[Shuell]

United Commonwealth Press - Druk Abjadnanaj Sadružnasci

“The 11-year anniversary of the Czardom’s overthrow and the establishment of the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth is being celebrated throughout the four republics that make up our great nation, with fireworks displays and parades held in each regional capital. Later today, Prime Minister Kraǔčanka is expected to make a public speech in Stoslaw, which will be broadcast both on television and your local radio stations.

The passing of Foundation Day will also mark the start of the 1993 election season, in what is sure to be a momentous occasion. Due to a combination of both alleged corruption within the FRP and criticism of Prime Minister Kraǔčanka’s response to the ongoing economic crisis, the leading Tryjarchat coalition, comprised of the Federal Republican Party of Vertansk and Solavan, Agrarian-Environmental Union, and the Ikuinist Movement have seen their position challenged by the up and coming Movement for the Defense of the Country, with a stated goal of -“

——

“Turn that off.”

In Stoslaw, a man in an expensive suit snaps, pressing his hand against his forehead. A team of advisors freeze, staring at him before an aide hurries to the radio and hastily unplugs it.

“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister.”

The man sighs, looking out the window onto the city below. “I don’t need to hear more doomsaying with the Army already breathing down my neck. I know things look bad, but we’ll figure out how to get out of this. We always do.”

——

“Turn that off.”

In a small village in the mountains of Otika, a child changes the channel to a static-filled recording of folk music. It is the child’s birthday, and the mother had been out all morning picking berries for the dessert. For that moment, none cared about their distant rulers' politics.

——

“Turn that off.”

In the outskirts of a Solavanian city, two men drive in a now-silent car. The older of the duo is covered in intricate tattoos known as taja by less savory parts of Commonwealth society. The other, a baby-faced young man, anxiously smokes a cigarette in the passenger seat. A loud thud emanates from the trunk as they hit a pothole, causing the younger to flinch.

“Pull over here.” The veteran commands, pointing to a small clearing. “It’s too late to back out now. Get out of the car and help me with this.”

——

“Turn that off.”

In a distant land, men in old military uniforms surround a map of the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth. All but one is past their prime, with their once-regal attire now weathered and poorly fitting. In the center stands a tanned, clean-shaven man holding a glass in his right hand. He raises it, clearing his throat.

“We’ve spent eleven years exiled from our homeland. I was barely a man when my family was forced to flee in the night, hardly capable of understanding what was going on. Now, with my father gone, I am forced to take the reins. I assure you, gentlemen - this will be our last year away from home.”

A cheer erupts. The same has been promised every year, of course, but now they can feel it in the air - this time will be different.

[Shuell]

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.’

[Shuell]

United Commonwealth Press - Druk Abjadnanaj Sadružnasci

Taras Levandi, renowned author and the mind behind Ikuinism, has announced the creation of a manifesto detailing what he deemed “the cancers afflicting our new, shining nation and how to excise them.” Levandi’s manifesto was published just weeks after reports of the movement’s paramilitary Greencoats sending several men to the hospital during a fierce scuffle in the streets of Palždai.

In the 10-page manifesto, Levandi criticized friend and foe alike for “futilely clinging onto the last vestiges of the past,” claiming that such an act would only doom the Commonwealth to become “something remembered only in hollow museums and ruined graveyards.” Levandi ends his manifesto with a call to arms, encouraging like-minded individuals to join the group and help enact wide-sweeping reforms in the government.

——

Pavel hurried out of the train station, looking down at his hand to find a smudged, barely legible set of directions. This was a part of the city unfamiliar to him, with all of its darkened alleyways and crumbling buildings hiding new dangers. He had spent the last of his meager paycheck on cheap alcohol and the train ticket, but he knew that his prospects would soon improve.

Pavel had heard of Ikuinists before - it was impossible not to, with how often they showed up in the newspapers, but the first time he met them was in the months following the famine. He was one of the many people who found themselves unemployed after the disaster and had to rely on charity to get by. While thin tomato soup and a slice of bread were a far cry from the food he had grown up with, the sustenance alone was enough to prevent the young man from starving to death.

It was one of the nights he spent inside that aid center he realized his purpose - he had been a nobody in the grand scheme of things, unable to keep a job and without any higher education. Without the Ikuinists, it was more than likely he would have ended up freezing to death in the streets come winter. By joining the Greencoats, he had a chance to make something of himself, to participate in what its founder called a “multi-colored, modern revolution for the new millennia.”

