October 17th, 1012
Albergo del Trionfo, Karthin, Regno d’Wingbardia

The balcony gave an unenviable view of the Eternal City, stretching away down the hill towards the harbor. He gently swirled his Gampariete, glancing idly at the olive resting inside as he felt the warm breeze roll off the Eler Sea. It was mid autumn, and it would soon be winter again. While the northern part of Wingbardy would be covered in snow, this region would still be relatively green and pleasant. In the distant hills, wineries and olive groves grew in rows, revitalized by the economic miracle he and his government had performed here, and the whistle of a locomotive echoed out from a train heading westbound, likely towards Wrobert. From this very balcony, Prime Minister "Il Duce" Giulio Beakolini could look down at Karthin and marvel at what he had accomplished in five years. Mighty factories that pulled Wingbardy fully into the industrial era, a harbor packed full of trading vessels from half the world over, the distant shapes of the Regia Marina at anchor as they prepared to go on another patrol of the surrounding seas, but there were also the accomplishments closer to home. The old quarter had finally been given the funds needed to conduct painstaking repairs, clearing the roads and fixing the ancient buildings, the youngest of which was still a century old. He had ordered the amphitheater and imperial forums restored as centers of cultural pride, banners of the old Karthinian Empire fluttering from ancient stonework, the Temple of Arcturius’ white marble shining brightly in the noonday sun, and pride of place for the restoration effort was the Altar of the Fatherland, the monument to all those fallen in the Falcor War, currently hosting a ceremony as an infantry unit hollered drills and moved smoothly to complete the formal process.

If there was ever a place to celebrate the success of fascism, here was proof that his experiment worked. Beakolini had accomplished in five short years what it took other nations decades to attempt and never succeed. Truly, a monument to success he could forever remain proud of. And he always loved taking a moment to bask in his victory, for victory it was.

Even his appearance was tailored to cultivate the image of one in the position of success he had achieved. He wasn’t presently wearing his trademark black fez, having removed it for this meeting, and had lately gone hairless. Since he had taken his position, he preferred to wear nothing but feathers on his head, as to him it exuded power. He had heard that Arisian loudmouth Crack Lightning compliment him on ‘displaying nothing but avian power’, but racism of any kind sickened him at heart (ironic when one came to remember that his nation was overwhelmingly griffon, lacking even a significant pony minority like Aquileia or the Griffonian Empire). He had kept his uniform of course instead of a designer suit like some lesser meddling politician. He was a soldier first and foremost, he had fought and bled in the trenches in Falcor and he had used the Regio Esercito to restore Wingbardy to greatness. The uniform was a status symbol and proclaimed he was for the soldiers, not the squabbling nobility like that pompous puppeteer Gabriella or the ranting Nidemessant was for the frothing revolutionaries.

“I must compliment you on your city, Il Duce,” said the voice behind him. “A model of progress through decisive action and firm control. I see many similarities to the way High Queen Chrysalis has built up my nation as well.”

Beakolini turned to the speaker, raising an eyebrow. Speaking of puppeteering and controlling, he thought with a smirk. Inside the room sat his visitor, a Royal changeling with eyes glowing a lovely shade of deep yellow that put him in mind of brass. She too wore a uniform, though hers was clearly of a civilian bend. The Queen’s Guard, despite the title and what many thought, was not technically a military organization, answering only to the word of the Queens and their own Captain-General instead of the Royal Heer. That she wore not only the changeling trident but also the Queens’ diamond at her lapels told him she was a party bug, not a soldier. Her mannerisms did not speak of battle experience or military bearing, but that closer in line with a business negotiator like from a corporation. Well, he could talk to corporate types too.

“And yet,” he began, pausing to take a sip of his Gampariete as he moved inside, letting his wings flutter lightly to shake off the dust from outside. “And yet, I hear you cannot catch a train in Vesalipolis any sooner than twenty-five minutes late.”

Mara Anyxia chuckled, her voice low and husky. Truth be told she was quite attractive for a changeling, but while Beakolini was intrigued he was smart enough not to reach into the honeypot. His own personal relations aside, he knew her appearance factored into the reason she had been chosen. Many of the Hegemony’s ambassadors were those who seemed more pleasing to the eyes of the race they were being sent to, and he was aware of this fact, not to mention their nature as shapeshifters. So as he settled into the padded luxury chair beside her at the table they were sharing a casual luncheon at, he knew she was going to try and cast him in a snare, and prepared himself to resist it.

