations from forming relationships with other nations. The Matriarch of Nystatiszna is free to rule her nation in a way that she thinks is best for her people. The relationship between our nations will not be impacted by the choices of Nystatiszna. Tell me, Prince, what do you propose?"

“I do not think you fully know the Matriarch. I’ve met her a few times before in my life. Ingrid’s mind is more guided by idealism rather than pragmatism. So I advise you not to put too much of your eggs in that basket.” Wilan said with a small chuckle remembering spending time with her when he was dating Jørgen. “My proposal is simple, establishing economic, political and certain security ties with my nation. I think that is a way to show off to the Norgsveltians isn’t it? The immediate moment Blåskog got kicked out of the NCEF, your nation swept in. One which has quite a crucial position in East Borea.”

Thumim replied, “Mikhazna lunasih adun weluhaqal amin. Siljubla khalubidaytan lelaheed lebenaan luaye ludomin adun. Bakhilfaniya lumanda olusakhlatoon alelaheedzayeen lunomnam luKharif luSoliy aluTawafira luMayan weleSookdomin aluBazrakisook. Akhausa Zaraar luRayunt welujahdafiya luZaraar luRayunt luKeraat, Bakhilfaniya lukhaznam lubawba weluKharif luHaganishme asilne. Khawayar, wajubla khalubawba lushugulmayan weluhiraam”. (“I will keep your advice in mind. We are happy to establish positive relations with your country. Packilvania already possessed a framework for diplomatic relations known as the Preferential Market Access Program. Because Blåskog invaded Syrtaezna, we will reserve access to our military assistance program. However, we are happy to give you access to cooperating with us on criminal matters”).

The elven prince frowned a little bit on that but was quick to replace it with a smile. “We would love to be a part of that program. Though I understand your hesitance on military cooperation, do you think it would be possible to establish a joint mercenary group?” He said, raising an eyebrow at the sultan. “Of course such details can be figured out later by our diplomats, but I think both you and I agree that… having a mercenary group to rely on, can be quite advantageous for both our nations.” He had a small smirk as he added the last part.

“Hmm”, Thumim mused, “No. weluDonhafiya amin, Bakhilfaniya luyadhaabefaral wemehasasin. Durakhbaqar lushugulmayan weluhimayfiyishme, duhade welupraman leyasas” (“Under my Rule, Packilvania is moving away from mercenaries. If you desire cooperation on security matters, you will do it in a normal way.”)

The Prince simply nodded. “Understandable. I am certain there are several matters of security in which we can come to an agreement. How about we can agree to schedule a meeting between our nations on a series of economic and security treaties? Packilvania is a nation that in my opinion, we should have always been partners with.”

Thumim replied, “Minasih mevazeer nadine meiluhid letamkamayan leshakilqasir khawayar muDonahlea muhaqlaqar luyadhaabefar weBakhilfaniya, dhukaniy muhayiy lushugulmayan weluhimayfiyishme na muxitarifiya lusih aleHagan asilne weNashtahan. Silkaniy merakhba lusih lujadid.” (“I suggest our ministers and diplomats discuss the details however if the Matriarch is thinking of moving away from Packilvania, she may end our military cooperation and end our military base in Nystatiszna. We might need a new base”)

“I will discuss it with my father about it all. I think it would be of best interest to have our ministers and diplomats figure out these details. Though I will always be Packilvania’s biggest supporter in our nation.” Wilan took a sip from his champagne glass before he spoke further. “I do not want to take up all your time after all, it is a big day for you, I am certain you have a lot of guests and events to deal with. As such I find it an honor that you took time to have this small conversation.” The Prince once more took off his hat placing it on his chest as he bowed his head slightly. “Your Majesty.”

[Cryria]

But there would be no rest for the wicked.

A new day dawned over Bingol, and as the celebration’s manic energy dissipated and the armies of workers and streetsweepers surged out to pick up the pieces, a new procession was forming for another city. The mass of dignitaries and officials which had assembled in the capital now trickled northwards to Adrien - The birthplace of a dynasty. And as they went by air or land, a high-speed train blasted through the Packilvanian countryside.

Saga watched the landscapes of Mekedesh roll by the window. It had been scarcely a week ago that this very same province had all but blockaded the capital, though by now that disquieting news seemed to come from another lifetime. Certainly, the good Prince Elam was now buried nearly as deep as the dead. But the sight of his home served as a reminder of the challenges that lay beyond the Coronation’s veil, as the wedding’s euphoria began to lift and matters of reality returned.

Ah, well, what was the old sailor’s saying?

Draw a cutlass, him that dares.

For all these thoughts, the restlessness which had gripped the Sultana in the leadup to the wedding had evaporated. The long day, late night, and early morning certainly seemed to have left her unfazed as she put on a fitting display of ease and relentless energy. The day had begun swiftly, with little time for the newlyweds to exchange more than a few words before the journey began - Though even that had offered little respite. Here amidst the spacious interior of the reserved train, they might well have never left the palace at all, and the final preparations for the coronated pair were hastened through in between brief conversation with accompanying family and guests.

But as the ride neared its end, Saga had made herself quite at home by one window, where she could at last see the countryside pass by with a cup of tea for company. Here entire townships the size of Tynam could rise and fall away without remark or distinction, while the open expanses between them would have swallowed nations whole.

Idly, she smoothed a crease on her dress - The kind of heavy, dark-blue silken gown that would be familiar to those acquainted with the formal events of Leidenstad. The pastoral vistas were now fading away to be replaced by the outskirts of Adrien. And there was a city drowning in enough history to float a whaling ship!

Soon enough, Saga knew, the train would come to halt at its prepared station, and there one final procession waited to whisk them off to that most ancient of temples. The Sultan’s approach signaled as much, and Saga tore herself away from the view with a faint smile.

“Once, I set out to see the world,” she remarked, “And from time to time, the world sees fit to remind me that I will only ever see fleeting pinpricks.”

The train was slowing to a stop now. Saga supposed she should feel some apprehension, or perhaps instead impatience. The same looming unknown which had gripped her in Charlottesborg and on countless nights since then. The interminable sense of waiting, for events to seize her and grind on like clockworks, or for the world to fall apart. But there was none of that now, merely the cold certainty that here, a future would be born, one to guide and one to mold. To find new joys in.

Doors hissed open, and the cavalcade awaited. Saga’s smile split into a grin, and she offered the Sultan a hand as they prepared to step out.

One last threshold to cross.

[Cowlass]

Train rides always were soothing for the Arch-Princess of Musetszna, going forward in a single direction with a predetermined destination. No unexpected turns or twists, just an organized route to follow. Calm sound of the train rolling the tracks, sounding like the waves washing ashore bring back memories of Ny’Hjøran and her older sisters playing on the beach building sand castles.

Life was simple, calm and organized back then. Where the most important questions of the day were what one was doing after studies rather than the more difficult questions of the modern day. ‘What are the Akuanists and what is our role in the modern world?’ Akuanism is an old religion, an ancient faith that had existed before the written language and before the invention of agriculture by some historian accounts.

What is Akuanism? For your average person Akuanism can be confused for a ethnic group or a culture. To others it is a religion that happens to heavily influence one’s culture. It is a faith that does not seek out to expand, yet you be hardpress to be in a country’s capital without an Akuan district. There are even people, who claim to be culturally Akuanist but not practicing the faith. To the misinformed, Akuanists are just Eastern Boreans who expanded across the world or simply a bunch of drunkards needing an excuse to drink.

