the Thankskinsmens Day Soirée

[Thaumantica]

1 Day Before the Event​

: Metropolitan Vesper :​

The Grand Hall of the Covenant​

Special Agent Howard Dastrup clasped down tightly on his hat and scanned with his eyes from side to side as a white and gold twin rotor helicopter angled rear first towards the marked landing pad. An honor guard snapped to attention, dressed and performing as if it were the King himself. "Faux-finch has landed, I repeat, Faux-finch has landed" Agent Dastrup broadcasted through his earpiece.

Another agent pretending to be King Felix II, a poor substitute with olive fatigues and a youthful visage, emerged with a none the less convincing salute. "Follow me, sir!" Dastrup half greeted yet surely ordered of the counterfeit King. The honor guard formed tight walls on either side until reaching a door where even more agents and guards waited attentively.

Erstwhile simulations were taking place around the Grand Hall of the Covenant at a rapid pace, shepherding in mock Vice Chancellors in armored limousines, receiving surrogate monarchs on two other helicopter pads. The major players such as the King and other heads of state would be offered direct paths to and from the Hall itself without interference from any security personnel not belonging to the protected figure.

Other sensible precautions such as an early arrival of the National Guard impressed upon bustling Vesper to keep a wide berth, receiving light baton strokes or worse: a charge from Metropolitan Police horses and their companion bloodhounds. Dastrup winced at the memory of watching a young child's head enveloped by such a bloodhound before both were trampled and crushed over by cackling Metro Mounties. One aspect of tomorrow evening's security situation that perplexed Agent Dastrup was the disturbingly wide net cast over social media activity concerning the event. Already some fifteen individuals would be spending the holiday in prison apparently, imprisoned for posts ranging from jokes to credible threats towards the attendees.

Howard soon saw each substitute head of state or ambassador seated inside, some foreign agents were participating in this drill with the Cantigians and he recognized the pretend Cussian King as a man he'd once fought and made lifelong friends with during a card game of Bourré. He flashed his friend a victory "V" with his fingers before pointing back at himself with arrogant thumbs. After a short smile the Special Agent sighed and shook his head, for in just under twenty four hours all would intensely experience the real thing in juxtaposition with servants swirling and debutantes dazzling their eyes away from the precious gray hairs of the captains and chiefs they were there to protect.

 

[Thaumantica]

The Night of the Event​

: Metropolitan Vesper :​

The Grand Hall of the Covenant​

Felix Ilchester the Second reached out for the gloved hand of a frightened woman beside him in an increasingly turbulent helicopter that honestly felt both quiet and smooth to him after decades traveled in evolving rotary craft. Still however she clamped her eyes shut and gripped his aged hands tighter, whispering unheard prayers to their common Lord and Savior. She was Mrs. Mary Wolcott, wife of a Lieutenant Gordon Wolcott sponsored by the Cantigian Armada to serve and learn under Imperial Forces, as Cannies still called the armed forces of Engellex, engaged in the Al-Kez flashpoint conflict. Felix took a dim view on contemporary Imperial operations, but utterly respected the young Wolcott's for their sacrifice for both Cantignia and Engellex regardless. These blossoming Wolcott's were what Thankskinsmens Day was about truly about Felix thought, purposely suppressing past memories of attending the Soirée with a now deceased mother, father, wife, first son, and further estranged heirs to the bloody Cannie throne.

Animated below the deliberately descending helicopter was Metropolitan Vesper, resembling an old outdated circuit board with square thirties era towers and brightly illuminated trolley cars that oppressed modern automobiles away from their congested narrow paths. Felix could also recognize the distinct shape and lighting of Cussian helicopters approaching from the north as the rubber donut wheels of his own aircraft kissed the roof of the Grand Hall at precisely 1953, fitting Felix II thought, this was the year his father ascended from mere commoner to royal legend. Felix the First was born to a machinist and seamstress, and forced in to youth marshal services at the tender age of fourteen. A decade later he presented with the dashing features of Anglesaxe Knight, Felix impressed upon a budding Princess Alice as a member of her personal guard, though the longing eyes of mutual attraction meant nothing in a household obsessed with wealth and title. A communist uprising in July of 1953 changed all of that however, when all of the Princess's family was wiped out and nearly all of the Royal Guard in a twilight siege. Most Cannies called this event "The Crimson Conception", for after fifteen hours of bloodshed the surviving heir married and consummated that marriage with Felix in the same blood stained gown and uniform they had worn all through the fight. Which came first, the marriage or consummation, the common folk speculated from the day he came kicking and screaming into this world.

