Revolution through Rhetoric - Printable Version

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Revolution through Rhetoric - Aredoa - 08-08-2023

Theater of Visions, Caronia
Friday, 13th January 1872

“Another fantastic performance, Fabián. You’ve outdone yourself once again!” Fabián Pesina hurriedly brushed through the long row of fat cats sitting in the front row of the theater as applause rang out all around. The world-renowned playwright had just debuted his latest performance and it did not disappoint.

But with every successful play of his came the floods of aristocrats who wished to spin Fabián’s works as one of the many achievements of Costenan colonial rule of Aredoa, which could not be further from the truth. In fact, the only contribution of Costeno to Fabián’s brilliance is that most of his antagonists resembled what he saw as the stereotypical Costenan elite- wealthy, powerful, obnoxious, stupid, complacent.

Not that any of them got the reference. They had been born as the successors to their fathers’ wealth, a ‘career’ that did not require much intellect. Most attended elite schools in the capital where teachers were scared into giving all the aristocratic children nothing but the top grades.

“Congratulations, Fabián. I’ll be in contact with those ministry links we discussed.” The men were all just empty suits to Fabián as he sped through, giving each one a brief handshake and an ingenuine smile. He was in a rush. Normally he would be attending a post-show party with his cast, but not tonight. He had a prior engagement that was firmly in the center of his mind.

Fabián exited the theater. He did not take one of the many horses and carts waiting for passengers. Instead, he set out walking through the dimly lit streets on the pleasant January evening, taking in his surroundings as he strode. Fabián left the city center and headed towards the impoverished outskirts, rushing to catch one of the few carriages that would be headed to Bancoa that evening.


Ministry of State Security, Vahania

“So, a ‘Cultural Congress’, they call it?” Under-Secretary Segura smoked a fine Aredoan cigar, filling the room with the light mist of smoke, as he posed the question to the intelligence agents standing in front of him. A number of officials were gathered to hear the details of the intelligence briefing.

“Yes, sir. A ragtag group seeking to undermine the state’s cultural reforms that have brought Aredoa firmly under the sphere of Costenan influence. It is their stated goal to restore a bespoke Aredoan national identity.”

“Well, why haven’t we shut them down yet? These things inevitably lead to notions of separating from the empire. I’d rather that it doesn’t get there, Colonel.” The Under-Secretary made no effort to hide his frustration. He had much better things to do on a Friday evening than to listen to the ramblings of fools.

“We have spent months gathering information on the group, sir. It is a collection of socialists, communists, suffragettes, trade unionists, self-determinationists, you name it. A recipe for treason. Our goal is not just to ban the cultural movement, but to cut off the heads of the various undesirable political movements. In one fell swoop, we will be able to seize their leaders and have them imprisoned for their sedition.”

“How much longer do we have to let this group fester while you gather intelligence? Decisive action is no good if it is not swift.”

“You misunderstand, Under-Secretary, we believe we have all the information we need to act now. The Cultural Congress is meeting in Bancoa tonight. With your blessing, we can move into their meeting place in a matter of hours.”

Chief of Police Javier Murillo spoke up this time. “Bancoa? We don’t have much of a presence down that far south. The logistics of mass arrests just don’t make sense with our manpower.”

“I have men from the capital that are stationed down there in anticipation, Chief Murillo. All I need is the Under-Secretary’s signature and we’re a go.”

Under-Secretary Segura let out a deep sigh. He wasn’t known for being a very inspiring leader. “Well, if you insist, Colonel. Just know that any failure and the blame will be placed squarely on you. I have no time for incompetence." He was handed a piece of paper by one of the intelligence agents and, after giving it a brief scan with his eyes, placed his signature on it.

Under the Protection of the State Ordinance (1836), I, the undersigned, do authorize any and all means of force to suppress the seditious and treasonous activities in the region of Bancoa.

X      Anton Segura       

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RE: Revolution through Rhetoric - Aredoa - 08-17-2023

Castillo del Renacimiento, Bancoa

It was a pleasant evening at the Castillo del Renacimiento, as it was dubbed by the Aredoan Cultural Congress when purchased to signify the cultural renaissance they hoped to bring about from within its ivy-covered walls.

As always, the Cultural Congress sat in private as it went through its regular proceedings. Some fifty men and women were gathered to discuss the latest developments in the resurgence of Aredoan culture they were bringing about, before proceeding to vote to provide funding to various cultural projects from the Congress’ treasury.

What was different with this meeting was that at its conclusion, the doors of the magnificent estate were opened to the townfolk of Bancoa. Countless citizens flooded into the grand ballroom, adorned with portraits of famous Aredoan artists, poets, and playwrights.

