Beautancus
Well-Known Member
Biąly Palace, Old City
Hrodino, Greater Sarmatia
It had been many decades since the enormous bulk of the Biąly Palace had borne witness to movements of such historical significance. The great cyclopean stones of the massive edifice formed one of the architectural marvels of the High Imperial Era in the history of the Sarmatian Steppes, when the Kings of Międzymorze had debauched themselves here, in the "White, or Summer" Palace. Not quite Germanic, and not quite Slavian, and not quite Turkic in style, the towering monolith of the Royal Era had stood through the horrors of the Great War and the Civil War, and had found itself in a state of semi-benign neglect, with only a nominal staff assigned to maintain the expansive grounds of the Palace.
Mniszech had begun some secretive "public works project" around the place, supposedly to restore a once proud symbol of Sarmatian ingenuity, and after his...unfortunately convenient demise, Jozef Kościałkowsky had seized upon a brilliant opportunity- with the backing of his newly re-christened Narodowy Bezoieczeństwo Dyrektoriat (National Security Directorate, formerly the PKB) and had made the Biąly Palace his headquarters.
It had been from there, from those stone halls, restored to their original Imperial grandeur, that he had affected his complete takeover of the remnants of the Sarmatian government, and far more importantly- the Sarmatian National Defense Forces. There had, as an unfortunate necessity, been a great many deaths attached to Kościałkowsky's ascension to the newly created position of "Supreme Leader," but such facts were more than acceptable in the greater movement of human history.
The massive complex, originally constructed in the first decade of the Eighteenth Century, and then vastly expanded in the 1860's, was more than large enough to provide him with suitable living, and working space- with ample housing for his ever-expanding staff and security detachment. There was even a suitable chapel, which Kościałkowsky had taken a personal interest in restoring, and had gone so far as to entice the recently retired rector of the National Cathedral to serve as the chaplain.
It was there, in the upper-floor office of the chapel that the new Supreme Leader of the Most Serene Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia had made most of his most pressing policy decisions in the bare days since he'd attained undisputed rule. It was there that he sat now, with the rector- and newly "elected" Arch-Deacon of Hrodino, Kajetan Sołtyk; the Commissar-Commandant of the NBD, Walerian Protasewicz; Pułkownik Samuel Łaszcz, acting Secretary of State and "acting" Chief of Staff to the Supreme Leader; Marszałek Konstanty Rola- apparent Secretary of Defense and rabid adherent to the same "reactionary" school that had produced Kościałkowsky.
There was one other man, who would have seemed entirely out of place here, in this palace even a week before. He was cut a more regal figure than any of the admittedly aristocratic and militaristic men in the chapel, having been bred to exude just such an aura. His features recalled a time nearly forgotten, when the gray-eyed horse-lords of the Eastern Steppes had ridden out and forged an Empire incomparable in scope and majesty. His hawk-nosed face was sharp, perhaps even harsh, his eyes taking in far, far more than they gave away. His great, blue-black beard hung half the way down his chest, and hung in tight curls. Similarly, a single, tight curl hung down from underneath his tallit, nearly to his shoulder. Absalom Nakh, claimant to the title of Khagan of Khazaria sat with his legs crossed, rolling the whiskey in the tumbler he had been given around- inwardly as nervous as he had ever been.
Nakh had been skeptical when he'd received the invitation to meet with Kościałkowsky, but the hints that had been offered to him in the limited discussion Nakh had had with Łaszcz had been irresistibly enticing. Nakh, like so many Monarchist Émigrés had watched mostly in horror as Mniszech and his band of radical "Prometheists" had taken control of the already horridly corrupt Sarmatian government. They had watched with some sense of hope when the man had been lain low by a stroke, and had silently rejoiced when the news of his death had finally been leaked.
And then the news that Kościałkowsky had purged the "Christian Democrats" of Mniszech's Cabinet had arrived, quickly followed by news of his ascension to the role of Supreme Leader. The single most reactionary man that had served the Sarmatian nation in the past fifty years had deftly maneuvered his way into the seat of ultimate power- and was offering to have one of the living symbols of the Monarchist Era to the Biąly Palace for a drink- and to discuss "the good old days."
"So, Absalom, now that we have you here, I suppose you would like to know what all this fuss has been about, no?" Kościałkowsky leaned forward in his chair at the great, antique table they surrounded. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette, and took a long drag, his eyes drifting to Rola- who was himself half-Khazar, and had known the Khagan-in-Exile for both of their entire lives. Rola nodded, and met Nakh's eyes.
