In the Shadow of the Cerulean Throne

[Ashkelon]

San Salvo Airport

Cesarzowa Gabryjela II, that is to say, Gabryjela Wenceslasna Bratumilska, sighed as the plane began its descent. It had been a long flight, but it was relaxing, compared to the preceding days and weeks. Filled with foreboding and a fear that lurked beneath the surface, her final days in Danmark had reopened an old wound, and brought back memories that had haunted her for years.

The nightmares never went away. As the years went by, she had learned to channel that fear into a determination, a motive, to recover the empire she was destined to rule. However, seeing all that violence in the streets brought her back to that dark, rainy night, when the mobs came, packed together that they were indistinguishable from a single, abhorrent writhing mass.

Though Danmark had indeed become a second home, it had unfortunately befallen the same fate as her first. A sad, sorry irony that had her agree with the Prime Minister's suggestion: leave, fast.

To her right, her husband, Prince Adalrik, was gloomy, and deep in thought. The two of them had met at a royal gala hosted by Federik's late father many years ago. Back then, to-be his wife was very clueless, and despite her tragic past, had managed to amuse him such that he jokingly asked her for a dance.

She had stepped on his feet a few times, but improved, once she got the hang of the dance. For a time, he had wondered if she really was the child of a Cezar. Adalrik was well aware of his family's close ties with the Imperium. Just a little over four centuries ago, another Cezar's daughter had been romanced by his ancestor Haldor I. While that didn't quite work out the way his ancestor had liked, Adalrik thought it would be good to try again.

She had proved to be very challenging, but he never gave up. And so, after a brief whirlwind romance, they decided to tie a knot, and Adalrik had managed to marry a Cesarzowa... of an exiled government. His family didn't quite think of it the same way he did, and he was disdained for such an act. But to Adalrik? He didn't care. He was more than happy to put up with all the naysayers. Not only did he manage to one-up his great ancestor Haldor I, he had also met the love of his life.

And so it was no question what his choice was when things started to take a turn for the worse. He packed his bags and essentials, and accompanied his family to the Potenzan Embassy. And as for his other relatives? He could only hope that they had the wisdom to leave as well. They had land in other countries. Why not take it? It was a bittersweet day, saying farewell to his homeland. But he sincerely believed that he was where he belonged: with his family.

To his right sat the young, precocious Princess Jadwiga, staring out the window at the slowly closing land that belonged to Potenza. She was named after King Jadwiga I of Giecz, perhaps the only Sarmatian woman daring enough to take the title of "King". Now that was a long story with its own twists and turns, but suffice to say, that King Jadwiga had taken St. Weronika's example to heart, and personally led her armies to battle as she conquered her way to the Long Sea. Granted, it made sense for a King to lead his armies into battle, but King Jadwiga had much more in common with St. Weronika than any of the Kings of Giecz.

All said and done, Princess Jadwiga did not wish to live in the shadow of her namesake. And having been raised in a country not her own, she was instilled with the belief that she should one day rule a restored Swieczieman Imperium from the Cerulean Throne itself, crafted silver and studded with sapphire, lapiz lazuli, amethysts and gold lining... the topmost part of the backrest adorned with its crowning glory, the magnificent Star of Sarmatia, surrounded by twelve blue diamonds, which, with a Cezar sitting in front of it, looked like a marvellous blue halo in the background of a painting...

This same Cerulean Throne that she had heard, now sat in the lonely, unused throne room of Bogumierz Palace, covered with a simple grey sheet of cloth, its glory hidden from all. Such a disgrace. How she longed to see that throne, to sit on it and exercise power that was rightfully hers. Of course, all it really took was the overthrow of that mad fascist mob rulership and the support of the people. And for that time to come? She was beginning to get very impatient.

She drummed her fingers on the armrest.

Sitting behind her, also looking out the window, was Prime Minister Borys Wysocki. To say that he was a humble man was an understatement. He had worked so hard for his part. Every single day, since he was first selected for a minor ministerial position in the Old Imperium as a young man, on the day that the Mezhists took the palace, and on the day he had been exiled from his homeland. He worked hard, and did only what he thought was best.