"Follow me, sir!" Special Agent Howard Dastrup barked at the King & Commissioner after the helicopter doors slid open, the chop of the craft fully battering their eardrums. "A moment for Mrs. Wolcott, Howard" Felix replied, carefully guiding her trembling hand out of the vibrating vessel once and for all. The honor guard was on their flanks immediately, skipping the salute to rush for safety, nearly pushing them both along before he could muster his customary greeting. "You're fashionably late, sir!" Dastrup shouted, "The Cussians & Senecans are touching down as we speak!". Felix nodded and the company swiftly shuffled inside for the safety and cover of the Grand Hall, rushing through long undecorated corridors until reaching a small door that led to the glorious hall itself. "Bless thy Empire Forever . ." Felix muttered under his breath as the manifold banners, uniforms, and Engellkin bodies brought awe to his senses.

A west Vesper club band was playing a light Cannie Jazz that inspired some movement and liveliness, but not quite full out dancing. The band leader soon locked eyes with his King from across the room and immediately interrupted the orchestra with a wave of his hands meant to transition into the 'Royal Reception Promenade'; smiling musicians smoothly adjusted, joining the new tune without skipping a beat. Ilchester casually strolled through a preoccupied crowd, some searching for him in all of the wrong directions, until reaching the center where a platform shaped in a fleur-de-lis awaited. "Sons and Daughters of the Engellexic Empire, I welcome you my kinfolk and honored guests to the Grand Hall of the Covenant . ." Felix began, neither needing nor wanting an introduction for himself, "We all know the basic purpose of this holiday of course, giving thanks to kin, but please allow me to recite the legend of its origin." Lights in the hall dimmed to dark, shifting to concentrate on only the King and the band.

It is the Summer of 1673, and the Port Vesper Colony has a population of less than 200. A young woman named Janice Ewing has recently watched her husband plucked up and by the Royal Engellexic Navy to fight for God and Empire, but she is pregnant and burdened further by residency on the colony's edge where walls being built to keep back savage aboriginals have yet to be completed. The toiling screams of inevitable childbirth only served to attract those red devils like a beacon call, tall and muscular Tuscahassee braves who were desperately hungry to begin war season with the ravage and rape of precious Engellexic flesh!

They entered the humble Ewing cabin with weapons raised, immediately striking down one helpless midwife with a jagged tomahawk to the head, and forcing another to the ground with a fistful of her hair. Janice shrieked like a banshee, putting such fear in the red devils that they dare not approach, until one mighty final push gave birth to a wriggling white child. The Mother's spirit and energy were spent, she collapsed back into the bed as if dead, and the savages saw her as such. One warrior savage was so brave as to press a dagger into her foot until seeing blood, and next this same savage pointed at the child as if to claim ownership. Instructing his companions in their native tongue, they forced the midwife to separate the physical bonds of a baby boy from his mother who she knew was still alive but dared not show that she knew it. Next the midwife and child were taken as captives, disappearing into the brush with no sign that common Engellexic eyes would ever see.

Hours passed before Janice Ewing stirred, finding her knickers soiled crimson and no sign of the precious reward from God for her intensive labor. She let out another scream, this one enough to shatter her own ears and voice to their breaking. Head pounding and covered in mess she then stood and set out to run to the last place she had saw her husband: the port. Janice shoved past colonists on her way who sought to stop and question her, they could not help she knew, only men like her husband or greater could possibly help. The HMS Specter was gone of course, so when she reached the empty dock all she could do was collapse and burst into a stream of tears enough to drown the world.

No more than moment passed however before a ship came bounding into view from the North, faster than she had ever seen, and ripping through the ocean directly for port. When the ship arrived she stood and pointed at four men on board who seemed desperate to put foot to earth. "In the name of God and Empire, who are you men?"

"A Sylvanian, ma'am, here to track game and trap fur" the first said.

"A Cussian Cavalier, m'lady, here to lead an expedition to the center of this god forsaken island" the second declared.