"We propose to return our society, the joint society that Sarmatians and Khazars worked for so many centuries to create, to the days of order and growth that we knew before the Crown was sabotaged by radical Republicans and Crypto-Communists. We feel that the Khazar people lack their proper spiritual heart without you in the nation. It has been one of the greatest shames of this horrid succession of national governments that such an unfortunate injustice has been done to your family. We would right this situation- have you and your family back to the nation, with all your financial supplements restored, and more importantly, your voice in Khazar affairs restored. We would only ask that you give us your friendship, in the manner that your father did the former King." Kościałkowsky quirked his head slightly, with an odd look in one of his ancient old eyes- as full of cruel cunning this day as they had ever been.
Kościałkowsky even allowed himself a slight smile at the silent interplay between Nakh and Rola. Rola knew that Kościałkowsky was entirely serious about the fullness of this plan- and would have, and would continue to tell Nakh that much. It was quite likely that all his titles and lands would be restored to him, and that he would dwell in glory in Itil once more. There would, of course, be a price. He would have to kiss the hand of this coiling serpent, acknowledging him as his liege and sovereign- support his murderous policies. It was yet unclear if the man was actually entertaining thoughts of installing himself as the King of the Sarmatians- or if he would place that burden upon his son- or perhaps even the Crown Prince in Exile? It was becoming very clear that he intended to restore the monarchy- in some degree...and very soon.
Nakh had surmised as much before he'd arrived here, but had remained undecided. The course that this man would steer the nation down would either be calamitous, or magnificent. The state of regional affairs made the latter seem the far more likely- and the stone masks of resolve on the faces of each of the men in this office impressed a certain confidence upon Nakh.
"Good sir, I will conditionally accept your offer...but only after I have seen the situation in my beloved homeland for myself. You understand that I would not force myself upon a people who have been without sure leadership for far too long. Industrialists and zealots abound in my patrimony friends- and this is something that will take time to alter. The Godly ways have been pushed aside, all in favor of worship of Baal and Mammon." Nakh lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke high above his head. His free hand ran through his beard. There were possibilities here. Indeed, if things were played carefully, there were possibilities for all here.
Hrodino, Greater Sarmatia
It had been many decades since the enormous bulk of the Biąly Palace had borne witness to movements of such historical significance. The great cyclopean stones of the massive edifice formed one of the architectural marvels of the High Imperial Era in the history of the Sarmatian Steppes, when the Kings of Międzymorze had debauched themselves here, in the "White, or Summer" Palace. Not quite Germanic, and not quite Slavian, and not quite Turkic in style, the towering monolith of the Royal Era had stood through the horrors of the Great War and the Civil War, and had found itself in a state of semi-benign neglect, with only a nominal staff assigned to maintain the expansive grounds of the Palace.
Mniszech had begun some secretive "public works project" around the place, supposedly to restore a once proud symbol of Sarmatian ingenuity, and after his...unfortunately convenient demise, Jozef Kościałkowsky had seized upon a brilliant opportunity- with the backing of his newly re-christened Narodowy Bezoieczeństwo Dyrektoriat (National Security Directorate, formerly the PKB) and had made the Biąly Palace his headquarters.
It had been from there, from those stone halls, restored to their original Imperial grandeur, that he had affected his complete takeover of the remnants of the Sarmatian government, and far more importantly- the Sarmatian National Defense Forces. There had, as an unfortunate necessity, been a great many deaths attached to Kościałkowsky's ascension to the newly created position of "Supreme Leader," but such facts were more than acceptable in the greater movement of human history.
The massive complex, originally constructed in the first decade of the Eighteenth Century, and then vastly expanded in the 1860's, was more than large enough to provide him with suitable living, and working space- with ample housing for his ever-expanding staff and security detachment. There was even a suitable chapel, which Kościałkowsky had taken a personal interest in restoring, and had gone so far as to entice the recently retired rector of the National Cathedral to serve as the chaplain.
It was there, in the upper-floor office of the chapel that the new Supreme Leader of the Most Serene Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia had made most of his most pressing policy decisions in the bare days since he'd attained undisputed rule. It was there that he sat now, with the rector- and newly "elected" Arch-Deacon of Hrodino, Kajetan Sołtyk; the Commissar-Commandant of the NBD, Walerian Protasewicz; Pułkownik Samuel Łaszcz, acting Secretary of State and "acting" Chief of Staff to the Supreme Leader; Marszałek Konstanty Rola- apparent Secretary of Defense and rabid adherent to the same "reactionary" school that had produced Kościałkowsky.