And now, what he thought was best, involved meeting with the Grand Duke, Guido III, as soon as possible, to explain a few things that he was certain, the Potenzans considered to be highly unusual. As the plane touched down on the landing strip, he adjusted his tie. It was almost time...

 

[Potenza]

The Potenzan embassy, along with the many other embassies in the Danic capitol, was becoming an oasis of sanity and peace, though it made plenty of people in those oases nervous as all heck. When the Folgore appeared from the airport, driving through the streets, wearing their berets rather than helmets and armed with their submachine guns, a look of seriousness and professionalism on their faces, the Potenzan embassy staff felt more at ease. No one bothered them, and as much as the international community had thrown a fit over Operation Retrieval in Cantignia, it was clear that the Folgore had sent the message of "We are something to deal with - don't mess with us." Spare vehicles were brought to transport the government in exile and bring them to the airport, where another Potenzan aircraft - one specifically designed for civilian rather than military use - would pick them up. From there, they would be transported to San Salvo. A handful of Folgore were on the aircraft with the government for just-in-case protection, but otherwise they were left for the most part in comfort.

At San Salvo airport, what greeted the royal family was what had greeted many foreign nobles and leaders who had come to the Grand Duchy: a line of Carabinieri on the tarmac, in parade dress, with a few limousines and motorcade of more Carabinieri awaiting them. The government official sent to greet them was Count Niccolo di Grimaldi, the Count of Turin and Lord Speaker of the Chamber of Nobles, the royal equivalent to Potenza's Chamber of Ministers. Some considered him the second-most powerful man in the Grand Duchy, because of the sway and advice he gave the Grand Duke. In some part this was true - Count Niccolo wrote the Grand Duke's speeches and gave him advice on how to handle governmental affairs, although much of it was the Grand Duke himself. Because of the Grand Duke's handicap, it was often Niccolo who went to greet foreign officials when they arrived, and served as the one who linked them to the Grand Duke back at the palace.

The heat from the tarmac rose up, causing the Grimaldi count to wipe some sweat from his brow and dust off a little speck of something that had fallen upon the sleeve of the Grimaldi uniform. It was a pleasing sight when he saw the expected aircraft arrive, landing on the ground and making its way slowly and carefully over to the line of limos. When it finally came to a stop, the two rows of Carabinieri in their smartly dressed parade uniforms swarmed forward, swords at their sides and capes flowing behind them. A lovely red carpet was rolled out after the doors of the plane opened and the stairs descended down to the ground, the scarlet trail going up to the last step. The Carabinieri snapped into attention, drawing their swords and resting them on their shoulders. As soon as the first members of the government in exile stepped out, the order was given in Tiburan to look towards the plane, and the Carabinieri snapped their necks over.

The government poured out, one by one, stepping forward. He was flanked by officers of the Grand Duke's Scorta (or personal guard), who were part of the guard that would accompany them to the palace. Count Niccolo smiled, stepping forward towards the end of the red carpet, approaching Cesarzowa Gabryjela II and bowed low, standing up and saying in English:

"Greetings, your majesty. It is an honor to greet you to the Grand Duchy of Potenza. I am His Royal Highness Count Niccolo di Grimaldi, Count of Turin, Lord Speaker of the Chamber of Nobles, and personal assistant to His Royal Majesty Grand Duke Guido III." He had to pause, thinking how much his titles had grown in the past two years. Motioning to the limos, the count continued, "I hope you will forgive the simple accommodations - even among our nobility, we are not quite as fancy as in some corners of the world. If the royal family will join me in the first limo, your ministers may follow us in the vehicles behind. Your suitcases and other equipment will be sent separately to the grand palace."

