Post by VoxApocrypha on Mar 1, 2023 6:39:26 GMT -5
SON OF MARS - RETURN TO YOUR ROOTS...
Roskana - Winter of 1932, Sablien 23rd - Port of Auran
Waves crashed against the marble cliff-faces of an ancient city, built long ago by a people who would go on to found what had been one of Ouhiri's Great Powers. Now he looked to that power and saw a decaying shell of a nation.
The Festria leaned over a railing built up above the docks themselves, watching as cargo cranes lifted large steel containers and boxes of goods from the decks of cargo ships, and as well as the passenger liners that were carrying people from Arema would unload their cargo of men, women, and children. Most were adults, seeking work under Runan's program of economic revitalization.
Apollo himself had come here similarly seeking such.
After being ousted from his home by a woman he had loved once again, the repeated pain had led him back to the same place it always did.
Roskana.
Land of Roses.
Rosark.
That was what that term really meant - people of the roses.
It was very fitting that the rose, as much a symbol for love, had become for him a symbol of loss.
And much like his one time lover and wife Cordellia as well, he saw roses rise and fall in his wake at all times but the deep cold of winter.
While he could cultivate those roses, each time he saw those once bountiful blooms, he came to lose them once the snow fell from the heavens, and gave the world a blanket of white.
Now in this monolithic mixture of concrete and steel had once again welcomed him back with no fanfair.
At least he didn't leave anything behind - he was sterile. His union with Sone hadn't sirred any heirs to his name, which he felt was a blessing. Perhaps his name did not need to go on.
His brother, somewhere out here, would be by far a better man to carry on the line of 'Adashenko'.
Adrian was out there. Visiting their sharred family though Apollo knew his distance between him and them would make him a stranger to all but his older brother.
If he was lucky the bad blood was something they could resolve without violence. But just as much as he hoped for reconciliation with them, he had to hope for it with one other that he knew.
One other close love, and perhaps the only one who might still.
First however.. Adrian.
Apollo pulled himself off of the railing and slowly clenched his hands together, moving his fingers. The metal was cold but it'd only really been his fur that'd been frozen, hands insulated to the icy temperatures of the deep Auran winter behind that barrier. He would turn his eyes away from his cold hands, gaze drifting high to look to the skyscrapers of deep Auran, and the mountain side in the far distance that was latticed with lights, hidden behind a thin haze of snowfall. He'd set his hand to his side, and then after a moment more he would lift the grey fabric of his Feytin, a ceremonial dress worn by Festria in the cult of Mars, with a loin cloth for a front, and then a longer piece that covered from the front of the thighs all the way around to the back as one solid fabric strip, that came down to his ankles.
The top he wore was more normal, just a long sleeve shirt with a vest and tie, and a hat.
He adjusted the headwear as he would reach a flight of stairs, and descend onto the street below, beginning his walk towards what would be his home again - for better or perhaps for worse.
It was such a different city than he had seen when he left all those years ago.
And yet so much of it was the same. The buildings looked beautiful as ever, homes, apartment buildings, the roads and pillars, the street lights.. it was all distinct.
And yet the people were different. The clothing, the style of Patriotic Decor, and the seemingly unhappy atmosphere to which he had felt more and more.
And he understood where it was coming from.
For all the good that Amelia had done in office, the president hadn't effeectively created a political system that could or indeed would easily bend domestic needs.
It was Verak Syndrome. The decline of Verak left only a frail shell of what had once been a great empire - and Roskana under Amelia and indeed under the last Tsar too had experienced a similar decline in no uncertain terms. And a lot of that had to do with the fact that while individual liberty had always been paramount, politically most Roskanans were not actually versed with Republican Ideals or Democracy in the form to which it had adopted in the wake of the Overthrow.
That unhappiness was a undercurrent to much of what he saw.
And as well, a lot of what he heard. It'd been like this for years but now it was easier to grasp on the surface just how depressed and melancholic the atmosphere seemed.
It probably didn't help that the news wasn't any better. He could see the headlines above newspaper stands, many of them reading "Kumosenkan Takes the Notch" and "Franerri Slaughtered".
