Tyvia
Establishing Nation
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?"
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?"