“Sad, but true I must admit,” Mara replied, glancing away back out the open doors onto the balcony before those golden orbs returned to him once more. “And not just trains. Imagine my surprise when my airship arrived precisely on time.”

After Leeks Peftalo’s freak disappearance somewhere in Ost-Griffonia, Chrysalis hadn’t played a repeat of any games of lateral deception. Instead, she had chartered a ship from Nova Griffonia straight to Wingbardy with a stopover in Haukland. Indeed, as the airship flew a Wingbardian banner, it was not attacked in the sky over New Mareland nor was it lagging on approach, touching down at the Karthinian aerodrome exactly at the time it was supposed to. Much simpler this way, instead of skulking through the treacherous eastern hinterlands.

“I pride myself on my capable air crews,” he said aloud in the same casual tone, giving no hint to his thought process. Mara already knew he didn’t trust her or Chrysalis’ sudden friendly overtones out of the blue after years of polite but steadfast neutrality. “Our investments in the aeronautics industry have given us great returns. And a nation is built on timetables, whether it realizes it or not.”

“Commendable and admirable,” the changeling diplomat replied, laying it on with a trowel, but at least not treating him like an idiot and doing it too thickly. She spoke the truth, after all. “I think I’m going to like my posting here.”

“The weather does not bother you?” he asked, surprised by the revelation. So far as he knew, changelings were creatures of ice, snow and the underground. The balmy climes of south Griffonia were just shy of tropical, even this far into autumn. Just to the east, the Foresta di Facoceri was essentially a jungle in itself.

But Mara simply chuckled and shook her head.

“I lived in Fragrance with the Infils.-kommando Ost-Zebrika for two years. Not quite the same, I’ll be the first to admit, but it gave me a taste of other places. I find these climes agreeable, to be honest.”

He chuckled in return, his claws delicately scooping up some of the delectable pork ragù before him, savoring the smell of the creamy polenta before taking the bite in his beak. It tasted as delicious as it looked and smelled, and he took his time eating. There was no rush to this meeting, after all, and there was still the side dish of stuffed peppers awaiting his attention that he looked forward to eagerly finishing as well. To contrast, Mara had requested fettuccine and seemed quite surprised when it didn’t come back slathered in cream sauce, which he had quietly laughed at. The changeling’s experience of Wingbardian cuisine seemed to be limited to spaghetti, pizza, lasagna and other such stereotypes.

“I was curious,” he stated as he tugged a cloth napkin over to him to begin his meal. “I was under the impression Signore Peftalo was supposed to come conduct these talks. Yet you’ve arrived remarkably quickly. Has there been some sign of him?”

Mara paused, and he had to exercise his self-discipline not to eagerly lean in to study her face. The art of observation was all dependent on the target not realizing they were being observed. But Beakolini saw it in the way she froze for a heartbeat, stiffening in such a way that her wings twitched behind her back. But then, she was all relaxed, sensual poise once more. But he had seen it all regardless.

“The High Queen thought this issue too important to delay any further. Our attempts to find Leeks Peftalo are ongoing, of course. But the Empire has informed us that Schwarzhohl is rather treacherous, and bands of outlaws still exist in the hills despite the Ost-Heer’s best efforts. Please, put him from your mind. We have much else to discuss.”

How quick she was to dismiss him, Beakolini thought derisively. Chrysalis clearly wanted these talks to go forward, to send a backup without any word as to the fate of their missing dignitary. Then again, changelings were more than willing to spend lives to make their own timetables. It was all rather...cutthroat.

Over the course of an hour, chatting through small talk, they ate their meal with the warm sun beaming down on them, the smell of the harbor air drifting in through the open door. He had no fear of assassins from outside. Who would know he would be here at this time? This meeting was on no schedule, and he had informed no one else. Though as a precaution, Beakolini glanced back towards the door. Standing there were four figures, all of them glaring at one another. The gas-masked visage of black-uniformed changeling Queen’s Guard practically oozed menace like their crystal rifles glowed arcane energy. Across from them were the armored forms of Beakolini’s personal guardians, the Moschettieri del Duce. While Wingbardy had done away with the archaic form of knightly orders long ago, they remained as elite fighting units in the King’s Corazzieri, guarding the King and his palace with their lives as well as deploying with the Esercito in combat. But the Moschettieri were different, former volunteer Blackshirts who had, through a grueling process, completed the tortuous training and conditioning to wear the fabled enchanted plate themselves, elevated from mere militia to fearsome warriors. While Wingbardy’s magitek research had lagged behind powers like Aquileia and the Empire, the MAB-10 submachine guns they carried were still quite lethal, and in these close quarters the two Moschettieri could easily bring their weapons to bear and cut down their opposite number the moment they saw fit, especially given the Queen’s Guard did not wear armor themselves.

