Hamland offers their officials to middle this discussion and a place to hold the conference (IC): Rolfaga Palace, on the countryside of New Kirriemuir...
Seneschal of the Kingdom of Hamland
Duke of Morfaga
Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Saint Josaphat
Leader of the Hamland National Party
Former Prime Minister (2007-2011)
Summary: news of the armistice reaches the SDF headquarters in Newport.A haze of subtropical heat and acrid tobacco smoke hung over the comm room in the Antican headquarters at Newport, drifting up to the high ceiling. A few banks of computers lined the walls, along with radar equiptment and an assortment of radios and secure-line telephones, one of which was fire-engine red and connected directly to the Archon's office in Nafticon. The soldiers and communications officers manning the equiptment slumped in their chairs, and would have dozed off were it not for the Argus-eyed vigilance of their chief officer. The stifling, oppressive heat would have been enough to make anyone drift off, but the men were on the lookout for incoming news. Several men stood around watching the red phone, expecting it to ring at any moment, but instead, a tone bleeped from one of the computers. The officer sitting before it spun around in his chair and piped up, "Sir...I have a secure video call coming in from Nafticon."
The chief comm officer's eyes went wide. He cleared his throat. "I'll take it over here."
Two days before, the chief communications officer's immediate junior had had the pleasure of personally delivering to the Brigadier--whose nervous disposition and hatred for sitting and waiting had rendered him a chain-smoking, anxious wreck-- the news that the fighter wing of the Pherousa had sunk an Interlander carrier, and that the Doto was commencing a bombardment of Montauk City itself. Brigadier Indianensis had practically danced with joy, but had restrained himself, barely, in the name of decorum. He laughed out loud nonetheless, and beaming, slapped the young officer on the back.
The day immediately after that, the same junior officer had delivered to the Brigadier an open letter from a certain Archbishop Alfred Dunholm announcing the withdrawal of Nova England from the war. Braden had read it silently, his countenance growing more and more furious with each passing second. Muttering a curse along with something about "pseudo-Papists," he had crunched the printout in his fist and had gone storming down the open collonade back into the complex. Later that evening, Braden read the letter aloud to the assembled soldiers(having smoothed the printout on the podium), making sure to read every misuse of "it's" as "it is", adding in "sic" each time to reassure the men that their commander understood contractions and was merely reading the text as written.
Bearing these two experiences in mind, the young communications officer was not sure what reaction to expect from the Brigadier. He walked down the long collonade toward the covered balcony where the commander could often be found, thanking the gods that he didn't know what the call from Nafticon was about, and so could expect no worse emotional reaction from Indianensis than the feeling of of anxious anticipation which he himself felt.
Finally, the officer reached the end of the causeway and entered the balcony, where Indianensis sat facing the ocean. As usual, maps were strewn out on the table before him, but Braden's gaze aimed stonily to the south, as if he were using the reddening sky as some kind of gigantic seeing-stone in which he could observe the progress of the war directly. The younger soldier saluted. "Sir," he said, by way of announcing himself.
Braden started a little, dropped his long-dead cigarette, and bolted out of his chair. He flashed the soldier a salute of his own. "At ease," he said. "What is it?"
"Sir," the soldier said, "there's a secure call coming in from Nafticon. The Archon wants to speak with you immediately."
"How about that?"
The door of Braden's office clicked shut, leaving only him and his top assistants in the room. He turned to face the large screen mounted to the wall opposite his desk, and saluted Archon Octavius, who was just finishing a bit of paperwork. The Archon returned the gesture, and then folded his hands on his desk.
"Bra--Brigadier Indianensis," he began, forebearing to call the commander by his first name. "I have some great news. I received word about an hour ago that the Interlanders have called an armistice and are willing to come to terms."
Braden was taken aback by the suddenness of this announcement, but was nonetheless glad. "Sir, I can't express how pleased I am. What are their terms?"
"Well, it's still a little sketchy. We're not even sure where the conferences are to be held, yet--Hamland has offered to mediate, and to let us use a palace near Kirriemuir as the venue. From what I understand, the Interlanders would be willing to govern the island jointly with us. I have instructed Commodore Malliki that the official position of the government has not changed: we will accept nothing less than the full surrender of the island to our control."
"Quite right, Sir. Just as long as we still get a victory parade."
The Archon rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, don't be measuring your head for the laurels just yet. It's quite possible that the enemy will reject our demands, and we'll be forced to absolutely beat them into submission."
"Well, Sir," Braden said, "That's what my men do best."
Temporary Antican Foreign Minister
Summary: Bars are going around whole WT part of the island, building up morale, that has been sapped by the stagnation- Sir, Expedition came back! Here's a report and...
- A report?
- Yeah, sort of.
Harold grabbed a folded piece of paper and started to read doodley words which formed simple sentences:- Yeah, right, a report... Try to make somebody guard the coast. The enemy might break the armistice. You heard the rumour about IS Abramowice, didn't you?-||||- -||||- -||||- crews totally drunk
-||||- || playing cards outsideTanks empty
| tank with dead crew; investigating - no bombs near
- Yeah... I mean, yes, sir!
- So get the mobile bars ready. May they fill the stomachs, sober minds and morale...
Summary: Moods in Nuterra tend to be relieved, but can change to tense, when pro-Antican middle class decides to demonstrate.He couldn't resist. He just had to come out. A month in isolation was too hard. Even though he was one of the Eagles, he couldn't stand a war without even one shot.
Every morning he heard Antican fighters passing by on patrol heights. They were beyond Interlandian limits, and the bombing from that altitude would be like shooting to gooses with an airgun.
He walked down an empty lane watching people in looking up from their windows. Another two fighters were flying over the island. He went into one of few open shops and bought a beer and some salt sticks. Then, he went to come back to his den, when somebody yelled 'Armistice!'... in English. He decided it would be safer to hurry.