“There be no lords near ‘nor far of such wealth and class of my mark; not in any range ‘nor without discourse for me to lay as you do! No histories have been filled with any such marvels as you bring, to which not even the prodigious varsities of Runopoli let alone Esthire could bring grand claim of such knowledge! Mine eyes illude me, for you bring the impossible, as no wealth in my knowledge may help conquer this great illusion…”

- Lord Kelmur Noulesbar, ‘Lords Of The Southern Continent’ Act 7, Scene 3

[+]

Investigative Affairs Office Section Two, Chief Office of His Majesty’s Department of External Affairs, Ĉefiona-Catoin

3—10:16 Native / 8:43 AM JST

A modest office for a modest man—second-story natural light blotted only by vine overgrowths on the sill and the low-hanging branches off the cypress Rozhere Virenes lining the avenue right outside.

A man was, as with every other officer of His Majesty’s most illustrious in the continent, of skinned-humanoid feature. Quite so, as he was, in fact, a human as were all others of ‘pure’ Muse blood. All the typical features—olive-blue flakap (a sort of sidecap worn with a tasseled, stiffened flap to the left side) at perfect skew, knit-pattern collar-boards with white piping extending around the sides of the neck, and glossy-waxed silver-gilded buttons across the left side of his spratov (a decorative, sleeved poncho with openings going down along the side of the body). All framed by lightly curled long-grayed hair worn at about a lought (just shy of an inch) below the shoulder and those little circle glasses that were bureaucracy-approved and bureaucracy-standard.

This man was Supervising Captain Hagama Rosere, of course named for the tree.

He was armed with a plate of slightly-better-than-military-issue crackers and deli meats plus some slices of Phernea all centered by, of course, a deep-dish dip of local cheese. After all, one couldn’t possibly be caught without cheese on a deli platter. And there was a short glass of Setife (the result of boiling the sap of the Cinter plant), but not so important as the presence of pungent Cordell cheese. Caught at that moment by nobody, Rosere picked apart at the plate with the utmost care afforded by his hands, careful not to spoil his food.

In his off-hand, a thick Vesprine-leather-bound book some five loughts thick entitled, decorated by what seemed to be golden shavings and entitled ‘The Tale of Mountain Fools’—a classical Rodenian piece supposed to have been penned in an era from long before the arrival of Mu. A bore it was to many (most definitely from association), reminding plenty of a literary analysis done years back when he was just a lad attending the finest school his parents’ money could buy back in Otaheit. Nevertheless, a classic, and a particularly entertaining, historic, and most certainly influential piece at that.

With nauseatingly unimportant details abound, there came his call to action; heavy knocks in triplicate on the office’s tall, wooden doors his inciting incident. Rosere looked up, halfway through a chew and quick to wipe at his mouth with a handkerchief laid to the right of his plate. Away with all those filthy little crumbs for when he was talking.

But first, the other—his aide standing proudly at five-sixths his height. He too was dressed up in about the same garb, though the collar-boards were of gray-white pattern piping—those of a Supervising Teriazo. No glasses though, for in eyesight he was a free man. Still, a full pair of well-groomed mutton chops that met with a relatively thin mustache underneath the weight of an unknown, but similarly long haircut all of a light few streakings of gray that gave off a sort of striped effect. Add in the much broader shoulders by two loughts, and this was all that made up the present constitution of Supervising Teriazo Payne Strimaar, where he too was a human.

A quick salute on the door’s opening, index finger held horizontal along the chin, and Strimaar click-clacked into the room with riding boots, as specially worn by all officers, tip-tapping along a well-worn rug right to the desk of Captain Rosere. His voice, unwavering. His face, deadpan. “Captain, urgent news from the northern and central air commands—we’ve a developing situation.” And as was usual with perhaps every encounter of the type, Strimaar presented an envelope to the Captain.

Externally, Rosere laughed at the notion—what could possibly be happening north? Yet through action, his internal speech set itself free. With some reluctance, free hand unspeakably heavy, Rosere reached over the desk for the paper and snatched it back. On the envelope, waxed seal featuring the Blayne (a Muse bird) of the Royal Communications Bureau holding it closed.

One letter opener later, page inside pulled out and unfolded, Rosere began to read, huffing and chuckling right up ‘till about a tenth the way through the text.

“Why, would this not be a matter for the Colonial Bureau or RHA (each letter pronounced individually) to handle? I see no cause for concern for us,” said Rosere particularly casually (amidst stifled laughter).

And yet, only one-tenth more through and away did this attitude suddenly go.

From him, an unusual sound came; something of a jerking ‘ughlurk’ or ‘khheough’ alongside a reflexive hand-over-mouth reaction as he coughed away some small chewed-up part of his particularly early elevenses. Over the several byzh (just over half of a second) he took to recover, his face remained entirely blank—a sort of organic loading icon—as he slotted the page back into its envelope and pocketed the whole assembly.

Then, arms held closely and tightly to his chest, he let off just some part of his mind. “As the Amadeii,” Rosere said with particular force, “h- has this message been relayed to the Governor and High Council?” He’d stutter, looking up to Strimaar.

“Yes, sir.”

To be sure, however, Rosere let away more to crawl through his difficulties of the body—voice quaked, choked, and hitched (bits of flatbread or meat most likely having found temporary lodgings in his airway). “A—” A choking gag ensued as he tried to speak, alongside a hearty cough or two (indicative of successful dislodgement), “As with our Muse counterparts?” he continued so casually.

“Yes, sir.” This time, Strimaar spoke with some amount of stress.

Of poor balance, Rosere stuck himself to the sides of his office table with a firmly planted right hand; head swiveling such that it could look in no singular direction for any longer than a singular gehnd (one twenty-eighth of a byzh). “R- right… H- have we a— motor carriage ready outside?”