Akuanism never attempts to bring people into the fold of its faith like the Akronists or Ulvriktruars. It has no weekly or monthly service to attend. Some confuse Brewmasters as priests, ignoring their more important roles as community leaders and as maintainers of the shrines they hold so dear. They look at Akuan democracy, and see brewmasters in government. Pointing at them like it is proof that it is a polite theocracy. Ignoring the fact, that community is larger than a religious group. A community is for everyone, not just for Akuanists. Are we not all children of hers? Should we not be supposed to welcome all with open arms and care for them like they are own flesh and blood? Are not our Akuan festivals cherished all within the community, not just those who are Akuanist?

Even then, a religion that has no scripture that is shared across the all lands that Akuanists inhabit. As many things Akuanists have in common, they have differences. Down to the very meaning of ‘non-violence.’ Does it just apply to sapients or does it include animals? If it includes animals, then what animals are included? How is it determined? Every region’s Akuanists inhabit a disagreement and separate view on the matter. What about defending oneself? In Musetszna, defending yourself is acceptable but what save for those living within the Norgsveldet realms, such as in Vakrestrender? What about those who died in the Akuan Atrocities, refusing to fight back against those who wanted to do nothing more than stomp them out and crush their spirit? Was it not right to stay committed to their view of non-violence? They believed so certainly in their view of Akuanism, they were willing to be slaughtered en masse and forced into camps all in the name of Akuanism.

Questions only bring out more questions, a new Akuanist is ever created when one is born into an Akuanist family or one is curious enough to join the faith. Joining the faith requires learning a Nys’tat’en in order to listen, read or watch the stories and myths within the context of the religion. To read the stories that have been passed down for centuries if not thousands of years in anything other than the language is perhaps one of the few things Akuanists all agree to is heresy or at least the closest thing Akuanists consider to be heresy.

Even then Nys’tat’en has changed so much from it’s old times. The Arch-Princess can speak perfect Nys’tat’en it being her native tongue but lifetimes has passed since Akuanists came to inhabit Musetszna, it has changed as much as it has stayed the same. The influences of the Packilvanian language showed clearly in her pronunciation and words. In theory she could speak to an Akuanist from Borea or Novaris but in practice, it is verbal confusion. She could understand the basics of what was said after a few attempts but the nuances are gone, the details are missing and the nature of the speech can be easily misinterpreted. The written words however, can still carry through, albeit with misunderstanding with the differences of borrowed words. Can it even be called the same language or is it more like a language family? If that is even the correct term for it.

Akuanism and Nys’tat’en are so divided on so many issues, customs and cultures but yet held together as a single faith. In a world where disagreements in doctrine can lead to breaking apart and religious schisms such as with those who march under Odin’s faith. How about Paxism? With all of its own schisms and branches mirroring Ulvriktru. Yet Akuanism has never officially fragmented, regardless of how deep they are different, Akuanist is still a Akuanist. Perhaps it is because Akuanism has no real religious leader, save the Enshrined Spirits but those don’t truly lead the faith. Even then there are disagreements about what an Enshrined Spirit role is in the faith. Are they leaders of nations guided by the spirit or are they on a journey to understand what is a spirit and should be considered as advisers of leaders? Perhaps it is what saved Akuanism from breaking apart like so many other faiths.

Ny’Hjøran gave a yelp as the train briefly bounced up, breaking her concentration on her own little scholarly debate in her head. Her husband, prince Ulahid a-Luwadeen Bedon gave her a comforting hug, bringing her close to him. “Everything alright cheesecake?” The feline spoke, in a calming tone. Slowly stroking her hair in a loving manner.

“Ah, everything is fine, the bump just broke my concentration.” Ny’Hjøran gave a warm smile to her husband.

“Ah, I was wondering why you were staring so intensely at your empty glass. I thought you might have been wanting another and too shy to ask for a refill so I asked an attendant to bring you another.” The feline prince gave a gesture as if on cue then a train attendant arrived to refill the Arch-Princess glass.

The Kemonomimi bowed her head in thanks, as the attendant took their leave after refilling the glass with more wine. The Mustetine took a sip of the wine with a slight look of disgust on her face. “This had to be made in Travais or Acronis, it tastes truly awful.” She shakes her head. “No love or care taken with it.”

The Prince gave a small chuckle, “How do you figure it from the vineyard in Gondwana? Why not from Vestrava?”

“Far too sweet, used too much sugar and more fruity than it should be. Vestriszna vineyards have several degrees more talent than this, less harsh raining seasons. Grapes there have been bred to fit the environment where this jungle water completely lacks the talent of it. Not to ment-” She stops for a moment, lowering her ears “My apologies I’m ranting.”

The feline gave a hearty chuckle at that, “You don’t need to apologize, I love hearing you speak.” He gave a comforting hug, “Where did you learn about alcohol so much? Was there a class in your studies for it?”

She gave a laugh, “No, no. I’m just an Akuanist. We just have a natural gift for alcoholism.” She joked, nudging at her husband.

The prince smiled at her wife, calming down, “Ah, the spirits simply divinely infused all Akuanists with the sacred knowledge of liquor.”

“We made a trade with them, they give us the knowledge of liquor and in return we secretly plot against everyone’s sobriety.” She smiled, relaxing her head on the prince’s chest.

“Ah, a worthwhile trade then. Though I suppose that leads to a new question.” The prince gave a smirk, “What did you have to trade to be so adorable?”

“Oh, I had to steal the heart of this handsome prince.” She smirked back, looking up at her doting husband.

“Well, I suppose you still are in debt then but at last we have this prince to make do.” Ulahid played with his wife’s hair.

“Tommy, what have I told you about those jokes.” She gave a pout.

“My apologies, I just simply adore when you pout darling. It is my inner Bedon in me, secretly planning on making everyone in the world upset.” He gave a warm chuckle, taking a sip of his wife’s wine.

“You were correct, this wine is truly awful.” He placed the glass back on the table, shaking his head.

“Told you so.” The kemonomimi gave a smirk, sitting up right on her chair now so she was no longer leaning on her husband’s shoulder. “I think I need to move around a little. I have been sitting for so long, I might end up losing the use of my legs. Care to join me, my prince?”

The prince stood up, offering his hand to help up the far shorter Arch-Princess. “If you cannot walk, I can always carry you around.” He smiled, “Of course I walk with you, though I fear the train might be a bit small for a long walk unless you wish to draw concerned looks as we pace between one end and the other.”

“Just a small one, perhaps to the dinner car. Besides, when have we ever been concerned about getting weird stares from people?” The kemonomimi took up on his offer, taking a hold of his hand as she lifted herself up from her seat.

It was comical, a Kemonomimi, a Nezumimi to be specific and a feline walking together. If one was in one the more conservative and rural parts of the world. It would seem a large cat walking on two legs and a human with the animal characteristics of a mouse are not only walking together but married. If they had a Lupine with them, they could start a comedy-trio act appealing to the lowest common denominator.

However, they paid it no mind regardless of the minor jokes and jabs made at their expense. As they are together, then what are a few tasteless jokes in comparison. Hand in hand, they walk through the various train sections towards the dinner cabin.

