On the afternoon of November 19th, 1040, within the city of Rijekograd, the Chancellor of the United River Federation was seated on a red cushioned swivel chair, positioned at the head of a very long and very official looking table. It was currently surrounded by some of the best minds her nation had to offer: bureaucrats, strategists, economists, generals and more, all of whom had been gathered so that they could decide on policy together; to either change or maintain the course of their country as it sailed into the future, in spite of seemingly insurmountable challenges.
And indeed, despite those challenges, the image they presented when they all gathered around like this was definitely one that inspired hope for that future, creating a sight that was worthy of being immortalized in painting or placed into history textbooks. Not only were all kinds of Ponies present at once, with Pegasi, Earth Ponies, and even a single Thestral having no objections to being led by a Unicorn, but there was also proof that the Chancellor’s electoral promises of promoting racial harmony were not empty words: a Griffon from the Evi Valley was the equal of the Changeling from Geneclyf who was seated next to him, who in turn was the equal of the Diamond Dog seated directly opposite to the two of them.
More than just an exercise in political pandering, it was the sort of thing that let them all imagine that in a decade or two, they might be joined by a Zebra from Kàsa, or perhaps even a Deer from Austurland; that the Federation would continue to expand even further, and that it would eventually convince the remaining independent Harmonists on the continent of Griffonia to band together for mutual safety in the face of the ongoing Supremacist threat.
The Unicorn chairing the meeting was named Tipped Scales, and no matter how tough the job was, there was nowhere she would rather be than right here: at the apex of her political career, with high hopes for what was to come, all while surrounded by friends.
And family as well.
Following in tradition, Tipped Scales was not immune from implementing nepotism into her government. It really was the least of her worries when forming her cabinet, considering that those she was pulling the strings for had more than enough merit to earn their positions legitimately.
Furthermore, she had ironically enough seen heavy opposition from all corners of her nation to essentially everyone except for those she was bending the rules for: Sure, the descendants of the Equestrian refugee diaspora had nearly rioted when it was announced that her government had been ‘infiltrated by the bugs,’ and sure, many of her Griffon citizens found the idea of one of their own serving as her Minister of the Treasury to be perpetuating harmful stereotypes. Sure, the only reason the aforementioned Diamond Dog was even here was because the Diamond Mountain was threatening to secede again if they weren’t given greater representation, and sure, the only position she could grant what at times felt like the one Thestral in the Federation who actually liked her was Minister Without Portfolio…but even with all those hurdles, there was, to her knowledge, not one creature who had so much as protested the idea of two of the most powerful positions in the country being granted to immediate family.
For once, the eternally fickle nature of the people had not turned its wrath against her, something she knew wouldn’t last; such blatant favoritism was bound to be exploited by the opposition sooner or later, especially now that it was election year, when even trivial things had a spotlight shined on them so brightly that they suddenly became important. Even so, she was at least free to work alongside the two Ponies she loved most in the world for now, and for that, she was eternally grateful to the people who granted her such leniency. It made her all the more determined to repay them by serving them to the utmost of her ability, alongside the rest of her government and even her familial cronies.
A shame, then, that forcing those familial cronies to work together was at times more trouble than it was worth.
Seated immediately to Tipped Scales’ left was a fellow Unicorn named Big Picture, who was in many ways her mirror image; the only recognizable difference was that the white of her hair and the purple of her skin had been swapped between the otherwise identical twins, which was occasionally a cause for confusion among foreign dignitaries, especially non-Ponies, who could not tell the difference between the Chancellor and her Minister of Foreign Affairs.
By contrast, immediately to her right sat an azure Pegasus, whose wild yellow spikes which occasionally resembled hair remained perpetually unkempt, even in the middle of an important meeting. He was constantly looking back and forth between the two sisters, and thus constantly swapping his expression between absolute adoration and bitter hatred depending on whose gaze he was meeting at the moment.
His name was Limit Breaker, and he felt that serving as the Minister of Defence for the River Federation was the highest honor he had received in his entire life, especially when the Chancellor he was serving under just so happened to be his wife. He was willing to put up with every struggle and gripe that came with such a position in the name of his country and his beloved, even if that meant sharing the same oxygen as Big Picture; that conniving little skank who was constantly taking the best parts of his darling and turning it against him, whether it was at family gatherings or a government meeting to decide the fate of their nation, and by extension, perhaps the very world itself.
Limit Breaker had hoped, and indeed prayed, that Big Picture would leave her schemes at the door for once, but it was all for naught; his hateful stares were met with smug smirks every time they locked eyes, even as the one they both loved as much as they hated each other called the meeting into order. False affability was her personal declaration of war.
“You all know why we are here.” The Chancellor opened in an extraordinarily casual fashion, hoping to ditch all adherence to formalities from the start. After all, how could any of them not know why they were here, when the subject they were set to discuss had been continuously put off for years now? Maintaining the status quo and offering vague, often contradictory platitudes had served them well enough for a surprisingly long amount of time, but the day had finally arrived when a solidified stance needed to be crafted on perhaps the most important issue of the 11th century.
And yet, even with Tipped Scales' demands for action, and even with the ever growing need for a decision to be settled on, many of the members of this meeting had no intention of so much as speaking up. It wasn’t that they didn’t have opinions, or that they feared being ignored if they did share them. Instead, it was more that they had all already picked a side on the debate a long time ago, and had subsequently chosen a champion among them to represent their interests.
Those champions of these opposing ideals were, of course, the sister and husband of their Chancellor, who would doubtlessly have the best chance of convincing her to adopt their proposals, if not by merit than by emotional connection…that is, if they could find it within themselves to present their arguments soundly and rationally instead of just tearing each other apart.