“Yes, sir.” There was plenty of stress that came through his pronunciation, teeth gritted. They’d had rather little time to operate under and here Rosere was, wasting it all away. Of course there was a motor carriage ready: there always was!

With tremors slamming his skin, his hands, and his voice, though with the lattermost subsiding for that short bit, Rosere coughed up one singular command: “Have her readied for the airbase right away!”

For his fourth and final response, completely nonverbally in contrast to the prior three times, Strimaar finally broke his gaze. Though still, he was rather deadpan. He nodded and shuffled to an about-face for Rosere to follow, stepping back out of his office.

[~]

The two doors to Rosere’s office crashed open, attracting rather little attention in the already-empty hallway outside, followed promptly by their far more clamorous conversation as they both paraded out of the room; Rosere now fitted by an almost-frock coat (opening now along the front) caped over his spratov.

“As reported, groups in arrival have made encampment for the time being as they process the… estranged,” said Strimaar, heading their little paired group and thus responsible for such brave acts as opening doors ‘till they were out. There would only be two throughout their entire journey out of the building.

“Es- estranged?”

Strimaar swallowed, then sighed before he went on to explain. “It’s as the initial assessments teams have provided; they reported Northern Philadean racial feature in spite of the fact that almost all involved spoke, to the claim of a present Watchman, some butchered variety of Ĉinojian.”

The pair proceeded into a sudden right-turn, a large, wooden-paneled open staircase their route. Trotting down though, the first of many such suspicions grew only further in Rosere.

“I— I’m sorry, Ĉinojian?” Asked Rosere, the entire conversation brought to screeching halt.

Yet there came no pause ‘nor hesitation in Strimaar. “Yes, sir. It’s as reported, and if outlandish, I would trust further investigation is absolutely needed.”

To their left came an enlisted man in passing, most probably a crown enlist by insignia, who having noticed the pair of officers of His Majesty’s most illustrious, halted on his step with a salute.

Unfortunately, for the poor chap, they not only failed to see him, but passed him entirely. By the time the enlist’s index met his chin, Rosere only had the following to say. And ask. Of Strimaar. “Why, I never thought men under his majesty would come to such delusions in my lifetime! Oh, I’m sure this is some prank by some junior officers,” Rosere rather loudly remarked, “...An- and the craft they, they supposedly came in, have we any information at present?” Rosere’s speech was marked by very loosely held spatterings of snorts coming out far too often. “Propellor-less and round, it must be?” he added jokingly.

Immediately then, came Strimaar’s response. “None, sir—it’s believed to be some form of airliner, but we can’t make any make or model, let alone any sense, from it.” And seemingly just as dumbfounded as Rosere was—even despite his far earlier and slightly more direct access to the information at hand.

As they strutted along, by this point having left the staircase loop at the ground floor, Rosere brought up his left hand and rested his head on his index finger; a clean chin stroked by his thumb.

“We’ve interpreters present at the site then?”

“On-location already, but we- there have been major difficulties in communication. Despite this, they’ve been able to get general ideas back and forth with the estranged.”

Rosere scoffed at the notion—’major difficulties.’

“So what do we suspect these…,” Rosere paused, “...Estranged… to originate from?” He suffered a case of uncanniness in so much as saying the word now, rubbing together his hands as he forced out the word ‘estranged’. What a peculiar word it was.

There came an onset of some thirty byzh absorbed by quiet. Strimaar had no response on hand, but he certainly did labor to develop one quickly (enough). But, in slowness, there came an elevation—for Rosere was quick to note just how unusually long Strimaar took.

And after these thirty-something byzh, Strimmar said, “That, being the most likely circumstance, they speak truthfully of land as of yet undiscovered, or heavens have grace upon us all, are of a nation summoned just as had been to the Mother Country.” Having gone paler, Strimaar found himself nearing, but not having reached, the point of stuttered speech—little, very minor, hesitations between some words in fatal combination with a mental fog that had onset slowly since the start of their discussion. He wasn’t as straight-faced as he was on delivering the news of this most terrible incident, but he also wasn’t just yet at the start of any hysterics.

Rosere snorted, face scrunching up to the remark of his inferior. It took him a byzh to so much as interpret it, which in turn translated to several more byzh of unrestrained howling.“Why, I’ve heard quite enough, that… that is simply an impossibility! The whole lot of it, really! To imply his Majesty’s coming is in no way unique; I should have you strung up for entertaining such an idea!” Past everything he’d said, Rosere’s laughter continued, failing to subside for some short period thereafter.

While attention was certainly attracted, some attention within the lobby, all was back to normal the moment they stepped out the door, for away Rosere was on the hero’s journey.

[~]

Ryvhere Plains; ~332 Merrunds Southeast of Ĉefiona-Catoin

3—11:95 Native / 10:15 AM JST

A short drive, a short flight, and now to follow, another short drive.

In seating, it was Strimaar at the helm of the carriage with one Wrenzhol (of skin a degree less fair than that of Rosere (himself of partial Muse blood)) sat shotgun; all left Rosere with all the space of the back to himself, with a strong preference to the left side.

At the airbase on arrival, they’d been joined by one of the early contacts—Watchman Teriazo Kalmia Wrenzhol, who donned a flapped cork helmet (the flaps a great length down the neck, and the brim a great width out as compared to other designs)—who not only boarded the carriage to the site with them, but also, as was usual for this sort of thing, provided what further information the letter and Strimaar had failed to provide. Rosere listened intendedly and carefully, though still laughing off the notion that they could’ve been of somewhere, anywhere, new.

For surely, absolutely, this must’ve been some sort of Central ploy; dare it even be Philadean in origin, those scoundrels certainly able to have pulled off something of the sort. The only question that there was for Rosere was… why?