“So, cheesecake besides the wine, what was on your mind back then?” Ulahid opened the door and held it so her wife could go through the door.

“It is not important, Tommy. Just something has been on my mind.” Well it is important, but only to Akuanists really, most people would probably find it boring.

“What you have to say is always important to me.” Prince reassured his wife.

She gave a small chuckle, “That’s incredibly cheesy and cliche.”

“Yes and?” The prince gave a smirk.

“It just, when I look at Paxism or Ulvriktru. It seems so, organized and put together. Then I look at my faith, and those others who are part of it in different parts of the world or even in a different city in Musetszna. Then there is the identity, we act like a culture or ethnic group but called a religion by most. Yet we don’t act like other religions, we invite other religions to our festivals to host their own stalls in. We don’t even ask them to attend rituals with us or join our faith. We treat other religions like they are kin even when they wish nothing more than us to stop existing and become like them.” She scratched the back of her head with her free hand. “Just things like that.”

The prince was slight for a few moments, he just thought she was worried about the wedding or family drama. He kept silent, not knowing if he should speak or even if it was his place to speak.

“Sorry, that was a lot. It is just that I am in charge of one of the three banks that make up the Akuan Development Fund and the third most important Akuan family in the world. It just feels like everything is burying me down on me anytime I look at the big picture.” She gives a sigh, as her husband pulls out a chair at a table. Finally arriving at the dinner car.

“It feels as if we cannot agree to anything.” She sits down, resting her head in her hands. “Even at the Akuan Development Fund, disagreements are everywhere on theological ground. You know the last time the three heads of the most influential Akuan families met? At the Bjørn funeral five years ago. Sure we all met each other after it but never all together and rarely was it ever about Akuanism, always business. This Akuan Conference coming up is the first time in decades we all met for Akuan history and theology. It is the first time so many important scholars and figures in our faith have come together. It just feels hopeless, so hopeless.”

The prince took his seat at the table. Royalty and family drama is one thing, it is even manageable but was out of his depth. He never really thought about Akuanism truly outside of the surface level and what he needed to know for the marriage. Always looked at skin deep, taking part in the rituals but not really understanding the depth of them. When he was younger, he always thought it was an exaggeration about how socially connected Akuanist are, how friendly they are, the complete disregard for personal space and all the strange quirks they have.

When he was a teenager, he once watched a documentary about Akuan prison in Norgsveldet. Something he just now remembers about during all of this existential crisis his wife was having. He thought it was a comedy at first, a mockumentary poking fun at the strange little kemonomimi people he sometimes saw around working in the palace.

The title card always stuck with him, even after all this time, ‘What you are about to watch is a documentary about Ragnirt Prison in Osfjord. A prison which was made specifically to accommodate Akuanists. It was founded in 1932, as a way to deal with the mass suicides of Akuanists within the Norgsveltian prison system. It was the first Norgsveltian prison that successfully able to ensure that an Akuanist could go through system without commiting suicide. Every single one before this had at least an attempt. We know that this prison might seem strange for prisons you have heard about before, but please take this documentary seriously. This was made specifically by the Norgsveltian government and Crown to accommodate for these Akuanists a truly serious part of their life.’

It was dubbed in Packilvanian at least as opposed to most translations being only subtitles. The prison seemed to be more of a strict apartment building rather than a true prison like they have in his homeland. However, it seemed as if the Akuanist arrested in it seemed to be genuinely scared for some unknown reason, at the time he just thought the guards would beat the prisoners like they do here. After spending so much time in Musetszna, he started to understand more. They weren’t scared of the guards, they were terrified of being alone. When he saw the doors with windows that could become opaque or some of the older cells having doors with sliding plates so the guard could always see inside. Well at first he assumed it was for the guards, but with his new found experience. It was for them, the prisoners themselves, to be able to look at the guards. To remind themselves they are not alone.

At the time, he thought they did pose for the film to stand at the doors to follow the guards with their eyes as some sort of eccentric humor only known by Norgveltians. It completely was bought into it being a joke or comedy when the crew examined one of the newer cells. The prison cell looked like a quite decent apartment as opposed to a place of punishment. Then that silly speaker built into the walls playing non-stop background talking sold him that it was a bit. Akuanists do love talking and being social butterflies, so surely the speaker was just poking fun at it. Even more so when each cell came with a collection of small dolls placed around the sound where the speaker was, as if to have a mock conversion where the prisoner cannot ever truly respond to the discussion. Akuanists are sociable, yes but this is just taking the cake.

In reality, as he now knows of it. It wasn’t a comedy film with a strange sense of humor. Akuanists are horrified by the concept of being alone. They never were taught how, they teach being alone a bad, horrific thing. Here he was, with his wife going through a existential crisis alone because doesn’t know how to make it all better. He’s not an Akuanist, he can understand Nys’tat’en but not the depth of the words of it. He desperately wants to make his love feel better, but how can he? It is not his place, it is not his religion but it is his wife. Should that not count for something?

He reaches over to his wife, giving her a tight hug. “Would some hot cocoa make you feel better?” He felt so stupid even saying those words, as if some chocolate drink could bring someone outside of such a state of dread. He just felt so hopeless about it and just spoke the first thing that came to his mind. He gave a sigh, “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if it is my place to say anything honestly, I just want to make you feel better.”

The arch-princess gave a weak smile, “I think hot coco will be a good start.” She could help by feeling horrible, going through all of this at a wedding. A time that is supposed to be full of joy and happy memories. Well at least for commoners, leaders of nations come to plot and make deals. The Kemonomimi original plan was to talk to the Queen of the Aikkian but she felt unapproachable, never a good time to talk to her. She gave a sigh, scratching the top of her head.

She hoped to discuss the Akuan Conference as well as a few other things such as the development bank, perhaps even create a some sort of joint cross culture program in the name Akuanism. She has achieved none of those things. She even carried a small hope Jarl Bjørn would be here. The jarl was always so polite to her, even when their nations themselves are so opposed to each other politically. At least, he is not here and only the foreboding Queen of Aikthudr’zhur with her frozen stare.

“Arch-Princess LuPaasan, I would like a word with you.” A voice came from behind her.

The kemonomimi turned around to face the Elven queen, an enshrined spirit and rather frightening person all rolled into one. Queen Halein of House Ny’thudr’zhan, the Enshrined Spirit of the Eastern Winds.

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part one of the Coronation: The Arrival

Adrien, Ashura, Packilvania

24 January 2023

Something that most people outside of Packilvania fail to appreciate is what an old civilization Packilvania is. Many of its great cities and small towns have been continuously inhabited for thousands of years. Of note was the city of Adrien.

Buildings here looked so old that they seemed to be hewn from the bones of the Urth. The city was filled with the smells of spices and tea and smoke. The ancient city had temples around every corner. Some were small and quaint, and others were great and majestic, surrounded by manicured gardens and massive palm trees. The waters of the longest river in the world flowed through the city, a murky blue-brown color as they flushed the city.

A city of three million people, a medium-sized city, by Packilvanian standards, it is the second holiest city in Paxism. People can be seen sitting in public squares and reading and reciting, the Bas Magdamar, the central scripture of Paxism in Packilvania. Many can be seen on sidewalks laying prostrate on the ground praying. Women had their hair and faces covered with richly flowing fabrics. In the midst of it all, the Sultan, Sultana, and their entourage rolled in on a polished and sleek modern bullet train. The beautiful and luxurious vehicle seemed to be in stark contrast with this ancient city.

