Autumn in Troutbridge

I recently had the good fortune to be a part of a play by email campaign set up by HCK, who runs the Grand Commodore blog.  Everyone who participated was engaged.  I've found that generally this condition of engagement by all the participants is quite rare and is the catalyst for many of the best experiences I've had involving other people, whether those be professional, social, artistic, or something like this, a role-playing game.

The players formed an alliance of city-states - called the Concord of the Southern Sea - against the threat of invasion by a seagoing empire.  The game lasted five turns, and representatives of the city-states that formed the Concord (our characters - though we got more than one character) moved from one city to another each turn.  When the Concord was hosted in our city, each of us had to write a "Congress" - a description of what was taking place while the representatives were present (I took some liberties and did a write up of a time slightly before the representatives arrived).

The other players wrote wonderful pieces for their Congresses (in my opinion). You can find a link to those Congresses in HCK's write-up of the overall experience (which I think was on the nose).

At any rate, I had a really good time participating in it, and I think all my fellow players (and the GM) did as well.  I'm publishing the Congress I wrote below.

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From a mahogany-paneled meeting room on the top floor of the Prime Minister’s Manse, Ferran Lamarca admired his city in autumn, the massive elms and maples that formed an endless arch over the avenues, made them transepts clothed in gold and blood while the soft moss that covered the foundation stones and canal walls stayed a mysterious green. In the crossing rivers, the riffled white aprons of water behind boulders that broke the faster currents, gloves of froth waving goodbye to warmer weather, but for now, before the death, a final laugh, what the people of Troutbridge call “the second summer,” everything halcyon, golden, crisp, perfect, the air itself almost auric, all-bracing and fresh, no trace of the sometimes stagnant, somnolent riverstink, instead the sun kissing the grey walls and walkways through wind-shifting shadows cast between the leaves of trees, the refulgence somehow seeming to both bathe the boughs in liquid gold and to borrow their color as a partner to descend unhurried to earth. The Bridge at the Confluence a cross over a saltire of saltless water. The hushed susurrus of whispering leaves sliding on concrete.

This time of year makes up for all others. The muddy, murderous currents of the Confluence are so treacherous in spring and summer. But now the waters slow as the snowpack at the northern sources that feed the streams sluggishly crystallizes to ice. This peace in the river is passed to the dwellers on the banks of the Great Confluence. Lamarca sees one, a rare, late egret regretting he must leave, instead stalking through the water. Now stopping to stand motionless, in his stillness he vanishes as the light shifts and the sky becomes steely, gunmetal grey, a cold rain on the way. Then all at once he strikes, reappearing suddenly in the rushes to stab a silver fish, his muscular body unfurling in a ballet of murder sanctified and timeless, death beatified and guileless. The shadows that made his body blue and invisible against the rustling bushes fading as the sunbeams in turn stab through the once oppressive, capricious clouds and the light falls on him, staining his wings white as he raises them, promises from autumn and legends of heaven all, the sight of life electrified, somehow discorrupting and renewing.

It is such sights that inspire men to fight and die and here at the Confluence those adrift and thrashing on the crawling seas can finally remember the warmth of the earth and the currents that carry one to his very center, and which wash all shame and chaos away and leave only the silent and timeless.

These moments make the magisterial understand simplicity and the simple understand majesty. They allow one to know their own nobility, fill the body with a solemn sense of beauty that overwhelms the heart with heat and chokes tears of joy from loyal souls with quiet violence even as it cools the blood.

Of what consequence is death to such a one? Of what import war? Of what use regret? The egret is a second summer, a spasm frozen against the void eternal, beauty wrapped in beauty upon beauty, on and on forever, world without end.

Such was Ferran Lamarca’s mind the day the delegates from the Concord of the Southern Sea were set to arrive by air in Troutbridge. It was mid-morning and he was expecting Councilor Presiding Jimwick from Great Loom to arrive any minute. The thought of the war was on him today.

The election also weighed heavily upon him - a judgement of his performance so far, his leadership and a weighing of the state of Troutbridge. Had he been able to inspire them, he wondered? He hoped his people would see as he saw. The people could be as mercurial as the sun through the trees at this time of year. He knew it would be a massive blunder if Troutbridge left the Concord now, but that was what Giles Jardine, his opponent was promising to do, and he had some measure of support, enough to seriously oppose Ferran in this race. He sighed wryly and tried to thrust doubt from him like he was young and slinging a stone to skip on the surface of the Confluence. These worries would have to wait. He turned to Ovid Texidor, his Secretary of State.

“Vidi, is all in readiness for the visit?”

The little egg-shaped man with the receding hairline smiled, his teeth white, his cheeks rosy, his fabulous mustache curled and pointed perfectly. Behind him at the oak door, Lamarca’s honor guard, a pair of Troutbridge Marines in full dress uniform, white bearskin mitres, pale green hussar pelisses with white frogging and sashes, ready to shuck their short shotguns from leather holsters posthaste and oppose horror with horror should it occur. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

“This will be one of the best dinner parties we’ve ever hosted, Minister. We have chefs from Ascension and Diadem to make the lightest dishes and pastries as well as our one of our own from Troutbridge, a specialist in the glutinous. Several baristas from Starling and Shrike, and we are bringing in scents, entertainment, and florals from far Attar.”

Lamarca mentally ticked off details, “Sarah Martell? Has she been invited?”

“She is one of the guests of honor, Ferran. And of course, those athletes who placed at the Games. They are all invited as well.”

“...and Leo Agosti?”

Ovid’s nose wrinkled. “That man…” he started.

Ferran held up a hand, a vain attempt to placate his Secretary of State. “I know, Vidi, I know. You don’t think he belongs in polite company. He’s not very refined. But he’s a goddamn hero, Vidi. He single-handedly busted not only the Antinatatalists who placed the bomb at the South Wharf, he captured the Cynthian Knight who was ultimately responsible for providing their backing.”

“Well, I know when my objections have been overruled. He’s invited.” It was Ovid’s turn to sigh. “At least the Earthheart people will find him entertaining…probably.”

Ferran frowned, a return to brooding. He was quiet for a time, staring out the window. Then he turned again to Ovid with a serious expression and spoke softly, intoning each word.

“They brought the age of quarrel down on all
Consumed by pride they burnt the very air
A bitter incense made from shot and shell
An offer to their murderous idol’s glare.”

“Aodh Ó Braonáin, The Bard of Great Loom, from the opening canto of The Sorrows of Fire,” replied Ovid, “I know it.”

“Soon we will enter the true age of quarrel and the merciless star of war will hang heavy, swollen with murder in the fat and bloody darkness above us. We shall be the egret and enjoy this feast to end our second summer. We hope our noble visitors will see the bravery of a woman like Mrs. Martell, the honor of Mr. Agosti, and how our men’s love of their home ennobles all in Troutbridge,” Ferran said seriously.

“Prime Minister?” the small balding man began, his brow furrowing.

Ferran had turned again to the window, and Ovid noted with exasperation that there were several out-of-place creases in the back of his expensive jacket. How does he ruin these suits so quickly? he wondered. “Hmmmmm?” the Prime Minister was deep in thought again, far away.

“Please stow all the poems at this party, no question. It tends to give the guests bad gas and indigestion.”

Ferran froze for a moment and then looked back at his grinning Secretary of State, who raised a single immaculate eyebrow. Ferran began to chuckle, and soon both men were laughing, the sound echoing off the mahogany and out into the golden autumn day.

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