Most noticeably, however, on-location, they were… much higher in altitude to Ĉefiona-Catoin; some twenty to fifty lehnds higher. Cooler, much cooler it was. And even still, the roof was left down and stowed in the rear. But even then, not particularly cold; at least, not enough for Rosere’s frock to be particularly comfortable in temperature, regardless of wind chill. And along long, bumpy roads, most of the journey on little more than packed gravel, the trio aboard had made sure to be a lively bunch.

Looking about, flakap fluttering in the wind (which had since picked up), Rosere found he could no longer contain himself. “We— we ‘ought to bring up the top; we’ll all be iced by the time we get there,” complained he, desperately exhaling fumes of very visibly condensed carbon dioxide. Perhaps an overreaction given the weather wasn’t particularly so-so ignoring any windchill (of which there was plenty).

“This carriage hasn’t the pick to hold—” Wrenzhol was promptly cut off by the whole carriage jolting upward on some sort of pothole—shoddy roads this far out from civilization an expectation, “...hold it up—it was stolen to my understanding,” came Wrenzhol in reply, teeth chattering whenever they came close to one another.

Rosere followed with a mumbled expletive. Without all too much respite from the weather, he looked to other ways to cope as he brought out the letter from his pocket; hands a shaky mess to the point that he’d almost dropped the envelope at several points. This, a certain and frankly ridiculous overreaction, for it was with any truth some twenty-seven Zamrethes out (approximating to ten degrees centigrade (but subtracting some ten Zamrethes were windchill accounted for)). A quick re-read, even despite the additional information from Wrenzhol and the absolute battering he was taking even with all the layers, and Rosere found himself giggling once more.

“Yes, the estranged who I trust have much greater technology than we do,” Rosere snickered as he wryly looked at Wrenzhol. After all, barring any Central influence, which was frankly impossible in and of itself, what possible superiority could these estranged have?

Wrenzhol stammered to reply, “It is, in the opinion of this Watchman, impossible that the passengers all interviewed suffer from the same such great psychosis to recall any falsehoods of this sort, leaving us with rather few options in their explanations. They themselves were as shocked and bewildered to meet us as we were to meet them, and I could feel it was genuine through both their voices and reactions, as though they’d simply only ever seen humans… that it was real rather than any sort of acting. And dangerously so.”

“Dangerously so?”

Strimaar re-entered to interject with a response, only just cutting off Wrenzhol. “Must I add, initial reports noted attempted violent escapes that had to be subdued by more forceful means... Zero casualties reported.”

“I can concur with such testimony, for I was there!” returned Wrenzhol. “My own men have been getting particularly twitchy around them not just for virtue of their total apparent lacking of knowledge and sudden appearances, but also simply put their actual, physical appearances.”

Time to put an end to this charade, thought Rosere. It’d gone on long enough, and the novelty had already begun to wear. Thus, he asked simply, “And where had they claimed to hail from, Watchman Wrenzhol?”

“They all claimed to be of either Ĉinojia or some lands… toward the sun’s origin? While the latter we’ve no clue as to what they mean, it is most certain, in my mind, that those who spoke of the former speak truthfully of their origin—and if not exactly Ĉinojia, at the very least of a new place entirely.” Wrenzhol continued on with his rather dry, somewhat raspy, but very strong enunciation of all that he’d recounted. No moment did his tone indicate it to be any joke, ‘nor peculiarly of any uncertainness, as though entirely sure of it all.

Yet still, one was yet to be persuaded. “Ĉi- Ĉinojia!? The original country!? ” Snorted Rosere one more time as the carriage hit a bump, falling to a flailing laughter as soon as the carriage hit the ground. He fell to his left side against the door, staying put for the byzh he took to recover from his fit of laughter.

It was as the carriage took its final turn into the area, within a rather small amount of time the white-brown powdered forestry turned over to fields of golden-red haze, that Rosere finally shut up. They knew they had entered the area of the plantation on passing a single gray-furred bush by the side of the road—slumped over and unmoving, with a gentle layer of grime coating it and lashed by fleshy strikes along and across. Maybe for just a gehnd or two, Rosere rubbernecked, only to realize it was native rather than some strange and new wild flora as previously described to him by Strimaar and Wrenzhol.

Yet, this was not what would be to steal the show, catching their utmost intention—no. Rather, it was the most peculiar sight of no minor distance away—all sort of wild speculation and argumentation put to halt as they took in the view.

Away with the grin and smugness, wiped not merely from his face, but also from the planet as a whole. “Why, as the Amadeii—?” Sputtered out Rosere as he perked up, no longer able to humor the situation as some delusional series of misreporting or pranksters playing their trickery. No, this was real.

Rumbling down a central road, a tall white element came into view, towering over the fields and plantation compound with a tail that appeared to flay at the top—an impossible arrangement for an airplane if it were one. To speak with words was one thing, but to assemble a set and hire actors, an entirely different matter.

With Rosere dead silent, gaze fixed onto the white tower, the carriage continued down fairly quietly, interrupted only by Wrenzhol.

“Err… as you can see, the… whatever it is: the craft, is of particularly great size, and this will only become more apparent as we approach. Further, coming up on the right will be the encampment of the estranged—we’ve, er…, temporarily taken hold of a clear section of the plantation,” Wrenzhol came in, arms stretched out of the car and pointing toward the camp.

Coming down their right were, as Wrenzhol was to explain their purpose, a few dozen parked cargo auto carriages marked on their doors by drab-yellow lines in triplicate—that was, the symbol of the Colonial Authority—amidst what had to be a fifty pitched tents, maybe sixty.

Such tents weren’t particularly complex—pitched on one end by wooden spokes for an opening, in some cases both ends for groups of four, but usually terminating on the other end as single-individual tents. What caught Rosere’s attention to them, shifting from the now only somewhat distant tower, was the assortment that populated them—masses huddled together around supplementary blankets—some in use and some not.