The ancient beauty and modernity of Packilvania were flaunted by the world, many of whom envied the extensive infrastructure and trains of this country. Packilvanians might not have been as rich as their counterparts in foreign countries like Norgsveldet, but they were staunchly patriotic and unfailingly committed to their monarch.

They showed it as the cavalcade of the monarch and world leaders traveled through the city to their respective hotels to get ready for the Coronation. Hundreds of thousands of people could be seen from the sky lining the streets roaring the name of their sovereign and his stunning consort so loudly that Noi herself could hear it.

“muShultana amin (My Sultana)”. The nobles and courtiers and the foreign dignitaries and the imperial couple got ready, putting on their robes and jewelry. Thumim said, “luKhron luhadra (It’s time)”. The imperial couple and their entourage headed the Temple of the Restoration. It was too sacred and too holy to allow non-Paxists to enter. So, the foreign dignitaries had to watch from a distance, with screens aiding them as they beheld an important political and religious occasion.

[Cryria]

Adrien was a far smaller city than Bingol - Less than a tenth of the population, all told - But the celebrations here were no less spirited for it. Bingol may have been the Sultanate’s head, but Adrien was its heart, a spiritual and cultural capital dating back over millennia.

Saga observed the crowds from the cavalcade, both she and the Sultan now ensconced in the ornate robes befitting their station on this most important day. Even now, the sense of so many eyes being upon her could make Saga’s skin prickle. After a long career conducted in relative privacy, it was an uneasy thing to be observed too closely. But these were the thoughts she buried now. This was, after all, a display as much as the Wedding had been - A display for the country and a display for the world, of wealth and power, and perhaps most important of all now, continuity. These messages were now broadcast across innumerable media platforms as the cavalcade wound its way through the prepared streets.

The sidewalks were crammed now. It was true that the procession was a far cry from the pageantry and spectacle of the earlier wedding, and instead held a degree of comparative solemnity. But the hundreds of thousands who came did so in a proclamation of support, a demonstration to the world that the Bedonite Dynasty held strong in its grand moment of transition.

It was time indeed.

The Temple of Restoration now rose up before them. A far cry from the palaces and skyscrapers of the capital, but it stood heavy with the weight of history. Here, much of the procession would remain behind, and watch the ceremony from afar while they alone entered this place where destiny was forged.

“So it is,” Saga said softly, as they stepped off the cavalcade, “So it is.”

[The_Oan_Isles]

Restoring Old Traditions

“Mother, I do not want my coronation to be the tawdry affair that was my father’s”, Thumim had said to his mother as he sat on a traditional stool and drank tea from an istikan. An istikan was a cup without a handle. Thumim’s was made of porcelain and ornamented with flowers and geometric patterns painted in various shades of blue and yellow. The brew of tea that filled the cup was strong and dark, hints of spice and rubber rising with the steam that rose and filled the tent in which he sat. He enjoyed the sport of hunting. Men spent days away in the desert living in tents, wearing thick leather gloves atop which sat falcons with black helmets. With modern technology, cameras were mounted on the helmets and the men followed the path of their birds on monitors. Modernity had subtly intruded into ancient traditions. One such intrusion was in the coronation.

“But, my son, this is how your father’s ceremony was conducted”, Mebri said. Downcast as her son dismissed her plans as merely adequate. She was much annoyed not to have him braying with joy and exhilaration at her plans.

“Mother”, Thumim said as he watched his falcon fly across the vast expanse of the desert., “Father’s coronation was marred with the indignities of the Communist regime. The comparably ascetic tastes and the lack of many of the rituals of the monarchy that were lost”.

“Surely, my son, you cannot expect us to exhume the memory of an extinct dynasty run by an alien race”, Mebri implored.

“Well, mother, you forget, that the alien race of which you refer ruled the greatest land in the world for three hundred years”, Thumim said casually, “The ritual observance that they followed hearkens to the great past of our nation which the rule of the Most High was the order and law of the day. We cannot rush headlong into a form of modernity that was imposed on us by the Communists. I want my coronation to hearken to the past. Use your imagination”.

And so Mebri sacked the entire coronation committee and staffed it with a mixture of nonagenarians and sycophants of the Demirite dynasty. She was surprised by the whimsical imaginations of the young men and women who had made it their life’s work to read up on every minute detail of the old traditions. The nonagenarians were old enough to remember some of the old ways. Despite stretching the ability of their minds to excavate the history of their nation and the human emperors who ruled over its diverse peoples.

The first of the traditions that they reintroduced was to invite many of the peers of the realm. They wore layers of robes, each nodding to his station. Dukes came first, with robes that had long trains made of purple, wearing large turbans surmounted by small coronets. Other peers had large bejeweled pins with ostrich plumes rising from them. Magisters were dressed in long black robes, hiding their hands with gloves and rising like spires formed from obsidian. The Great Magisters held black rods like shepherds leading a large herd. On their heads, they wore kalimavkions from which proceeded long cloths. They looked filled with wisdom and piety. They processed before the the great company of the empire entered the hallowed halls of the Temple of the Restoration.

To be continued

[Cryria]

January 24, 2023
The Night of the Wedding

“And three… two… one… Siusiu!”

With a single audible click, the cellphone camera immortalized Gazny Zamira’s unamused face right beside Saga Tynam’s positively sanguine grin.

“Tshk, you are supposed to say it,” Saga complained, lowering her phone and examining the image with a critical eye. Behind them, a lone fountain burbled gently while the stars rose up to fill the sky. The post-wedding celebrations had largely dispersed by now, but even at their height, the revelries had not disturbed this secluded corner of the palace gardens which Saga had by now decided to make her own.

“It is late,” the Governor grumbled, “And we’ve all had a thousand photos taken by now. Probably plastered across every screen from here to Yul.”

“So we have,” Saga said with a faint smile before pocketing her phone again, “But this one is mine. You make a happy occasion happier for me. That is all.”

“A full night’s sleep will be a happy occasion,” Zamira yawned, “Come, even Timour has dropped off by now, and your Sultan likely awaits you.”

Saga sank down on the bench, “All in good time,” she said easily, “Is the good Governor of Gazny Khot getting old so fast that she dozes off after dinner? Why, once we spent nights huddled about a campfire by the Hayagata-”

“Because we were lost,” Zamira interjected, “You forgot our map.”

“Timour did, actually,” Saga grinned, “I just took the blame for him.”

Zamira closed her eyes, took in a lungful of the cool night air, and exhaled heavily. “I’m going to have words with that brother of mine.” She moved around to join her cousin on the bench.

“Ah, come now Zamira,” Saga laughed, “You enjoyed yourself. Aspan aspanı, the look on that man’s face when we staggered into his cabin half-frozen… Ah, what was his name?”

“Khuchar… Sukh Kuchar,” Zamira recalled. “His nephew was one of the clothiers, don’t you know? For your dress.”

“Hm,” was Saga’s only remark. She tilted her head, trying to remember the fellow, “Small world,” she decided, “And there you were, being an absolute terror to the poor fellow too!”

The Governor offered an innocent shrug as she stood back up. “Sometimes you need things done right,” she said simply. “And you will need to get some sleep. It would not do to doze off during your own coronation.”

