Post by bluesnailok on Mar 6, 2022 18:01:10 GMT
“You wouldn’t believe how many of them fell for it!” Arcamavir, the Director of Finance for the ASN, chortled as he quaffed down on his smoke-salmon sandwich. He was but one of many in the crowd of urban elite in the opera-house today. He was almost indistinguishable in the mass of black, suited ties that monopolised the room if it were for his bombastic laugh.
There were three men that flanked the director.
The first was Massiney Controta, a local Kalethian sommelier’s son. Controta had made his money in the banking sector when he successfully predicted and preempted the economic effects of Natar’s economic liberalisation under Tetlisun. In turn, Controta had shown his edge in his constant rapid decision making amidst the recent depression that was plaguing Natar. He wasn’t afraid to liquidate assets, foreclose the indebted and to downsize his own operations.
Next was Thalkar Mastrene. Thalkar wasn’t just the former President of Kalethia, the wealthiest country on Natar, but also the CEO, director, or senior advisor of over a dozen major corporations. Mastrene had formerly served as an ally to Arcamavir’s own superior, Tetlisun, but the partnership had only ever been one of pragmatism and mutual gain. Now that gain was out the door, Arcamavir had quickly snatched up the Kalethian politician and his extensive network of political contacts with promises of riches and power in Saljir Arcamavir’s future government.
Lastly stood the only Human among the ring: Salvo Caruso. Born in the Royal Federation to a powerful criminal family of Sicilian cultural heritage, Caruso had taken refuge in Natar with the murder of Caruso’s whole family. Here he had built a criminal empire of his own, built upon the most scandalous demands of Teliran hedonism, smuggling illegal goods from Natar to other empires, and attacking political and economic figures on the pay of their rivals. He was a melancholic, calm personality, but underneath the veneer lay a calculating and determined man.
None of them could, frankly, stand the presence of Arcamavir. Far from being one of them, the only thing the man shared was his ambition. The man was loud and obnoxious, short-sighted and predictable, and devoid of both imagination and initiative. But this was perhaps why Arcamavir had magnetised so many corporate and political figures. Arcamavir was a man that anyone could control, he seemed to lack a mind or a plan of his own beyond gaining fame and power.
It was little wonder that already, among the oligarchy that had formed around the candidate for Stadtholder, there were talks of a future power struggle, not between Arcamavir and another rival, but between the countless figures who wanted to use Arcamavir to advance their own visions.
“Now let me tell you boys, when i’m elected there won’t be any of this-”
“No, let me assure you this, Saljir, old boy.” Interjected Mastrene, “When you are elected, you will be thanking me for it. You have no idea what i’ve already done for you my friend!” Thalkar announced in a tone that came off like he was trying to pose it as a light-hearted joke. There was no way he was going to let Arcamavir get away with acting like this election was a sure thing without his support.
Quick as a flash, Controta responded, hot on the heels of Mastrene:
“I will remind you, Mr. Mastrene, that you have not funded the honorable Mr. Arcamavir’s strategy like I have… Has he, Saljir?” The banker inquired with a cocked brow.
“Well, I-” Arcamavir tried to reply, almost bewildered by the question.
“Money and connections ain’t got anythin’ to do with it.” Commented Caruso through his cigar smoke, immediately cutting Arcamavir’s voice down with his dominating presence, “What this election takes is the means of fighting the game… I haven’t seen either of you boys out on the street literally fightin’ of tha directah’s opposition. If you got a problem with me seein’ that, say it to my gun…” He threatened, met by silence. Salvo turned to Arcamavir, “Point proven. Without me your chances are nothin’; don’t you forget that.”
The director stood in confusion for a few moments at how suddenly the triad had throw an issue upon him. Stammering, Arcamavir smiled through the nervous sweat forming on his face,
“W-ell- Aha! Lads- We… We’re all going to do this together!” He smiled, confused by the seriosity of the three.
After a pause, Mastrene, Controta and Caruso all nodded,
“Mhm.” Replied Caruso,
“That’s right.” Controta confirmed,
“Friends.” Mastrene assured.
“An unbreakable pact… To our joint venture! To my election!” Arcamavir announced with a raised glance; triggering a cheer and a toast from the entire room, all of whom were now beginning to circle Arcamavir to make clear their own terms and expectations for their support.
As the director tugged at his collar and assured each VIP that approached him, he began to ask a question to himself that he had never asked before,
“Will I truly be control?” As each oligarch closed in, the unspoken answer became ever clear.