What was clear though was that these people were certainly human, and of certain Northern Philadean features as well! It was no strange occurrence that any Northern Philadean nation would’ve wanted any business being related to Besides, what exactly was there to gain from Muse and Parpaldic colonies? This, Rosere recognized immediately. No more with the cocky demeanor, no. Rather, Rosere found himself under all the classic symptoms—a short inability to speak, followed by words certainly coming out, but in shrill that none could hardly even begin to try understanding. And of course, all other physical experiences—shaking in the arms and cramping in the legs, all resulting in an only even more burdened Rosere.

Though amongst those that weren’t so obscured, he further was quick to have noted their dress and fashion. It was so, so… something! He was both repulsed and attracted by it, the foreignness and randomness reminding of some of the boutiques in the Northern Central, yet at the same time he was entranced—an allure to some of their items. Elements of rugged workwear amongst glossy satin dress, heavy-looking laced boots side-by-side with what must’ve been a sort of pointier, leather shoe. There wasn’t a single chance in hell that they were military, for no self-respecting organization would’ve permitted such disuniformity.

A call, of course, to change his attention once more. It wasn’t easy for Rosere to snap away from the estranged encampment, many amongst looking back to him, but by the time he did, he could feel only his brows draw even closer and his hands in a constant state of caressing his face, no longer rubbed together for warmth. He could not feel, but no more were his movements his own—hypnotized by the sheer scale of it all.

Nominally and normally, what would’ve passed the thoughts of Rosere would be a mounting concern over this fact; paperwork in a strained abundance throughout Halpinia and Greater Rodenius itself. The sort of sport any man of sane and sound mind, Rosere included, would much rather dodge. Yet while certainly, he did express concern, it was not to the same thing.

“Goodness…” Rosere exclaimed under his breath, then turning to Strimaar, “Once we’re done here, I want you to get Farant, Nellersan, Otaheit even; get everyone on the line as soon as you can—you’ll record every single detail we can get from here, and pass it on as a high-importance memo, as I get this gut feeling that this isn’t going to be a done-and-dusted affair.”

The craft of the estranged: a grand monoplane—a metal maelstrom of mechanical marvel. It presented itself in full as the carriage came past one final line of crop, dug slightly into the ground some sixty to seventy marks in length (one mark being in approximation half a meter) from the nose to the tail of the beast. Wingspan-wise, simply going off the distance from one side, it had to be at least sixty marks. Slung under the wing Rosere was presented with, and it very much seemed as though the other would depict such a feature, was one long, slender cylinder that which opened on both ends to some sort of mechanical devices—the opening much thinner on the rear end than to the front. And not a single propellor across the entire machine, just as he’d ‘guessed.’

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Further, reports of ‘tongues’ out the side at several points were seemingly true, some torn away with ladders in their place. The sheer ridiculousness of such a detail was only exemplified by a great… seal? A great seal on the face of its tail vertical stabilizer, if it were one.

Rosere’s mental entrapment by the mysticism of what had shown to be very much real and in front of him was once more broken by Wrenzhol.

Coughing out some thin mist, visually followed by more condensed exhales for the flummoxed Rosere to see, Wrenzhol looked to face Rosere. “So sir, we’ve had teams enter to recover artifacts from the craft—so far very few are understood, though it is greatly likely that this was some sort of commercial flight as explained by the estranged. Many items recovered do depict some sort of advanced use and operation—especially those involved with the craft itself.” Wrenzhol then slowed in speech, as he brought up both his hands in a sort of cup and exhaled into them before he continued. Arm out the side of the carriage, he pointed out to first the great craft, “Uh…, if you would like for a tour of either the craft,” and then to the encampments, “or discussion with any of the estranged to be arranged, we are able to do so right away at present, though we’re particularly strained in manpower with only two fluent in Ĉinojian present.”

Rosere needed no thought for his next course of action.

“I would find it well that we hold interviews… right away,” answered Rosere. “Er…, an impromptu sort if we must. Have one chap with us and the other freely asking and noting whatever he can glean from them—it’s of an utmost matter for the very security of the Rodenes, it should seem.”

From amidst the crowd, a translator was pulled over by Wrenzhol who stood shortly beside him—a quick affair to have retrieved one. He saluted, of course, index against chin as did Rosere in kind.

And so quickly too, was the attention of one man pulled over—balding with a thinned patch at the back of his head. His clothes, Rosere examined—leaning in and over as though at the zoo looking upon an animal he’d never seen. It was this most peculiar mix; a laborer’s denim shirt worn loosely with a thick, furred coat sat just nearby (presumably worn with before their landing); made of this shiny black-accented bright red mix he’d never seen before wrapped by a seemingly hand-knitted scarf tasseled at the ends. And then, that… object. Held close, so very close, just by his side this strange little box—a cylinder protruding from one end, some glass at its surface, and on the other Rosere could see not. A gun, perhaps?

Not scrawny was he, ‘nor particularly weighty—of seemingly average build, and he was alone by all accounts—sat not with anyone else. Only furthering any confusion as to who he was was the, as reported, Northern Philadean features—delicately round and soft face, as compared with that of any of the humans Rodenians nearby: Strimaar and Wrenzhol of note, whose faces were far, far more jagged in looks. And of course, a skin many, many times more fair than even Rosere himself: an uncanny pale white to a particularly light hazelnut. Albinos, he’d seen before, but this man differed, for his hair was a jet black and his complexion appeared far healthier than any albino.

The translator squatted down right by, before spewing out a swarm of the strangest sounds—classical Ĉinojian by every sound of it. Then followed by something that the translator had perfectly described, for it was Ĉinojian but butchered in every sense.

A stagger, minor pause, and the most confused inflection he could’ve possibly put on. “He says that the flight was bound from the… lands of the Eastern Sun?”