Having reassured himself of the justness of his cause, Pavel neared his destination: a large warehouse at the end of an otherwise empty street, with a collection of rusting scrapheaps and men sitting in front. The men, dressed in olive green jackets that one could find at a military surplus store, were not visibly armed - though he could tell by how they carried themselves they were concealing something inside each of their jackets.

The Greencoats eyed him suspiciously as he approached, their conversations dying down. One of them, wearing an iridescent bandana around his neck, gets up from his plastic chair, strolling over to Pavel and staring him down. The unspoken question hangs in the air - what is he doing here?

Pavel cleared his throat, suppressing the urge to bolt back to the station. “I-I want to join you. You’re the only ones out here making a difference - all those bastards at the top care about is making sure they win the next election. They’re no different from the Czar’s old bureaucrats. They just have a fresh coat of paint.”

[Shuell]

Helga Kallaste stepped out of the car, bundled in thick winter clothing and clutching a clipboard in her left hand. She sighed deeply, taking one last look at the warm interior of her Vadu before marching into the village in front of her. The city gate at the entrance boasted the name of the town: Chetim. There were four other villages in Otika with the same name, and Helga had to collect a census from each of them. She hated every second she had to spend in this barren wasteland. She suspected something was deeply wrong with Otikans – nobody sane would willingly choose to live here.

Suspicious glares and muttered insults greeted Helga as she made her way toward the center of town – she was an interloper, only there to remind the villagers that they were still a part of the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth. The first person she asked for directions turned around and walked away, while the second pretended she wasn’t there at all. It took twenty minutes of aimless wandering for Helga to stumble into one of the town’s deputies. It was impossible for Commonwealth Armed Forces Otika, the military unit dedicated to pacifying the rebellious republic, to maintain a garrison in every city. Being assigned to CAFO was seen as a punishment at best and a death sentence at worst, with its ranks composed solely of Vertanskans and Solavanians to prevent reprisals. To work around this limitation, CAFO often relied on native Otikans as auxiliaries in areas they couldn’t afford to police.

The deputy in front of Helga did not inspire confidence in the woman. The short man wore a leather overcoat at least two sizes too big, with a crumpled cap and a tin badge with the paint peeling off. He spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the dirt road, hastily fixing his hat and puffing his chest out. Helga resisted the urge to roll her eyes and addressed the man in Vertanskan. “I need to find your municipal building. I’m a census taker. I work for the federal government.” The man stared gormlessly at her, and she screamed internally. Of course, the only person willing to work with me is a snow-eating moron. She closed her eyes, trying to remember her therapist's advice and calm down.

Helga spoke again, loudly and slowly. “Do. You. Know. Town. Hall?” Recognition dawned on the deputy’s face, and he chattered away in his mother tongue too quickly for her to understand. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” She nodded disinterestedly before holding her hand up and interrupting him. “Need directions.” The man paused, racked in thought. “It is… north.” He pointed vaguely in the distance, taking off one of his deerskin gloves. Helga sighed in relief, fishing a coin out of her pocket and pressing it into his hand. “Finally. Thank you.”

Helga returned to the city outskirts, where she had parked her Vadu. The town hall was further away than she thought - it would be easier for her to drive there first. The woman pulled her keys out of her pocket and walked to the driver’s side before stopping abruptly. A note had been pinned to the car door, held in place by an antler stabbed through it. “LEAVE.” I wish I could. I don't want to be here either. The woman grabbed the horn, yanking it free with a grunt and tossing both it and the note aside. She got in the car, turned the heater to max, and drove back into the village.

[Shuell]

The sound of traditional Loravian folk music fills the air around an old, dilapidated manor located away from most sources of civilization. Men and women dressed in their ancestors' colorful, flowing clothes dance with one another while children play in the grass and food roasts over a large fire. Today is an important day - when initiates officially join the ranks of the cadres.

The manor had once been the estate of a Vertanskan noble family tasked with administrating the March of Loravia. Centuries ago, it was confiscated and given to its current inhabitants as a reward for loyal service to the Czar. The dragoons of the cadres, originally a knightly order tasked with defending against Otikan marauders in the 12th century, had acquired a fearsome reputation for personally guarding the royal family and harshly repressing revolts under the Dual Monarchy. The cadres had sided against the revolution and lost many of their rights and autonomy as punishment.

