08-29-2022, 08:58 PM
Port Report - Sadama Aruanne
The Solavanian Democratic Alliance has continued to fill the power vacuum left by a shrinking FRP-VS in many parts of Solavan, showing the region’s ever-increasing dissatisfaction with the “special relationship” they share with Vertansk. Many prominent Solavanian nationalists have pointed to income generated in the area getting appropriated for federal use, with a large percentage of revenue going outside the republic’s borders. With many parts of Solavan still damaged from the war, it is hard for native Solavanians to appreciate what they see as gross mismanagement by the Commonwealth. This is best seen in the SDL’s internal shift away from advocating for autonomy and towards complete independence, an act that would be illegal under the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth’s current constitution.
—-
A group of people is seated at a table in a dimly lit nightclub nestled away in one of Solavan’s port cities. They talk loudly, having had too many drinks and straining to get heard over the loud rock music a local band was playing.
“Enough is enough!” One of them shouts, prompting nods and muttered agreements from his companions. “That satka Kraǔčanka just announced another aid program for ‘struggling businesses’ in Vertansk. How much do you want to bet his cronies get bailed out first?”
A woman, dressed far too nicely for the kind of establishment she’s in, responds. “They’ve got his pearls stuck in a vice. Do you know how much he had to borrow from them once the depression hit? The crowd would put his head on a platter if he tried to implement austerity measures, and with the gold reserves gone, he didn’t have many options. He’s a moron who got stuck holding the bag.”
A man playing a heated game of dice interjects. “Can’t you tell what the Triarchy’s priorities are? They’re trying to make people know that voting for them gives benefits. They think we’re already doing fine, so they -” He whoops, collecting his winnings before continuing. “They use what we have to sway holdouts and hicks to their side before pocketing the rest.” He says, matter-of-factly. “For something called the party of Vertansk and Solavan, the FRP certainly doesn’t care about us. There are still Shuellian mines dotting the coast - you still can’t visit most of the north. A kid died a while back playing with a grenade.”
An uneasy silence descends upon the table before the woman speaks up again. “Alright, then. My cousin has a printing press in his garage. It should be in working condition. Let’s put up some flyers around town. Picture this.” She says, waving her hands. “The Vertanskan wolf devouring a fish. In big, bold letters underneath, we write ‘THE FATE OF SOLAVAN.’ Not the most subtle message in the world, but anyone can look at it and figure out what we’re trying to say. If enough people start talking about it, they will have to do something.”
It’s as if a spark has been lit. The group discusses the details vigorously - where they’ll put up the posters and when. There’s a monument in town celebrating the friendship of the two countries, right in the middle of the city. The group holds a toast; they cry the first line of their old national anthem. ‘We spring from the tide, renewed.’
The Solavanian Democratic Alliance has continued to fill the power vacuum left by a shrinking FRP-VS in many parts of Solavan, showing the region’s ever-increasing dissatisfaction with the “special relationship” they share with Vertansk. Many prominent Solavanian nationalists have pointed to income generated in the area getting appropriated for federal use, with a large percentage of revenue going outside the republic’s borders. With many parts of Solavan still damaged from the war, it is hard for native Solavanians to appreciate what they see as gross mismanagement by the Commonwealth. This is best seen in the SDL’s internal shift away from advocating for autonomy and towards complete independence, an act that would be illegal under the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth’s current constitution.
—-
A group of people is seated at a table in a dimly lit nightclub nestled away in one of Solavan’s port cities. They talk loudly, having had too many drinks and straining to get heard over the loud rock music a local band was playing.
“Enough is enough!” One of them shouts, prompting nods and muttered agreements from his companions. “That satka Kraǔčanka just announced another aid program for ‘struggling businesses’ in Vertansk. How much do you want to bet his cronies get bailed out first?”
A woman, dressed far too nicely for the kind of establishment she’s in, responds. “They’ve got his pearls stuck in a vice. Do you know how much he had to borrow from them once the depression hit? The crowd would put his head on a platter if he tried to implement austerity measures, and with the gold reserves gone, he didn’t have many options. He’s a moron who got stuck holding the bag.”
A man playing a heated game of dice interjects. “Can’t you tell what the Triarchy’s priorities are? They’re trying to make people know that voting for them gives benefits. They think we’re already doing fine, so they -” He whoops, collecting his winnings before continuing. “They use what we have to sway holdouts and hicks to their side before pocketing the rest.” He says, matter-of-factly. “For something called the party of Vertansk and Solavan, the FRP certainly doesn’t care about us. There are still Shuellian mines dotting the coast - you still can’t visit most of the north. A kid died a while back playing with a grenade.”
An uneasy silence descends upon the table before the woman speaks up again. “Alright, then. My cousin has a printing press in his garage. It should be in working condition. Let’s put up some flyers around town. Picture this.” She says, waving her hands. “The Vertanskan wolf devouring a fish. In big, bold letters underneath, we write ‘THE FATE OF SOLAVAN.’ Not the most subtle message in the world, but anyone can look at it and figure out what we’re trying to say. If enough people start talking about it, they will have to do something.”
It’s as if a spark has been lit. The group discusses the details vigorously - where they’ll put up the posters and when. There’s a monument in town celebrating the friendship of the two countries, right in the middle of the city. The group holds a toast; they cry the first line of their old national anthem. ‘We spring from the tide, renewed.’
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