Big Picture, a skilled orator compared to the rather blunt general, had the advantage in this regard, and fully intended to exploit it. Unlike her dunce of a brother-in-law, she wasn’t caught up in dogmatic ideological zealotry; she intended to create a political dynasty out of her family, and that meant that his idiotic ideas needed to be shot down, and any who supported them discredited. Anything else would be career suicide.
“The polls are clear: Even if we ignore the threat of mutually assured destruction-which we really, really shouldn’t-no one wants to go marching into Griffenheim a second time. And they especially don’t want a march to the sea immediately afterwards.” Big Picture took control of the conversation naturally and uninterrupted, picking up where her sister had left off as seamlessly as a pass in a game of Hoofball. It was practically routine at this point for her to make the opening move, with Limit Breaker having more or less conceded to playing black in their game of mental chess.
“They don’t want to die in someone else’s war. They don’t want to relive the same horrors that their parents did. And they especially don’t want to fight against those who were once our allies. We have a duty to enact the will of our citizens, and the citizens want peace.” All of those points were ones that she had previously made in private to her colleagues, in a futile effort to convince the stubborn holdouts that she was right, as she always was, but at least they were now officially read into the record.
In her eyes, and in the eyes of the other ministers which comprised her miniature faction within Tipped Scale’s cabinet, the time of putting boots on the ground in international hotspots had long since ceased. In its place, subterfuge and threats of nuclear annihilation were employed to enforce the Federation’s foreign policy. This fact seemed to be lost on Limit Breaker, who continued to advocate for national suicide no matter how hard she tried to stave him off.
“What they want is for us to learn from the mistakes of our past!” He insisted, barely restraining himself from slamming his hoof on the table, if only because he had already done it at least twice in every previous meeting he had been a part of, and it was starting to get very sore indeed. “They want an end to the horror stories! They want us to live up to the ideals we swore to live by, for once! They want to feel safe, like they’re not neighbors with an Axis of Evil! How can we tell them to sleep easy at night, when the Fascists throw more soldiers at our borders every day!? Some ‘allies’ they turned out to be!”
Normally a very even-tempered colt, there were only two things which could set Limit Breaker off to such an extent: having his optimism curbed by reality, and having such reality being served up the mare he hated most. There was some slight murmuring of agreement towards his outburst from his own camp, but not one of his tentative allies stood up to join his side in the debate, instead content with letting him speak on their behalf. They had placed their faith in him, and he did not intend to let any of them down, even in the face of his sister-in-law’s Minotaurshit.
“The only thing on our borders right now are refugees. Two divisions moving east is hardly ‘throwing soldiers at our borders every day.’” Big Picture attempted to refute the meaningless paranoia of her brother-in-law as she so often did, and for the umpteenth time, quietly wondered what exactly Tipped Scales saw in him. Did he not realize that his hostile rhetoric may, in fact, be inciting tensions? That the enemy he so detested may have been acting not aggressively, but defensively? She would have continued, if not for the fact that the brute had no sense of manners.
“Don’t you dare mention the refugees.” He interrupted, trying for a moment to contain his rage, even when he knew it was pointless. “You’d send them right back home to the camps if it meant you get to keep your false peace for a few more months.” The Pegasus sneered, his good intentions devolving into personal mudslinging as it so often did. His opposite, for her part, only smiled; this was getting easier and easier. Already, those seated next to him were beginning to look away, to grimace in frustration. He talked a big game, certainly, but only when he still had allies to back his position. In just a few short minutes, he would stand alone, having pushed away all of his friends through his own aggressiveness, and she would be victorious. All else was simply prelude.
“Patently false. The refugees are of great use to us. The intellectual oppression of the Karthinians and their-” She had to catch herself for a moment in order to appease Tipped Scales, who, for as much as she had fallen under the sway of her sister, still had specific demands when it came to addressing the south. “-Excuse me. Of the Wingbardians,” she corrected, as was in line with official Federation policy of refusing to recognize the Fascist empire. “And their partner-in-war-crime, ensures that any educated creature who doesn’t enjoy the taste of boot ends up fleeing east. Intellectuals, as it turns out, enjoy intellectual freedom, and bring their talents to us as a result. They’re creating their own brain drain.”
This 'brain drain' didn’t seem to be slowing down the apparatus of state oppression even a bit, but it was a brain drain nonetheless. Already anticipating Limit Breaker’s next sarcastic question, Big Picture raised a single hoof defensively. “And the uneducated creatures are even better for us. Our donors very much appreciate our efforts to ensure that a stable stream of cheap labor ends up their way.”
The callous way in which she spoke of Griffons fleeing from the darkest oppression on the planet unnerved and upset even those who supported her position, thus marking their own turn to look away and grimace…but not to object, or insist that she was out of line. Her logic was sound: no one wanted to admit it, but that had always been the unspoken reason as to why the River Federation was so eager to accept refugees no matter where they had come from, why it had gained its reputation for warmly receiving the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, ever since the Great War.
Big Picture had no problem with speaking the truth everyone else shied away from, from admitting that their policies were not altruistic, but politically tainted, just like everything else. It was another reason why she was the one presenting their arguments, for no one else had the guts to be so brazenly shameless.
Then again, no one else had the guts to oppose her ruthless pragmatism, either. No one except Limit Breaker, who even now, was the only one who was willing to risk everything in the name of freedom, a hardliner in the name of liberty.