The low sun shone on the floor of the ballroom through the windows. People mingled, drinks in hand, with the sounds of chatter and laughter around the room complimenting the quiet, cheerful melody coming from the stage piano.

Amidst the night’s festivities, a woman took to the stage. Xiomara Vallez was dressed in an elegant ballgown. Known in many cultural and leftist political circles, Xiomara was a central figure in the formation of the Cultural Congress. She clanged her glass lightly to get the room’s attention as the music slowed.

“My friends, I would like to thank you all for coming out tonight. Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t begin by congratulating the wonderful Fabián Pesina on the debut of his latest play. Fabi, you have a room of people who could not be more strongly behind you- although I suspect that may have something to do with you picking up tonight’s drink tab!”

“But in all seriousness, we’re not just here for the music, or the bottomless drinks, courtesy of Fabi. We are here because of our collective commitment to Aredoa and what she stands for; her culture, history, and traditions.”

“The supplantation of Aredoan culture by colonial imports is a crime against our nationhood. But our culture is so much more than a relic of times gone. It resides within each and every one of us here tonight, and it yearns to flourish once more.”

“Only through a love for Aredoan culture, and an understanding of what it means to be Aredoan, will Aredoa gain the courage to stand on her own two feet and strike for her freedom.”

“And that is what this Cultural Congress has committed itself to achieving- the enlightenment of each and every Aredoan, reviving the national identity that we can all be proud of. We carry with us the efforts of generations past, the dreams of generations present, and the futures of generations yet to come.”

“So let us raise a glass. To the sun that shall rise once more. To the eternal spirit of Aredoa. To our writers, poets, singers, performers, and all artists who are the architects of Aredoa’s renaissance and future. May you all –”

At that moment, the huge ballroom doors swung open dramatically, cutting Xiomara off and winning the attention of the room. A delegation of 12 cloaked intelligence agents made their entrance.

“Alright, listen up!” The man who led the pack puffed his chest out as he took charge of the delegation. “Under the Protection of State Ordinance of 1836, this gathering is prohibited and the ‘Aredoan Cultural Congress’ has been outlawed. Everyone will stay where they are. Be prepared to have your identity confirmed by an officer of mine before being sent on your way, or taken for further questioning.”

“Excuse me, but you have no right to burst in here unannounced! We are holding a modest gathering on private property. Take your intimidatory tactics elsewhere.” Xiomera, still standing where she was once addressing the room, wasn’t about to take the officer’s commands lying down. She was no stranger to trigger-happy policing and the government’s vague laws being used to clamp down on political groups.

“I have all the right I need, Ms… Vallez, isn’t it? Yes, I’m no stranger to your record. You’ve made a career out of being a nuisance to the government. Let’s not add resisting the commands of a law officer to the charge of sedition you shall already face, hm?”

On the command of his superior, one officer made a beeline for Xiomara. He stopped in his tracks as an elderly man stood up from his seat to stand in his way. “With all due respect, officer”, he opened, “these folks have done more for our town than your government has ever done. If you want to outlaw this sorta behavior, you should be prepared to provide for us in their place. The only time we see you fellas down this far south is when you have someone to arrest, or kill.”

His tone dropped as he issued his next sentence. “And you won’t be laying your hands on a lady. Not on my watch.”

Without skipping so much as a beat, the officer pulled out his truncheon. “Stand aside, sir. I won’t ask twice.” With his command ignored, he struck the elderly man thrice on the back with his truncheon, reducing him to the ground.

With that, all hell broke loose. The officer found himself charged by tens of civilians. His colleagues met similar ferocity as people in fancy suits and ballgowns flipped tables, smashed glass bottles, and got physical with the intelligence officers.

A particularly enraged partygoer plunged the sharp end of a broken glass bottle into the side of the officer that had beaten the old man. His cries as he fell to the floor in agony drew the attention of the other officers, all facing a mob of their own.

The intelligence officers slowly retreated, first from the ballroom and then the estate as a whole, as they made their way to the town’s police station, leaving behind their injured comrade.

A later attempt would be made to push back the angry crowds as the local police legion joined the intelligence officers in the effort, but to no avail. The government had got on the bad side of an entire town and was paying the price. The officers found themselves not only unable to apprehend the suspects as their mission had intended, but being driven out of the town as a whole.

It would not be until the next morning when a government presence re-entered Bancoa. The police, accompanied by a military presence, walked through the empty streets. The tensions of the night before had seemingly vanished as they returned to the police station without trouble.

The lack of resistance to their re-entry had seemed too good to be true. So, naturally, it was. As the police raided houses around the city in search of the ringleaders of the Cultural Congress, they faced a blank wall. All of the main figures had seemingly vanished.