The Scorta officers opened up, snapping into salutes as the Grimaldi count moved aside, motioning for Gabryjela, Adalrik and Jadwiga. He stepped in, the Scorta shutting the doors behind them. Niccolo sat beside Adalrik, swiping some dust off his sleeve and adjusting his gray hair (really getting rid of some excess sweat that had appeared). After a few minutes, the motorcycles of the Carabinieri revved up, and the limos started to move forward. They traveled through San Salvo, going through the busy streets, the speed maintaining its pace save for a few slow downs, one time because of a stranded vehicle. The trip even took them by a bridge over the river that gave a great view of the famous Ponte Vecchio, one of the oldest bridges in the city where merchants had worked and sold their wares for hundreds of years.

"His Royal Majesty will greet us at the palace," Count Niccolo said, "and hold a personal audience with you three. He's an intelligent man-" Here the count turned to Princess Jadwiga, saying, "-and you might find something to bond with him, your highness, as he's about your age-" Then continuing to the rest of the group, "-And he's interested in discussing the future of your status in this our land."

Potenza was definitely a change from Danmark, especially in San Salvo. The Cathedral of the Annunciation's steeple could be seen over the skyline several times as the limos went on, and many of the buildings seemed older than the oldest people in city, and the people's outfits were a mix of traditional and trendy for the time period. Their motions were wild and more than one person was seen yelling at the other, though amazingly in a friendly sense. One big difference from Danmark, for certain, was that for all the internal dilemmas going on in the Grand Duchy at the moment, there was no sign on the streets that the stability was about to implode.

Some distance outside of the city, the caravan finally got to the gates of the grand ducal palace, guarded by patrols of the Grand Duke's Scorta. One of the oldest palaces in the country and one of the finest decorated, with two levels and two separate wings spreading north and west, it was not exactly like the castles of Franken or Wieserreich, it was an impressive sight nonetheless. The limos were permitted in, going around the curve that went around the large fountain out front, making up of three sprouting layers. The first pulled up front, and the Scorta opened up the doors, saluting as the nobles came out.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Niccolo commented after all the royal family had stepped out. "You know since 1815 it was housed by someone of the Visconti House, and it wasn't until recently that the Torriani House took residence in it. They have a far more historical claim to it - they were the Dukes of San Salvo as far back as the early middle ages. His Royal Majesty holds two titles, you see - Grand Duke of Potenza, and Duke of San Salvo."

He had been speaking still as they went up the steps, the doors opening as Niccolo brought them into the palace, filled with artifacts and artwork from the centuries upon centuries of Potenzan history. The other government officials were led up, though directed to another room - the ball room, as a matter of fact - where the grand duke would address them after he had spoken with the royal family.

"Just a few things before we meet him," Niccolo began, "do not attempt to help him with getting up or walking - even if it seems he's about to stumble and fall upon his face. Do not ask him how he lost his leg - I will tell you now it was from an accident in his childhood that required amputation."

Suddenly they rounded a corner, and got to a doorway. There they were, at the entrance to the grand duke's study. There, inside, they found the young, thin, dark-haired Grand Duke. He was found sitting in a plush chair, beneath a large statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, who seemed to be looking up at the sky and held a spear aloft, as if to protect whoever it was who sat beneath her, while at the same time looking up to heaven to see if there was any wisdom to impart upon those who came to her. The grand duke, meanwhile, turned and smiled at the group. At once he put his good leg down onto the ground (it had been crossed over his bad leg), leaned forward on his cane, and with some effort stood up onto his feet. This caused Count Niccolo to smirk - it was well known to him that Guido would remain sitting if he disliked someone (using his handicap as an excuse), while he would stand if he had some respect for those who appeared.

"Your majesties," Guido said in English, "welcome to my country, the beautiful Grand Duchy of Potenza."

*****

OOC: [MENTION=634]Upper Swiecziema[/MENTION] - feel free, in your response, to insert any additional dialogue or comments you want to make from the airport to the palace. I wrote this to give you something to work with, but don't feel hard pressed to only comment only on what I wrote.

