The King is dead...

Discussion in 'The World Stage' started by Jydermark-Østveg, Jan 12, 2018 at 10:16 PM.

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  1. Jydermark-Østveg

    Jydermark-Østveg Well-Known Member

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    [09:05] // Blåhuset

    Prime Minister Christian Henriksen arrived early at Blåhuset in hopes to get a better understanding of what was going on. Henriksen himself was a staunch monarchist, and understood the potential for Constitutional crisis in this scenario. From his brief telephone call with Jutish Prime Minister Olsen, the King lay in a hospital with a slim hope for his survival, and ultimately the potential for a crisis in which a successor could not be found that was desirable. This could ultimately be a reason for which a foreign power may attempt to break up the Two Kingdoms.

    Early was the fact he arrived at five past the hour. It was typical for meetings to function at quarter past an hour, as per the tradition in North. Much of these traditions could be traced back to old academics, which preceded a considerably younger, but all the while still old politics.

    The door to Blåhuset opened as he was ushered into a dining room by several staff who promptly took his coat and his shoes. A quite normal thing for Northern culture, as to wear shoes inside another’s home was quite disrespectful. Christian declined the offer of slippers, as he never wore slippers in his own home. He often wondered why shoes were considered so rude inside in the North. Perhaps it was because of how terrible the weather always was. Rain, snow, and, mud were not great things to track around another’s home for it would always leave the host something that they’d have to clean up.

    As far as dining rooms go, the room was quite ornate. A tapestry engulfed the wall the long wall that was opposite of an equally long window which provided a view of the rose garden. Blåhuset was interesting in that is was drawn out in the shape of a rectangle, with a long rose garden in the middle. The home was once home to a noble family, that had since gone defunct and the small palace of sorts was seized by the crown, and subsequently given to the Folketing to house the Prime Minister. Nearly all of the Prime Minister’s affairs were conducted from this house, and thus it served as a place of both family and the office. A neat concept as theoretically the Prime Minister of Jutmark was always at work.

    The long table that stretched across the room, over looked on both ends by portraits of past Prime Ministers sat both men who sat next to each other. Olsen at the head, with Henriksen directly to his right. Coffee was poured for both men, and a basket of pastries between them. The doors shut, and echoed softly as though a paddle of a row boat had slapped the water rather than guided the boat forward. It was a dark and large room, that dwarfed the two men. Not a single light was on, their vision only aided by the natural light from the windows that framed a gray sky morning.

    Henriksen spoke first, “If I so may, make a suggestion as to the future of this nation...” He was interrupted by the man countless years his senior. Rasmus Olsen held a certain degree of elder wisdom that emanated from his balding head. A military veteran, he held a cane that helped him walk as his knee was badly injured in a parachuting exercise that did not go entirely as planned. Olsen had his eyeglasses on, and his leaned back in his chair has he spoke.

    “With all do respect my dear Christian, my best friend has died and I have not yet even welcomed you to my home yet. Surely you do not expect me to allow you to conduct business before I had done that. Are we not gentlemen?”

    Henriksen cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. “My condolences my friend.” He nodded his head downward in deferment to Olsen’s words.

    Olsen chuckled, “My dear Christian, you are so young and full of energy. Not that age has slowed me down, no.” Olsen put both hands on the table took a deep breath, as Henriksen took a sip of coffee. “Welcome Christian, yet again to my home. You are always welcome here. Yet it has been far too long. What? What, has it been? An entire year now? I remember when you first became Prime Minister and blew the legendary horn of Østfjord. Time passes too quickly.”

    Both men chuckled a bit, the legendary horn of Østfjord was a traditionally a horn given by the King to Prime Minister of Østveg. Christian was the only one to attempt to blow on it during the ceremony. Not that the Austwegian Parliament was a very old entity. Only since the dawn of the 20th century did it come about in order to prevent the Two Kingdoms from breaking apart. At least this is what historical scholars would say.

    Henriksen nodded in agreement, “To be fair the work of a man in the Storting is not as easy to allow so many vacations as you might believe. Three years is quite long for me, I have not a clue how you have managed however many epic lifetimes you have.”

    Olsen quickly chimed in, “Seventeen.”

    “Of course. Are you ready to speak on matters at hand? I for one am dreadfully worried about the possibilities and consequences. The longer we take, the greater the chance something goes terribly wrong.”

    Olsen rolled his eyes, his glasses making the motion all the more belittling. “Very well, do speak your mind. Just know I think we will use my idea when you have finished your coffee.” Despite a possible worry from the outside world, the Two Kingdom’s Parliaments had similar parties in power, both conservative, both monarchist. So wholehearted disagreement was never in the cards, despite minority voices in the Storting urging that Østveg elect itself own King separate of Jutmark. These voices had perhaps felt Østveg had for too long been the junior partner of the Union. That Union general gave Østveg more advantages than disadvantages though. Østveg did not even have to provide for a military, although taxes and persons came from Østveg to support the Jutish military endeavors.

    The men chuckled again, and as Henriksen did not ever find himself truly bothered by Olsen’s brashness. He continued, “I believe that the time has come for us to elect a new King. We have no other option, else we end up with some random man from Eiffelland or some god forbidden lazy southern nation, who might proceed to embezzle the entire family’s, nay, nation’s wealth on his own damn uses.”

    “You best finish your coffee so that I may stop you; for, I do not foresee any election happening, nor some strange election to be scrutinized by our publics.”
     
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  2. Gunnland

    Gunnland FTR

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    [10:27] // Washbridge House

    "Didn't the last Mael Coluim die while racing, Jake? Why do these northern kings smash themselves to death in race cars?" CRASH PUTS JUTISH KING IN COMA read the headline of the newspaper that had apparently asked the question. Behind it was the Gunnish prime minister, Maria Huyldrich. She crossed her legs like a man. Maria folded the newspaper, revealing a pale freckled face with turquoise glasses and thick black hair she called 'poofy.' It did not seem like a rhetorical question.

    "I don't know, Maria. Why?" From his tone, James Blackthorn was clearly exasperated with her already. And they were still waiting to meet with Robert Gunn at 10:30 to select the new foreign office head. Leader Blackthorn -- it was Jake who controlled the most votes in the Thing, the prime minister only represented the queen -- had been exasperated with Maria Plutarska since university. He was laid back, she was uptight. He was practical, she was always lost in thought. But most of all, outspoken women were rare in Gunnland. And Maria was even more annoying to Jake because she was so conservative, somehow.

    The newspaper was open again. The prime minister seemed not to have heard her old 'frenemy.' She was not talking to him, but thinking out loud. (This annoyed Jake further.) "I wonder where Julian is in this line of succession. The Gunns have married into the other northern families since the fifteenth century. Maybe she'll become a queen twice this year." Blackthorn snorted in laughter. But Maria Huyldrich, a historian by training, made a note to do a little genealogical research that evening.
     

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