“So that’s really all this is to you? You want to prop up the two most evil countries on Faust so that a line goes up!?” That was and essentially always had been the crux of her argument, but even so, Limit Breaker still couldn’t wrap his head around it. It was a way of thinking that was so foreign and alien that he simply couldn’t comprehend it, and he didn’t want to comprehend it either. Throwing living, breathing, sentient creatures to the Timberwolves to ensure your own prosperity went against everything he stood for, and for what the River Federation stood for as well.
Unless Big Picture got her way, that is. In which case, the River Federation would stand for cowardice and self-preservation at all costs. And he wasn’t sure if he could bear to even live in such a country, let alone serve it.
“I’d argue that the Committee of World Revolution is worse, personally.” She replied with a smile, knowing that equating Communism to Supremacism would only incense her rival further. “But no, I’m not proposing we ‘prop up’ anyone. Tyranny is naturally unsustainable; there’s no need to risk the lives of our people to accelerate its natural death. What I’m proposing is that we reap the benefits that come with their continued existence for however long it lasts. I know you’re very proud of the fact that we produce most of our own military equipment, but where do you think we get the majority of our civilian goods?”
The Unicorn doubted that a colt who lived a lifestyle that could generously be described as ‘Nimbusian’ (or perhaps ‘Spartan’ to any humans who may be reading this) cared much for materialism, but just because he was immune to the trappings of modern consumerism didn’t mean that the rest of their people were. In the modern era, luxury goods ensured prosperity, and prosperity ensured continued political success. “Their goods are half the price of anything else on the market, and their production-”
“Because they’re made by slaves…!” The Pegasus interrupted with a mighty shout of great conviction…at first. But halfway through his sentence, the fire he was famous for was suddenly extinguished in half a second, his tone dropping to neutral before going entirely silent.
The pressure of sparring with his intellectual superior did not daunt him; the stares he received from Big Picture and her gaggle of minions meant nothing; the pressure of potentially causing the equivalent of a governmental gridlock by refusing to back down could not make him concede…but a single, solitary smile from Tipped Scales’ trumped all of that. It was weary yet warm, pained yet loving, and it made his heart melt now as much as it did the first time he saw it all those years ago.
“...Mr. Breaker.” The Chancellor spoke, refusing to speak his first name and thus going along with the running gag the two of them had crafted since the beginning of their relationship, when she insisted that there would be ‘no limits’ between them. “I want you to know that you are absolutely correct.”
A single gasp emanated throughout the room in response to such a declaration, as all others-including Big Picture, for once-were suddenly rendered silent, much to the Foreign Minister’s dismay. She was certain that she had gained the upper hoof; suddenly losing this argument out of nowhere came as a shock to herself, her allies, and even to her opponents, more and more of whom had already conceded themselves to failure the longer the debate dragged on. She still had arguments to make, and Tipped Scales had to know that! Had she erred in some way? Had she pushed Limit Breaker too far, and convinced her sister to side with him out of pity?
The field marshal, for his part, knew better than that: His Chancellor was not the sort of mare who would shame him by granting him a hollow victory. Her eyes spoke the truth more than her words ever could, letting him know exactly what was coming next: the death blow, the coup de grâce. All that was left was to word it in a matter that ensured that they would still love each other when this was over.
“The regimes of the west are, without question, the greatest threat the River Federation has ever known. They are murderers and enslavers. They are war criminals and warmongers. And we must stand against them to the best of our ability.” Tipped Scales had run as a moderate and a centrist: neither a hawk nor a dove, in favor of neither intervention or isolation. She would never have spoken such words in public, and risk the strategic ambiguity which had maintained peace on the continent since the death of the Griffonian Empire. It was something incredible to hear…and it could only mean that a catch was to follow.
“We must carefully consider what exactly the best of our ability means. Maybe, those who came before us made a grave error in working together with the Chiazbeacle Pact, and maybe, we potentially have a chance to correct this mistake. But we must also carefully consider what that ‘correction’ would actually result in.”
Limit Breaker let out a deep sigh as soon as his wife finished, his fighting spirit seemingly exiting his body at the same time as his breath. He had done all he could to convince his wife that those ‘costs’ would be worth it, that future generations would thank them, that victory was still possible even with the bomb hanging over their heads…and he had utterly failed. His only victory today would be a moral one, the knowledge that he was wrong for the right reasons, while Big Picture was right for the wrong reasons. That, he supposed, would be the only mark he would leave on the history books.
“They’re exactly as evil as you say they are, Mr. Breaker. And since they’re so evil, they lack any of the sensibility and restraint that we do. Therefore, there is absolutely nothing stopping them from using nuclear weapons to ensure their continued survival.” Normally one who only engaged in flowery poetics in the presence of audience, Tipped Scales could not help but end her declaration with a flourish, an unquestionable statement of authority to remove this item from the agenda forever. “And I will not go down as the Chancellor who collapsed the world into blood-stained, radioactive dust simply to enforce Harmony over the ashes.”
After all, that world is the one that allowed their love to live on within it. She owed this planet and this country far too much to set it all ablaze, even if it was to stop the High Sheriff.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
On the evening of November 20, 1040, within the city of Winggarden, a professor of the Caramel Marks Higher Party School stood tall and proud as her students filled up the lecture hall. Her expression was one of utmost pride, displaying the kind of delight that any teacher would take in seeing their students flourish. And they were indeed flourishing: the beginning of their program had admittedly been somewhat rough, as weaklings and imbeciles had to be routinely identified, removed, and erased from memory.