“Aysht, just sit with me a moment, will you?” Saga said impatiently, “It is a small world, Gazny Zamira. But it is not so small that I won’t miss you soon.”

—

January 25, 2023
The Day of the Coronation

The Governor’s fears had all been for naught, in the end. There was little chance of anyone dozing off during the coronation, not when the pomp and circumstance seemed fit to raise the dead. And perhaps, as Saga mused, it had done just that in a way. She could certainly recognize an appeal to tradition when she saw one, and knew enough to guess at the callbacks to the lost human dynasties that had once reigned here. A powerful statement, perhaps, but a dangerous one as well in her estimation.

But the procession into the temple had begun, and the time for worries was over as the coronation began.

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part 2 of the Coronation: The Proclamation

24 January 2023

Temple of the Restoration, Adrien, Ashura, Packilvania

After the Sultan, the Sultana and their retinue had completed the long procession, the assembled guests took their seats. In attendance were nobles, generals in the military, and Magisters. In the old days, when society consisted of castes, only people in certain ethnic groups could rise to certain social ranks. This form of discrimination embedded itself into Packilvanian society such that being born into an ethnic group defined your future and shaped your prospects. A hundred years ago when Sultana Zerah Demir IV was crowned, the nobles, generals and Magisters at her coronation would have been humans and Felines from the Shirazi people.

Despite criticisms to the contrary, Packilvania had indeed moved on from its history of caste, tribal and speciestic discrimination. The nobles, Magisters and generals here, were from different groups and species. The racial and speciestic hatred that the Communist party had carefully cultivated and entrenched had been significantly subdued if not altogether snuffed out.

In another way, Packilvania had made progress. Not only was aristocratic, military and religious power represented here, but so too were judges, important civil servants, veterans of the Carriers of Mercy and the descendants of those who died, and members of the national and provincial Legislatures were in attendance. Although Packilvania was not a democracy by any stretch of the imagination, there was a greater distribution and plurality of power than had existed than under any previous regime. The leaders of Drakkengard and Allegheny were also in attendance.

After entering the hall, the Sultan and Sultana stood in front of their Chairs of State. The Lord President of the Privy Council, a post filled only for coronations, stood on a raised step in the middle of the hall were Imams stood when giving sermons to large crowds. The stout Viscount of Jubal, stood with a microphone dangling from the air and proclaimed: “Mighty Lords and Ladies, we gather in the hallowed halls of the Temple of the Restoration under the eye of the Most Beneficent at the invitation of the Sultana Mother, to witness the coronation of Thumim V and Saga of Tynam, who by the laws of our nation, the Council of State have decreed are the legitimate successors to Namdun III and Mebri respectively”.

He raised the Scroll of Affirmation in his hands above his head and said, “I hold in my hand the Scroll of Affirmation, whereby the Profound Estimable Council of State has certified that the two persons heretoforementioned before us today are indeed the ones we are here gathered to witness crowned, enthroned, anointed, and garbed with Imperial Authority, I summon the Prelate of the Convention of the Council of Great Magisters, the Chief of the Defence Staff, the Prime Minister, the President of the Drakken Council of State, the Chairman of the Legislative Council, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and the President of Allegheny to come before me to confirm the validity of the Scroll of Affirmation”.

Slowly all the officials he mentioned came to the stage. They stood in a line and each one had a chance to read the scroll of affirmation and to walk past Thumim and Saga. The first one declared, “I proclaim on my life and on pain of death that this is indeed the one of whom the Scroll of Affirmation speaks and find no qualm with his ascendance”.

And each one as they did so stamped and signed the Scroll of Affirmation and handed their seal to the Lord President. One by one, they did this, demonstrating that they all recognised his authority. This ritual was merely a formality but it was once a crucial way to ensure that the monarch had been correctly identified and that the important power players accepted his rule. It was uncommon but not improbable for an imposter to attempt to be crowned. The purpose of each one handing over their seal to the Lord President (who placed it in a secure wooden box), was to symbolise that they put all their power and faith behind their confirmation of the scroll of affirmation and their seals would be returned after the ceremonies concluded.

Beside the Lord President, a few paces from the pedestal on which he stood, was a man mounted on a horse. He pulled a long, sharp and glistening scimitar from a scabbard that was attached to a leather belt around his waste. He was a Knight of the Order of the Scimitar, Colonel Iksan Adkhidar. He was the Sultan’s Champion.

He also proclaimed, “I say to you, whomsoever contests the ascension of our Master and Mistress and questions the Confirmation of the Notaries heretofore summoned, come forth lay your charge that I may tarry with you by the sword”.

After a few minutes of silence, the Sultan’s Champion, put his sword back in his scimitar and rode his horse out of the venue and the notaries returned to their seats.

The Lord President declared, “Do you Lords and Ladies assembled accept your Sultan and Sultana!”

Then all the people gathered in the venue declared “Long live the Sultan! Long live the Sultana! Noi save the Sultan! Noi save the Sultana!”

With that, the first part of the coronation was completed: the powerful people in the government had proclaimed the monarch, and so it was called the Proclamation. To follow, was the Oath.

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part 3 of the Coronation: The Oath

24 January 2023

Temple of the Restoration, Adrien, Ashura, Packilvania

The sounds of the audience proclaiming the Sultan and Sultana lingered in the air.

The Sultan and Sultana stood up from Chairs of State and kneeled on a low cushioned ottoman. The Supreme Magister stood before them and read from a booklet. Thumim was trying to compose himself. For a long time he had imagined what his coronation would be like. Recently, he had banished such thoughts to a dim corner of his mind and relegated them to childish fantasies. Even when he became Regent and forced his father to abdicate, he had been so engrossed with other matters, that this ceremony had seemed the least of his worries. Even when his uncles and brother had fangs pointed at his neck, the coronation was merely a tool to legitimise his authority and dismiss all doubts that the world or public may have harboured about the security of his reign.

It was now the first time that he realised that the coronation had designs that transcended politicking. It was actually a highly sacred religious ceremony that said less about the person of the monarch but more about his role as a vessel of the one Deity, Noi. It was Noi and Noi alone who was the source of life and time and days on Urth. And in Thumim’s mind, his nation was United in celebrating her. Though she was faceless, her appearance unknown and unimaginable to the mortal mind, Thumim imagined her as both a terrifying and vengeful Father and a warm and caring Mother, embodying in her person the archetypes of eternal, wise, immanent and emmanent holiness. Even though, he was known to pray and qirna (recite) the religious texts often, he often felt small and woefully inadequate when he thought of how much greater Noi must be.

An attendant held a microphone so that he could be heard throughout the hall and across the airwaves as the event was being broadcast live. He swallowed his saliva, nourishing his parched throat with enough moisture to pronounce the weight words that his grandfather the Supreme Magister would ask him to repeat.

He said, “I, Supreme Magister, shall administer the Oath of Faith. My liege, repeat these words after me: I, Thumim a-Namdun Bedon, believe that there is no deity but Noi, and Pax is the sole champion of Noi, who defeated Borg, that we might have eternal life. I foreswear all other deities and idols and affirm my unyielding devotion to the Most Beneficent, Creator and Sovereign of the Universe. I recognise only the Bas Magdamar as the rightful scripture and holiest of texts, the infallible divinely inspired text of the One Faith. I recognise the Magisterium of Paxism as the sole and final authority for the interpretation of the scripture, the ordination of imams (priests) and nawabs (prophets), and the judgement of matters of faith, and the font of religious law. I shall to the best of my ability defend, uphold, and adhere to the One True Faith and its people. I shall to protect from persecution, to comfort from want and despair, the ummah, my first charge, with all power and authority vested in me. So help me Noi”.