But how peculiar; they’d had plenty of time to glean from, and yet the translator acted as though he’d never once heard such things, experiencing things just as Rosere himself was. There was, once more, some cause for alarm. All that time and they hadn’t bothered any interviews? What a disaster this whole thing was if so.

“On our arrival they were particularly aggravating, resisting arriving officers with two instances of assault which were promptly dealt with,” Wrenzhol said coolly, scratching the back of his head, “resultantly we were ordered to keep interaction and fraternization to an absolute minimum.”

“By whom exactly?”

“An Area Watchman; though I didn’t happen to catch her name as she’s seemingly left to report and file this incident back at the office.”

Truly it was a disaster then, for such flagrantly poor communication between their respective offices of the same authority to still be so harshly endemic.

“Very well then.” And so his detective thoughts continued. ‘Lands of the Eastern Ocean, perhaps at first glance of seemingly little import, but… was it to mean he hailed from some lands far East? The east? Past the endlessly dangerous ocean? Such that not even the greatest of ships of Mu thus far could dare conquer, for it seemed as though all tumult and treachery and terroristic hubris of man had been distilled and spilled upon the very waters that soared along the oceans? Perhaps a mistranslation, or better yet simply a matter of relativity. Yet, there was nothing that far out beyond a few uninhabited islands and some theorized society so far off, though what singular brave souls who’d come through (and forever trapped themselves) spoke not a lick of any Ĉinojian ‘nor had they ever demonstrated such capability. Rosere entrapped himself in this train of thought initially.

A strange moniker, certainly, but soon Rosere took the greatest interest in how the translator spoke. “Witty,” ‘Witty’ shorthand for the full title of ‘Watchman Teriazo,’ “do ask the poor chap where exactly these… er, lands of the… Eastern Ocean are… Or what they are, even.” In delivery, there came some hesitation.

A pause, an exchange, and a response—“They pronounce it to be ‘Rì-...’ er…, ‘Riběn’,” he’d say in a slightly more understandable though confused voice, “which I uh… well the er, the… I’ve frankly never come upon such a name or word, but he seems rather positive it means something to do with an ocean to the east.”

Nothing too particularly helpful ‘nor import beyond a name, yes, a name. For a name, Rosere knew, could bring many, many things. Archives to be searched, as with all records and documents of the endless bureaucracy. Nevertheless, this was only one piece of the puzzle, and to any detective, there came no such thing as an unsolved solved puzzle

Rosere raked his mind for a moment, as did Strimaar who seemed to hold a particular interest in not resolution but the mere notion, expressed via a low, but certainly curious, ‘ooh’. Not wholly unexpected given his past character (and precisely why he was aide to Rosere).

“Ask… er, ask him how exactly he got here, would you?”

And so, another exchange as asked of by Rosere. Words on words, sounds on sounds—all again, they both sounded to be saying things that were just familiar, and yet simultaneously totally unknown to him; it reminded him quite of those differential calculus classes he’d taken those many, many years gone by.

“He claims to have boarded a… flight from… bound from someplace called ‘Dōngjīng’; I’d assumed it to be in ‘Riběn’, though I’ve no clue where. From there, he was bound to some city called ‘Xīnjiāpō.’” Even still, that specter of confusion remained in both Wrenzhol and his translator. And a flight? All but the worst were confirmed, it an airliner and he evermore to fall into this bottomless pit of sludge-consistency confusion.

“Xīn… Xīnjā… jeh…?” Rosere didn’t just stumble. He didn’t just trip. Rather, his handling of the word ‘Xīnjiāpō’, Singapore that is, was so awful that quite frankly it was more to the tune of a Halpine Passenger Service train derailing off a cliff taking what must’ve been several hundred lives to certain doom but in word form.

“‘Xīnjiāpō,’” returned the translator, all too happy to give his superior a helping hand through a zipped-straight mouth that hid a grin which flooded his body with all kinds of warmth; all banging on his skin to be let out, like some hideous creature held locked away in steel box.

Rosere let the name settle for some time, looking to his inferior both with a wrinkling nose as he spoke and a jerky breathing pattern that not simply spoke of, but shouted of lungs that hadn’t the slightest clue when their next order to breathe would be (most possibly because it was shouted rather than spoken). “‘Xīnjiāpō…’” he repeated one last time, defeated. What an awful name.

“So, Witty, what then of this… ‘Dōng—’ er… ‘Dōngjīng’ and ‘Ri—’” He paused. “‘Riběn?’ Have him enlighten us on just where these mystical and quite so mysterious places are. And is this… ‘Xīn—’; blazes, you get the point. Are these such places in this ‘Riběn’ or is elsewhere?”

And so the exchange continued on—“....Zhè shì nǎlǐ, er…,” past which the words were once more a blur for Rosere (such that he simply couldn’t recall). A theme so mismatched, whose verses came without harmony, it all sounded to be… well, it didn’t sound quite like anything at all was the issue. Not anymore at least.

“‘Dōngjīng’ it seems would be the capital of ‘Riběn,’ whereas ‘Xīnjiāpō’ is a foreign land and where he correctly hails from…” the translator would answer with a sort of teacherly tone.

Wrenzhol, on the other hand, seemed particularly… aghast. Flamboyantly aghast at these new learnings; like a student fallen asleep in class suddenly waking to realize he’s to learn things far more complex than when he’d first dozed off.

Rosere gave the idea a thorough thinking through, for of course none of the three happened to be any places they’d ever particularly heard or, ‘nor did it happen to be anyplace that sounded to be particularly interesting. Returning to reality, looking to arm himself with more questions to shoot through Wrenzhol and his translator, and so he looked down the man. His strange interloper appearance brought both a crawl down his spine and a spark within his mind, anachronistically strange garb that was most certainly eye-catching, and terrifying way of speech—to be speaking a language that had been dead and buried outside of scholarly academia for some good thousand years.