Some members of the board had been fearful that such infiltrators had remained hidden long enough to embed themselves into the rest of their peers, to disseminate among their ranks and spread their revisionism like a disease. Such fears had thankfully been erased by now, as only those who could be accurately described as the best of the best remained. With all the rot cut out like an invasive cancer, the red-feathered Hippogriff was free to educate her class to the best of her ability, to nourish the next generation of party members and provide them with the tools they needed to pursue a brighter future.
Education was not a luxury in Aris; it was not only free of charge, but mandated and expansive. As a result, these loyal citizens could have gone to any other school of higher learning to pursue any other dream…but instead, each of them had chosen to serve the party, to repay the state that had done so much for them. The thought that this humble educator could very well have been looking at the next General Secretary of the Committee of World Revolution was one that never failed to make her smile.
Her name was Sharpfeather Softclaw, and behind the smile on her beak and the sparkle in her eyes, she was constantly, inexorably, screaming on the inside.
The guards which covered every exit were screaming on the inside as well. The reason why they were present, outfitted with body armor and radios and batons as though they were sent to keep an eye on a protest instead of a lesson, was a truth kept hidden under two separate layers of lies.
To the completely ignorant, they were here to keep the students and professors safe; to protect the best and brightest their nation had to offer in their oh-so important formative years. Pushing past the obvious propaganda into the second layer, they were ostensibly here to enforce order, to crack down on any sort of revisionism from students or educators alike, to beat them down and drag them away, never to be seen again. Such would have been their responsibility in any other totalitarian regime, surely.
But the deepest, darkest truth was that they were not the ones with the power here, no matter what de jure authority they may technically possess. They were not here to protect, but to witness, in shock and horror, as their future was stolen from them and placed into the claws of radicals. To not only watch but also actively contribute to the next generation becoming fanatics, to stand in horror at the further desecration of Posada’s dream, as their own children would one day be forced to bow to the whims of these young lunatics, if they hadn’t become lunatics themselves.
The students were not screaming on the inside. There was no inane chattering as they walked in, no pointless time-wasting as each and every one of them filed in and sat down to their assigned seats with all the precision and obedience of a legion of robots. Compliant as a pack of well-trained dogs as they were, they were not motivated by the same fear as their professor, not intimidated by the pressure placed on the guards, not cowed by the terror which single-clawedly held their society together. Because for them, it was impossible to recognize what state oppression actually was.
They were not old enough to remember anything else, to have an idea of what life was like when it wasn’t being completely dominated by party doctrine. Nor did they wish to know what it was like to live such an anathema existence, to learn from their parents and those who came before of what once was and what could have been. Because to return to the ways of the past-to think for oneself-was enough to ruin everything, to erase all the progress they had made. It was not a trivial matter of mild curiosity or occasional political disagreement, but the greatest threat that their society had ever known… for there was nothing so dangerous as an idea.
It would not be exaggeration to state that these students enjoyed perhaps the highest standard of living in the world. Equestria still bore scars of reconstruction even now, while the rest of Zebrica remained poor and underdeveloped. Even Griffonia, the subject of today’s lecture, was being held back by Supremacism and Harmony, and indeed still recovering from their own devastating conflicts. But the sons and daughters of Communist Hippogriffia had evolved past such easily solved problems, to the point where the vicious foreigners, no matter how vindictive they may have been, could only be pitied, excluded as they were from their own extravagance.
Fully automated luxury space Communism (gay or otherwise) was providing for their every material need: They did not know a day of hunger nor a night of cold. They did not fear for the roof over their heads or for the safety of their streets. When injured, they were healed; when sick, they were cured. They were protected by the most powerful weapons on Faust, ensuring that none would dare challenge them in battle lest they bring about mutually assured destruction. Barring their lack of petty things such as ‘freedom of speech,’ they doubtlessly lived in a utopia.
But in a utopia, stability should not have been in question. No one fears that the pillars supporting Heaven might collapse if not maintained, that the clouds supporting their weight will suddenly fade away if not continuously restored. And yet, these students feared, as legitimately and as strongly as any other biologically ingrained phobia, that their paradise was hanging by a thread. They knew-not just thought, but knew-that their entire nation’s success, and indeed excess, was built upon a house of cards. That a single disruption, no matter how small, could send it all crashing down and return them to the dark ages of reaction and exploitation. That the internal revisionists would see all they had built destroyed over mere illusions, and that their external enemies grew both more powerful and more fearful by the day.
To them, obedience was not just a virtue: it was the supreme virtue above all others, for without it, all else is for naught. It was a simple fact, in their eyes, that the continued survival of their country was directly proportional to how closely it maintained its ideology, without change or objection.
That was why they were all here: to be the vanguard of the revolution. To ensure that not only Hippogriffs and Zebras and Ponies and Macawians enjoyed the benefits of Communism, but the entire world, one day. That was why they did not mind that their laptops, provided by the state, automatically turned on their webcams whenever activated, sending contant video and audio recordings of their every move to a loyal agent of the state who would dutifully review it all for any signs of revisionism. That was why they did not mind the guards which stood by every exit, preventing any disruptions or premature exits, even for so much as a bathroom break.
For them, this was no elaborate act, nor a means of burying their true desires. For them, this was simply life; not only as it is, but how it should be. And when they came into power, they would delight in all the ways in which their way of life could be further expanded on.
But before they could enact their vision upon their nation, they would have to graduate first. And that was where Sharpfeather came in, terrified as she may have been of them all. She had lived long enough to learn the game by now, to present herself as being just as loyal as these youthful zealots were, if not more so. But that didn’t change how much she hated all of this.
