Pelasgia
Established Nation
Lisbourg, Escaut-ducal, Neustria
The Lys, that mighty river to which, ultimately, even the great city of Lisbourg owed its name, flowed through the Neustrian capital like the carotid artery flowing through the body of Kingdom. Through this waterway and its numerous tributaries passed both the ships that carried shipments from and to Gallo-Germania and the Sound; in the reflections of the Lys' waters, Neustria's greatest poets, authors and painters had seen the subjects of their masterpieces; on the banks of this same body of water, countless Neustrians and foreigners had spilled their blood in anything from war to revolution and all the way to religious massacres. For better or for worse, the Lys was Neustria. After all, it was in the Lys's waters that the very first Neustrian kings had supposedly been baptised. But if the Lys was Neustria, then what was Lisbourg? The city of a thousand years and stories, the cradle of Neustrian culture, the de facto capital of the Kingdom since its inception, the bridge standing between its east and west, its north and south... if Lisbourg was to be anything, it ought to be the Pont de Pressbourg—the humongous bridge of stone and marble that united the two halves that the Lys cut Lisbourg into. "Pressburg Bridge" was the obvious attribution of the landmark's name in Engellsh, named after the site of a mighty victory of Revolutionary Neustria under the Dictatorship of Armand de Leoville against half the nations of Gallo-Germania. The Revolution and the Dictatorship were gone, almost faded from memory; the bridge, however, stood, an emblem of Neustria's own historical standing as the dominant land power of western Gallo-Germania, and of Neustrians' own (perhaps misguided, in this day and age, but still very real) view that they were an independent power, subject to neither Charleroi nor Kremlyov, and certainly not Valls or Tibur. Yes, ironically, the bridge named after another city was the perfect summary for the capital of Neustria.
Still, the Pont de Pressbourg was perhaps most emblematic of Neustria because of its unintentional character. A veritable piece of history surrounded by the majestic buildings of a capital of a nation that had stood for nearly two millennia, the bridge and its environs were treated as just everyday objects by those that lived in their midst. Walking over the Lys thanks to this marvel of human engineering, tens of thousands of Lisbourgians paid little attention to all that it stood for. Like a fish in the water, the Lisbourgians considered history to simply "be there." They took it for granted. And who, in truth, could blame them?
This was as true for the married father and mother of three as it was for some of the bridge's most common users: the students of the University of Lisbourg. For the Pont de Pressbourg had the distinction (or, judging by the many stickers and crude drawing that adorned the metal grid near its edges, the misfortune?) of being the most convenient crossing from the University Quarter to the rest of the historical city centre. King Jean VII had once joked that the Bridge should be renamed to Pont des Étudiants or "Bridge of the Students"... one could wonder if he had been joking after all, given how often the students in question had rioted and protested during his reign.
Every now and then, however, there was odd person who did consider the Bridge's history: an art student from @The Federation drawing a sketch of the statues that adorned its main supporting columns; a refugee from Pressburg carefully studying the inscription bearing his homeland's name in a foreign tongue*; a pair of Tourists from @Tianlong marvelling at the Basilica of Saint Christopher, whose tall dome could be seen sticking out from the rest of University Quarter almost perfectly from the bridge; and, most rare of all perhaps, the occasional local who enjoyed their country's history profoundly, as if it were still alive within them. On that day, that last person was Nicolette de Lorraine, a humble student of art history at the University of Lisbourg, who in spite of her nom à particule** was not the scion of an aristocratic family—not that she knew of, anyway. As she snapped a few pictures of the large equestrian statue of King Jean II the Good on the far side of the bridge, whose silhouette was outlined perfectly by the sunset, she could not help but overhear a few muffled but familiar voices commenting in the background.
*II/XII A.D. MDCCCV · ARMAND. DICT. ET IMP. NEVSTR. CONTRA TYR. GALLIÆ ET GERMANIÆ IN PRESSBORGIVM VICTOR · AD GLORIAM ÆT. PATRIÆ
("02/12/1805 A.D.; Armand, Dictator and Emperor of Neustria, who prevailed against the Tyrants of Gallia and Germania in Pressburg; to the Eternal Glory of the Fatherland")
**A name consisting of "de [placename]," which is historically associated with nobles hailing from the place in question
« Mais pourquoi est-elle assez bizarre ? » ("Why is she so weird?") asked Louise Moulin, a pale, freckly blonde girl with eyes as blue and sweet as their owner was spoiled. The child of an affluent lawyer from the old bourgeoisie of Nevers (the "Old Capital" as she and all its other citizens still called it), Louise was good at heart, but also (on occasion) remarkably cruel and careless, as could be expected of one who had been born to both wealth and beauty, having had to work for neither. That she was a brilliant student was beyond question, though her professors were disappointed at how rarely she made any effort above the bare minimum. Mademoiselle Moulin could have been brilliant scholar, "if she ever bothered to sit her ass down and work for it," the Dean of Law (M. Jean Carmel) had once said. But with her father's law office set to be inherited by her or her future husband, why bother?