 

[Ashkelon]

The Cesarzowa tidied herself up - a simple matter, given her relatively simple style of dress, and stood up as per the instructions of the captain, once the plane had settled down. What greeted her as she stepped out of the door and descended the steps was something she had not seen in the longest time. More correctly, it was her first time to see the welcome from the perspective of the recipient. Since having settled down in Danmark, she had never left the country, and indeed had entrusted all manner of state affairs to her staff. And while she had received various forms of formal welcomes before, none had been as grand as this. That was not to say that Danish welcomes were any lesser, but she had always gone to galas to mingle with others in high houses. As such, she was never the sole guest of anything, always receiving something that someone else had gotten. That this was meant only for her family was the main factor, a gift from Potenza to them.

Gabryjela fought back a tear as she approached the official sent to welcome them, and curtsied quietly as he introduced himself and apologised for what he considered a more humble reception. Prince Adalrik and the precocious princess had of course followed in kind. "A pleasure to meet you, your highness," she answered with a nod, "And I assure you, that this welcome is very well received. We are only relieved to have arrived without incident, and I am certain that the escort we had been sent had much to do with that."

"We thank you for your generous hospitality," said Prince Adalrik, having examined the presentation. "Even a quiet arrival at a private strip would have been enough for us, I admit, but you instead gave full honours. We're touched."

Princess Jadwiga was more concerned with getting things over with, as she had wished to resume sketching things on her personal sketch pad, which she had to put away, due to the speed at which the plane traversed the mainland. Her impatience was subtle, but it was definitely bubbling beneath the calm exterior. Finally, after listening to her parents and the Count exchange formalities, her mood lightened as they were escorted to the first of the waiting convoy of limos. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Prime Minister ushered into his own, along with the rest of the cabinet. Clearly, he was going to enjoy this ride.

She never liked that Wysocki. He had always seemed too passionate, too active. Were there really people like him, who went out of their way to give everything for a cause? And that sway he held over her mother was simply revolting. Why was it that she trusted him so much? Sure, she had explained before that he had only the highest recommendations from the cabinet and his predecessor, and sure, he had always worked hard, perhaps the hardest, in the Imperium's efforts to oust the Mezhists. But this one question plagued her mind.

Where were the results?

He lobbied for international support, and yes, it came. But the Mezhists remained in power. He organised an underground resistance, which performed a few daring actions, such as raiding the treasury to recover funds illegally confiscated by the regime. But the counter-revolution had yet to bear any fruit. Sure, many great efforts took time beyond a single lifetime. But surely, with somebody as hard working and charismatic as Wysocki, would it not have been accomplished much faster, rather than taking so many years?

To her, the answer was simple. He was an incompetent masquerading as a visionary. And the first thing she planned to do upon becoming Cesarzowa, was replacing him with somebody who could get results.

She followed on into the limo and took her seat, trying to enjoy the view. To say the least, Potenza was a very different place from Danmark. There was a certain, relaxed atmosphere, a warm openness that combined with respect they showed each other. More importantly, the architecture oozed with brilliant, ripened age. She was looking out at history. From the oldest structures made by Tiburan hands, to the mangificent spires of the Cathedral, the princess imagined the steady descent from the centuries before, down to the reality of today.

She drew out her sketchbook and began a quick draft of the Ponte Vecchio, but turned in a little surprise as she heard the Count's quip and her parents' approving murmuring about the idea. "Really?" Now, a switch flipped in her head. Unlike the Intermarium that was the sacred homeland, Potenza was an overseas power, with territory in the west, and in the east. That gave it the kind of reach that not even King Bogumierz I had conceived. And if she could influence that territory, then...

The Princess smiled. "Yes, I think I just might."

"Marvellous," Gabryjela II gently clasped her hands at her daugher's reaction. "I see a bright future, I'm sure." Though she kept herself reminded of the current state of affairs, she could not help but wonder. Was there some possibility of a change in the temporality of the arrangement? But what would that achieve? Surely, it had been her long dream to return to the homeland, to once again walk the sacred Halls of Giecz, to find her family and give them the burial they deserved, and a funeral that would put Stukow's pretentious one to shame. Perhaps, somehow through Potenza, they would one day be able to make headway with the counter-revolution.