"A Natalian, my dear, here to draw the map of this fine land as I have in Himyar" the third answered.

"A Senecan, fair woman, I am the financier of this mission and I do believe it is now charged with finding and bringing to justice whoever put you into the state we now meet you in!"

Joined by able bodied colonists of Port Vesper, the Cussian led his expedition to the center of Cantignia along the tracks found by his Sylvanian trapper while their Natalian mapmaker charted their perilous path to ease return. Not just a financier afterall, the Senecan could recite the Bible by memory and chastised any member of the search party who lagged or wavered. This Engellband then bled, died, and ultimately defeated their savage foe in their own defenseless camp - exacting vengeance and retrieving the colonial child from the dying grips of his captors.
​

Lighting in the Grand Hall then returned to its normal prominence and the King put his hand to his heart, "Once again, with total reverence and tribute, I welcome you as my kinfolk to the Grand Covenant of Cantignia - where because of the sacrifice of all Engellexic folk we can feast, and dance tonight as free people with well earned dignity!"

 

[Beautancus]

As with all of those in attendance, Edward C. Orton was on his feet, cigarillo perched somehow motionlessly between lips concealed by truly impressive mustachios, complimenting as they did a full beard of similar or better quality - dutifully and in fact enthusiastically clapping his praise and approval for the man and his words. Ever the easy mark for a reminder of the historic tradition of honor and indifference to danger and the unknown that his countrymen had long been known for, Orton supposed it all the more appropriate to have gone with the dress uniform that his decades of service - and the rank they had earned- afforded him.

The wreathed star marked his Generalship, and the distinctively cavalier cut and sharp lines of black and brass trimming the cloth of his pale gray uniform marked it clearly for the Army of the Confederated Republic cloth that it was. Quickly stooping to knock back a good half of the tumbler he'd mostly ignored to now, and pinching a match to life to relight his cigarillo, the most powerful man in Beautancus fortified himself. A sweeping glance around the table of his entourage rewarded him with expressions recovering only barely from the exultation of the moment before - save for the ironshod confidence in the hard eyes of the head of his security detail, Jasper Bragg.

Without a word, Bragg raised two fingers in a gesture long-since coordinated and choreographed by the Cantigian stage-wizards, and the spotlight now returned to focus on the First Citizen & Chief of Beautancus.

Pausing to both inhale deeply from his cigarillo, and to make absolutely sure the microphone snapped to his coat's lapel was in fact turned on (he'd done that a few times on campaign), Orton raised his glass in the direction of Felix II and spoke, allowing the decades of honed instincts and muscle memory to pitch the immaculate Roanoke drawl of his baritone voice to reach out over the Grand Hall.

"Your Majesty, ladies and gentlemen, if I may - it is in fact I that must offer reverence, and however poor this tribute may be, I shall offer it as well..." Orton paused to bring his tumbler about in a smooth arch from side to side, trailing a parallel arch of smoke as he did. Sure that all had gotten the idea by now, he resumed. "A toast, to Your Majesty, Felix Ilchester the Second, King and Commissioner of the Grand Covenant of Cantignia - our most gracious host; and to the Grand Covenant Herself, in all Her resplendent glories and wonders!"

Downing the rest of the tumbler as fast as he had the first of it, Orton paused only to stoke the flaming tip of the cigarillo, naturally rolled with only the finest tobacco Chicora and Clarendon could coax from the soil.

"Likewise, Your Majesty, I could not think of a more appropriate tale to set the pace and tone for what shall transpire and come to be born from all the words spoken here this evening. Though our stories scant reach back more than three and a half, four centuries, one may rest well assured that they shall and do make up for their lack of antiquity with the character and virtue of the men of whom they make heroes, and were inspired by. It is from such men that we are honored and by any measure fortunate enough to descend, each and all."

Orton paused, his gaze shifting back around into a crowd that he could not see particularly well for the light, but was sure was there. "That honor we must return to them, friends and dear kin, in these days of such growling, rising darkness in the world at large. It was their example, those men of yesteryear, that forged the traditions that we follow to this day, and that have ensured that the vast and bountiful lands upon which we settled would see us to prosperity and providence - even as so much of the rest of the world burns, or drowns beneath a tide of crimson."

