Montroulez
Forum Newcomer
- Joined
- May 7, 2017
- Messages
- 39
- Capital
- Keararzhel
Boots crunched on the snow as the man departed from the trolley. A thick bundle of dark colored furs hid all but an aged face; winter was never an overly pleasant time to be out and about in Montroulez, nestled in the northern reaches of the globe, and the recent cold snap had made things even worse, leaving this latest deposit of snow as a passing reminder of nature’s fury. Still, man was nothing if not resourceful, and the thick vine covered walls that flanked his walkway exuded their retained warmth, though not quite enough to melt the snow beneath his feet.
He could have been chauffeured, of course. The National Palace, his destination, had a heated garage and none, not even the most eager of his opponents, would have accused him of hypocrisy or privilege for having taken one rather than walking through the cold and taking a trolley like most others here in the capital. Rather, it was, however slight (for even today a train ran on that particular line every four minutes), a self-imposed penance for his failures.
Approaching the main doors, a lone soldier in green and gold waited in a sentry box, his lot to spend this particular half hour out in the wintery cold until one of his comrades relieved him to go to a post inside and warm back up. Recognizing the old man as he came closer, he sketched a salute before opening one of the doors for him. His arrival was well-known beforehand, having been telephoned before he left his office in the Bodadenn Vroadel, and in truth it was not strictly necessary. Very few things were, in the strict sense, absolutely necessarily however, and the ritual of a thing was still very important, linking and settling the present into the past and then again into the future as it was once again re-enacted.
Down the wooden halls he walked, knowing exactly from long experience where he was to go. Despite the bitter cold outside, it was pleasantly warm inside: Necessity had made Montroulezans innovators and adaptors of the finest insulation technologies man had developed as well as eager installers of district heating.
At one set of doors, otherwise nondescript compared to the others, another soldier in green and gold, a member of the Household Guard, nodded to him, saluting being forbidden indoors, and opened the door. Within the richly decorated red room were several finely upholstered chairs and in one of them sat a man reading a book before the fire, glasses perched at the bottom of his nose. To simply call him a man would do an injustice to his position, though he was certainly no superman. The slightly graying hair and chestnut eyes, slowly weakening more and more as each year went on, could have belonged to any number of men in the nation, or indeed the world. Only one of those men was the eldest son of Saloman III, however: Loïc IV, Prince Regnant of Montroulez.
“Good evening, Your Serene Highness,” spoke the old man finally.
“Somehow I doubt you believe it to be all that good Richarzh,” replied the prince, carefully bookmarking and setting aside his book before waving his Lord Councilor to a seat next to him.
“Not at all Sire,” replied Sir Richarzh Ledan with a sigh. “I know we’ve had a shaky coalition this past year, but I thought we had the votes for the budget nonetheless. Having it be voted down by more than 30 votes was rather a shock.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a letter and handed it to his sovereign.
“A dissolution of the Bodadenn Vroadel?” asked the prince while skimming through the contents. “It’s only been two years since the last election, hasn’t it?”
“Yes Sire; the dissolutions were what the three year term act was supposed to prevent, but clearly it’s necessary now,” pointed out Sir Richarzh.
“That does appear to be the case. I’ll have the Lord Barrister give it a final look over and draft out the proper wording later this evening. But stay here for awhile and have a drink with me; it’s been too long since we’ve had the opportunity for a simple chat.”
He could have been chauffeured, of course. The National Palace, his destination, had a heated garage and none, not even the most eager of his opponents, would have accused him of hypocrisy or privilege for having taken one rather than walking through the cold and taking a trolley like most others here in the capital. Rather, it was, however slight (for even today a train ran on that particular line every four minutes), a self-imposed penance for his failures.
Approaching the main doors, a lone soldier in green and gold waited in a sentry box, his lot to spend this particular half hour out in the wintery cold until one of his comrades relieved him to go to a post inside and warm back up. Recognizing the old man as he came closer, he sketched a salute before opening one of the doors for him. His arrival was well-known beforehand, having been telephoned before he left his office in the Bodadenn Vroadel, and in truth it was not strictly necessary. Very few things were, in the strict sense, absolutely necessarily however, and the ritual of a thing was still very important, linking and settling the present into the past and then again into the future as it was once again re-enacted.
Down the wooden halls he walked, knowing exactly from long experience where he was to go. Despite the bitter cold outside, it was pleasantly warm inside: Necessity had made Montroulezans innovators and adaptors of the finest insulation technologies man had developed as well as eager installers of district heating.
At one set of doors, otherwise nondescript compared to the others, another soldier in green and gold, a member of the Household Guard, nodded to him, saluting being forbidden indoors, and opened the door. Within the richly decorated red room were several finely upholstered chairs and in one of them sat a man reading a book before the fire, glasses perched at the bottom of his nose. To simply call him a man would do an injustice to his position, though he was certainly no superman. The slightly graying hair and chestnut eyes, slowly weakening more and more as each year went on, could have belonged to any number of men in the nation, or indeed the world. Only one of those men was the eldest son of Saloman III, however: Loïc IV, Prince Regnant of Montroulez.
“Good evening, Your Serene Highness,” spoke the old man finally.
“Somehow I doubt you believe it to be all that good Richarzh,” replied the prince, carefully bookmarking and setting aside his book before waving his Lord Councilor to a seat next to him.
“Not at all Sire,” replied Sir Richarzh Ledan with a sigh. “I know we’ve had a shaky coalition this past year, but I thought we had the votes for the budget nonetheless. Having it be voted down by more than 30 votes was rather a shock.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a letter and handed it to his sovereign.
“A dissolution of the Bodadenn Vroadel?” asked the prince while skimming through the contents. “It’s only been two years since the last election, hasn’t it?”
“Yes Sire; the dissolutions were what the three year term act was supposed to prevent, but clearly it’s necessary now,” pointed out Sir Richarzh.
“That does appear to be the case. I’ll have the Lord Barrister give it a final look over and draft out the proper wording later this evening. But stay here for awhile and have a drink with me; it’s been too long since we’ve had the opportunity for a simple chat.”