Today, however, old grudges were not on their mind. Dressed in ceremonial outfits, sporting large plumes of feathers from their hats, and carrying the saber-and-carbine of old, the men of the cadres compete against one another in martial showmanship. Horseback riding, wrestling, and sharpshooting competitions are all a way for one to prove one's sect as superior to another. The banners of each cadre dance in the wind, and from a balcony overlooking the courtyard, the most famous man in all Loravia emerges.

Valters Freimanis, the Wolfhound, cut an imposing figure silhouetted against the setting sun. Wearing an ornate cuirass and the pelt of a giant bear around his neck, the man leading the cadres waved to the crowd below. Myths and legends surrounded the Wolfhound, claiming he got the nickname after being raised in the wild or killing one with his bare hands. Many claimed he was the reincarnation of the cadre's past heroes. Although much of his past was murky, Freimanis was the personal bodyguard of Prince Ambros before the revolution and had proven more than capable of leading the cadres in the decades following.

As the crowd below marvels at him, a rusty pick-up truck approaches the back gate to the manor. A guard walks towards the man driving the car, waving at him. "What do you have there, Stepas?" He's speaking casually, rifle slung over his shoulder as he lifts a tarp concealing several unmarked crates.

"Another homecoming gift from our mysterious benefactor. The boss got the coordinates a few days ago - we found it hidden in a cave off the coast.." The driver replies.

The guard nods slowly before motioning to the manor. "Alright, go and park outside. The boss will want to know it got here safely, but he's entertaining the others right now. Go and grab a drink, and enjoy the celebration. We'll put it in the armory with the rest of the packages."

The driver grunts in acknowledgment. "Be careful. It's heavy. I had to load the damn thing myself and ferry it over here, so I think you guys are getting the easy job here." His companion laughs, waving him off.

[Shuell]

United Commonwealth Press - Druk Abjadnanaj Sadružnasci

Elina Sisask's 4 River Association, once a regional party primarily located in the cities of Solavan, has rapidly expanded in the last years. With many unfamiliar with the 4RA, the United Commonwealth Press has elected to explore the party and its creator.

The first thing to address when discussing Elina Sisask is her surname: no, it is not a mere coincidence. The 39-year-old woman is the only daughter of General Urjo Sisask, nicknamed "the Rock of the Hrvali" for his spirited defense of the titular forest in the Great War. Elina graduated from the prestigious Palždai Law School in 1975, just years after her father's death.

Elina started the 4 River Association in 1982 after seeing the widespread poverty of many service members throughout the Commonwealth. Intended initially to advocate on behalf of veterans of both the Commonwealth and former Dual Monarchy, the 4RA would evolve to become a political party in its own right following Hilar Zaborski's election as prime minister in 1985.

While Elina frequently used her father's reputation for her benefit, she has managed to become a prominent figure in her own right. Sisask established something her critics call a cult of personality inside the organization – while the 4 River Association is ostensibly a left-wing populist party, Elina dictates the Association's views, leading to the party's platform changing to suit her every whim. The only part of the 4RA not directly controlled by Sisask is the party's paramilitary wing: the Scarlet Order.

Sisask announced her party's collaboration with the Movement for the Defense of the Country last year, which was seen as unusual due to the 4RA's policies clashing with the MDC's broadly right-wing agenda. Both the 4 River Association and Ikuinist Movement have increased in popularity since the start of the depression – both groups' radical agendas have become increasingly popular in the Commonwealth's cities.

-------------------

The Monthly Gathering of the Movement for the Defense of the Country 

A small group of people filed into a smoky room and quietly took their seats at the conference table. They gathered in a different place every month, wary of their opponents spying on them. Elina Sisask and Halšan Borushko, the leaders of the 4RA and NRP, sat opposite one another, flanked by advisors. At the head of the table sat Engus Caune, a former member of the pre-revolution Sovereign Law Party, the founder of VzN, and the de facto leader of the coalition. Caune had just celebrated his 65th birthday but remained as dedicated as ever to the group's purpose.

"Welcome, welcome!" Caune spread his arms, warmly greeting the rest of the table. "Let me assure you: today is an important day in the MDC's history. First, though, I trust there were no issues getting here?"

