Pelasgia
Established Nation
Makri, Makriotica
The smell of dump foliage and sand filled the air; it had rained overnight, making the otherwise arid atmosphere of Pelasgia's southernmost island quite damp. Despotess Anastasia quite enjoyed that smell, and had done so since childhood: it reminded her of the forests on the Island of Despotikon, whose damp and rainy climate combined with thick pine forests to create a uniquely pleasing and strong version of this smell. Except during springtime, she thought, recalling how the pollen of the pines would combine with the rainwater to create a thick yellow moss all over the cobble streets of the islet's towns, the smell of which would make her sensitive skin turn red and itch, while also giving her a runny nose. Alas, those times where long past—she had hoped to bring Tivyros Argyropoulos or Andronikos Angelopoulos following her wedding, but the former had been bought out by her father for less than one of the high-class prostitutes the late widower-emperor used to frequent and the latter had disappeared since then assumption of power by the new dynasty. Last she had heard of him, he had been arrested by his own men after attempting to resist the Nationalists' seizure of power in Propontis; the same day, an unmarked helicopter had been spotted over Despotia, flying to Rhodokastellon Naval Fortress. No doubt, he had little chance of making it out of there alive. It is a good thing that I did not conceive after our... mistake, she reasoned, wondering whether it had been Angelopoulos, rather than his ex-wife, who had been to blame for their childlessness after all.
As she walked the beach (with some agents of the Krypteia following her discretely in the distance), Anastasia, who was now a Despotess only in name, caught sight of some of the warships in the distance. The Megas Doux had once explained the different classes to her—during a particularly boring official dinner—and she recognised them as transport ships, most likely ferrying tanks and other materiel to the island. As she paused to see her father's erstwhile banner flying above the small flotilla, Anastasia Komnenopoulaina saw that a child was also waiting, just at the edge of the fencing that covered the perimeter of the nearby military dock. Normally, guards warned off passersby who loitered, but they had probably figured that the child was no threat. «Τὶ κανεὶς ἐδῶ ὁλομόναχος μικρέ μου;» ("What are you doing here all by yourself, little one?") the Despotess asked, approaching the boy. Her Krypteia "observers" drew a bit closer, as they always did whenever she interacted with anyone.
«Περιμένω νὰ δῶ ἕναν Πελασγόν.» ("I am waiting to see a Pelasgian,") the boy answered, speaking with a particularly heavy accent and in the local dialect. He must have been from one of the nearby fishing villages no doubt. «Μὰ ἐσὺ δὲν εἶσαι Πελασγός;» ("But aren't you a Pelasgian?") the slender, pale-skinned woman asked, raising one of her red eyebrows. «Οὔχι, ἐγὼ εἶμαι Τιβυραῖος.» ("No, I am Tiburan,") the boy answered, as if he was stating the obvious. Stepping back, Anastasia stared out into the azure main again with a pensive gaze. Back in Propontis, in Pelasgia's core regions, the transition to a nation-state had been obvious, almost natural; the terms "Pelasgian" and "Tiburan" had been quite synonymous for a long time. But out here, to these people, it was not at all obvious that this new nation-state was a thing at all. Old, local loyalties and a reverence for tradition where the glue that held such antiquated communities together; the flag, the law, the judge were not to be respected because they represented the nation, but because they existed "by Divine Right." An anachronism, but a very human one.
Turning around, Anastasia tightened the black coat that covered her purple dress and headed straight home—if one could call the luxurious prison that she had been "granted" that. It was a beautiful and quite elegant residence, the old home of a defunct aristocratic family from the island which had been seized by the State for unpaid debts and was now used as an official guesthouse of sorts. The Despotess was surrounded by a small army of servants, who were slightly more discreet in their espionage than her ordinary Krypteia guards. Not that this was out of the ordinary for her, but now that her immediate family was out of power, it felt slightly more nefarious than usual. At any rate, she directed the most trustworthy of the servants in question (Katerina, a half-Thrakian like herself), to bring her paper and the sort of special ink that the Imperial Family used for official documents. «Γιὰ ποιὸν σκοπό;» ("What for?") had been the obvious question; Anastasia Komnenopoulaina knew that the Government was asking through her maid's mouth, but she cared not, for the answer was innocuous. «Γιὰ νὰ γράψω στὸν εὐσεβέστατο Βασιλέα μας καὶ νὰ τοῦ ζητήσω νὰ μοῦ ἐπιτρέψει νὰ ἐργαστῶ ὠς δασκάλα σὲ ἕνα τοπικὸ σχολεῖο. Ἀν εἶναι νὰ μείνω ἐδῶ, ἀς θέσω τουλάχιστον ἐαυτὸν στὴν ὑπηρεσία τῆς χώρας.» ("To write our most pious Emperor and petition him to let me work as a teacher at a local school. If I'm to stay here, I wish to at least make myself useful to the country.")