He grandfather gave the booklet to an attendant and picked up a small velvet box. He opened it and pulled out a golden ring with a large ruby. He looked at his grandson. They locked eyes for a moment. Tawak VII felt so deeply pleased to see the boy that had once been brutally ill treated by his father and navigate the abrupt cutting of his childhood, transform into a man capable of ruling over the greatest empire in the world. Now here, his grandson seemed to be slowly turning from a mere mortal into a vessel of a tiny fragment of Noi’s power.

He put the ring on Thumim’s finger and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes welled up with water. But he took in two gulps of air to stymie his lacrymal glands, pregnant with tears.

Prince Radeeq was the Chief Justice of Packilvania. He was the highest judge in the land and also Namdun III’s brother. This made him Thumim’s uncle. Unlike Tawak, he had not spent much time with him outside of formal events and family occasions. But when he was 18, Prince Radeeq sat him down outside the verandah of the Kemal Lodge where the family was having a small hunting getaway. He said to him, “My son, above all things be just, for one day all justice will flow from you. Be merciful, be fair and terrify evildoers, so that your realm will be one where the meak will be lifted, the gentle defended, and the innocent absolved, and the guilty punished. You may not understand these things now, but soon, you will”.

Thumim wrote it down in his diary, never fully remembering it. When he told his mother about Prince Radeeq’s words, she embroidered them onto a belt she was making for his coming of age ceremony. He had the belt somewhere in an old chest, but he brought it out and wore it (with some extension to account for the girth that had established itself around his waist). He called it the Belt of Justice.

Prince Radeeq opened a pamphlet of his own and began to administer the Oath of State, “My liege, I your Chief Justice do ask that you say these words after me: I, Thumim a-Namdun Bedon, swear to uphold the Constitutions of Packilvania and Drakkengard, to rule each nation by their laws and customs, to ensure that justice meted our in my name is just indeed, that the rule of law is preserved, that the order, peace, liberty and opportunity to which my subjects are entitled, they receive. I shall respect and maintain the independence and sovereignty of Drakkengard and Packilvania, and foreswear allegiance to any other state or entity. I swear to respect the equality and maintain the good neighbourliness of Pax-Draconica. I vow to exercise my duties as the Caliph, as the Sultan of Packilvania, and as the King of Drakkengard to the best of my ability, so help me Noi”.

The Chief Justice gave an attendant the booklet and he picked up a box. The box contained the Imperial Seal, an object made of Jade with the titles of his realm on it. Like Sultans and High Kings before him, he would stamp every law with it. He simply touched it as the Chief Justice opened it.

After, that the Prime Minister walked over to Sultana Saga. Prince Luwadeen, the Prime Minister, had been among the first that Thumim had informed. As his closest friend, he was joyful for him, but as a politician, he was wary of making a human the Sultana of Packilvania, and as the President of the Drakken Privy Council, he was wary of making a human from a faraway land the Queen of Drakkengard. He had often asked whether she would fit in and learn their customs. He came to soon realise that Saga was no common woman. She held power of her own and knew the taste of authority that women in Packilvania were often denied the change to know. She had spent the better part of a year of their courtship learning the language and customs and converting to Paxism, proving naysayers wrong. But fit in, she did not. She would do more. She would define the status quo to which others would have to find their place. He hoped it would not be for ill.

“I, the Prime Minister of Packilvania and the President of the Drakken Privy Council do ask that you, my lady, repeat these words: I Saga Bedon of Storlund and Tynam, do swear to govern the Imperial Court of Packilvania and the Royal Court of Drakkengard with diligence prudence, according to the laws and customs of Packilvania and Drakkengard respectively and to uphold the dignity and legacy of the House of Bedon, and to assist and support the Sultan-King in the exercise of his duties, so help me Noi”.

He put the booklet he read from in the hands of an attendant and simply bowed to her.

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part 4 of the Coronation: the Anointing and the Ablution
24 January 2023
Temple of the Restoration, Ashura, Packilvania

Ablution also known as wuduh in Packilvanian was an important part of rituals in Paxism. It entailed washing one’s hands, and feet in the water as part of a ritual cleansing. People do this before praying or touching a copy of the Bas Magdamar or performing any other sacred ritual.

A large golden bowl filled with clear fresh water was brought by some attendants who wore flowing traditional robes. They lifted the bowl so that he could wash his hands in it. Then they took the shoes off Thumim’s feet as he remained seated in his chair. They proceeded to wash his feet and wipe them with an embroidered cotton cloth.

An ancient tradition existed in central Yasteria where the rulers of nations would be recognized by religious authorities such as prophets and priests through an anointing. An anointing consisted of taking some oil and smearing or pouring it on the head of the ruler concerned.

This ceremony preceded the establishment of many of the organized religions as they exist today. This tradition was absorbed into the religions that were created here ranging from Southern Dveria to Ukanar province such as the Vayan religion of Vekaiyu and Listonia.

This portion of the coronation was considered sacred. It consisted of the Supreme Magister, aided by important people in the Magisterium of Paxism, praying for a fial of extra virgin olive oil and cedarwood oil on the altar.

Thumim kneeled on a small pillow and mat in front of his Chair of State and clasped both hands. As the Supreme Magister lifted the fial for everyone in the room to see, Thumim lay prostrate as though performing salah.

He then rose again, with his knees remaining on the ground. Other than the mumble of words that were spoken when the Supreme Magister prayed for the oil, not a sound could be heard. The room was quiet as the people in attendance, as well as the whole world witnessed this incredibly rare and sacred portion of the elaborate affair.

The Supreme Magister put two of his fingers in the oil mixture and smeared it on Thumim’s head, and his hands.

[Cryria]

So, this is a crowning.

It was hardly the first Saga had seen, of course. Once as a child, she had watched from a grainy old television in Gazny Khot as old Queen Ilse was borne away in a funeral urn to the black crypts of Nederborg, while her son took the throne. Once as a Duchess, she had paid her respects to the son as his corpse lay in state - No small task, when she’d had little respect at all for the man. And she had stood among the vigil in Leidenstad Cathedral on the night of young Ulrika’s coronation. A great honor, or so it was meant to be, but at the time Saga had quietly felt it to be a nuisance of a task. Like an old warhorse being asked to put on a show.

Heavens, even then I could be so petulant.

Yes, Saga had seen crownings - The old, cold rituals of the Drifting Throne, a seat and a symbol whose importance forever outweighed whichever figurehead monarch might ascend to it. Not so here where the oaths and proclamations still held ironclad meaning and power both.

Nor would it ever be anything less, not so long as they drew breath.

For power makes a fine funeral shroud.

In that much, she could feel some sympathy for Ulrika Leidensen, and what the Cryrian Queen must have felt something of on that sleepless night in Leidenstad Cathedral. The knowledge that even when all was settled and the celebrations were done, the weight of these words and the weight of those crowns would follow their every step from here to the grave.