"They tried to tail me inside the city center. My driver managed to slip away." Borushko spoke bluntly. Halšan Borushko was born into a Loravian peasant family, something the media was unlikely to forget. Comedians and political cartoonists used every stereotype imaginable to depict him: dressing him in traditional farmer's clothes, covering him in mud and grime, and comparing him to a Sudraba boar (something easy to do, given his large frame, gruff manner of speaking, and dark hair.)

"Are you sure?" Sisask, the newest addition to the coalition, had little confidence in the group's capabilities. She had agreed to cooperate for a senior position in the event of their victory and was ready to cut ties at the first sign of trouble.

"That's good news," Engus said soothingly, prompting confused looks from the rest of the table. "It shows the Triarchy is worried about our chances. As it stands, they have 24 more seats than us. Fourteen of those seats come from Otika. With the Party of the Stag outlawed, most successors either can't or won't take their seats in parliament."

"Yes, and if they refuse to participate, they're redistributed to the coalition with the most votes. A shameless power grab, but there's no chance of the Supreme Court declaring it unconstitutional. That advantage got them the seats in the first place, so why would they give it up?

"They wouldn't," Borushko spoke up, content to have listened in until now. "Just need to work around it."

Caune nodded. "Precisely. The Solavanian Democratic Alliance and New League have shifted away from the Triarchy and would likely be willing to join the coalition. The New League blames them for the state of the economy, and the SDL is practically belligerent by this point. Sisask, you're Solavanian – see if you can arrange a meeting with Raud."

"Of course. I'm on good terms with Raud, so I doubt it will be too difficult."

"Wonderful. Baǔharynovič will be harder to contact, but I have my methods. I'll send her an invitation to my home and gauge if the New League is willing to work with us." Caune clapped his hands together. "With funding no longer an issue, thanks to our generous patrons, nothing is holding us back now. I expect to see posters in every town and ads on every TV. That concludes today's meeting."

[Shuell]

The Army of the Commonwealth has two representations in popular consciousness. The first, that of noble defenders of republicanism, is exemplified by figures such as Grand Marshal Paškievič and General-Lieutenant Alizar Novik. The second, that of corrupt, self-interested brutes in uniform, is given human form in General-Major Kipryjan Bohssa, commonly known as “Kalpi.”

One of many men hastily promoted to general in the wake of the Army’s purges, Bohssa has made a name for himself in Outer Vertansk and many other parts of Solavan. Kalpi only makes a vague pretense at safeguarding the Commonwealth, instead paying much more attention to the most essential thing in life: himself. Drugs, arms, and other contraband confiscated from the Prinssit mysteriously disappear while new luxuries find themselves in his office. This is not to say that the man isn’t popular, however. Bohssa, a hedonist at heart, generously rewards those under his care so long as they follow his instruction. Despite his uncouth behavior, Bohssa retains a crude, low-class charm. Many servicemen attempt to find themselves assigned to him, knowing they will be treated well, if nothing else.

-------------------

One Month Ago

The train screeched to a halt, rousing one Private Nikolajs Veiss from his slumber. He yawned loudly, peering outside to figure out his surroundings. The sunlight was blinding - it was night when they had departed from Loravia, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Otherwise indistinguishable from the other stations they had passed by, only a sign reading “Fort Drevan” let him know he had reached his destination. If the Army of the Commonwealth were an animal, the railways would be its veins, ferrying men, materials, and vehicles across the four republics. Reaching underneath his seat to grab his duffel bag, Nikolajs hurried off the train to join a group of waiting soldiers. Vertanskan, Solavanian, and Loravian voices overlapped, drowning out his internal monologue and replacing it with a dull headache. Nikolajs wished he had paid more attention in school – while fluent in Vertanskan, he had only rudimentary knowledge of Solavanian. He tried to focus, catching brief snippets of the conversations around him.

“Best CO my brother ever had -”
“... had to bribe an official to get sent here.”
“It was either the prison or the army -”
“... three different mistresses.”
“Has anyone seen my magazine?”

Nikolajs wasn’t quite sure what was in store, as the slip he was given only said that he’d be serving under General-Major Bohssa on some base in Outer Vertansk - a region of Solavan with a significant Vertanskan minority. He wasn’t sure why he was shipped so far west, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. As with so many Loravian boys, upon turning 18, only two careers awaited him: it was either the plow or the rifle, and he chose the latter without hesitation. Every man in the Veiss family had served in the Army, and he had no intention of doing otherwise.

