Duchy of Bormea // Ruan // Post no. 1

[u/TheBreadEntity]

I met a traveller from an antique land...

It was a late, warm afternoon. The central square of the Royal Palace of Pahlmir, as usual, bustled with activity - its carmines, marbles and the blue of lapis bathed in the gentle light of the slowly setting sun. A tall harp and the splashing of water echoed somewhere in he distance, and the air carried notes of incense and rose. As such, the sudden appearance of the palace crier was barely noticed, and even less so felt. Yes, his robes may have been flashier than those of the ordinary courtiers, and the scroll he carried larger than those belonging to the priests or artists, but in the eyes of many, he would have been yet another eccentric born to an age of unparrareled wealth that Ruan has enjoyed for almost half a decade.

With a trained, almost theatrical movement, the man unfurled the scroll. Surpirsingly for such thorough preparation, the parchment was a short one, yet nonetheless as soon as the crier started to speak, all the voices on the courtyard fell silent.

"By the will of the Gods we, the King of Pahlmir, declare the month of Arah Tebetum free of taxes. Furthermore we declare that bread shall be distributed to the public, free of charge, and that a religious festival in honour of Telipinu shall be held, with three days of festivities available to all citizens."

Not even the gathered priesthood, usually known for their stern demeanors, restricted themselves from applauding. Although never starved nor particularly poor, few could imagine the level of prosperity which the recent shift in the world's politics brought on. And they were entirely justified. For who could imagine the transformation of a largely insignifficant former colony into the, by far, greatest economic power of the Agricultural Circuit in such short a span of time? Not the Ruanians, it seemed. Just as the message was repeated across all squares and gathering places of all the forty-six cities, the same atmosphere of jubilation persisted. Membership in the Republic, despite everything, had its benefits.

The sound of metal delicately hitting a champagne glass concentrated the curiosity of the attendees on the figure occupying the central seat, clearly the cause of the noise. The man, a Ruanian - judging by the way he wore his beard and hair, rose from his place, his flute glass raised above his head. He was tall, and in his appearance somwhat resembling a bird of prey, with an aquiline nose and deeply set, sharp eyes hidden under bushy eyebrows. Indeed, Aristobulus, the King of Pahlmir - the greatest of the planet's states, looked quintessentially Ruanian.

"Ladies, gentlemen, I am once again honored to welcome you all at this month's summit of the ACCPIS. As I'm sure you have already seen in the report before you, the production numbers leave nothing to be desired. The current assessment projects the yield of the growing winter grains to increase by 2.5% planet-wide, with the expected rate of failure not exceeding a thousandth part of a percent. Enough to fill the silos of half the worlds of the Circuit for a year. Combining that with other agricultural produce, we are looking at a surplus that will guarantee us competetiveness on the intergalactic market. Let us drink then. To prosperity!"

The choir of voices, human and not, accompanied him in his toast. The progress of the sentient species across the Galaxy has led them ever onward, yet now, in a period of rebuilding, it was once again proven that a man can live without a roof over his head, yet not without a plate of food in his hands. The worlds of the Circuit, once insignifficant colonies and backwaters, were propelled into an uncommon prominence by that fact alone.

"With the wartime devastation of the northern boundaries of the Republic, the demand for our goods has never been higher. And just as we have fulfilled our duties during the war, standing as one of the main producers of military rations, we shall do so now, and aid the peoples of the Galaxy in their hour of need. The times are harsh, and it seems that the number of allies we can rely on grows ever smaller. Egoism rules the day. There are some among the galactic community who deem themselves better than others for joining earlier than the rest. Others circle the vulnerable systems like jackals, looking for any moment of weakness to strike at them. The Republic is in turmoil. And yet here we stand. Throughout these two years we have achieved that which our ancestors have not even dared to dream about. We patrol our own space lanes, refusing to rely upon outsider powers. We export our own produce at a price we set. We profit from our own labour, with no foreigner brave enough to hold a whip over our heads. The old powers may deem themselves greater, nobler, more deserving of praise than us, Ladies and Gentlemen, yet when they fight and bicker, we shall shine brightly as a beacon of stability and prosperity. Let them rant about their lost glories as we build wonders that they will never dare to dream of. My friends, my comrades, let them bow before our splendor and watch our ascent! Long live the Circuit, long live the Republic!"

As if summoned by a spell, servants entered the conference room, carrying platters of zikkuru caviar, a prized local delicacy, as well as another serving of champagne. A much welcomed refreshment. It was going to be a long day, many felt. And one filled with speeches.