She hated how the inherent authority a teacher had over their students was gone, that she could be disappeared if any of the Hippogriffs she stood before so much as suspected revisionism on her part. She hated that the same could be said of her children; that she lacked any authority over them as their mother. Indeed, the only authority that remained was that of the state, of the pervasive government which destroyed all bonds that had not been examined, checked, and approved of in their halls of power.
She wished that she could let go of all that hate; that she could truly, genuinely believe in the cause of the General Secretary and his butchers as much as these young adults did. Continuing to hold feelings of resentment, of revisionism, did nothing for her but put her life at risk, each and every day…but she couldn’t help it. There was no way to remove this horrible feeling, this knot inside her stomach which told her that this was wrong, that it was all wrong, that Posada and Skystar never would have wanted this.
So instead, she kept her head low and did her job.
After the ever so important matter of reciting their pledge of allegiance to Hard Line, the party, and the state-in that order, of course-Sharpfeather got on with the lesson of the day; geopolitics, and how history flowed into the modern era. A hard subject, one which often exposed traitors among students and professors alike by revealing foreign sympathies. But the ever loyal Softclaw had none, heavens no! She just had to stick to the script. To say nothing out of line, and to answer any questions just like she was supposed to. If she did that, she could get through this day, only to do it all over again tomorrow.
“As you are all certainly aware, Historical Materialism is the only correct lens through which one can examine the actions of the past. I often see many of our comrades, when attempting to analyze history from the orthodox perspective-” That is to say, the Marksist perspective, through which everything was merely one form of class warfare or another. “-making the mistake of misunderstanding what allowed for the rise of Supremacism to happen in the first place; why creatures of the lowest class, poorest wealth, and hardest jobs would resist their own emancipation to the point of death. They have convinced themselves that no obstacle is too great to prevent the rise of Communism, a patently false observation which dangerously diminishes the role of the Revolutionary Vanguard.”
She had to choose her words carefully: if she had not added that last part, of requiring the Vanguard, her speech would have implied that Communism was, in fact, not inevitable. That was more than enough to send her to the gulags, even on a good day.
“They claim that, for as reasonable as it is for the common worker to be kept intentionally ignorant by decadent monarchists and oligarchs, that the rise of Fascism and other Supremacists, who not only suppress but actively destroy revolutionary thought, is an irregularity among the progression of history due to their unusual support from the proletariat. The greatest example of this, they say, is the formation of the Cloudetian Dynasty. However, a mere cursory glance at the material conditions leading to the rise of the High Sheriff is more than enough to reveal that the Neo-Griffonian Empire is not an anomaly, but a completely natural evolution of the international reactionary conspiracy, a response made in the face on an ongoing threat to the power of the bourgeois. It will therefore also serve as irrefutable proof that the Committee of Global Revolution must continue to uphold its status as the forebearer of universal Marksism.”
Spoken like the perfect stooge. The students all nodded along approvingly, as though they were not here to learn, but to examine; every day was a test of her loyalty, and these little monsters were her judges. It was therefore best to continue to please them, to keep them nodding.
With a click of her remote, the projector flickered to life and displayed an image: a map of western Griffonia, encompassing the entirety of the old Girffonian empire. Though it displayed all the same geography that everyone was used to, it also showed drastically different political boundaries, a visible reminder of the difference a few short decades could make upon the world. At the bottom of the screen lie the Périphérie, of which the Shrievalty of Greifwald had been colored a deep, sickly green. By contrast, the Lord Protector’s empire was bright orange, various unimportant nations were white…and a large string of nations had all been colored black. They were arranged in what was almost a mirrored C shape, one that perfectly divided the River Coalition from the Herzland, stretching from Sky Bay to the Kion Sea. Their color scheme was rather appropriate, given that they were all part of an makeshift alliance that came to be known as the Black Curtain, or more professionally...
“The League of Bandits. All the weaknesses of a stateless society combined with all the evils of Supremacism. Anarcho-Tyranny of the highest order, stretching from the Corsairs to the renegade Reformisten to the Maarite Sunstriker.” Of course, not all the states that had been colored black were actually ever a member of this ‘alliance,’ if it could have even been called that. The National Republican Army, born from the remnants of the old Republic of Griffonia, had sworn to eradicate them when Griffenheim was reclaimed. But this was a truth that none of these students were to ever learn, for such complexities diluted the narrative, which was, of course, more important than anything else.
“When presented with such an existential threat to their lives and livelihoods, the seemingly foolish decision to place one’s trust in malevolent dictators becomes more understandable, if no less unforgivable. The Griffons, accustomed as they were to hundreds of years of absolutist propaganda, could not find it within themselves to believe that Communism offered them both security as well as freedom. In their minds, they had been forced to choose one or the other. These delusions allowed them to fall into the arms of Beakolini, of Dawnclaw, and of course, Nottemagne. Having so much in common, all three Griffs eventually found themselves aligned against the Second Aquileian Republic, which, instead of providing the means through which the Griffons might liberate themselves, instead became the perfect target to rally around. As you will soon learn, this is a trend that continues onwards with every decade, as the fierce and repeated opposition to these regimes only served to further legitimize and strengthen them when they were each defeated. Following the destruction of Marelandia-”
Without so much as a warning, Softclaw let out an intense coughing fit right in the middle of her lecture, as though she were suddenly being taken by the throes of death. It was not a health issue, nor had she accidentally swallowed her water down her windpipe; It was more of a visceral reaction, a physical rejection by her body of the inane propaganda she was about to spout. Her students, ever patient, were not surprised by this turn of events, for it seemed to happen like clockwork whenever she brought up the nation which served as the host of MARESOC. The regularity of such a reaction was suspicious to some, but for many, it was just about the one subject they were willing to ignore her hesitation on, primarily because a solidified position on the nation had yet to be established by the Revolutionary Workers Party.