A shrill whistle sounded, making him wince. An officer barked orders, herding them through a checkpoint and arranging them in rows. Just as he began to wonder if this was a test or punishment of some kind, a stocky man in full dress uniform entered the courtyard. He was middle-aged and clean-shaven, with a square face and ruddy complexion, and looked akin to an uncle that told bawdy jokes at children’s birthday parties. The man nods after they salute, satisfied.

“At ease, lads. I’m General-Major Bohssa, the man you all will be answering to for the next year. Welcome to Fort Drevan and the 20th Motor Rifle Division - the Mongrel Rifles, as most know it. Wear that name with pride, as you are part of one of the oldest mixed divisions in the Army of the Commonwealth. I won’t tolerate any of you treating a fellow soldier worse than another just because he’s a fast-talking Solavanian, stuck-up Vertanskan, or some Loravian country bumpkin. We’ve even had a few Otikans around here, and they’re just as fine a soldier as the rest of you once they learn how to read and write.” Nikolajs bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from looking amused, with soldiers around him struggling similarly. Nobody wanted to risk drawing the ire of a superior for failing to maintain discipline.

“I was once standing in the very place you are, and my commanding officer told me much the same thing. His tree’s long been felled, but I intend to maintain this division’s heritage until I’m gone, too. With Dzieniva coming around, you’ll get a chance to partake in one of our oldest traditions. Every town and village in the area celebrates Green-Harvest Day, and we’ve helped with the festivities since the Mongrel Rifles first came here. You lot will help them gather the grain they’ll offer at the bonfire and ensure nobody tries to cause any trouble. Make a good impression, try and convince the local schoolboys to enlist, and if a girl happens to need a dance partner that evening, you might as well help with that, too.” He added with a wry smile.


General Bohssa clasped his hands behind his back, and the ear-piercing whistle sounded again. “Off you go, men. Drop your belongings off at the barracks, get settled in, and we’ll sort you out from there.” With that, he was gone, leaving the company of soldiers behind.

[Shuell]

Recorded Conversation in the Headquarters of the Federal Republican Party of Vertansk and Solavan

“Are we sure Kraucanka should become the premier again? He’s… less than popular, especially in parts of Loravia and Solavan.”

“Sure, Radzislaŭ’s no Kaljurand, but he’s proven competent enough these last years. He had to clean up after Zaborski’s mess, after all. It’s a miracle he’s been able to accomplish all he did.”

“That’s not how the public sees it. The economy might be recovering, but we still have a lot of people suffering and won’t see concrete returns on the industrialization programs for a long time. The ones Zaborski did, mind you. The few supporters he still has won’t let Kraucanka take the credit for that.”

“Alright, well - they can hardly dismiss the healthcare and education reforms Kraucanka pushed through. Sisask’s arguments hold a lot less water now, if nothing else.”

“Levandi’s been pushing those for years, and the literacy rate’s still, what, 70 percent? Radzislaŭ’s still responsible for it, but it won’t do as much as you think.”

“I get what you’re saying, but you need to look at this practically. Kraucanka is the only option we have for premier. He’s able to keep the coalition unified, has more than enough experience with politics, and doesn’t rock the boat.”

“The average voter thinks that Kraucanka’s boring because of that. Compared to Levandi, Sisask, or even Rasolka, he just doesn’t inspire much in people. What we need is someone like Paasuke. He’s young, progressive, and could show the FRP isn’t just some party of faceless bureaucrats.”

“Paasuke doesn’t have a chance. He hasn’t been around long enough to make a name for himself in the rest of the Commonwealth, and more importantly, the Army doesn’t approve of him. He’s spoken against conscription and wants to cut back military spending, both of which they won’t stand for.”

“That’s one way to ensure you won’t get far in politics. Fool. What about Skaryna? He was a personal friend of Kaljurand, even before the revolution. He’s in the history books — it’s hard to get more well-known than that unless you expect the Grand Marshal himself to start dabbling in politics.”

“Have you seen Skaryna recently? Not to disrespect the man, but he looks like he’s going to be dead in a week. If you brought him up in the last election, I could see him doing a decent job. Now, though… he’s not all there, and I don’t know if we want to risk someone dying in office.”