As she stepped off the limo, the Cesarzowa looked up at the sight of the Grand Ducal Palace. As the Count had said, it was beautiful. Certainly, it was by no means an equal to Bogumierz Palace. The Halls of Giecz were among the most lavish in the world. However, it was greater still than Prince Adalrik's ancestral home, and much more impressive than her residence in Christiansborg. This was without a doubt, a manor fit for royalty.

"He understands how we feel, then," she answered. "To be away from our rightful home. There will most definitely be much to discuss."

Gabryjela glanced at their daughter, who, as expected, was captivated by the extensive collection of art. She took the princess by the hand and softly pulled her along, lest she get left behind, or worse, wander off and get lost in this glorious display.

The Cesarzowa and her family listened intently to the important pointers that the Count had to share with regards to the Grand Duke. That he had lost his leg in an accident was perhaps, physically unfortunate. However, she was quite certain to herself that this was a man who thought nothing of such a disability. Otherwise, he would not be in charge of this country at all. She viewed it as something of a blessing, to know that the Grand Duke had such a mark of honour. Any lesser man would have grown up into bitterness at such a loss, while Guido III instead fought his way to his rightful place.

Surely, he was a man with strength and unyielding determination. This was a man who had earned his right to rule.

As they came face to face with the Grand Duke and his guardian statue of Athena, this strength was soon revealed as he stood up and welcomed them. The Cesarzowa acknowledged his greetings and curtsied, followed immediately followed by her family. "And we are most glad to be here, Your Majesty. You honour us with your hospitality, and we cannot thank you enough."

The Prime Minister found himself and the rest of the officials separated from the Imperial Family, and ushered into the ballroom. Sure enough, the preparations were generous, and they found themselves sitting down with some refreshments while they waited for the Grand Duke to give them audience. He wondered when exactly he would get the opportunity to speak to His Royal Majesty in private, however.

Most of the others in this room who held office were not quite aware of what was going on, after all. Still, all he could do now was wait.

 

[Potenza]

"We are peers," said the grand duke, putting a hand behind his back, "it is only right that peers treat one another as equals, correct? I am representative to all of Potenza, so I must make a good impression."

The representational aspect Guido spoke of was no doubt taken from Niccolo's own doctrine of Neo-Reactionism, which sought to restore, maintain or strengthen monarchical systems of government. Part of it involved the monarch being a representation of the people, not only before them but before world leaders and international bodies.

"Won't you majesties please sit down?" Count Niccolo asked, waving to several plush, decorative chairs and even a lovely, antique couch near Guido's own seat. The grand duke waited until all had seated themselves, then sat down himself. Niccolo remained standing for his own part, taking a place near the Athena statue as if to remain, for the most part, behind the scenes.

"The flight was pleasant, I hope?" Guido asked. "And the Folgore behaved themselves? Also, if you don't mind a silly man like myself bombarding you with so many questions, what is going on in Danmark right now? The news is very unsettling, both from our ambassador and from the international media."

The grand duke appeared to be addressing the queen and the prince. He did not seem, at least right now, to have really noticed the princess to any large degree.

 

[Ashkelon]

"I believe you've made a very good impression, Your Majesty," the Cesarzowa chuckled as she sat down and adjusted into a comfortable position. The chair was of excellent furnishing, wholly fit for a King's study. One could imagine the occasional higher-up guest sitting down here and having tea whilst discussing some relaxing affair away from politics. "We are thoroughly impressed. With the flight, the reception, and most certainly with your troops."

Prince Adalrik nodded as he gave the seat a pat. "Right down to the furniture. As for Danmark... things don't bode very well. I don't exactly know what happened to us. But I gather things took a turn for the worse after that affair with the Agderike. Succession crises really are the bane of a monarchy."