“Yes. Of course I will. No one controls Arcamavir” Came the mental answer. That groundless self-assurance was enough to comfort the director from the discomforting reality. As the Teliran retreated back into blindness and hedonism to the greater games around him, the puppet raised his glass and took a swig. He was going to become Stadtholder, no matter how many promises, no matter how many sacrifices, no matter how many plotters it took.
There were three men that flanked the director.
The first was Massiney Controta, a local Kalethian sommelier’s son. Controta had made his money in the banking sector when he successfully predicted and preempted the economic effects of Natar’s economic liberalisation under Tetlisun. In turn, Controta had shown his edge in his constant rapid decision making amidst the recent depression that was plaguing Natar. He wasn’t afraid to liquidate assets, foreclose the indebted and to downsize his own operations.
Next was Thalkar Mastrene. Thalkar wasn’t just the former President of Kalethia, the wealthiest country on Natar, but also the CEO, director, or senior advisor of over a dozen major corporations. Mastrene had formerly served as an ally to Arcamavir’s own superior, Tetlisun, but the partnership had only ever been one of pragmatism and mutual gain. Now that gain was out the door, Arcamavir had quickly snatched up the Kalethian politician and his extensive network of political contacts with promises of riches and power in Saljir Arcamavir’s future government.
Lastly stood the only Human among the ring: Salvo Caruso. Born in the Royal Federation to a powerful criminal family of Sicilian cultural heritage, Caruso had taken refuge in Natar with the murder of Caruso’s whole family. Here he had built a criminal empire of his own, built upon the most scandalous demands of Teliran hedonism, smuggling illegal goods from Natar to other empires, and attacking political and economic figures on the pay of their rivals. He was a melancholic, calm personality, but underneath the veneer lay a calculating and determined man.
None of them could, frankly, stand the presence of Arcamavir. Far from being one of them, the only thing the man shared was his ambition. The man was loud and obnoxious, short-sighted and predictable, and devoid of both imagination and initiative. But this was perhaps why Arcamavir had magnetised so many corporate and political figures. Arcamavir was a man that anyone could control, he seemed to lack a mind or a plan of his own beyond gaining fame and power.
It was little wonder that already, among the oligarchy that had formed around the candidate for Stadtholder, there were talks of a future power struggle, not between Arcamavir and another rival, but between the countless figures who wanted to use Arcamavir to advance their own visions.
“Now let me tell you boys, when i’m elected there won’t be any of this-”
“No, let me assure you this, Saljir, old boy.” Interjected Mastrene, “When you are elected, you will be thanking me for it. You have no idea what i’ve already done for you my friend!” Thalkar announced in a tone that came off like he was trying to pose it as a light-hearted joke. There was no way he was going to let Arcamavir get away with acting like this election was a sure thing without his support.
Quick as a flash, Controta responded, hot on the heels of Mastrene:
“I will remind you, Mr. Mastrene, that you have not funded the honorable Mr. Arcamavir’s strategy like I have… Has he, Saljir?” The banker inquired with a cocked brow.
“Well, I-” Arcamavir tried to reply, almost bewildered by the question.
“Money and connections ain’t got anythin’ to do with it.” Commented Caruso through his cigar smoke, immediately cutting Arcamavir’s voice down with his dominating presence, “What this election takes is the means of fighting the game… I haven’t seen either of you boys out on the street literally fightin’ of tha directah’s opposition. If you got a problem with me seein’ that, say it to my gun…” He threatened, met by silence. Salvo turned to Arcamavir, “Point proven. Without me your chances are nothin’; don’t you forget that.”
The director stood in confusion for a few moments at how suddenly the triad had throw an issue upon him. Stammering, Arcamavir smiled through the nervous sweat forming on his face,
“W-ell- Aha! Lads- We… We’re all going to do this together!” He smiled, confused by the seriosity of the three.
After a pause, Mastrene, Controta and Caruso all nodded,
“Mhm.” Replied Caruso,
“That’s right.” Controta confirmed,
“Friends.” Mastrene assured.
“An unbreakable pact… To our joint venture! To my election!” Arcamavir announced with a raised glance; triggering a cheer and a toast from the entire room, all of whom were now beginning to circle Arcamavir to make clear their own terms and expectations for their support.
As the director tugged at his collar and assured each VIP that approached him, he began to ask a question to himself that he had never asked before,
“Will I truly be control?” As each oligarch closed in, the unspoken answer became ever clear.
“Yes. Of course I will. No one controls Arcamavir” Came the mental answer. That groundless self-assurance was enough to comfort the director from the discomforting reality. As the Teliran retreated back into blindness and hedonism to the greater games around him, the puppet raised his glass and took a swig. He was going to become Stadtholder, no matter how many promises, no matter how many sacrifices, no matter how many plotters it took.