Piece by piece, the coronation came together. The Scroll of Affirmation fulfilled, the Sultan’s Champion gone unchallenged. Bellows of support filled the hall, and as they did Saga’s eyes flickered from one face to another in that vast crowd. The assembled aristocrats and clergy, ministers of state and the tired old veterans who had brought this very throne back from the abyss. It was as though she might have sought to memorize them all, impossible a task as it was. Yet, they had come, and placed their faith in the crown - That of the Sultan’s, and by extension her own.

And I, still an outsider, the Sultana mused.

But she was no stranger to being a stranger now. In Gazny Khot and in Leidenstad, even in her own home of Tynam which Saga had so rarely seen until she was nearly an adult, she had been a foreigner. In these, she had never found her place, for none had ever been truly made for her. Instead she had forged it herself, time and again. This would, Saga had long since determined, be the last - One final homecoming to be sealed here and now.

And damn her if she didn’t do right by any place she called home. It was that same duty now being put to an oath by the Sultan beside her.

Saga’s turn came, and she spoke as clear and even as drawn steel.

“I Saga Bedon of Storlund and Tynam, do swear to govern the Imperial Court of Packilvania and the Royal Court of Drakkengard with diligence prudence, according to the laws and customs of Packilvania and Drakkengard respectively and to uphold the dignity and legacy of the House of Bedon, and to assist and support the Sultan-King in the exercise of his duties.”

”So help me Noi”.

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part 5 of the Coronation: The Covenant
24 January 2023
Temple of the Restoration, Ashura, Packilvania

The echoes of Saga’s voice as she said her oath, remained etched in Thumim’s mind, just as resonantly as the words she used when she accepted his marital proposal, “Let us have each other”.

Yesterday he had made a sacred bond with her, to be her husband through torment and triumph, through desolation and delight. And today, he was going to replicate something similar but with even more weight. He would commit himself, his life, to this nation called Packilvania.

Although he was Sultan on the moment of the end of his father’s reign and ruled for a time before his coronation, there was a salience of the weight of the office and the finality of his commitment through the very long coronation.

After the anointing was the sealing of the covenant. He was helped to his feet by an attendant. He was made to walk on the bare floor of the Temple of the Restoration. The attendants surrounded him and directed him to the sacrificial altar. The Supreme Magister had Preceded him, and waited there with a sharp dagger. The hilt was made from elephant ivory and inlaid with gold and diamonds, and the blade was made from tungsten.

Thumim made sure to show no signs of pain or even mild discomfort as Tawak VII cut a line across the palm of his hand. He held his hand over the burning pyre and made a fist, squeezing the red fluid into the flame. Little drops of it fell and made a hissing noise on contact with the fire’s heat.

A doctor, who was dressed in ceremonial ritual attire such that she did not resemble a member of the medical profession except for her gloves, cleaned the wound and wrapped it with bandaged. She bound it firmly but not so tightly as to make it difficult for him to grasp the Crown Jewels in the following part of the coronation.

As all this happened, Prince Abuyin watched from the first row as the Heir Presumptive, enjoying no position or title in the government except for the one he was born with. He was resentful and felt cheated of his rightful place as the Crown Prince in this ceremony. There were duties that he would be meant to perform if he was in that position, but instead they were distributed to various Princes.

As resentful as he felt, he was also conscious of Saga. He had mostly thought of her as primarily the woman who was married to her brother and was the symbolic head of the Imperial Court. However, he wondered, what would happen if Thumim had a tumble down the stairs and had a coma that rendered him unable to rule? Packilvania would be run by its first female Sultana in over a hundred years. But she didn’t need to wait for or orchestrate such an event. Her subtle influence on policy, such as the suspension of the enforcement of the death penalty for sexual minorities (deviants as Packilvanian bigots put it), was creeping in. Prince Abuyin cynically estimated that although it was Thumim who was being crowned Sultan, it would not be long before Saga was in charge.

[Cryria]

”Sain-uu, Älmarkii Qatun.”

The Älemsi woman greeted with a graceful dip of her head as she approached the Cryrian Queen.

“Arasho,” Ulrika nodded in acknowledgement, before slipping into Staynish, “I must apologize, but you would find my grasp of Älemsi to be quite poor.”

“Then perhaps your majesty will find my Cryrian to be more acceptable,” the Älemsi responded smoothly, “Though Tuyuideger tells me you spoke so well when you received him at Tvillingblom!”

“The Speaker is too kind,” Ulrika said politely. It was honestly probably true, too. Those foreign leaders visiting Tvillingblom rarely engaged in more than pleasantries. Diplomats presented their credentials, and occasionally more important figures paid their respects. Atop all that, the Cryrian Queen remembered Speaker Tuyuideger only as a man more interested in the likes of Prime Minister Lundberg and her uncle. She must have exchanged all of five words with him at the time.

Returning her attention to one of the screens, Ulrika watched as Saga proclaimed her oath in Packilvanian. The Cryrian delegation, like most of the others, had not entered the temple itself on account of their faith. Instead, a special setting had been prepared just beyond its perimeter. Truth be told, the Queen much preferred it this way. She had already seen the densely packed throngs of Paxist notables which had filled the temple, and found herself quite comfortable here.

The Protocol-Captain too was ever-present in her shadow. She had, alas, lost track of Ambassador Lindskog again, although she had seen him engrossed in conversation with the Celanoran Triarca earlier.

A soft laugh from the newcomer drew Ulrika’s eyes away from the proceedings again. “Heavens,” she said fondly, “I must have had those words burned into my ears by now. Your majesty should have heard my cousin, muttering them over and over again, as if they weren’t going to remind her exactly what to say when the time came!”

“Truly?” Ulrika laughed, a mixture of amusement and surprise. Trying to imagine a nervous Saga of Tynam was enough to stretch even a flexible mind. The Queen turned to regard the woman, as she tried to affix a name to that face. “Your cousin, you say?” Ulrika finally asked. No surprises there - It seemed that every one of the Älemsi guests were in some way related to the Sultana.

“Ah, my apologies,” the woman smiled, “You may remember me as Gazny Zamira. We met at the Vadkenes Climate Conference.”

Ulrika nodded slowly. Yes, now that was a name she knew. The Governor of the Gazny Autonomy, was she not?

“Ah… yes,” Ulrika said awkwardly, realizing that Zamira was waiting for a response. “I should be the one to apologize then, Governor. I did not recognize you.”

“It is no matter,” Zamira replied, her smile unwavering. She seemed to hold an air of eternal patience, which Ulrika supposed that anyone who had grown up with Saga of Tynam would require. “I will admit, I have in my life only twice passed through Cryria.”

“And yet you speak our language so well,” Ulrika complimented.

“Not half so well as I would like,” the Governor said modestly, “There is no substitute for being in a place. But I expect that will be rectified soon enough. I too am headed to Leidenstad soon.” Zamira offered a wry grin that reminded Ulrika terribly of the good Sultana. “I will be overseeing the Vocational Student Exchange Conference. Perhaps we will have the good fortune to meet again soon, your majesty.”

“Perhaps,” Ulrika said. The Protocol-Captain shifted nearby, as if she could sense a shift in the Queen’s voice. Indeed, the Cryrian monarch very much doubted it would be wise to meet with Gazny Zamira at all. The Government had worked hard to disassociate itself with Saga of Tynam, a rather impossible task perhaps, but a necessary one in the eyes of many. And if anyone was closely tied to the Tynam Egendom, it was the leaders of Gazny Khot, who themselves held a long and murky relationship with Leidenstad. Allies of the sort that were better handled by the Intelligence Directorate and the Foreign Ministry, rather than the Drifting Throne.