Officially, the Aredoan Cultural Congress would not meet again. Officially. But in reality, it had gone to ground. And its members were seasoned victims of political persecution who thrived in an environment of secrecy and avoiding the law. The Cultural Congress may have existed for some 5 years by this point, but according to some, its real vision was only now getting started.

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RE: Revolution through Rhetoric - Lauchenoiria - 08-20-2023

Carville, Capital of the Costenan Empire
1872

“This is very troubling,” mused King Jeremías. “Very troubling indeed. We shall have to send additional forces, lest we lose yet another colony to those troublesome Sanctarians like in Slokais.”

“I have already prepared more ships for deployment to Aredoa,” Admiral Nataniel Gaspar replied. “We can notify the colonial authorities that we will be assisting them with the maintenance of order in the colony.”

“Good,” nodded the King. “With the loss of San Fernando and the Slokais Islands, our interests in the Promethean Sea area are at grave risk. We cannot allow the Aredoan colony to fail. We must send as many people as is needed.”

“We will ensure it is done, Your Majesty,” General Artemio Dominguez bowed, as the assorted military commanders left the room.

The King exhaled in relief at being left alone and walked over to the window, looking out at the surrounding city. Carville had been a majestic, beautiful place for centuries. But with the Empire crumbling, it was becoming visible on the capital’s streets. There were more beggars, more homeless, more crime. It made the King depressed to see what was happening to the once-great Costenan Empire.

He had not been King when the colony in Slokais broke away. That had been his father, King Cristian II; and it had been a bad omen. Nothing had gone right since that time. Harvests kept failing, ships kept going missing, plagues kept spreading. It was as if God himself had decided to rain divine fury down on the Costenan Empire. What had they done to summon such ill-fortune? Jeremías did not know.

They would send additional forces to Aredoa to maintain order and obedience to the crown. These rebels could not be allowed to encourage others to abandon Costenan culture and beliefs in favour of whatever primitive ideas they were espousing. That would do nothing to calm God’s wrath, if that was indeed what was causing this. The Aredoan colonial authorities would either cooperate, or they would be replaced. The colony would NOT break away while he sat on the throne. This, King Jeremías vowed.

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RE: Revolution through Rhetoric - Aredoa - 09-02-2023

Ministry of State Security, Vahania
Wednesday 5th June, 1872

Anton Segura sat in his usual briefing room, smoking a cigar with a glass of rum in hand. Ever the yes man, he now served as the Chief Secretary of State Security after his ex-superiors had been ousted in what was known as the Week of Massacres- when a number of high-ranking government officials refused to accept the much more hands-on role now being played by Costeno and were subsequently sacked.

His promotion had not exactly made his life easier. He was now ultimately responsible for dealing with the scourge of treason known as the Cultural Congress, which was proving to be no mean feat.

In the four months since the arrival of Costenan troops, not one of the fifteen ringleaders identified had been captured. Hell, some had not even been sighted since the riot on that fateful January night. And those who had resurfaced did so quickly before disappearing again.

Anton skimmed through the stack of papers placed in front of him while the intelligence officers droned on, paying little attention to each until one caught his eye: the weekly edition of the Aredoan Journal, the propaganda paper produced by the Cultural Congress. What started to promote Aredoan literary culture was now used by the Congress to antagonise the government since they were driven underground. Although the paper was officially banned, it still managed to be circulated around the country each week without fail. This issue was not kind to Anton, who raised an eyebrow as he began to read the headline.


Anton threw the paper against the wall in a fury. They had gone too far this time, meddling in his personal life and humiliating him publicly. The paper's cartoon depicted Anton as fat and old, the personification of Costeno, while his wife- whose departure was still very raw- swooned over a younger, more handsome man, representing Aredoan independence. He turned to face the intelligence officers giving the briefing that, until now, he had paid little attention to.

“I’ve had enough excuses. What are we doing?! We’ve allowed these vermin to run right under our noses, undermining our every action, and we can’t even bring down a single one of their leaders? Your failure is not acceptable, gentlemen!”

The intelligence officer taking the lead cleared his throat. Outbursts by Anton weren’t exactly uncommon. “Well, Chief Secretary, as I was saying… Our use of informants is beginning to pay off. We have received word that Agustín Pastrano will be resurfacing next week to speak at a socialist rally in Bancoa. Pastrano is a relatively minor leader in the Congress, but a leader nonetheless. Arresting and interrogating him should provide clarity on the whereabouts of his accomplices.”

His humiliation by the Congress’ propaganda wing fresh on his mind, Anton grumbled. “This is promising. I want Pastrano executed. We’ll send a message to his friends that this merry band of treason has gone too far. Let’s see how eager these puny bookworms and dramatists are to oppose us when they face the firing squad.” Anton chuckled to himself, relishing the thought of their persecution. The Cultural Congress would finally die.

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