The prince went on into details about the riots, and the shootings, and the misunderstandings, and how there was now a vast gap between Danish Germans and Danes, and how even the international media coverage was only a brief synopsis. That it was far more brutal on the streets themselves, even in the rural country of his family estate. He'd phoned them before they left the embassy. Hopefully, they had the good sense to leave before things went further downhill, if it hadn't already. To hell with noble pride. It could always be restored if they played their cards right elsewhere.

It was a melancholy tale, experiencing the decline and fall of the Danish Imperium from within. And what could have prevented this? To Prince Adalrik, it was simple. "A stronger King, who would have asserted his rule over Agder and Fey directly, rather than relying on committees and such to fetch him the crown. Their culture was very different from ours. They didn't have a parliament in the sense of the word. Frederik was a modern man. And while it was all well and good, he saw this difference too late. And from there? Well, you can see what has become of them now. The puppets of self-righteous Republics who treat democracy like castor oil. Yes, democracy is not a bad ideal. But does it have to be shoved down one's throat? Can it not exist within a monarchical system?"

The Cesarzowa cleared her throat.

"Ah, my apologies, Your Majesty. I lost control of myself. Thank you, Jela."

Though half-Danish herself, Princess Jadwiga did not really care all that much for Danmark, outside of it having hosted her, and having been a close ally of the Imperium in its glory days. Now that it was gone, or at least, the Danmark that hosted her, and sided with Sarmatians, then she had no reason to be sentimental about it unlike her father, a clear Danish noble who could trace his roots back hundreds of years. What was most important to Jadwiga was to retake the Cerulean Throne, a passion burning within much like her namesake's desire to expand the Imperium's power to the Long Sea. She nodded automatically in her slouch - reminiscent of Cesarzowa Liljana the Great, with one elbow rested on the armrest and hand tucked neatly under the chin - as the prince told his tale, a semi-bored expression plastered to her face.

When her mother had finally gotten the sense to have him shut up, her features notably lightened up, and she adjusted her posture to one of alertness. Now unless it was all up for appearances, what with the art gallery, and this particular display, no doubt he had an appreciation for the fine arts. Surely, then, the Count was not mistaken in his jibe that they had at least one shared interest. "The Goddess of Wisdom and Intelligent Warfare," she started. "She is a very interesting choice of muse, Your Majesty. The greatest of Sarmatia's reigning Queens and Cesarzowas have used her as inspiration."

Her eyes briefly darted to her mother, who was quiet and contemplative, a sign that meant she had no objections, before returning to the statue to appreciate its marvellous design. "Outsiders and even Sarmatian commoners might think St. Weronika was their main model, but only in part. Weronika's heart and passion were in the right place, but she herself was not the greatest of strategists. Good, and perhaps even very good, but not exceptional."

 

[Potenza]

((OOC: Crap, how did I miss your last post?! My apologies for the late response ))

Some women in traditional attire - the servants of the grand palace - came in, moving trays forward with water and tea on them, gently handing out the teacups on saucers, not saying a word or meeting any eye contact. Guido and Niccolo didn't seem to pay them any mind either, though Guido did reach out and take the teacup by the handle, lifting it to him mouth and sipping the beverage as he listened to his new guests. The servants bowed their heads low as they finished, walking out without turning away from any of the royals in the room. It wasn't until they were out of the room that they turned away and left.

"A pity about Danmark, indeed," Guido said, listening to the prince's account, "I had the honor of meeting the Danic nobles a few times...including that Prince Christian, who appeared to want to add my sister to his list of conquests." At that, Count Niccolo pursed his lips, as if to keep himself silent...perhaps he knew something about the Countess Francesca's hand in that which Guido was not alert. "Unfortunately, I think the Danic monarchs became too proud too soon. One of my ancestors had a fine warning about leaders who find success after success: 'A turtle never sticks his head far enough to have it cut off.'"