He had heard of it, but not read about it. Discretely Apollo had simply stolen one from the stack as the paperboy had been turned away, shouting out to the street and waving the paper above his head, repeating the headline in Escanti, the actual native name for the unified Roskanan Langauge.
He waited until he was around the corner, and would turn the stack of newspaper around to look at the headline again, continuing to walk. He side-stepped a woman and her child, and then would make his way into an alley, his other hand drifting to his Caldwell-Pax as he lifted his eyes and then would turn them back down when he found the space empty - even in one of the most peaceful cities in the world, there was always the danger of a mugger or gangbangers. He took up a space beneath an old awning above a window, and he would open the paper proper, looking into the first page to read the article.
He wasn't surprised at the brutal slaughter of Franerri troops and what was effectively the utter destruction of their navy.
But it wasn't impressive by any stretch either. The second most powerful navy on Ouhiri shooting at what amounted to a bunch of Ironclads wasn't anything to call 'Impressive' in any stretch, at least to him - having served on one and knowing what a modern warship was capable of.
Franerre's losses were immense, and Lusatia for their part had not only failed to intervene, when they had it was exactly what he felt - Too Little, Too Late.
"That's what you get for relying on Lusatia.." He said aloud to himself, though he was confident no one heard him.
He checked other articles and moved his attention towards one detailing Runan's economic revitalization programs, and as well - that Amelia was no longer planning to run for office.
What he had not heard of was the mention of an assassination attempt by the Tsarists, or of the last Tsarist hold collapsing. That was very much new.
After a little more reading, what caught his eye, was that they had not found the last Tsar, or her brother. Which was.. odd.
Not that he was surprised.
Part of him questioned where they could have possibly gone.
And the only real answer is, probably Arema. If to Arema, then in all likelihood, either they were laying low, or perhaps coming here on a boat like the other workers without work returning from Arema to participate in Runan's plans.
Part of him wondered if he could possibly be a politician. Though, he pushed that thought out of his mind for now.
He'd fold the paper up again and then set it down on a trashcan as he made his way out of the alley way, making his way back onto the sidewalk and following it further into the city proper.
He supposed that his first stop wasn't going to be Adrian's Winter-time home. Reiclast Shoreleave lasted awhile. There was always tomorrow.
He followed the road signs until he found it. The door to the Cult enclave was a large, wooden one, built into a structure that resembled both a ancient fort, and a castle, with modern architecture blended into the structure in an abnormal but not unappealing fashion. He would step through it, and out of the cold, into a warm lobby beyond. And yet at the core of his soul he felt a deep cold that he hadn't noticed before as the warmth of the space enveloped him in a manner that felt all too familiar, and frighteningly so.
He could see her. Looking at him, as she stood by the reception desk.
And him. Both of them.
He slowly advanced, though as he saw Cordellia start to move towards him, he could feel himself slowly come to a stop, having to resist backing up out of instinct.
He would not need to, at least.
Sablien 24th, Outside Adrian's Home
Apollo would take his hat off as he stepped onto the driveway, with Cordellia remaining in the car, smoking a cigarette with the window down. The snow wasn't falling today, the sky was grey yet still.
Lifting his hand, Apollo would knock on the wood of the door, and take a step back off of the step, almost slipping. His blood was running cold, apprehension feeling almost debilitating.
He wasn't sure how this was going to go.
After a few moments, the door would unlock.
Holding a mug of coffee in one hand, a figure would slowly pull it open, a yawn audible from the other side as a Festria man still in rather thick pajamas would pull it open, eyes focusing on Apollo as the two would lock their gazes together.
Adrian and him were still, before Adrian practically set the cup down and stepped out onto the step. Apollo instinctively went to take a step back, before suddenly Adrian was on him.
His entire body tensed, hands balling into fists before Apollo would have his air squeezed out of him, lifted off of the ground by what was the most crushing bear hug he'd ever felt.
It was.. so alien. He had been hugged before naturally but Adrian hugging him.. it was a feeling he had forgotten.
Adrian would pull back and set the winded Festria back onto his feet.