Was Marelandia an abomination, a corruption of Communism and everything it stood for? Or was it a nation of vanguards and pioneers, slandered and discredited by history-writing victors? It couldn’t be either, because any commentary in regards to such a state would inevitably end up as commentary over the Committee of World Revolution, given how similar the two nations had become. That was why Sharpfeather had reacted so strongly to even just the name of Marelandia; because she was always, constantly, trying to push out of her mind the fact that she now lived inside it. When the lesson brought it up, it was impossible to ignore anymore, resulting in an act of physical revulsion, no matter how hard she tried to suppress it.
It was something that would have to be looked into in the future.
“...F-following the destruction of Marelandia,” she continued, her eyes having long since lost the sparkle of pride they once displayed when she first saw her students today, the act she had put on for so long finally beginning to crumble through no fault of her own. “The remaining Supremacists were left with few enemies to fight beyond each other, hence the mild Tarrin conflict. It is in this moment where we can examine not only how the far right regularly eats itself, but how Harmonists are demonstrably incapable of protecting the world from their rising threat. When Nottemagne turned on the Lord Protector, further presenting himself as the lesser of two evils in comparison to a child murderer, the River Coalition-and later Federation-did not seize the opportunity to strike against both regimes, but instead allied with one to ensure their own protection, before later on being joined by the Wingbardians. This betrayal of the values they claim to hold dear is the sole reason for the current state of the Griffonian continent, as well as undeniable justification that Harmonism is inherently anti-revolutionary in nature. From this we can draw several conclusions; please open your textbooks to page 54, where-”
“Professor?” One of the students called out, interrupting without fear or hesitation. To everyone else, the lesson was more or less complete; the provided historical context could be used to further analyze the success of Communism and the failures of all other ideologies, as well provide insight into the infallible nature of modern CWR diplomacy, or rather, the lack thereof. But to this single, solitary Hippogriff, one who transformed out of his preferred Seapony form every single day just to attend these classes, who had turned in his own brother for infectious revisionism, who did not imagine of merely potentially being the next General Secretary, but could tangibly feel it in his future as certain and solid as the desk he sat at, had noticed something no one else had.
“I can’t help but observe your exclusion of the events of the Black Crusade. You mentioned that the current state of the Griffonian continent came to be due to the partnership between the River Federation and the Chizbeacle Pact. Are you perhaps attempting to downplay our contributions to the stability of Griffonia by attributing our victory over the Dread League solely to this alliance?”
Sharpfeather Softclaw’s internal screams raised in volume just a little bit.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
On the night of November 21, 1040, within the city of Griffenheim, an eighty nine year old Griffon stepped into his workplace with all the grim determination he was known for.
It was an office filled with all manners of luxuries befitting a creature of his supposed status: a carpeted floor with his nation’s seal in the center, one he callously walked over without a second thought. Fine art depicting portraits of himself and his emperor decorated the walls, though his gaze never fell upon them. Two bookcases containing some of the most valuable texts in the country, from political treatises to generation-defining literature, from holy scriptures to historical tomes had been built into the walls, but none of their content was to be opened even once.
Even when surrounded by materialistic decadence, there was only one thing he could focus on: his gorgeously crafted mahogany desk, with an endless amount of paperwork resting upon it. Without so much as a sigh, he took his seat and got to work, picking up his pen and beginning to write.
His name was feared by all, and it would continue to be feared for however long he had left to live, and perhaps even beyond that.
His age had not slowed him down in the slightest, for his senses remained sharp; he could perfectly read the writing on each document, even with only one eye still in use. His mind remained clear; he could understand exactly what they meant, and what effect each of his orders would have when they were issued and executed. His body remained able; his seat may have creaked with every small movement, but his bones did not, and his wings remained strong. It was evident that all that had made him dangerous and capable in his youth persisted even into his final years, ruthlessly maintained through sheer willpower alone.
He refused to relax his focus, to lose all the traits a good ruler should possess simply because he became too old to bother with renewing them. Despite his elderly nature, he kept a vice grip on his role, his identity, and the qualities that allowed him to not only survive to this advanced point in his life, but to thrive as a powerful and respected Griffon.
Including, and indeed prioritizing, his utterly boundless savagery.
It must have been some cruel joke straight from Boreas himself that allowed such a Griff to survive for as long as he did, for his iron claw to continue to crush all in his grasp, for the jackboots of his men to stomp and march from one end of the continent to the other. It would not be exaggeration to state that perhaps no other creature in the history of Faust had been personally responsible for so much death and destruction. He was worse than Chrysalis, worse than the Storm King, worse than even the Great Overtyrant, for they had all burned themselves out brightly yet quickly, condensing their evil into a few short years. His rule, his tyranny, his relentless march of death, had persisted with all its shining brilliance, while being simultaneously spread out over the course of decades.
Even disqualifying the men under his command who he had led to their deaths like lemmings, even forsaking the countless enemy soldiers who had bravely stood against him and bravely met their end, even barring the innocent civilians who were bombed, starved, and diseased as collateral damage during his many crusades, his body count nonetheless remained in the tens of millions. How many executions had he personally overseen? How many more had been carried out under his orders? How many more than that had been carried out as a result of his draconian laws? If it were not for the tireless workers of his crematoriums, who so frequently allowed the winds to deposit their gift of gray snow down to the people of the Neo-Griffonian empire, there would be no room for farmlands in his nation; all unused space would have to be allocated for mass graves instead.