Perhaps a name, for many times easier would interrogation be to know a man on the personal scale, or even to push curiosity furthest asking just what the lands he hailed from looked to be and felt to be. All partially serious, and partially unserious, for no matter of gentlemanliness and polite niceties could rid him of this ever-present will to know more of him and his strange lands—just as with these hundreds of other examples to learn of. And so he eyed the stranger, the interloper, ‘till he’d found just what exactly he could prompt from.

An itch to scratch that which Rosere’d bore the longest time in ‘speaking’ with this foreign man in front of him.

“So… that object in his hands, Witty, what be of it?” He paused in parts as he asked his questions, for once, as did his motions of self-soothe become evermore erratic.

But by the Phrailene, and all above in the Aeternal Empiric Realms, There were some things he simply never should’ve been bound to learn; never hoped, wished never to. He could look up for an answer, and they would grant him none. But this one ‘Xīnjiāpō’ man certainly could.

There was a moment of silence; whether imagined or not by Rosere, it did not matter. It was a moment of simple silence and bliss—peace in remaining unaware.

And then, it struck—a continuation of that discordant tune that he could naught but hope to understand; ‘nor could the translator for that matter. A cacophony of syllables; of phonemes yet to be analyzed, yet to be studied, and from a people no less who they knew only this drop about.

A moment. Then another, before out those words came. “It is a camera by his word; not a weapon of any sort, though I doubt we can trust him.” The translator sneered, hesitant to indicate it as anything other than a gun. An oddly shaped gun, but a gun nonetheless.

“Now now, old boy…, no need for the attitude,” Rosere, ever the professional (if not wavering constantly), would remind his inferior, pacing about back and forth with wide strides behind the three. He looked down to the supposed camera; far too sleek, slick, and shortly built, enough to crank his brows together and face inwardly. “So… a camera? Well then, have him show it off—would seem to be of great interest were it one truly,” Rosere said with lingering words that hung for just a few byzh too long in the air.

Hence, out came the translator’s Ĉinojian gobbledygook, ‘words.’ Again, really just phonemes paired up such that they sounded like short words in Muse, hidden between that Rosere thought he could make out in meaning. He couldn’t, as that was not, in fact, how translating two distinctly different and unrelated languages worked.

The man on the receiving end shrugged, a most peculiar thing to Rosere for the man didn’t quite seem to be happy in any way, shape, or form. A prisoner, perhaps only in the physical sense, but still prisoner to those enlightened by the Muse if not to the very sod they stood upon. Too calm was he, unnervingly so to both Strimaar and Rosere who could neither help but take a shuffle back as though the old man were any sort of danger. This old man then slowly pulled himself up to a hunched stand, device in hand.

The man was in no real mood to demonstrate it seemed, but did so regardless—his captors’ seeming leader having asked so—this, Rosere figured, must’ve been why he’d been so easily compliant. Up went his arms, device in mounted and saddled between both his hands and pointed in a very different direction to his captors—to his right, at a tree standing in front of the crashed craft—lest it be mistaken for a weapon, and he needed only click a button at its top once for something to happen. A loud snapping click, quite so loud as some part of the front snapped shut then clawed open in a fraction of a byzh. Then a dimmed whir, as though the device had just received a teleprint. But there was no wire attached, ‘nor any of those blasted long antennas, so it couldn’t possibly be teleprint. It was also a camera.

Rosere and Strimaar leaned forward with their hands on their knees like little children observing a gerbil in a stranger’s hand, looking and guessing at what exactly this strange thing was producing. All too quick this whole procedure was, for surely this must’ve solely been some sort of warm-up for the device before it went on to the real meat of photography. And in no time at all were they answered.

The man simply turned around the device and there it was; on a screen of perfect resolution, a framed photograph of the very tree this man had only just then pointed his camera toward; every lasting detail caught as a memory for that occasion. It had color, it had detail down to the smallest bit, and it was all on a tiny little screen that glowed so brightly under the midday sun.

A… photograph? Rosere forced himself to look back up in some cartoonish fashion between the screen and the tree. It was tiny, but it was there and it was a photo without all too much blur—nothing like those massive things in the Central Continent. Back came Rosere’s thumb to rub his chin, and so too did Strimaar in copying such a movement as they both laid out just what had happened. No exposure, no lightroom, and on this screen! This tiny little screen! Instantly to top it all off were that fact not ridiculous enough! It was impossible!

It was no camera, it was… magic! Pure, plain magic, it must’ve been, sourced of the finest institutions at the very cutting edge from the Milish and all her dignified and illustrious research universities and laboratories.

That day, many things surprised Rosere, and while this contraption being put on display certainly wasn’t the most shocking of them all, many more revelations up and coming, evermore would it and it specifically be remembered by him. One little camera that read off her own name so proudly to be the DigiPix E-94, courtesy the Miyazaki-Higashinari (MIHIGA) Corporation and all her glorious subsidiaries.

Awesome… terrific… fantastic… Three words to lay out one man’s entire mind in that moment, for all felt as though it were precious reverie, for there was so much more for him to learn.

[+]

Secretary’s Office, Chief Office of His Majesty’s Halpine Department of External Affairs, Ĉefiona-Catoin

4—13:43 Native / 11:31 AM JST

Four men in a practically entirely artificially-lit room; in some genres an introduction to a most cacophonously cartoonish bunch of particularly vile villains party to some secretive cabal globe-ruling. Or maybe most invocative of an older fantasy piece whereby the wise great heroes of past assemble at round table before vanquishing some terroristic great beast that which burdens all the lands of the king. And of course in some others, described to be steamy rather than smoky—no further description necessary. Alas, and with all grace, this assembly was none of the above—for while the four were leaders party to a globe-ruling cabal, yes, as were they elderly and wise preparing to vanquish some terror, yes, and though perhaps not of anything that the last could ascribe beyond male humans, they were here solely by luck, or lack thereof, of the draw.