"Baby brother.." He said with a chuckle, taking a breath as he looked Apollo over. "You.. stupid fuck.. where the hell have you been!?"
Roskana - Winter of 1932, Sablien 23rd - Port of Auran
Waves crashed against the marble cliff-faces of an ancient city, built long ago by a people who would go on to found what had been one of Ouhiri's Great Powers. Now he looked to that power and saw a decaying shell of a nation.
The Festria leaned over a railing built up above the docks themselves, watching as cargo cranes lifted large steel containers and boxes of goods from the decks of cargo ships, and as well as the passenger liners that were carrying people from Arema would unload their cargo of men, women, and children. Most were adults, seeking work under Runan's program of economic revitalization.
Apollo himself had come here similarly seeking such.
After being ousted from his home by a woman he had loved once again, the repeated pain had led him back to the same place it always did.
Roskana.
Land of Roses.
Rosark.
That was what that term really meant - people of the roses.
It was very fitting that the rose, as much a symbol for love, had become for him a symbol of loss.
And much like his one time lover and wife Cordellia as well, he saw roses rise and fall in his wake at all times but the deep cold of winter.
While he could cultivate those roses, each time he saw those once bountiful blooms, he came to lose them once the snow fell from the heavens, and gave the world a blanket of white.
Now in this monolithic mixture of concrete and steel had once again welcomed him back with no fanfair.
At least he didn't leave anything behind - he was sterile. His union with Sone hadn't sirred any heirs to his name, which he felt was a blessing. Perhaps his name did not need to go on.
His brother, somewhere out here, would be by far a better man to carry on the line of 'Adashenko'.
Adrian was out there. Visiting their sharred family though Apollo knew his distance between him and them would make him a stranger to all but his older brother.
If he was lucky the bad blood was something they could resolve without violence. But just as much as he hoped for reconciliation with them, he had to hope for it with one other that he knew.
One other close love, and perhaps the only one who might still.
First however.. Adrian.
Apollo pulled himself off of the railing and slowly clenched his hands together, moving his fingers. The metal was cold but it'd only really been his fur that'd been frozen, hands insulated to the icy temperatures of the deep Auran winter behind that barrier. He would turn his eyes away from his cold hands, gaze drifting high to look to the skyscrapers of deep Auran, and the mountain side in the far distance that was latticed with lights, hidden behind a thin haze of snowfall. He'd set his hand to his side, and then after a moment more he would lift the grey fabric of his Feytin, a ceremonial dress worn by Festria in the cult of Mars, with a loin cloth for a front, and then a longer piece that covered from the front of the thighs all the way around to the back as one solid fabric strip, that came down to his ankles.
The top he wore was more normal, just a long sleeve shirt with a vest and tie, and a hat.
He adjusted the headwear as he would reach a flight of stairs, and descend onto the street below, beginning his walk towards what would be his home again - for better or perhaps for worse.
It was such a different city than he had seen when he left all those years ago.
And yet so much of it was the same. The buildings looked beautiful as ever, homes, apartment buildings, the roads and pillars, the street lights.. it was all distinct.
And yet the people were different. The clothing, the style of Patriotic Decor, and the seemingly unhappy atmosphere to which he had felt more and more.
And he understood where it was coming from.
For all the good that Amelia had done in office, the president hadn't effeectively created a political system that could or indeed would easily bend domestic needs.
It was Verak Syndrome. The decline of Verak left only a frail shell of what had once been a great empire - and Roskana under Amelia and indeed under the last Tsar too had experienced a similar decline in no uncertain terms. And a lot of that had to do with the fact that while individual liberty had always been paramount, politically most Roskanans were not actually versed with Republican Ideals or Democracy in the form to which it had adopted in the wake of the Overthrow.
That unhappiness was a undercurrent to much of what he saw.
And as well, a lot of what he heard. It'd been like this for years but now it was easier to grasp on the surface just how depressed and melancholic the atmosphere seemed.
It probably didn't help that the news wasn't any better. He could see the headlines above newspaper stands, many of them reading "Kumosenkan Takes the Notch" and "Franerri Slaughtered".