The Griff’s claws were absolutely soaked with invisible crimson, dripping down onto the papers he continued to attend to with utter indifference. Unseen, it smeared the ink with the blood of Communists and theocrats, republicans and traitors, knights and Ponies, kings and warhearts.
And most of all, bandits.
They came in many forms, of course. There were the genuinely lawless, those that even his softer neighbors would condemn. The murderers and thieves, outlaws of the basest sort and parasites most despicable. With a short drop and a sudden stop, he did away with them one by one.
Then there were the traitors, the local separatists and wider resistance movements. Seeking ‘freedom,’ though they could hardly agree what that freedom would be for. Freedom from the monarchy? From his surveillance state? Freedom for the Herzland? For Aquileia? For the Périphérie? It was all meaningless drivel and hopeless lies. Their punishment was harsher, for an example had to be made: As Eyr commands, suicide is sinful, and opposing the Regent was simply suicidal. That being the least of their many offenses against the Gods, it was deemed that only fire could properly purify their filth from his holy empire.
Finally, there were the foreign bandits, those who sought to destroy all which he had built from the outside rather than from within. For as admittedly gruesome as it sounded, the Regent actually looked back upon the time in which there were still those who sought to unseat him with a certain fondness. Not only through the powerful force of nostalgia painting his perspective, but because they had actually helped stabilize his regime in those crucial days of national reawakening. Like a series of dominoes, they each made their effort to stop him before toppling over, allowing him to add their lands and resources to his own. This added momentum, allowing the next domino to be struck harder, faster, with more force, which of course made the next fall as well. On and on it went until the chain was complete, and his power was at last insurmountable.
He took a brief moment to gaze upon the flag of his nation, the tiny little piece of cloth that decorated his desk on either side. It was the symbol of all those fallen dominoes, the physical proof of his unquestioned authority. Back when he was a mere lawman, he couldn’t have possibly imagined serving any other flag than that of the county of Greifwald. And yet, the one he now saluted was utterly unrecognizable to the one he grew up under. Not because he had betrayed his homeland, but because he had expanded it. Aggressively, ruthlessly, to the point where he became so powerful that he himself designed what those flags looked like. In its current state, it was majestic: a tricolor of burgundy, white, and blue, defaced with ornate golden patterns which each symbolized a region of his empire: An iron cross for the Herzland, a fleur-de-lis for Aquileia, and the crest of the imperial and royal family right in the center, so that none would ever forget who had united the two.
He had considered, many times over his life, of changing that flag again, of allowing it to reflect even more conquered territory: perhaps some purple, to represent his supposed ally of Karthinia? Or maybe some green, to prove that he could accomplish what Grover II could not? Alas, his warmongering days were long behind him, and he had come to recognize that this would be the final flag he would ever serve under. Even so, it was still fun to fantasize.
“My lord?” The voice of one Adalgisel vun Kurg called out, waking Jean de Nottemagne from said fantasies. He recognized her voice long before she popped her head into his office, not only because he heard it so often, but because there was only one person in the entire empire who was allowed to enter this room without an appointment, without clearing past his security, without permission, without so much as a knock. Only she had been granted that privilege, but diligent as she was, she rarely abused it. To have her here, now, must have meant it was important. He trusted-trusted, for as impossible as it sounded-her judgment. And thus, he would forgive her for the grave crime of trespassing.
“Miss Kurg. I am always happy to see you.” Jean had probably told her those exact words every single day for over thirty years now, and it had never been a lie even once. Few things could bring warmth to a heart that had long since iced over with bitterness and an insane lust for power, but she seemed to have the same effect on him as a beloved family pet. Adalgisel was just as loyal as one, after all. She returned his smile with one of her own, taking slow, careful steps into the room, for unlike Jean, her age had more than caught up with her; she could no longer fly, made use of a primitive hearing aid, and even required a cane just to make it to the chair seated opposite to her master.
With her warm smile and frail body of a kind old lady, it was almost impossible to believe that she was the most decorated field marshal in all the empire, and that she had just as much invisible blood on her claws as her boss did.
“Likewise, I am always happy to see you, even if I don’t always have time to flatter you about it these days.” The graying Griffon spoke with a soft giggle, one that lacked all the strength of the strong and hearty chuckle he had heard from her so many times before. Even so, it was no less pleasant a sound. “I am here to ask if you are aware of what the current date is.”
For a moment, Jean’s face twisted into mild annoyance, disturbed that his trust had been abused. That was what she had interrupted him to ask about? Even for her, that was petty. And yet, it only took a few moments of actual consideration for his irritation to quickly revert to neutrality, before returning back to the same smile he wore before. “...November twenty first. I should have known.”
Unable to keep it a surprise any longer, Adalgisel quickly produced three small black gift boxes from the pockets of her coat, laying each of them out on his desk one by one, albeit being careful to avoid placing any of them down onto his papers. They seemed to be themed and coordinated, having been arranged sequentially so that the largest was at the far right and the smallest on the far left. She had evidently prepared for this, for some reason.
“Three gifts for one birthday? You spoil me.” Jean declared, reaching a claw out for the middle box, before it was quickly stopped by Adalgisel’s own. Her smile quickly turned mischievous as she directed his hand to the largest one instead.
“Oh, no. Only this one is for your birthday. The rest are for separate occasions.” She explained, much to the High Sheriff’s confusion. Despite this, at her urging, he reluctantly opened up the gift she had directed him towards; ripping it open revealed a darkly comedic sight, that of an ordinary ceramic mug-albeit a well crafted one-decorated with the words, ‘World’s Best Sheriff,’ complete with faux blood stains covering it's handle. The regent, being who he was, was not exactly fond of such forms of humor-or indeed, humor at all-but for his beloved ‘Miss Kurg’, he forced out a sarcastic, obviously falsified laugh.