The room’s darkness was abated by streaks of garish purple-orange shooting off in all directions from within modernist geometric shades cast around part-magic, part-incandescent bulbs strewn at evenly divided wall segments along the more interior wall, whilst the windows themselves permitted little light through—light to first do battle against the canvas and wooden structure built right up against the building’s facade, alongside the scattered dozens of shifting native workmen whose gruff appearances matched perfectly the gruff attitudes of the secretariat’s staff.

No important meeting was this, so hastily assembled they’d little more than simply made use of the Secretary’s office than any of the meeting rooms nearby.

“...so, with any sense of sense of responsibility, we urgently must reappropriate some additional… twenty-five, maybe fifty-thousand pols, and additional manpower to bolster the Investigative Affairs Office; I understand that with the coolies running amok budgets had to be slashed for the Home Affairs Department, but they’re particularly malnourished and it won’t do us any good to keep them so through this affair with the Merrodenes.” A man at the front, one Joseph Caryuul, made such a point; voice thick and thorough.

“Caryuul, I doubt so; the Merrodene affair is looking to be a quick issue that’ll sort itself out easily should my offices, especially of Policy and Strategic Planning succeed,” said Phontaine Velensaine, himself to appeal for his offices of responsibility to be funded.

“Well… as you could tell, we’ve had to be particularly tight with cash around all offices, and while I do see it beneficiary, we really don’t have quite so much, if any, to spare. I could see what I could do next meeting with the Prime Secretary, but else wise, if that’s all, there’s not all too much I can do beyond return your appeals to her.” This was Phontain Nellersan that spoke, Secretary for External Affairs himself, adorned proudly on left breast by flowered ribbon (the sort you could expect to see on a mayoral candidate) in periwinkle fashion and color. He spoke not so weightily, even despite being the judge of this court.

And, just as with far too many by this point, an interruption. A door opened to their side amidst Nellersan’s speaking, right to the tail end of all he had to say. It caught no real attention at first, alas, Farant was no waiting man.

“Secretary Nellersan?” asked Larssden Farant, ‘s’ rolled as though a snake with a particularly speedy voice else wise. He was vested by the drab-yellow uniform of the Colonial Authority. The more formal variety whereupon it, silver pins all over which themselves were adorned by those three yellow lines. Along his front breast pocket, patches and ribbons too—all sorts of modifiers which identified him exactly to be Royal Attache (Staff Supervisor in the Colonial Authority’s ranks) to the Office of Investigative Affairs; of course to the Halpine DEA.

Nellersan’s heart sank. Holding his hand up to his face, he ford response while stroking at his mustache. “I take it to be business involving the recent sightings out north?”

“Yes,” came a hesitant reply.

How concerning.

While at first thought it must’ve been some sort of trickery, or perhaps illusion put to play by some nation of adversarial manner—to which he could solely think of Parpaldia—both could, supposedly, be corroborated by many a-witness. Of some craft by the sea, those brave RHAAS flying men and women who’d intercepted alongside the thousands from in and around Maytown, whilst of some mysterious white craft come down from the heavens, dozens of telegraphs from two particularly angry plantation owners shared with him all the evidence to point towards some sort of reality barring whatever extraordinarily and frankly comedically complicated plan the Parpaldians were willing to put to practice.

Something particularly fishy was ongoing, and Nellersan’s gut was in no mood for any foul play; though not yet did it give away and strange or off-putting feeling just yet.

“Oh, devil upon us… first the coolies, then the Merrodenicans, and now this?” came the council’s very own Valeene Strimaar (not to be mistaken for Payne Strimaar), Royal Attache to the entire department. Indeed, on that very note, Strimaar made it duty to note every last detail with the scrap paper of a report he had in his case by his side.

Simultaneously, Nellersan spoke lowly to Caryuul, as though trying to keep the matter all hush-hush as he leapfrogged from his last point made to Caryuul. “Caryuul, I shall consider reappropriating funds from the other offices, but you must understand that for the next few months their offices shall still be starved lest Otaheit themselves directly decree financial aid should go to our department.” And then, with a rotation of his upper body and a return to regular voice, “Er… do continue then; what news have we of the issue? And, er… what exactly must this mean for us?” he’d say awkwardly.

The Colonial Authority man gave one relatively firm nod, chin down, then up, in a matter of two byzh. “I- in reporting, the incidences of the downed great white craft, has been concluded to be of some lands unknown… We’re unsure as of now as to whether the unknown aircraft sighted over… M-aytown and the northern coasts come of the same origin, and hence we’re still on that case.”

Of lands unknown? But where, and what? Surely, he must’ve been wrong, must’ve been conveyed the wrong information, as it was impossible. He did not vocalize this disbelief, no, for that was a job for the others to do, yet internally he found himself screaming at the entire idea. Was Farant simply joking; the entire Investigative Office joking? Or perhaps incompetents, even. And yet as he looked downward, even there he was betrayed, for his gut rejected such a basic fact that Mu was a special case and unique in that it was and always would have been the sole example to this strange phenomenon of summoning.

Yet again came Strimaar, quite the individual he was, remarking, “Blazes, where in the devil must this craft have come from then? I’d have to be mad to fall for something like that, and I don’t happen to be so just yet.” He crossed his arms with a huff, bringing a hard stare to he who was technically his superior, Colonial Authority Office overriding Public Office.

In return, Farant brought snappy response for Strimaar and Nellersan to share: a sort of informational shotgun where both would definitely be stricken by what he had for them. “With due respect, sir, we’ve credible evidence already en route, er, photographs I’m told.” He held himself as high as he could, practically being forced to go toe to toe with a ‘superior’; it came as no surprise, often having noted Strimaar’s seemingly endlessly suppressed rage kept all hush beneath the weight of thousands of acutely fragile sensibilities.