Assured of his security, Beakolini turned back to Mara once more, finding her gazing at him with equal parts curiosity and amusement. Where other males might appreciate such attention, Beakolini immediately put up his guard internally, wary and ready for whatever tricks she might be about to pull.

“Concerned for your safety, Duce?” Mara teased, popping a ripe tomato past her fangs and clamping down on it slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Far from feeling aroused, however, he only felt mild disgust. Outwardly, however, he smiled in response, leaning closer.

“When I am here, in the heart of -my- city? Of course not. Especially when I am with a creature as lovely as you.”

She let out a small chittering noise of pleasure, and he quietly congratulated himself for such a reversal, then moved on the attack.

“You have mentioned the broad strokes of your visit here. And while we have certainly pretended this is all simply a casual visit, your embassy has not been filled in years. You cannot fault my curiosity, but I have noticed that you have yet to mention exactly what you’re looking to accomplish here.”

Mara paused for a moment, considering his words. The directness had been unexpected, and it was clear she needed to change tact. Clearing her throat, she magically lifted her napkin to wipe her muzzle, simultaneously pushing the plate away gently. When next she spoke, it was with those golden eyes fixed on him, reminding him very much of an oncoming train coming out of a dark tunnel. The black carapace framing her face only added to the illusion.

“I am certain you are…aware of the relation between the Queendom and the Kaiserreich?”

It was a rhetorical question. Even without the capable agents of the Servizio Informazioni Militare, it was well known how much information and assistance had been exchanged between the two over the years. After all, the Royal Heer spoke their own dialect of Herzlandisch, and many Reichsarmee vehicles had more than a passing resemblance to their Queendom counterparts. So Beakolini did not speak, merely tilted his beak up slightly, waiting for Mara to go on. After a second or two of waiting for Il Duce to respond, she continued on with only the mildest hint of irritation.

“Then perhaps you are aware of events regarding a certain city in Equus.” This time it was a statement, not a question. “Well, suffice it to say, despite their official stance our Imperial partners are asking some very pointed inquiries about said event, and reacting in some rather…unfriendly ways.”

“You believe they are your allies no longer?” Beakolini queried, taking up his drink once more and toying with a small loaf of garlic bread with the other claw to appear fidgety and preoccupied. In reality, his mind was sharp and leaping forward in his calculations. Thanks to the SIM, he was already aware of the degradation of relations between the changelings and the Empire, but it didn’t pay to let anyone know just how deep his intelligence network ran or how accurate their information. The changelings believed themselves to be the masters of the spy game. Their weakness was their blind hubris.

“Well, they were never really our allies to begin with,” said Mara smoothly, her magic levitating a glass up to her lips as she took a delicate sip. Lies and attempted seduction poured off the shapeshifter like water over a cliff. “True, we had an extensive development agreement set up between our nations. But I suppose one could think of it more like…a business partnership.”

“And business has become unproductive?” he asked, taking a bite out of the bread at last before following it up with an overdramatic gulp of his drink. Mara smirked again in reply.

“It is certainly going that way. Their refusal to provide further assistance to us shows worrying signs of weakness on the Empire’s part. High Queen Chrysalis is concerned, and has begun looking into other alliances we can make for our safety. After all, if the Empire backs out on us, we’ll be left in a rather vulnerable position…for a time.”

And there it was. Denying the Queendom and Empire were allies, insisting the changelings were in a weak position, implying weakness on the Empire’s part and finally the blatant admission that they were courting others. The trap was laid bare, like a waiting female with no clothes and that clear look in her eye.

And Beakolini was going to step right into it. He had to. But he could not seem so eager.

He played hesitation, swirling the liquid in his drink before swallowing the last of it. His claws tapped on the tabletop. This had to seem genuine.