11 January 1967
The roaring of the ocean sounded as the sea crashed onto the rocky coast of the island. From the harsh southern shore of Makri, the locals could see a small flotilla of ships returning. They were transiting the Sea of Dahab, or the Klysma as the Pelasgians called it, returning from the harsh, distant lands of the Far South. All the ships bore the Empire's civil ensign: a yellow flag with a black cross surrounded by four capital betas. On their bow was painted a large cross, the symbol of the Far Southern Company, known in common parlance as the Southern Cross.
«Τὰ φαλαινοθυρικά!» (“The whalers!”) shouted Loukas, pointing to the flotilla. «Ἐπιστρέφουν!» (“They’re back!”)
As the ships drew closer to the Empire’s southernmost isle, a pair of coast guard vessels, one cutter and one light corvette, approached. The attacks upon PFSC vessels in recent years had grown more frequent, as the global anti-whaling movement became radicalized. True, whaling was only a minor part of the PSFC’s globe-spanning activities, but Pelasgia was probably the foremost whaling nation outside of Toyou and the former Scanlaw.
For most, the flotilla represented mystery and adventure: a sense of heroic feats in an age when cold reason had come to dominate even in Europe’s last quasi-theocracy. But for Christophoros, Loukas’s brother, it represented something more concrete: the chance for a life off Makri, off the accursed, sun-scorched faraway corner of the Pelasgian world. As he saw the assortment of whalers, cargo vessels and research ships approach, observing from the hill where stood the tiny all-white chapel of Saint Andrew, he could almost picture himself atop one of those metal leviathans, sailing straight for Propontis. With enough luck—and even more guts and wits—he could just make that dream a reality.
The smell of dump foliage and sand filled the air; it had rained overnight, making the otherwise arid atmosphere of Pelasgia's southernmost island quite damp. Despotess Anastasia quite enjoyed that smell, and had done so since childhood: it reminded her of the forests on the Island of Despotikon, whose damp and rainy climate combined with thick pine forests to create a uniquely pleasing and strong version of this smell. Except during springtime, she thought, recalling how the pollen of the pines would combine with the rainwater to create a thick yellow moss all over the cobble streets of the islet's towns, the smell of which would make her sensitive skin turn red and itch, while also giving her a runny nose. Alas, those times where long past—she had hoped to bring Tivyros Argyropoulos or Andronikos Angelopoulos following her wedding, but the former had been bought out by her father for less than one of the high-class prostitutes the late widower-emperor used to frequent and the latter had disappeared since then assumption of power by the new dynasty. Last she had heard of him, he had been arrested by his own men after attempting to resist the Nationalists' seizure of power in Propontis; the same day, an unmarked helicopter had been spotted over Despotia, flying to Rhodokastellon Naval Fortress. No doubt, he had little chance of making it out of there alive. It is a good thing that I did not conceive after our... mistake, she reasoned, wondering whether it had been Angelopoulos, rather than his ex-wife, who had been to blame for their childlessness after all.
As she walked the beach (with some agents of the Krypteia following her discretely in the distance), Anastasia, who was now a Despotess only in name, caught sight of some of the warships in the distance. The Megas Doux had once explained the different classes to her—during a particularly boring official dinner—and she recognised them as transport ships, most likely ferrying tanks and other materiel to the island. As she paused to see her father's erstwhile banner flying above the small flotilla, Anastasia Komnenopoulaina saw that a child was also waiting, just at the edge of the fencing that covered the perimeter of the nearby military dock. Normally, guards warned off passersby who loitered, but they had probably figured that the child was no threat. «Τὶ κανεὶς ἐδῶ ὁλομόναχος μικρέ μου;» ("What are you doing here all by yourself, little one?") the Despotess asked, approaching the boy. Her Krypteia "observers" drew a bit closer, as they always did whenever she interacted with anyone.
