08-17-2023, 03:21 PM
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.
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.