“You would so swiftly discard a friend? Someone who has stood by your people and helped build your nation to its powerful status?” He set the glass down firmly, as if suddenly aware of the nervous tic. “That seems a little untrustworthy to me.”

“We are not betraying anyone,” Mara purred, with a voice like silk, supporting her chin on one hoof as she seemed to hood her expression, drawing his attention to her golden eyes. Even aware of her wiles and intent, Beakolini did find it hard to resist her charms at times. “Our plans are preventative. To avoid the catastrophe we see coming. Surely you aren’t so blind to the perfidiousness of the Empire? How two-faced they are? Their oppression was the same reason Wingbardy was never able to rise to its deserved status, and Karthinia before you. The Empire is only interested in the good of the Empire, nothing more. Look at the arrangement they’ve struck with Ost-Griffonia, who sits on your border and waits to jump you.”

All true, technically. The Empire’s might had always kept Wingbardy from achieving their true potential. And the Regents had made no bones or vagaries about their goal to eventually reclaim the whole of the old realm as theirs again. Griffenheim and Karthin were locked in the great game now, where both sides were waiting for the inevitable day where they would finally lock horns and decide who the true ruler of the continent would be. True, the Empire was trapped in its destructive war with Aquileia, whom Beakolini held little love for either after the Tarrin War. The Republique was a chaotic, self-destructive mess destroying itself as much through its politics as the fighting itself. Ever since Verany had died and Nidemessant had been sworn in, all self-restraint had been thrown out the window and the floodgates opened. And what had it gained them in the end? But while Aquileia slowly died dragging itself over the barbed wire to fight a war they could no longer win, the Empire grew gradually stronger. His SIM agents had proven it. The booming industry, the Reichsarmee swelling division by division even as their soldiers were ground up in the plague-ridden meat-grinders of Verenia and Vilein, the new technologies on display by the month and, yes certainly, Ost-Griffonia’s forces that had been gathering in Schwarzhohl, Prywhen and Cyanolisia. His gambit of supporting the Asterionese uprising had failed, and now a powerful enemy sat on his flank, waiting to plunge the knife into his back.

All reasons why this statement from Mara, more than anything, gave genuine pause to his thought process like none of her other attempts to breach his concentration. For a moment, the show of worry and pride he’d been putting on faltered, and his stare bored directly into her. Just for a moment. But it was enough for such a skilled ‘ling as her, and she wasted no time.

“Gerza’s Colthage is too unstable to support you,” she pressed, sensing the opportunity. “He’s more interested in doing business with the cartels and making money for the day he inevitably resigns and sets up a life of luxury in the Meridiennes. Hindia’s made their decision, and they picked Griffenheim. Arabia will not involve themselves in a Griffonian war, not when they can sell oil to all sides. And nopony in the Riverlands is in fair shape to help you, even if any of them wanted to. That leaves…who? Ikvus Hailstorm?”

Even Beakolini snorted at the absurdity of that statement. The new Storm King had a few rival powers neighboring his own kingdom to deal with before he could even think to look across the sea. But the message was sent. And she was right. If the Kingdom of Wingbardy went to war with the Empire, they would be alone facing the entire Reikspakt.

Clearing his throat, Beakolini took a sip of his wine, recovering himself. Though he didn’t need to look at her, he knew Mara’s golden eyes were slightly narrowed, her muzzle twisted in smug satisfaction. She’d finally said something that dug past the blustery airs he put on and struck that kernel of hard pragmatism underneath. The Changelings were indeed Wingbardy’s only hope of claiming sovereignty over Griffonia.

Which left Il Duce in the hard place of figuring out just how to make this potential relationship work without signing over more than he needed to. The last thing he wanted was to become yet another ‘Hegemony Protectorate’.

A low rumble sounded through the air, causing the glassware on the table to shake and rattle. Mara glanced down at them, an eyebrow (or whatever piece of carapace approximated her eyebrow) raised.

“Ah! Is it that time already?” Beakolini proclaimed, reaching into his jacket and extracting a pocket watch, grateful for the distraction from his sinister choice (that was not really a choice). He made a show of inspecting its face for a moment before tucking it away and rising, extending a claw towards the changeling. “Cara mia, perhaps I may ask you to accompany me to the balcony? A demonstration is about to fly over. It would be quite fitting for part of our talks if you witnessed it yourself.”