"Never before has the superiority of our traditions been more apparent than now. When so many other, exponentially more ancient nations are consumed and taken whole into the ever more greedy Prison of Nations that the many-headed hydra that Global Communism has become - our own Engellkin Civilization, spanning as it does the vastness of the Occident, the endless waves of the Thaumantic and the heartlands of Himyar, seems only now to come into the full flowering of might and prosperity."

Raising his tumbler once more, refilled as he'd been speaking, Orton gathered himself for the rub of it all.

"We come now to that time in history where we not only shall, but must step forward to assert our rightful places among the order of the Nations of the World. The forces of Marxism and Nihilism can no longer be allowed to run rampant through the ancient places of the world, lest they soon run out of them, and are left with nothing else for it but to find their way to our own more vigorously youthful shores. And that simply will not do. No, it is time that we take our place in the Radiant Light of the Sun, to take far more proactive roles in ensuring that the future is one shaped in our image, one of liberty, prosperity and responsibility. A toast, friends and neighbors, to tomorrow - our tomorrow!"

 

[The Federation]

Sander K. Rygaard the Third always felt out of place at large important functions like these. The tuxedo, though well tailored to fit and extremely expensive felt odd and unnatural upon his aging body. His knees ached, both having been replaced two years ago due to arthritis, his hands were stiff and his sciatica flared up as he stood up to join in the toast. He did not grimace however, as a toast to the greatest race ever to walk upon God’s green earth was nothing if not a joyous occasion.

“Hear! Hear!” he exclaimed at the end of Orton’s toast and drinking deeply from his tumbler he felt the liquid warm his core and his aches seemed lessened after.

“Ed, my friend, it is a pleasure to see you again and so soon after our last hunt. My knees and legs ache thinking of all that riding and walking we did.” Compared to Orton’s long beard and imposing figure, Rygaard was clean shaven and his salt and pepper hair clean cut, he stood shorter and thinner, but had a presence all his own.

He could feel what felt like two beams of hot light drilling into the back of his head, he looked back to see that he had preempted Sylvania’s very own President Jillian Snyder, whose painted, winkled obviously angry face had a jarring affect on anyone who had the misfortune of looking upon it. Next to her stood his good friend Bill Hawthorne, Director of Foreign affairs.

Rygaard motioned to the two, “Ed let me introduce to you a good friend of mine.”

President Snyder’s face softened as she heard his words, “strange of him to introduce me as a friend,” but she was instantly angry again as Rygaard called out to Hawthorne and continued to mostly ignore her existence.

“This is Bill Hawthorne, good man in a bad government, the only reason Sylvanian foreign policy remains somewhat sane in an nation run by clowns.”

Hawthorne moved to shake Orton’s hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you sir, I’m a big admirer of your administration.”

 

[Tyvia]

The three Senecans arrived separately, though swifty gravitated towards one another. There was the Lord Protector, of course, the perfect model of an elder statesman in his dark satin suit and the crimson sash of his office. The Rowes were an old family, of Old Engellexic stock, and his features would not have been out of place in a similar gathering in the Old Country. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were cropped close, and the only concession to ostentation in his apparel was a small golden sparrow pinned to his lapel - the traditional symbol of the Rowes.

At his side, having long ago slipped her arm into his, was among the most eligible bachelorettes on the continent. Lady Elect Patience Kynes, having inherited the Kynes estates and titles at the age of fifteen, remained unmarried ten years later. Her long blonde hair was plaited for this occasion, and she wore a dark dress that left just enough to the imagination while still showing off her long legs and lithe figure. Rowe and she had a long association, for her grandmother was a Rowe and he a frequent visitor in her youth. She smiled daintily and made sure to make the acquaintance of anyone that slipped into her path.

Lord Elect Gregor Serrow looked more a bodyguard beside Rowe than anything else. Having spent twenty years in the Union Marshall’s Service, the only clothing he ever felt truly comfortable in was his uniform. For this event, he bedecked himself in the ceremonial dress attire of a Marshall Provost: an undyed grey uniform, with only a thin green stripe down the side of the pants and medals across his bosom providing a dash of color. He wore his shield over his right breast as proudly as he did his first day out of the academy.