Ah, what was it her uncle so often said of the Älemsi ruling families?

The crossroads between petty warlords, criminal enterprises, legitimate local governments, and moneyed oligarchs, all depending on the time and place.

She had little doubt that the ever-so-polite looking Governor could embody any of these at will.

“I did not realize you had an interest in education, Governor,” Ulrika went on, in an effort to not seem overly guarded.

Zamira’s smile simply broadened, “Oh, hardly, your majesty,” she said, “But I hold a very great interest in the people of Gazny Khot. Nearly a full third of the Negdel’s exchange students to Cryria hail from there. And Leidenstad is on my way home, so I have the opportunity to give the conference my attention.”

The Governor paused, “Though I will admit, I have selfish reasons as well. Your majesty is familiar with Cirina, surely?”

Ulrika frowned, and Zamira quickly clarified, “Evaline, of Tynam.” The Queen nodded in understanding - The Tynami double-naming convention.

“Only in the most passing sense,” Ulrika said apologetically. Evaline was Saga’s niece, as far as she knew, and likely successor as well. Heavens, the Duchess had fought hard to make that so. The Queen could almost pity the girl, to have the likes of Saga of Tynam and Gazny Zamira looking over her shoulders.

“She is continuing her studies at the University of Leidenstad, and I’ve the rare chance to visit her for once,” Zamira said, “Ah, but we must certainly arrange an introduction then!”

And that was a much harder invitation to evade, for now it would be one not from a foreign official, but from the highest levels of the Cryrian aristocracy, and a newly risen member of the Forsta Kammaren at that.

Oh, there was no doubt that her good graces were being bought here. But she could demure for a time, until she knew whether to sell them.

“The University of Leidenstad. My very own place of graduation,” Ulrika remarked, “You must certainly give Lady Evaline my congratulations.”

On the screens, the coronation reached its conclusion. The Sultan shed his blood over the fire. The line of Tynam, born on a freezing Yasterian shore and raised through war, exile, and intrigues beyond counting, now returned to the continent of its birth alongside the Packilvanian throne. Despite all misgivings, the scholar in Ulrika delighted at the thought of having witnessed this odd convergence of histories.

“I surely shall,” Zamira replied with a pleasant smile, dipping her head as she rejoined her family., “That, I surely shall. Till another time, your majesty.”

[The_Oan_Isles]

Part 6 of the Coronation: The Enthronement
24 January 2023
Temple of the Restoration, Adrien, Ashura, Packilvania

After dripping some of his blood into the fire and getting a bandage, it was time for one of the last rituals of the Coronation: the Enthronement.

When the Carriers of Mercy invaded and took Adrien from the Packilvanian Communist Party in the early 1980s during the thick of the Second Packilvanian Civil War, there was a great furor about whether to restore the monarchy. There was a movement among religious conservative and nationalists to make Amhoud I, the first Feline Sultan of Packilvania. Others had wanted to put in place a republic, since Packilvania had been one for so long. In part it was based on their ideological beliefs and in part on the practicalities of vesting one man with the status and power of a Sultan.

To some, Amhoud I, was merely a politician. Even though a cult of personality had emerged around him, it was very difficult to make ideals about monarchy stick in a modern era in which people were fighting for liberation from an oppressive regime. Amhoud needed to make the case for and legitimise his restoration of the ancient and human-tainted office of the Sultan. So, he commissioned a throne to be created and placed in the Temple of the Restoration. Despite resistance among some members of the Carriers and the Magisterium, Supreme Magister Tawak VII supported the move.

With the head of the Carriers and the head of the Magisterium in firm alliance and religious and nationalist fervour permeating the organisation after the taking of the second holiest city in the world, Amhoud I was crowned the Sultan of Packilvania. As Thumim V rose up the stairs that led to the throne, he was taken aback by the scale of the history and towering figure of a man he had simply loved as his great grandfather. Although, Amhoud I’s body was interned at the Tomb of Sultans in Bingol, his spirit hung over the venue and emanated from the marble chair he had fashioned into a throne. It seemed to have been hewn from the same rock as the rest of the building. It looked more like an altar or shrine. Perhaps this was done on purpose, to make it feel less out of place.

Thumim sat on the throne to the truimphant roaring of trumpets and the explosion of a chorus from the balcony of the hall by the Temple Choir. They sang a song called Zabraan the Imam and Najdad the Nawab composed by Lord Ubriel Khanoudeen which spoke of how Zabraan and Najdad anointed and crowned Iktan the Devout, the founder of Packilvania. Trumpets played and mighty drums were beaten. The entire affair was filled with drama and spectacle as though his sitting on that marble chair magically transformed him into something different from a mere man, something embedded with a small fragment of the divine.

The Great Magisters of Paxism from across the world had assembled before his throne. Humans from Emberwood Coast and Ursine from Allegheny alike carried in their hands the Crown Jewels of Packilvania. He simply touched each one as a Great Magister announced and presented it. A blowing of trumpets and beating of drums followed the presentation of each jewel. The first that was presented to him, was the Scimitar of Justice. The second was the Ampula of Transcendence which contained perfume of myrrh. The third was the Sceptre of Authority. The fourth was the Prayer Carpet of Divine Solicitation. The fifth was the Scarf of Royal Priesthood. The sixth were the Daggers of Cunning. The seventh were the Golden Bracelets of Mercy. The eight was the Ablution Vessel of Purification. The ninth was the Footstool of Abundance. The tenth and antepenultimate jewel was the Chalice of Sacrifice. The last symbol presented was the Chest of Forgiveness. This last one was actually the only one commissioned by Amhoud I. The rest had existed for over several centuries and symbolised something about the office of the monarchy.

It was here that the mythos of Packilvanian monarchy was most obvious. The four coiled chocolate marble columns that stood in a square around the white marble throne carried a large wooden canopy carved with friezes of the history of Packilvania up to the Coronation of Amhoud I. Although Amhoud I’s moderate and leftist contemporaries thought the whole affair garish and symptomatic of the big man politics of the Communists, the visual splendour of the throne and symbolism of the spiritual restoration of the nation seemed to have superceded any further concerns. Thumim V sat on that chair and Tawak VII lowered the Imperial Crown onto his head. The Crown was made from 1200 diamonds, 450 sapphires and topped by arguably the largest Spinel in the world.

All Thumim could think about was how damn heavy and uncomfortable that horrible Crown was. With the passing of each generation the monarchy seemed to gently rise from a mortal to a spiritual office. With its divine elevation, a shift was happening on the temporal halls of power. Where once Amhoud I had ruled Packilvania like a god, his successors increasingly shared power with bureaucrats, corporate plutocrats, civil society activists, petty local aldermen, trade unionists and a diversity of other figures. The provinces were accumulating more autonomy and the army and intelligence services were diverting their reporting to the parliament. As Thumim became more concerned with praying and starting a life with his new wife, Packilvania was no longer an autocracy whose whole machinery was directed by one mind. Although dictatorial, a plurality of political and economic interests seemed to shape it to the monarchy’s expense, a trajectory that seemed unstoppable.