Mora Legionow

[Tyvia]

The sable and gules fluttered loudly, its rectangular shape borne gracefully in motion by the meek eastward wind. A sullen gloom hung in the heavens above, grey masses of vapor and cloud coming torpidly together above their heads. It was the aegis of the stormy season upon this coastline, the raging tempests of this sea having plagued shipping for centuries. The Šidajici's had labeled the green waters of this long bay as the 'Mora Legionow', the Legionary Sea, a tribute of sorts directed to the Tiburan Legionnaires of old. Those who resided across the sleek emerald waters undoubtedly called it a different name though, mused the heavy-set Sarmatian gentleman, his features contorted in an almost perplexed manner as he gazed up at the skies. A quick glance to his watch would only confirm his suspicions, his equal would be here for their pleasant jaunt into the sea soon enough. A smug grin spread across his lips, the pale-grey of his eyes directed towards the gangway.

There was a plain lack of formality, such having been realized by the authorities in charge of arranging this event. Whereas the Commonwealth Šidajica had built out for itself reviled and adored the tedium of bureaucracy, the Militant Republic instead preferred blunt simplicity. There would be no displays of grandeur, no archaic trinkets placed lavishly about. But for a simple Oaken table, laid upon the center of the yacht's front deck, there was nothing in the way of decoration externally. Only the portentous standard of the Commonwealth and of its 'eternal republic' straddled a pole limply extending from the bow, nothing else. Set upon the oaken surface were a few selections of vodka and whiskey, some of it of Živ and Kassieopijan import in addition to local brew.

The Šidajicite clicked his tongue, clad himself in spartan grey livery. It was the dress uniform worn by officers within any military institution of the Commonwealth, including those of any of the various Adjutantcies and Commissariats. But a single pin amongst many upon his left breast could mark him out as a representative of the Presidium itself, it an ornate yet plain thing; a silver circle with a bright crimson starburst in the center of it, only three rays shining out in each direction. An aide would informally address him a moment before his guests arrive, simply offering him information of such. The Šidajicite would remain laconically still as they would make their way up the gangway to the wooden deck of the steel-grey yacht.

A cursory glance was shot between whatever man the Militant Republic had sent and the man who had led him aboard. With a terse gesture, the white-uniformed sailor would file away from the delegates, his destination being obviously the helm. Two others began to pull up the gangway, starting to undo the restraints which hold the vessel in port.

Taking a step forward towards his equal, the surname 'Federovic' emblazoned upon his uniform, the tanned gentleman held out his hand. A thin smile wrinkles across his face as he speaks in slightly accented Živ, "Might I interest you in some fishing following our discussions?"

 

[Thaumantica]

Resurrection of his life's earliest memories bore through long suppressed emotional recollections of the past. Feeling ridiculed in years of puberty, Pukovnik (O-5) Martić suppressed all childhood aspirations of being a Naval Commander, sweet and salty dreams of floating blissfully at sea with the wind in his smooth blonde locks.

"You'll never be a sailor you imbecile!" his father had scolded, "Look at the map, son. Životinje is landlocked, that would be like a Francophone Commanding an Army. . .Most entirely ludicrous!" his 4th Grade History teacher reminded with a cold chuckle.

Still yet this musing of seaborne adventure resonated with him to this very day. In Sjadnbrdo, the lime stone Militant Capitol of the Central European nation of so called savages and capitalist blood drinking hounds, Maresal Huszar had held a round table conference to select one spokesperson for the Union delegation to the Commonwealth of Šidajica. In this convocation of various sachems in the uniformed services, only he had the audacity to accept a role of leadership over a modest deputation to their western slavic colleague.

"Gladly, I'd be god damned glad to follow business with leisure!" Martić exclaimed with giddiness firmly restrained. Fishing was the only masculine association a Živ was permitted to have with the aquatic world, so the Commander counted on it as a personal hobby of his to pacify the mind after or before strenuous challenges.

Deep within the confines of his soul, brewing contently like a rabbit stew, he felt strangely at ease here aboard this foreigners ship in an alien realm. Stony-faced and stern Martić glared towards the oak table, "Do us both a favor and have someone start serving drinks, before I sprawl across this cabin to get one for myself". Relations externally had to be a dish best served cold, whether on a personal level Martić revered his nonnative brothers for their damp privileges or not.

His face fit between a short cropped hair style and a set of sideburns that flirted with being out of regulation. It was warm, or so his wife described it to him on pillow side, that face ordered to remain indifferent and cold to all matters by his superiors. Many had described him as attractive in the past, though it had not gone to his head, in fact he was rather self-conscious and critical of his appearance in uniform. He viewed his features as rather boy-like, a psychological tribute to his father and mentors scolding and belittlement.

Briefed earlier in the week on potential repercussions for upsetting what the Maresal saw as propitious indications relational harmony, Martić humbled the urge to babble any further. His thirst was literal, however. A spot of liquor was precisely what he yearned for at this juncture, and he would be attending to that craving before long without his new contacts if need be.