They joined in the toast, as appropriate, and Lady Kynes thereafter released her hold on the Lord Protector’s arm to join in the social dance elsewhere. Serrow and Rowe, however, eventually found their way to the company of Orton and Rygaard.

“Edward,” Rowe let out, a thin smile accompanying the hand offered up for a shake. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen you in Swanfleet! I suspect you’d say the same for myself and Welmonton, though. Well said, man! A stirring bit of theatrics, there.”

A similar handshake was offered to Rygaard. “Ah, Sanders! My god, man, how’s the missus? Surely you can find some time in your schedule for a hunt? I’ve a new cellar, fresh stocked, at my lodge for you to enjoy! We’ll find a good buck for you this time, and there’s tell of wild hog, too.”

He then indicated towards Serrow with a wave, and his smile grew as he glanced between him and Orton. “It’s also my pleasure to introduce Lord Elect Gregor Serrow, of Serrowmere. Marshall Provost of the Union Marshall’s Service, though now retired. Who wore the greys first, I wonder?” he said with a soft laugh.

Serrow’s handshake was firm, businesslike. “I’m an admirer, sir,” he informed Orton. To Rygaard, he instead said: “I’ve followed your career since I was a boy, sir. A genuine honor to meet you. Your grandfather was a hero to me.”

 

[Ebria]

Adrianne Stone, the deputy Chief Minister of Natalia (OOC: at the time the soiree is taking place) was followed by Bradley Ross and Prunella Bakone. Adrianne was wearing her typical black suit, which had a Natalian and Himyari twist from your usual deux piece. Instead of the knee long skirt, she was wearing a long one, up to the ankles. Knowing that the Cantignians were more conservative and religious, she thought that this might have been seen with better eyes by the hosts. But even so, the skirt had folds and was wide, more like a casual summer one, rather than what the religious people would describe as plain clothing. On the upper body, she was wearing over the shirt a jacket and over the jacket a kanga, a very thin garment similar to a poncho of lilac colour. She was wearing her hair in her trademarked way, of braiding it and then put around her head. Behind her, Bradley Ross, a state secretary and ex-Premier of Lower Natalia was your typical man in his late 50s, average in literally everything. Prunella Bakone was completely different from all the other members at the soiree. She was the Premier of the Pondo Chiefdom. She was a woman of what the nethians would call a traditional build, but what is medically described as obesity. She is wearing a typical Pondo dress, of golden colour with tribal decorative motiffs. She might very well be the most colourful character at the whole event.

The natalians were following and listening to the story told by Felix Ilchester, the King and Commissioner of the Grand Covenant of Cantignia. "Hm... nice story but this is how national epics are born, a grain of truth an a tonne of boasts" she whispered to Ross as the King finished the story. As much as she would loved to share the ideals of Engellexic exceptionalism with the other of the Occitans, she still had a cynical approach to everything and could not observe how all the Engellspawn nations were there, but the mother of them all, the First Republic was absent. Certainly, Seraphina Underwood and Anne Siward, together with her might have balanced a bit the testosterone levels emanating from the Occidentians. Hence why she also wanted to bring Prunella Bakone with her, but she knew that she might be looked down upon by the westerners. As they were toasting for the continued greatness of the Engelldom, another thought raced through her mind. Felix Illchester and his family might be the only Engelsh speaking persons to hold the title of kings. How peculiar, knowing the radical republicanism of general Engelldom. But even so, Cantignia was seen in the whole of Natalia as a bit strange for her religious and political structures.

While Bradley Ross decided to mingle with others, Adrianne and Prunella went and joined the others that have grouped around Edward Orton. Adrianne went first, followed by Prunella.

"Gentlemen, I am glad to see you again in good health and at such an event," said Adrianne as she shook the hands of Serrow, then Rowe, followed by Rygaard. She then turned to Edward Norton. "Long time no see, old friend. You promised me a visit to Iniyanga Falls and you haven't delivered yet," she said smiling at the Cussian First Citizen.

She then turned towards all of them. "Gentlemen, allow me to present you Prunella Bakone. She is the Premier of the Pondo Chiefdom and even if she is nethian she is as Engellexic as up all and I for one see her as an epitome of a good administrator," she said. While Prunella presented herself, one could observe the pristine NoCRER accent she had, compared to the more brash Langfield accent Adrianne had.