But this time, snide remark came not from Strimaar, whose brain was perhaps fried from the mere notion, or worse yet, simply came up with a response too slowly. Rather, it was Nellersan to grill the poor lad. “Photo— why you’re certainly joking? They could hardly account for evidence considering it’s been at most a half-day since then, and it takes several to prepare let alone begin to develop one! What sorcerous techniques have been learned of by… who was it, Rosere?” Nellersan scoffed, leaning forward to rest his head upon his hand.

Farant would have nodded on Rosere’s mention, which he did, though with significant delay resolving in Nellersan outpacing him and thus continuing to ramble.

“What sorcerous technique must that Rosere have learned by now?”

“If we could draw attention to what I find would be utmost,” posed Velensaine right thereafter, unable to any longer contain himself any longer hitherto silent through the initial exchange, “I foresee terror and outcry as distinct possibility amongst the gentry of these lands: must we not exercise great caution in interacting with those of the craft? Whether a ploy, a prank, or a plausibility, we ‘ought to prepare for the worst case that it does indeed hail of foreign lands unknown. The Strategy Office has but not a single plan for such an outcome, and so we’d be quite frankly running in completely blind should we try anything at this hour.” Velensaine finished sharply, returning glances to all eyes that were on him.

But with any truth, it was only a distraction of a point that subtracted.

For a brief moment, the natural silence and quietude of the room began to seep back into the room, reclaimant of its rightful place. And for some short time, it looked to be winning, enormous gains against all five of their crazed commotions.

It would not last.

“I cry yujio,” interrupted Strimaar, “for it’s simply impossible that there are any new nations at play. I’d hold on good account for it to all be some sort of scheme orchestrated by… well, it’d quite obviously have to have been orchestrated by those… those pernicious Parpaldians—they’ve plenty interest in instability upon us, and I’d dare say we best have the northern and southern defense sectors prepared lest they catch us with our backsides outward and in the open!” he cried out as he threw his hands into the air in hysterics.

“What a fool,” uttered Caryuul under his breath, lest he catch the ire of his superior.

By the word ‘outward’, he’d slammed his right fist down onto the hardwood table, pulled himself up from his seat, and promptly left the room—all in a matter of some forty byzh.

All looked up and around to one another, as though to sign they themselves knew not where to bring the meeting, appellant for the slightest drop of help to carry onwards. An exchange of glances, not hard, not soft, but only just right which shot across the room in all vectors and scalars. It was all ‘'til Farant, the initial interruptant, took up the courageous task of re-interrupting this seeming return to equilibrium.

Responding to the very last that Nellersan had to ask (for that was how far he’d had to backtrack), Farant posed quite simply by quite literal interpretation, “...er… I’m not quite so sure, sir… I would suppose so as he claims to now be in possession of technologies repossessed from those stranded here.”

Eyes perked back up and ears swung themselves open. What exactly did he mean by this? Even Velensaine, so willfully ignored, quite so willingly had to ask so to himself.

Simmering, Nellersan raised his voice for once, and just this once. “Then have a memo sent right to him right away of reprimand; as the Amadeii, we shan’t find ourselves in any provocative position solely because one man found it in himself to fall to common thievery no matter how flowery his language and no matter how helpful! Order it be returned as urgently as he can.”

A meek nod was the response from Farant, who shrunk ten sizes that moment (once more, to a man technically his inferior).

Grumbling as he picked himself up, Nellersan continued. “And I must ask, should this all even be truthful, who can be assigned envoy?”

“Marsden and uh… Brecille’s departments are still tangled up fighting Elt over the Sios issue and, uh, whoever’s handling the Merrodenican affair… so, neither is likely to be able to show up whatsoever… and it’ll take months for the Crown to send down a proper diplomat to engage in any handlings with these supposed new nations. Besides, the area they reportedly come from does just about put them as an issue for Rosere to be dealing with.”

“Then have, uh… have Rosere assigned as the case officer then—first come, first serve.” There was minor disdain signaled by the inflections of Nellersan’s voice, as did he telegraph some degree of disappointment in his decision. He saw no importance as of yet anyway, for while certainly, new nations were of any important matter, he sighed at the mere thought of those Crown Diplomats. To come right in and steal the show from his office; a thievery of their wind. So he continued, “As much of a rascal he is,” repossession fresh in his mind, “he should do just fine enough opening with… whoever they are, especially since he is of the overly curious sort,” said Nellersan, proclaiming they with a sense of distrust so thoroughly imbued.

“Why, I see no point to continuing until we’ve any actual information to go off of. To that point, we must urgently prepare—in my gut I can feel that this will be different: world-shattering, I’d dare to say, though I’ve little faith in that second part. If you could, Velensaine, have yourself ready to receive whatever communications Otaheit bring down and have your boys deliver them as urgently as you can to my desk, while with you Caryuul, I’d like for you to engage the Investigative Affairs office specifically with a series of planning and briefings on the situation we’ve at hand presently.”

And so, as obedient as the two could (both ever so desperate to receive their funding: now more than ever), both stood to attention with a clicky-clack sound of their heels clacking together accompanied and underscored by their necessary little salute. Not so precise and perfect as any man of the Royal Halpine Army or Colonial Authority would have it, but it was a well enough display, thereby signaling their readiness to move right on to work like peacocks presenting their plumage to prospective mates of the wild.

So with little more to discuss through to such a time as the arrival of such fabled photographs, Nellersan reached over to his side, reaching for a tasseled string strewn down from the ceiling ended by a little wooden plug.

One short tug and a dinging jingle went off somewhere, elsewhere within the building as he asked rather blandly, “Setife, anybody?”