“I suppose I see what you mean. He hasn’t been seen in public for a while, too. Biadula, then. He’s a war hero, so there’s no way the Army objects, and he did a fine job governing Lisava. Plus, you know - he’s unmarried and not too bad looking. That’s always a plus.”

“… do you not know?”

“What?”

“Biadula’s an invert, moron. It’s practically an open secret by now. Haven’t you seen the ‘companions’ he keeps around?”

“That might be a problem, but didn’t we decriminalize the act when we rewrote the Constitution? He isn’t doing anything wrong, legally.”

“Pushing Biadula now, when we’re already struggling, will only hurt our chances more. VzN and the NRP already appeal to the right, and there’s no way they’d let this go. A lot of swing voters would think we’re going too far, and no amount of campaigning from the AEU would sway them back to our side. All Biadula offers us is the support of the damned Greencoats.”

“Práklon. We’re doomed.”

“Yeah.”

[Shuell]

The Unchained Voice - Razniavolieny Holas

The Cult of Kaljurand Must End
Bahuslaŭ R.

Under the Dual Monarchy, the Kamienskis were seen as closer to the Mother Tree, and thus closer to divinity, than us commoners. The Czars relied on the Vozhiki priesthood to back up their claims and picked the heads of the clergy in return. In the old days, when the priests ran the only schools around, they drilled the godliness of the Kamienskis into their students' heads. Even after public schools started to appear, they had to pay lip service to that nonsense. Most people didn’t put too much stock in it before the revolution. Now, the only people who still believe in the Imperial Cult are legitimist nutters, Vozhiki hardliners, and peasants who are too stupid to understand the light of reason.

The Federal Republican Party of Vertansk and Solavan, the Old Revolutionary’s party, took steps to eradicate the Imperial Cult after they took over. They outlawed church schools and orphanages, tore down monuments proclaiming Czarist divinity, and produced some good old-fashioned propaganda. A stunning display of competence from a party that’s usually too busy worrying about opinion polls and public opinion to get anything done - fitting, seeing as Kaljurand was a slave to compromise during his time as Premier.

Things took a turn for the worse once our favorite Old Revolutionary’s tree was felled, exactly two years and twelve days after he left office. I should’ve realized that something was amiss once a month-long period of mourning was declared and city squares started getting named after him, but I admit that even I was a little torn up about him being gone. Kaljurand’s death marked the end of the FRP-VS as a legitimate revolutionary movement and turned it into a cult dedicated to the legacy of its creator. The Federal Republican Party’s party leaders can’t step out of the house without making sure it’s what Kaljurand would do. People have been expelled from the FRP for “failing to act according to the party’s values.” And, of course, what exactly Kaljurand’s values were varies depending on the person. What little he wrote over the years is practically scripture.

This worship isn’t restricted to just the FRP, either. In Kraucanka’s Education Act of 1989, he mandated that portraits of Maanus Kaljurand be placed in every public school classroom, with children swearing loyalty to the Commonwealth and promising to live up to his memory. The oath is a reworded version of the old Czarist oaths of allegiance, sworn by soldiers of the Sola-Vertanskan Army as they entered the service.

Have we learned nothing? What happened to the romantic vision of the future we had? That Kaljurand had? Would he have wanted this? For all the progress that’s been promised, all I see is a return to form.

[Shuell]

United Commonwealth Press - Druk Abjadnanaj Sadružnasci

With the 1992 election season coming up, let’s give our listeners abroad a refresher on the politics of the Trans-Sastovian Commonwealth.

Since its founding in 1981, the Commonwealth has been led by a coalition comprised of the parties most responsible for its establishment. The Triarchy is led by the Federal Republican Party of Vertansk and Solavan, a big tent party started by Maanus Kaljurand, Father of the Commonwealth. Despite his death in 1986, the FRP-VS attempts to adhere to his ideals today. The FRP-VS is the largest political party in the Commonwealth, with 48 seats in Parliament thanks to the support of the middle and upper class in much of the country. 

The second largest party in the Triarchy is the Ikuinist Movement, with 21 seats in Parliament thanks to a boost in popularity after a recent economic crisis. Started by Taras Levandi, a prominent poet and intellectual, the Ikuinists advocate for radical changes in society to make up for what Levandi calls, “an aeon of quiescence underneath the Dual Monarchy.” The Ikuinist Movement has the most appeal with the young urban population (primarily men) and maintains a paramilitary wing known as the Greencoats. 