« Elle aime faire des rêves, c'est tout, » ("She just likes dreaming, that's all,") replied Denis Legrand, a man who, despite his name, was of rather average height. Denis had been born into the comfortable middle class of suburban Neustria, having lived a materially safe existence imposed upon solely by the demands of his parents that he always excel in... well, everything. That stress had born heavily on him, more so after the collapse of his father's lifetime employer, an airplane repair company, had brought economic uncertainty to the family's life. Most Neustrians still worked for the same company throughout their lives, and most families lived on one income (or maybe "one and a half" if the mother had a part-time or lesser paying job). The Legrand patriarch had eventually managed to be re-hired by the Société royale des chemins de fer (SRCF), the Neustrian state railway monopoly, but the few years of near-fiscal doom and near-total loss of social status had left a mark on young Denis and his brother, Paul-Antoine. They had both endeavoured to enter professions that could not be easily replaced or shocked: Paul-Antoine had become a physician, and Denis had decided to become a prosecutor. This was how he had come to know Louise... a woman who had somehow (even he was not sure how exactly) became his friend. « Et toi, tu ne fais jamais rien de bizarre ? » ("Do you never do anything weird yourself then?")
Louise sighed angrily. « Tu la défends toujours... mais l'on sait pourquoi. » ("You always defend her... but we know why.") The fair woman smiled at her own piercing remark, for she could tell from Denis' slight blushing that she had struck gold.
« Tais-toi, » Denis retorted calmly but firmly. He had told her to "shut it." Louise would have no doubt continued her attack, were it not for another of their friends, Bernard Morvan, interrupting in his typical fashion: the bearlike behemoth of a man seized them both in an animalistic hug and placed forceful, saliva-coated kisses on their cheeks, as was customary in his native region of Vretonais. « Alors, on fait quoi ?! » ("So, what are we doing?!") Bernard cried out. « On va aller au cinéma d'été ou quoi ? » ("Are we going to the summer cinema or what?") Before either of the victims of his emotional warmth had had a chance to respond, Bernard cried out to (or perhaps howled at?) Nicolette. « Mais Nicolette, ma chère, t'as pas déjà photographié cette statue trois fois ? Viens, elle sera encore là demain. Allons regarder Le roi de fer. » ("Why, Nicolette, haven't you already photographed that statue thrice? Come, it'll still be there come tomorrow. Let's go watch The Iron King***.")
***The Iron King (Le roi de fer) is a historical drama based on a book of the same genre and title by the former head of the Royal Academy of Neustria; it deals with the life and times of King Charles I (also known as Charles the Tall), who reigned right before the start of the War of Neustrian Succession (1337-1438).
Nicolette smiled awkwardly—much to Louise's anger and to Denis's relief and confusion (he enjoyed to see her smile, but why at Bernard, that brutish gendarme's son, and not at him?). At once, the younger of the two Legrand brothers seized the floor and made his voice heard, hoping to catch Nicolette's attention. « Bah, oubliez Le roi de fer, c'est la Princesse de la Rhénanie confédérée qui arrive ce soir pour se fiancer avec le Prince Royal ! On devrait assister à la cérémonie d'accueil. » ("Bah, forget The Iron King, it's the Princess of the @Rheinbund who's arriving tonight to be formally engaged with the Crown Prince! We should attend the welcome ceremony.")
Louise frowned. « Ce n'est pas demain ? » ("Isn't that tomorrow?")
Denis shook his head. « L'officielle, oui, mais ça c'est pour les touristes. Les étudiants se rassemblent dans la Place de la Constitution pour y voir le couple. » ("The official one, yes, but that's for tourists. The students are gathering at Constitution Square to see the couple.")
Nicolette, ever excited at the prospect of ceremony, smiled even more brightly—her hazel eyes shined brightly as she pictured the standards of the two princelings waving ahead of a motorcade, with the cavalrymen of the Guarde royale following in their silver and golden helmets, sword-in-hand. « Il faut y être ! » ("We must be there!") she proclaimed. This time, Denis was certain that she had looked at him. For his part, Bernard, much like his gendarme father, had no care for who directed what emotions at whom; the plan ahead was all that concerned him. « Que ce soit au cinéma ou au Palais qu'on se conduit, je m'en fous ; mais bougez-vous, alors, il faut aller quelque part quand même ! » ("Be it to the cinema or to the Palace, I care not; but move it already, we need to go somewhere either way!")