There was one other man, who would have seemed entirely out of place here, in this palace even a week before. He was cut a more regal figure than any of the admittedly aristocratic and militaristic men in the chapel, having been bred to exude just such an aura. His features recalled a time nearly forgotten, when the gray-eyed horse-lords of the Eastern Steppes had ridden out and forged an Empire incomparable in scope and majesty. His hawk-nosed face was sharp, perhaps even harsh, his eyes taking in far, far more than they gave away. His great, blue-black beard hung half the way down his chest, and hung in tight curls. Similarly, a single, tight curl hung down from underneath his tallit, nearly to his shoulder. Absalom Nakh, claimant to the title of Khagan of Khazaria sat with his legs crossed, rolling the whiskey in the tumbler he had been given around- inwardly as nervous as he had ever been.
Nakh had been skeptical when he'd received the invitation to meet with Kościałkowsky, but the hints that had been offered to him in the limited discussion Nakh had had with Łaszcz had been irresistibly enticing. Nakh, like so many Monarchist Émigrés had watched mostly in horror as Mniszech and his band of radical "Prometheists" had taken control of the already horridly corrupt Sarmatian government. They had watched with some sense of hope when the man had been lain low by a stroke, and had silently rejoiced when the news of his death had finally been leaked.
And then the news that Kościałkowsky had purged the "Christian Democrats" of Mniszech's Cabinet had arrived, quickly followed by news of his ascension to the role of Supreme Leader. The single most reactionary man that had served the Sarmatian nation in the past fifty years had deftly maneuvered his way into the seat of ultimate power- and was offering to have one of the living symbols of the Monarchist Era to the Biąly Palace for a drink- and to discuss "the good old days."
"So, Absalom, now that we have you here, I suppose you would like to know what all this fuss has been about, no?" Kościałkowsky leaned forward in his chair at the great, antique table they surrounded. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette, and took a long drag, his eyes drifting to Rola- who was himself half-Khazar, and had known the Khagan-in-Exile for both of their entire lives. Rola nodded, and met Nakh's eyes.
"We propose to return our society, the joint society that Sarmatians and Khazars worked for so many centuries to create, to the days of order and growth that we knew before the Crown was sabotaged by radical Republicans and Crypto-Communists. We feel that the Khazar people lack their proper spiritual heart without you in the nation. It has been one of the greatest shames of this horrid succession of national governments that such an unfortunate injustice has been done to your family. We would right this situation- have you and your family back to the nation, with all your financial supplements restored, and more importantly, your voice in Khazar affairs restored. We would only ask that you give us your friendship, in the manner that your father did the former King." Kościałkowsky quirked his head slightly, with an odd look in one of his ancient old eyes- as full of cruel cunning this day as they had ever been.
Kościałkowsky even allowed himself a slight smile at the silent interplay between Nakh and Rola. Rola knew that Kościałkowsky was entirely serious about the fullness of this plan- and would have, and would continue to tell Nakh that much. It was quite likely that all his titles and lands would be restored to him, and that he would dwell in glory in Itil once more. There would, of course, be a price. He would have to kiss the hand of this coiling serpent, acknowledging him as his liege and sovereign- support his murderous policies. It was yet unclear if the man was actually entertaining thoughts of installing himself as the King of the Sarmatians- or if he would place that burden upon his son- or perhaps even the Crown Prince in Exile? It was becoming very clear that he intended to restore the monarchy- in some degree...and very soon.
Nakh had surmised as much before he'd arrived here, but had remained undecided. The course that this man would steer the nation down would either be calamitous, or magnificent. The state of regional affairs made the latter seem the far more likely- and the stone masks of resolve on the faces of each of the men in this office impressed a certain confidence upon Nakh.
"Good sir, I will conditionally accept your offer...but only after I have seen the situation in my beloved homeland for myself. You understand that I would not force myself upon a people who have been without sure leadership for far too long. Industrialists and zealots abound in my patrimony friends- and this is something that will take time to alter. The Godly ways have been pushed aside, all in favor of worship of Baal and Mammon." Nakh lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke high above his head. His free hand ran through his beard. There were possibilities here. Indeed, if things were played carefully, there were possibilities for all here.