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The Way Back

Thaumantica

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Dale Quincy Emerick, Late 2019
Eckbjorn, Engellachia State


Sycophants surrounded Dale Emerick in the Liberty Bunker, the large basement he had converted into a broadcasting studio high and deep in the heart of Engellachia State. Denim jeans hugging his wide hips, Dale sashayed towards a glass desk being coverd with news stories from across the globe and within the Fiannian Free states.

"Don't let any Sylvanian callers in today, eh guys?" Dale half ordered and half pleaded, "I mean, it's open lines, but . ." Dale shrugged awkwardly as a make up artist began applying base to his sweaty brow for the web broadcast.

"Got you covered, big D!" a board operator named Leo offered, a swarthy Pelasgian with a cigar in his craw, "You need a water, I can get you a water, you thirsty?" the radio professional offered.

"Leo!" Dale exclaimed with a smile, "Tell me true, I go to air in 30 seconds, what makes you a Fiannian?" the host asked.

Leo squinted, adjusted a few knobs and levers, then turned back to Dale: "I don't wanna pay'a the taxes, what do you want me to say? Do you need a water?"

"No Lee that's alright, I heard'ya!" Dale answered with a grimace, hardening that anger into layer upon layer as a countdown fell closer and closer to the live broadcast. By the time his introduction music began he had turned as red as a tamale, an was clenching his fists with Friulian stories clenched between.

"I could get to the Friulians, but heck I won't, I'm talking to all of Fiannia this morning - and yeah I am looking at you Sylvanian spies in the studio here with me . ." Dale declared and accused, his staff gasping and looking to their left and right for the potential spy within.

"I, me, the professional broadcaster known as Dale Emerick is announcing his candidacy for the Presidency of the following Fiannian States: Engellachia, Cantignia, Eisgarten, and the Collective Desert Outposts!" Emerick declared with an adjustment or two of his emerald green tie. "Patch in a call or two, I need to talk to the people!" Dale ordered with a special jab of his fat finger, hoping that they remembered to block the Sylvanian trolls.

The name Tyler from Evenbrook, Engellachia appeared on his screen, Dale nodded: "Tyler you're on the air, are you with me?".

"Dale," Tyler began through a tired voice, "I've been listening to this program for ten years, it's my drug, but I need to ask you before I answer that question: are you ready for that onslaught from the Pohjan, the Sylvanians, and the anklebiters in Cantignia?"

Dale Emerick formed his hand into a blade towards the camera, pointing it directly and furrowing his brow, "This isn't just about me Tyler, and I thank you for your concern, but . . Lord God I am indebted unto thee, I struggle upon this frontier with thy family hoping only to serve thee!"

"The Lord God is with us, Dale!" Tyler agreed, "President Sharpe is not right with Jesus Christ, and that will be his undoing!"
 

Thaumantica

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Holden Redondo Sharpe, Mid 2019
Arnegaard, Sylvania

Holden had relied upon a group of donors to carry him through about a decade of annual presidential elections up until this point. Each year their demands grew greater, but so did the purse in exchange, so much so that President Sharpe scarcely noticed the completion of Sylvania's awesome and game changing canal. Cameras caught his reaction the moment the first freighter from Eastern Touzen bypassed Vesper and Eisgart through the Sylvanian canal, effectively ending the Fiannian's dark touch on trade through the north passage.

"RRRRAAHHHHHRRHRHAAAHHHH!!!!" Sharpe exclaimed at the canal, shocking his Sylvanian counterpart and cameras up and down the Westernesse continent. The Fiannian President had merely hoped to follow strippers and prostitutes down south on their descent from the impending winter, a tradition formed and perfected in his youthful days in the Lodge of Legislators.

*BZZ* *BZZD* *BZZ*

Cell phones were buzzing away like bees in every Fiannian pocket, none more than Holden Sharpe who angrily snatched the device from his pocket and performed perhaps the first act of littering pollution in the Northern Canal.

"Mister President," Alla Fitznovskaya, his Vice President for a few more weeks before resigning said, "we're finished!". The Vivislavian woman winced towards the canal roughly before turning herself and and never looking back.

A crisis gripped Cantignia and Eisarten States' businesses, both criminal and legitimate, in the weeks and months to come. "Sharpe's Sweet Decade" was about to end sour, and the President hardly helped by stumbling drunk through interviews with threats of fighting his Sylvanian counterparts man to man, or army to army.
 

Thaumantica

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Vitaly Artem Ptushkin, Late 2019
Vesper, Cantignia State

Clad in dark green the thrice day shave avoidant singer and presidential wannabe strolled into a preppy little Vesper bar. On his way in two women were pushing their way out in a hurry, Vivislav and covered in genuine fur, and swearing as if they had been cheated in dice.

"Eh?" Vitaly asked the painted red haired girl who was casting back a carefully cut and straight pressed set of hair.

"Stiffs," the auburn brown haired counterpart offered, "We offered them our mouth, we offered them an LSD, hell Erin offered up her, ouch . ." the girl complained, Vitaly cringed but reached out and grasped the girl, who up until this point he knew not as a prostitute but as an aspiring singer.

"What'd they look like?" Ptushkin inquired. The two girls looked back and scoffed, "They're here for you Ptush, so don't bother looking!"

Shuffling down the stairs Ptushkin noticed the club was quiet, impossibly quiet, as if it were on an off day rather than Friday night as it was. Through a curtain he was greeted by two men wearing headdresses that covered their faces, their words were dark and foreign like an Urodoan snuff film.

"How far did you expect to get?" a balanced but gritty voiced inquired through the shadows, leather tipped shoes poking out of an unlit corner of the room. Vitaly squinted and began to make out the salt and pepper beard of a male inquisitor, the accent was not at all Vivislav, and Ptushkin understood immediately this was a push.

Vitaly Ptushkin pushed off one guardsmen roughly before the other willingly deviated off towards a corner, "Did President Sharpe send you?", the singer asked, "I'm not about to be intimidated by that idiot!".

Out of the shadows a narrow nosed man with grey-blue eyes advanced to disagree, "why no Mister Ptushkin" the man denied incredulous, "I was sent here by the Lord God and Jesus Christ to challenge you!".
 
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