The Lys, that mighty river to which, ultimately, even the great city of Lisbourg owed its name, flowed through the Neustrian capital like the carotid artery flowing through the body of Kingdom. Through this waterway and its numerous tributaries passed both the ships that carried shipments from and to Gallo-Germania and the Sound; in the reflections of the Lys' waters, Neustria's greatest poets, authors and painters had seen the subjects of their masterpieces; on the banks of this same body of water, countless Neustrians and foreigners had spilled their blood in anything from war to revolution and all the way to religious massacres. For better or for worse, the Lys was Neustria. After all, it was in the Lys's waters that the very first Neustrian kings had supposedly been baptised. But if the Lys was Neustria, then what was Lisbourg? The city of a thousand years and stories, the cradle of Neustrian culture, the de facto capital of the Kingdom since its inception, the bridge standing between its east and west, its north and south... if Lisbourg was to be anything, it ought to be the Pont de Pressbourg—the humongous bridge of stone and marble that united the two halves that the Lys cut Lisbourg into. "Pressburg Bridge" was the obvious attribution of the landmark's name in Engellsh, named after the site of a mighty victory of Revolutionary Neustria under the Dictatorship of Armand de Leoville against half the nations of Gallo-Germania. The Revolution and the Dictatorship were gone, almost faded from memory; the bridge, however, stood, an emblem of Neustria's own historical standing as the dominant land power of western Gallo-Germania, and of Neustrians' own (perhaps misguided, in this day and age, but still very real) view that they were an independent power, subject to neither Charleroi nor Kremlyov, and certainly not Valls or Tibur. Yes, ironically, the bridge named after another city was the perfect summary for the capital of Neustria.
Still, the Pont de Pressbourg was perhaps most emblematic of Neustria because of its unintentional character. A veritable piece of history surrounded by the majestic buildings of a capital of a nation that had stood for nearly two millennia, the bridge and its environs were treated as just everyday objects by those that lived in their midst. Walking over the Lys thanks to this marvel of human engineering, tens of thousands of Lisbourgians paid little attention to all that it stood for. Like a fish in the water, the Lisbourgians considered history to simply "be there." They took it for granted. And who, in truth, could blame them?
This was as true for the married father and mother of three as it was for some of the bridge's most common users: the students of the University of Lisbourg. For the Pont de Pressbourg had the distinction (or, judging by the many stickers and crude drawing that adorned the metal grid near its edges, the misfortune?) of being the most convenient crossing from the University Quarter to the rest of the historical city centre. King Jean VII had once joked that the Bridge should be renamed to Pont des Étudiants or "Bridge of the Students"... one could wonder if he had been joking after all, given how often the students in question had rioted and protested during his reign.
Every now and then, however, there was odd person who did consider the Bridge's history: an art student from @The Federation drawing a sketch of the statues that adorned its main supporting columns; a refugee from Pressburg carefully studying the inscription bearing his homeland's name in a foreign tongue*; a pair of Tourists from @Tianlong marvelling at the Basilica of Saint Christopher, whose tall dome could be seen sticking out from the rest of University Quarter almost perfectly from the bridge; and, most rare of all perhaps, the occasional local who enjoyed their country's history profoundly, as if it were still alive within them. On that day, that last person was Nicolette de Lorraine, a humble student of art history at the University of Lisbourg, who in spite of her nom à particule** was not the scion of an aristocratic family—not that she knew of, anyway. As she snapped a few pictures of the large equestrian statue of King Jean II the Good on the far side of the bridge, whose silhouette was outlined perfectly by the sunset, she could not help but overhear a few muffled but familiar voices commenting in the background.
*II/XII A.D. MDCCCV · ARMAND. DICT. ET IMP. NEVSTR. CONTRA TYR. GALLIÆ ET GERMANIÆ IN PRESSBORGIVM VICTOR · AD GLORIAM ÆT. PATRIÆ
("02/12/1805 A.D.; Armand, Dictator and Emperor of Neustria, who prevailed against the Tyrants of Gallia and Germania in Pressburg; to the Eternal Glory of the Fatherland")
**A name consisting of "de [placename]," which is historically associated with nobles hailing from the place in question
« Mais pourquoi est-elle assez bizarre ? » ("Why is she so weird?") asked Louise Moulin, a pale, freckly blonde girl with eyes as blue and sweet as their owner was spoiled. The child of an affluent lawyer from the old bourgeoisie of Nevers (the "Old Capital" as she and all its other citizens still called it), Louise was good at heart, but also (on occasion) remarkably cruel and careless, as could be expected of one who had been born to both wealth and beauty, having had to work for neither. That she was a brilliant student was beyond question, though her professors were disappointed at how rarely she made any effort above the bare minimum. Mademoiselle Moulin could have been brilliant scholar, "if she ever bothered to sit her ass down and work for it," the Dean of Law (M. Jean Carmel) had once said. But with her father's law office set to be inherited by her or her future husband, why bother?