“How fortuitous,” Mara replied, her tone hinting that she was not at all convinced of the coincidence. And it wasn’t. Wingbardy’s entire society ran on timetables, and all it took from Il Duce was a quiet word to one or two generals this morning. A few hours later, he had his demonstration.

The two stepped to the balcony once more, looking out over the city. Air raid sirens blared out two sharp bursts, the signal to tell the citizens a test was underway. They would stop and gawk and marvel and Wingbardy’s might, of course. But they would know not to fear, or panic. As orderly as a society should be.

They reached the balcony and looked down on the avenue below. As they did, they were treated to the sight of an armored column on the march, heading north to deploy out of the city as the Polizia Stradale blew whistles and waved clubs to clear the way of civilian automobiles and pedestrians. This part was an actual coincidence, but Beakolini did not mind such a free display to go with his staged one.

In the column, platoons of new M26/11 medium tanks led the way for a smaller detachment of L6/07 light tanks and several trucks with their canvas furled, each packed to bursting with Wingbardian soldiers clad in olive helmets and tan fatigues. Behind them came more ranks of marching soldiers, rifles shouldered as they moved in lockstep time, NCOs hollering orders as they kept time and corrected faults, an occasional staff car with an officer or two separating the various companies, bearing both unit insignia as well as the old indigo banner of ancient Karthinia. Behind those, Autoblindo 11 armored cars rolled by in grid formations, followed by venerable M11/10 medium tanks, their high turrets open to allow the commanders to salute the passing civilians, heroes to all in the crowd throwing up the infamous Karthinian Salute and waving purple banners. Taking up the rear, Beakolini’s point of personal pride, were Bersaglieri skirmishers, black feathers pinned to the sides of their helmets proclaiming their elite status, the troopers larger than average with breasts proudly thrown forwards. He himself had served in their ranks in the Falcor War, and seen fit to make sure they were unmatched in equipment and training by any but the fabled Arditi and Corazzieri.

“Ah, there it is,” Beakolini remarked, as if he had nothing to even glance down at the column for, scanning the skies. Overhead, a large formation of massive P.108 heavy bombers flew in a diamond pattern, flanked by clusters of SM.84 medium bombers and the occasional Ro.57 heavy fighter. Around the entire formation, squadrons of IC.202 Folgore fighters were stretched out in lines, the shape of a much larger diamond around the bombing craft as if in escort. While useless as a combat formation, the demonstration achieved its aim; being a good spectacle and show of military might.

In the harbor, the guns of a battleship, likely the newer RM Impero, fired as a salute to the formation, the thundering fifteen inch behemoths sending a din to join the clattering of tanks in the streets below and the roaring of aircraft in the sky. That captain would need to be decorated for his initiative. Il Duce could not have better planned a better sight if he had tried, and the gears of individual parts had fit together as snugly as the watch in his pocket. He sighed in satisfaction, feeling the justification and vindication seep into him yet again as he watched the nation he had built from its ruin rise like a phoenix and shine in the sunlight.

He could not let all the work he had done to bring Wingbardy to greatness go to waste. The future belonged to them, in a new age, not to the dried up lost potential of the Kaiserreich that had once been masters of the world and then lost it all. If ensuring the new Karthinian Empire could arise on Griffonia required signing deals with the Changelings as their only lifeline, then it was better to harness themselves to the rising star Chrysalis (however untrustworthy she was) than to risk sputtering out alone.

And so, Beakolini turned away from the grand demonstration, from the grand displays of his nation’s power. He turned instead to Mara, focusing intensely on her face, his own showing no emotion. He could see the surprise in her eyes, finally witnessing a shred of his true thoughts. She thought she knew how to work him. How to own him. But he would just have to show the Changelings that they needed him just as much as he needed them.

“Perhaps I do need to inform the king about this development.”

And with that, he saw the satisfaction crest over Mara’s face. She thought she had won, and Wingbardy would soon become another puppet of Changelingia.

‘Soon,’ Giulio Beakolini thought. ‘Soon, we will see how much your promises are worth.’

Author's Note

I've been meaning to put up something like this for a while. It always seemed like Wingbardy's perspective hadn't been presented in the story, merely lurking in the background. Well, we'll see if we can't fix that in the future!