“You are too kind…” He eventually spoke, his eyes already drifting back to his paperwork. If this was the extent of the gifts she was to give him, then he was already hoping for it to be over as soon as possible.
“I wish it were filled. That way you could spit out your drink when I tell you that your next gift is for your retirement.”
That sentence, unlike the stupid coffee cup, got a genuine laugh out of the High Sheriff, the kind that she had not heard in a long time; not since he had personally delighted in executing the unworthy. “Is this some sort of soft coup attempt?” He asked, his attention finally fully on her instead of on his papers, as he reached out to open the middle box, just as Adalgisel had pointed to. Sure enough, the gift inside was a brilliant golden watch, perfectly appropriate for a Griff who was set to take a long, permanent break. “A shame, then, that I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, you’re going alright.” Jean’s most loyal stalwart declared, her own smile only widening with each gift he opened. “Because you’re going to accept that final gift, too. And then, you won’t have time to govern anymore.”
Anyone else who spoke even remotely similar words would have been shot on the spot. Such insolence was creating a great deal of emotion within the regent; annoyance, mild amusement, shock as to just how bold she was being. But since it was her, and only her, he figured it was best to find out what all of this was about. As far as he was concerned, he was the empire, and the empire was him; there was not a damn thing inside that tiny, dinky little box on his desk that could convince him to leave it all behind.
Except for, perhaps, an elegant golden ring.
Jean de Nottemagne remained perfectly still for a moment, with not so much as his facial expression changing. For a moment, Adalgisel’s smile faltered, as if genuinely concerned as to how he might react. And yet, slowly, surely, he began to move once again. He took the ring into his claws and began to examine it in great detail, his singular eye darting back and forth between it and the woman who would be his wife.
“You are aware,” The High Sheriff at last spoke, something of a crooked smile appearing on his beak. “That it is typically the male that proposes to the female?” He asked, just as she knew that he would. It was one of the reasons why she had fallen for him so madly; he was true to himself to the point of predictability. What woman could resist a man who would never lie to her? Who would always be faithful? Who would never change or alter that which she found enticing about him in the first place?
“I am indeed. But you must forgive me for losing my patience. I have waited so very long for you to approach me like this, that I could not wait a moment longer.”
At this, Jean’s smile escalated to a full-on laugh, though it was briefer than she would have liked. “Implying that I ever planned on approaching you at all.” He countered, though it did nothing to smother his best general’s determination. “You are also aware,” he continued, “That you are well beyond the age of bearing children.”
Another truthful statement, made in a way that further implied any such objections to this idea were professional rather than personnel. He had never bothered with children before: as Adalgisel was so clearly taking advantage of, he had never officially wed, and had the self-control required to avoid the scandal of bastardry. The idea was simply unappealing to him to begin with: a little chick walking around his house, feeling that he was more entitled to his time than the nation was, simply because they shared some blood? A fool who would run the Cloudetian Dynasty into the ground if he ever seized power, all out of an ignoble desire to ‘stick it’ to his overly cruel father? Or worse, a waste of taxpayer money, if he’d rather be a celebrity over a politician? No.
And of course, all of that was assuming that the child would be a male: he might have preferred a daughter, as to give him the means to cement his legacy by adding his own blood to that of the Cloudetians. But that was, at heart, a vanity project. For all of his faults, Jean was not a Griff who demanded such trivialities.
“Spoken as though you don’t need pills for that sort of thing these days. Then again, if you don’t, that just makes me want you all the more.” Adalgisel shot right back, causing Jean’s gaze to avoid her own out of mild disbelief, her brief moment of naughtiness being perhaps the most salacious thing he’d ever heard in his life. It fell down to his desk, to the mountain of paperwork still upon it, and to all the work that still had to be done...and would still have to be done, no matter who ruled.
The High Sheriff closed his eye for a moment, smiled warmly…and picked up his pen. He did not have the heart to say ‘no’ to her. For all his strength and cruelty, he could not bring himself to tell her that he was destined to work until he died. That he did not have time for her, nor would he ever. So he resolved to simply ignore her, until she got the message. He would continue to run the empire from this very seat. He would continue to be the regent for Emperor-King Charel Cloudet I, incompetent bastard that he was. He would continue to command his surveillance state, his nation of boundless cruelty and unashamed evil, long after she was gone. He would continue to read, contemplate, and sign these papers until he dropped dead, or the mountain vanished.
If only his damn pen hadn’t run out of ink.
He pressed it hard into the pages, scribbled aimlessly at the top, shook it from top to bottom, to no avail. He looked upon his desk, only to find no other writing utensil he could have used to replace it. He sought an inkwell, one he could use alongside his own damn feathers, turning them into makeshift quills…nothing. There were no longer any physical means for which he could resume his duties.
A sign from Boreas.
“...You are further aware,” Jean de Nottemagne at last declared, slowly standing up from his seat, just as Adalgisel had risen from her own. His gaze, almost leisurely, crawled its way up from his desk, to her chest, to at last look her in the eyes once more. This time, she saw more than just a workaholic staring back at her. This time, she saw a Griff prepared to leave it all behind. To let the incompetent wretch he had carried all his life to stand on his own two claws. To finally turn his ‘Miss Kurg’ into ‘Misses Kurg.’
To enjoy the same peaceful life he had deprived millions of innocents from.
“That I love you.”