« Elle aime faire des rêves, c'est tout, » ("She just likes dreaming, that's all,") replied Denis Legrand, a man who, despite his name, was of rather average height. Denis had been born into the comfortable middle class of suburban Neustria, having lived a materially safe existence imposed upon solely by the demands of his parents that he always excel in... well, everything. That stress had born heavily on him, more so after the collapse of his father's lifetime employer, an airplane repair company, had brought economic uncertainty to the family's life. Most Neustrians still worked for the same company throughout their lives, and most families lived on one income (or maybe "one and a half" if the mother had a part-time or lesser paying job). The Legrand patriarch had eventually managed to be re-hired by the Société royale des chemins de fer (SRCF), the Neustrian state railway monopoly, but the few years of near-fiscal doom and near-total loss of social status had left a mark on young Denis and his brother, Paul-Antoine. They had both endeavoured to enter professions that could not be easily replaced or shocked: Paul-Antoine had become a physician, and Denis had decided to become a prosecutor. This was how he had come to know Louise... a woman who had somehow (even he was not sure how exactly) became his friend. « Et toi, tu ne fais jamais rien de bizarre ? » ("Do you never do anything weird yourself then?")
Louise sighed angrily. « Tu la défends toujours... mais l'on sait pourquoi. » ("You always defend her... but we know why.") The fair woman smiled at her own piercing remark, for she could tell from Denis' slight blushing that she had struck gold.
« Tais-toi, » Denis retorted calmly but firmly. He had told her to "shut it." Louise would have no doubt continued her attack, were it not for another of their friends, Bernard Morvan, interrupting in his typical fashion: the bearlike behemoth of a man seized them both in an animalistic hug and placed forceful, saliva-coated kisses on their cheeks, as was customary in his native region of Vretonais. « Alors, on fait quoi ?! » ("So, what are we doing?!") Bernard cried out. « On va aller au cinéma d'été ou quoi ? » ("Are we going to the summer cinema or what?") Before either of the victims of his emotional warmth had had a chance to respond, Bernard cried out to (or perhaps howled at?) Nicolette. « Mais Nicolette, ma chère, t'as pas déjà photographié cette statue trois fois ? Viens, elle sera encore là demain. Allons regarder Le roi de fer. » ("Why, Nicolette, haven't you already photographed that statue thrice? Come, it'll still be there come tomorrow. Let's go watch The Iron King***.")
***The Iron King (Le roi de fer) is a historical drama based on a book of the same genre and title by the former head of the Royal Academy of Neustria; it deals with the life and times of King Charles I (also known as Charles the Tall), who reigned right before the start of the War of Neustrian Succession (1337-1438).
Nicolette smiled awkwardly—much to Louise's anger and to Denis's relief and confusion (he enjoyed to see her smile, but why at Bernard, that brutish gendarme's son, and not at him?). At once, the younger of the two Legrand brothers seized the floor and made his voice heard, hoping to catch Nicolette's attention. « Bah, oubliez Le roi de fer, c'est la Princesse de la Rhénanie confédérée qui arrive ce soir pour se fiancer avec le Prince Royal ! On devrait assister à la cérémonie d'accueil. » ("Bah, forget The Iron King, it's the Princess of the @Rheinbund who's arriving tonight to be formally engaged with the Crown Prince! We should attend the welcome ceremony.")
Louise frowned. « Ce n'est pas demain ? » ("Isn't that tomorrow?")
Denis shook his head. « L'officielle, oui, mais ça c'est pour les touristes. Les étudiants se rassemblent dans la Place de la Constitution pour y voir le couple. » ("The official one, yes, but that's for tourists. The students are gathering at Constitution Square to see the couple.")
Nicolette, ever excited at the prospect of ceremony, smiled even more brightly—her hazel eyes shined brightly as she pictured the standards of the two princelings waving ahead of a motorcade, with the cavalrymen of the Guarde royale following in their silver and golden helmets, sword-in-hand. « Il faut y être ! » ("We must be there!") she proclaimed. This time, Denis was certain that she had looked at him. For his part, Bernard, much like his gendarme father, had no care for who directed what emotions at whom; the plan ahead was all that concerned him. « Que ce soit au cinéma ou au Palais qu'on se conduit, je m'en fous ; mais bougez-vous, alors, il faut aller quelque part quand même ! » ("Be it to the cinema or to the Palace, I care not; but move it already, we need to go somewhere either way!")
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