«Περιμένω νὰ δῶ ἕναν Πελασγόν.» ("I am waiting to see a Pelasgian,") the boy answered, speaking with a particularly heavy accent and in the local dialect. He must have been from one of the nearby fishing villages no doubt. «Μὰ ἐσὺ δὲν εἶσαι Πελασγός;» ("But aren't you a Pelasgian?") the slender, pale-skinned woman asked, raising one of her red eyebrows. «Οὔχι, ἐγὼ εἶμαι Τιβυραῖος.» ("No, I am Tiburan,") the boy answered, as if he was stating the obvious. Stepping back, Anastasia stared out into the azure main again with a pensive gaze. Back in Propontis, in Pelasgia's core regions, the transition to a nation-state had been obvious, almost natural; the terms "Pelasgian" and "Tiburan" had been quite synonymous for a long time. But out here, to these people, it was not at all obvious that this new nation-state was a thing at all. Old, local loyalties and a reverence for tradition where the glue that held such antiquated communities together; the flag, the law, the judge were not to be respected because they represented the nation, but because they existed "by Divine Right." An anachronism, but a very human one.
Turning around, Anastasia tightened the black coat that covered her purple dress and headed straight home—if one could call the luxurious prison that she had been "granted" that. It was a beautiful and quite elegant residence, the old home of a defunct aristocratic family from the island which had been seized by the State for unpaid debts and was now used as an official guesthouse of sorts. The Despotess was surrounded by a small army of servants, who were slightly more discreet in their espionage than her ordinary Krypteia guards. Not that this was out of the ordinary for her, but now that her immediate family was out of power, it felt slightly more nefarious than usual. At any rate, she directed the most trustworthy of the servants in question (Katerina, a half-Thrakian like herself), to bring her paper and the sort of special ink that the Imperial Family used for official documents. «Γιὰ ποιὸν σκοπό;» ("What for?") had been the obvious question; Anastasia Komnenopoulaina knew that the Government was asking through her maid's mouth, but she cared not, for the answer was innocuous. «Γιὰ νὰ γράψω στὸν εὐσεβέστατο Βασιλέα μας καὶ νὰ τοῦ ζητήσω νὰ μοῦ ἐπιτρέψει νὰ ἐργαστῶ ὠς δασκάλα σὲ ἕνα τοπικὸ σχολεῖο. Ἀν εἶναι νὰ μείνω ἐδῶ, ἀς θέσω τουλάχιστον ἐαυτὸν στὴν ὑπηρεσία τῆς χώρας.» ("To write our most pious Emperor and petition him to let me work as a teacher at a local school. If I'm to stay here, I wish to at least make myself useful to the country.")
11 January 1967
The roaring of the ocean sounded as the sea crashed onto the rocky coast of the island. From the harsh southern shore of Makri, the locals could see a small flotilla of ships returning. They were transiting the Sea of Dahab, or the Klysma as the Pelasgians called it, returning from the harsh, distant lands of the Far South. All the ships bore the Empire's civil ensign: a yellow flag with a black cross surrounded by four capital betas. On their bow was painted a large cross, the symbol of the Far Southern Company, known in common parlance as the Southern Cross.
«Τὰ φαλαινοθυρικά!» (“The whalers!”) shouted Loukas, pointing to the flotilla. «Ἐπιστρέφουν!» (“They’re back!”)
As the ships drew closer to the Empire’s southernmost isle, a pair of coast guard vessels, one cutter and one light corvette, approached. The attacks upon PFSC vessels in recent years had grown more frequent, as the global anti-whaling movement became radicalized. True, whaling was only a minor part of the PSFC’s globe-spanning activities, but Pelasgia was probably the foremost whaling nation outside of Toyou and the former Scanlaw.
For most, the flotilla represented mystery and adventure: a sense of heroic feats in an age when cold reason had come to dominate even in Europe’s last quasi-theocracy. But for Christophoros, Loukas’s brother, it represented something more concrete: the chance for a life off Makri, off the accursed, sun-scorched faraway corner of the Pelasgian world. As he saw the assortment of whalers, cargo vessels and research ships approach, observing from the hill where stood the tiny all-white chapel of Saint Andrew, he could almost picture himself atop one of those metal leviathans, sailing straight for Propontis. With enough luck—and even more guts and wits—he could just make that dream a reality.