At the mention of democracy, Count Niccolo's eyes seemed to light up, and he turned to face the foreign royals, stepping forward and placing a hand on the top of the grand duke's chair. It was a subject he wrote on with passion and one he was more than happy to comment on:

"It is quite all right, your highness. An elected body can exist in a monarchical system, provided that the monarch does not sacrifice his power to the mob. A stable monarchical government body can provide a counter to the unpredictable nature of democracy. We have a similar system here in Potenza, and it seems to have worked since 1815."

It was then, as things went quiet, and the "boring" topics of politics and Danic government came to a close and a silence settled, Princess Jadwiga seemed to leap from the knuckle under her chin and look up at the Athena statue, which stood out to her among the statues and paintings in the room. Count Niccolo visibly noticed her attention and beaming excitement as she suddenly spoke up:

"The Goddess of Wisdom and Intelligent Warfare. She is a very interesting choice of muse, Your Majesty. The greatest of Sarmatia's reigning Queens and Cesarzowas have used her as inspiration."

At those words, the grand duke slowly turned his gaze from the queen, moving his dark eyes slowly towards the princess. Those same eyes locked onto her, a small gleam in them but withholding talking just now, as if meditating on those words she had just spoken. Finally he slowly turned into a smile, saying aloud:

"Ah, Athena," he said, glancing up at the face of the goddess, then turning back to the princess, "yes, she's been a source of motivation for a long time. I used to spend time under her as a child, when we Torriani were forced to reside in the Duchy of Venosa. When we moved back to our rightful home in San Salvo, I had to bring her with me, of course. Sarmatia's queens and Cesarzowas have good taste, then."

The princess continued, "Outsiders and even Sarmatian commoners might think St. Weronika was their main model, but only in part. Weronika's heart and passion were in the right place, but she herself was not the greatest of strategists. Good, and perhaps even very good, but not exceptional."

"Most Potenzans look to quite a few saints for inspiration," the grand duke said, "there's Saint Salvo, whom this city is named after. He lived long ago, in the time of Ancient Tiburan Empire, and accompanied an army that fought the barbarians attempting to destroy the entire Potenzan region. I suppose some might consider him a good strategist, although he was martyred before the bigger battle that happened at the end of the campaign. He even predicted the defeat of the barbarians before he was killed-"

"If the hagiographies are to be believed," Count Niccolo suddenly added, still behind the grand duke's chair.

However, the grand duke seemed to be completely oblivious to his right hand man. Both eyes were still on the princess, hands holding the saucer and teacup tenderly, as if the Grimaldi count and fine tea no longer meant anything to him. The count had to admit he had never heard the grand duke speak so freely before, except only towards his sister, the Countess Francesca. Guido continued to speak:

"And then there is Saint Lucia, who traveled across much the land in the middle ages, although she was mostly known for her charity and medicinal work - not strategy. However, after her is Saint Gomberto di Mercurio, a monk general of sorts who led the campaign against the Aren Empire of the North when they attempted to take the Potenzan region. You'll find he's a popular saint among our generals and soldiers - he's well known for his humility, cunning and strategy. Count Niccolo, you have a painting of him up at your palace in Turin, correct?"

The Grimaldi count snapped out of a stupor, as if he had realized beforehand that the grand duke wasn't truly listening to him, "Yes, your majesty - that is true, a large painting of him on horseback."

"Perhaps I should acquisition it from you?" the grand duke asked, smirking as he turned to face his Lord Speaker. "For our Sarmatian friends?"

Count Niccolo cleared his throat, as if actually somewhat offended the grand duke would suggest such a thing - clearly, that painting meant a lot to the Grimaldi House, whose dukes Gomberto had served under, "I could acquisition a print for you, your majesty."

"That might be more appropriate," the grand duke remarked, turning back to the princess, "so...you are a student of history and art, your highness?" His words were almost like a boy at a bar, the Grimaldi count had to admit...what did this mean? His gray eyes trailed from the princess to the grand duke, then back to the princess and the grand duke. What had become of his monarch?