The last party in the Triarchy is the Agrarian-Environmental Union, a merger between the Farmer’s Party and Green Party. The Farmer’s Party is the oldest faction in the Triarchy, a legacy maintained by the AEU. The Agrarian-Environmental Union supports protections for the environment and the rural population, believing that small farmers are the backbone of republicanism in contrast to the “urban aristocracy.” While the Agrarian-Environmental Union as a whole does support the separation between church and state, a prominent part of the AEU is dominated by members of a Drevist sect nicknamed the “Smilers,” which push for a return to nature in the name of spiritual purity and oppose the Commonwealth's industrialization efforts.

The Movement for the Defense of the Country has made stunning inroads in building a coalition capable of challenging the leading Triarchy in the last few months. An alliance between several disparate political parties only loosely united by the goal of ousting the Triarchy, whether it will be able to persist in the event they are successful remains to be seen. The largest faction in the MDC is VzN (For New Vertansk), a successor to the Dual Monarchy’s Sovereign Law Party led by the elderly Engus Caune. VzN pushes for a return to the pre-revolution collaboration between the Drevan Church and government, believing that the misfortunes suffered by the Commonwealth are a result of moral degradation from an abandonment of Drevist values. 

Further to the right of VzN is the National Rejuvenation Party, most popular in Loravia and led by the native Halšan Borushko. Traditionalist to the point of being labeled reactionary by its opponents (something embraced by many of its members), the NRP advocates for regionalism, economic nationalism, patriotism, and a return to the social order of old. “Smilers” that are not a part of the Agrarian-Environmental Union typically support the NRP. 

The final leading party in the MDC is the Four River Association, led by and dedicated to Elina Sisask. The 4RA is a populist left-wing group, popular with unions and poor veterans thanks to Sisask being a daughter of a famous war hero. While the Movement for the Defense of the Country has recently welcomed the nationalist Solavanian Democratic Alliance, led by the secessionist Annika Raud, the New League has indicated that it is unwilling to cooperate with the MDC due to the radical policies of the 4RA.

While the Triarchy can rely on 14 seats from the ongoing boycott of Parliament by Otikan nationalist parties and subsequent distribution to a leading coalition, polls indicate that the MDC, with 79 seats, would only be 7 seats short of the Triarchy’s 86. How the Triarchy will attempt to respond to these gains remains to be seen.  This election has been marked by an increase in violence, with military police deployed in major cities across Solavan and Vertansk to discourage further clashes between Greencoats and MDC supporters.

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The Special Police Corps, perhaps more than any other branch of the Army, serves as a microcosm of its new role in the country’s politics. First known as the Army Special Police Corps, the SPKA was initially founded to manage and coordinate the Sola-Vertanskan Army gendarmerie, before finding itself responsible for overseeing military intelligence as well in the wake of a massive spy scandal in the 19th century. With the ascension of the Army of the Commonwealth to “defender of republicanism” after the revolution, however, the SPKA dropped the “Army” part of its name and was elevated to state security bureau. The Special Police Corps, with its greatly increased autonomy, answered only to the Premier on the rare occasion he deigned to call upon them.

This was one of those occasions.

Headquarters of the SPKA

Lev Rūdolfs listened patiently as Prime Minister Kraucanka raved in his ear. Although he had labeled Kraucanka a weak, mild-mannered nebbish in their first conversation after he took office, the vitriol in his words showed he had unexpectedly found his spine.

“They’re up to something, Rūdolfs, and you know it as well as I do. They’ve turned my own hometown against me. I can’t even get a call with those ingrates in the New League. The amount of money the MDC has spent on their campaigns has doubled since the last election, and I want you to know how they’ve gotten it. If you can find anything linking them to the exiles, tell me immediately. Understood?”

“Understood.” Lev Rūdolfs hung up the phone. Rūdolfs had been the director of the SPKA since the Commonwealth was founded, and his early induction into the SPKA was not, unlike many newly promoted members of the Army, simply a matter of filling in the vacuum left behind by exiled officers. He was a man of deep convictions and unwavering paranoia, with a strong belief in the Commonwealth’s ideals and an equally strong suspicion of those who might long for the bygone era of the Dual Monarchy. Any action, in Rūdolfs’ mind, was justified as long as it safeguarded the newborn republic, and it was for these reasons that he had been spying on the MDC long before the Prime Minister gave him the word.