He had heard of it, but not read about it. Discretely Apollo had simply stolen one from the stack as the paperboy had been turned away, shouting out to the street and waving the paper above his head, repeating the headline in Escanti, the actual native name for the unified Roskanan Langauge.
He waited until he was around the corner, and would turn the stack of newspaper around to look at the headline again, continuing to walk. He side-stepped a woman and her child, and then would make his way into an alley, his other hand drifting to his Caldwell-Pax as he lifted his eyes and then would turn them back down when he found the space empty - even in one of the most peaceful cities in the world, there was always the danger of a mugger or gangbangers. He took up a space beneath an old awning above a window, and he would open the paper proper, looking into the first page to read the article.
He wasn't surprised at the brutal slaughter of Franerri troops and what was effectively the utter destruction of their navy.
But it wasn't impressive by any stretch either. The second most powerful navy on Ouhiri shooting at what amounted to a bunch of Ironclads wasn't anything to call 'Impressive' in any stretch, at least to him - having served on one and knowing what a modern warship was capable of.
Franerre's losses were immense, and Lusatia for their part had not only failed to intervene, when they had it was exactly what he felt - Too Little, Too Late.
"That's what you get for relying on Lusatia.." He said aloud to himself, though he was confident no one heard him.
He checked other articles and moved his attention towards one detailing Runan's economic revitalization programs, and as well - that Amelia was no longer planning to run for office.
What he had not heard of was the mention of an assassination attempt by the Tsarists, or of the last Tsarist hold collapsing. That was very much new.
After a little more reading, what caught his eye, was that they had not found the last Tsar, or her brother. Which was.. odd.
Not that he was surprised.
Part of him questioned where they could have possibly gone.
And the only real answer is, probably Arema. If to Arema, then in all likelihood, either they were laying low, or perhaps coming here on a boat like the other workers without work returning from Arema to participate in Runan's plans.
Part of him wondered if he could possibly be a politician. Though, he pushed that thought out of his mind for now.
He'd fold the paper up again and then set it down on a trashcan as he made his way out of the alley way, making his way back onto the sidewalk and following it further into the city proper.
He supposed that his first stop wasn't going to be Adrian's Winter-time home. Reiclast Shoreleave lasted awhile. There was always tomorrow.
He followed the road signs until he found it. The door to the Cult enclave was a large, wooden one, built into a structure that resembled both a ancient fort, and a castle, with modern architecture blended into the structure in an abnormal but not unappealing fashion. He would step through it, and out of the cold, into a warm lobby beyond. And yet at the core of his soul he felt a deep cold that he hadn't noticed before as the warmth of the space enveloped him in a manner that felt all too familiar, and frighteningly so.
He could see her. Looking at him, as she stood by the reception desk.
And him. Both of them.
He slowly advanced, though as he saw Cordellia start to move towards him, he could feel himself slowly come to a stop, having to resist backing up out of instinct.
He would not need to, at least.
Sablien 24th, Outside Adrian's Home
Apollo would take his hat off as he stepped onto the driveway, with Cordellia remaining in the car, smoking a cigarette with the window down. The snow wasn't falling today, the sky was grey yet still.
Lifting his hand, Apollo would knock on the wood of the door, and take a step back off of the step, almost slipping. His blood was running cold, apprehension feeling almost debilitating.
He wasn't sure how this was going to go.
After a few moments, the door would unlock.
Holding a mug of coffee in one hand, a figure would slowly pull it open, a yawn audible from the other side as a Festria man still in rather thick pajamas would pull it open, eyes focusing on Apollo as the two would lock their gazes together.
Adrian and him were still, before Adrian practically set the cup down and stepped out onto the step. Apollo instinctively went to take a step back, before suddenly Adrian was on him.
His entire body tensed, hands balling into fists before Apollo would have his air squeezed out of him, lifted off of the ground by what was the most crushing bear hug he'd ever felt.
It was.. so alien. He had been hugged before naturally but Adrian hugging him.. it was a feeling he had forgotten.
Adrian would pull back and set the winded Festria back onto his feet.
"Baby brother.." He said with a chuckle, taking a breath as he looked Apollo over. "You.. stupid fuck.. where the hell have you been!?"